No Strings Attached (42 page)

And she forgot, just forgot—she'd later say—how she'd planned on reading Cherry's lines, how the script called for a mean girl. Ponyboy smiled Jared's smile, and she knew in an instant that no matter what the script called for, no matter what the director's “vision” was, it was wrong. It wasn't Cherry. The key to finding the character wasn't in the book, the movie, the screenplay, or insider info. It was right there, inside her all along.

Cherry wasn't some random cardboard snob, no matter what era the movie took place in. She was a teenager—impetuous, flirty, feisty, but also sweet, soulful, and sensitive. With enough foresight to understand she was stuck in a world that wasn't fair to the greasers or the socs.

Some of Cherry's characteristics fit her, Lindsay, like a glove. Others were such-the-Sara. She ended up doing the reading as neither: She did it as Cherry.

Her last line of the reading was, “Just don't forget that some of us watch the sunsets, too.”

The actor gave her a surprised look. She thought: I can't believe I did that. I did exactly what I shouldn't have. I blew it. I blew—

“Lindsay—is that your name?” The director spoke first. “That was an interesting take.”

The casting director coughed. “What happened between
the first reading and this one? You went in an entirely different direction.” Translation: “If I knew you were going to read this way, you would not have been called back.”

Lindsay had nothing to lose. “I didn't plan it. I'm not sure what came over me. I think it was just … that's Cherry. It's who she is. It's who I was at that moment. I know that's not the way you wanted it. I'm sorry, but …”

The director stood up, her round face made pretty with a genuine smile. “Lindsay, I know you were in a sitcom several years ago. But today? You blew me away.”

Lindsay lit up like the Las Vegas skyline.

“Of course,” the casting director quickly threw in, “we have more actresses to see. But I think it's fair to say you will be hearing from us.”

Lindsay flew back to the waiting area and called Jared. And Amanda. And Caitlin, Julie, and … pretty much everyone she had on speed dial.

Then she snuck into Sara's reading.

Sara was reading with Tom Welling. She stood tall, her hand on her hip, her chin up. She'd worn dusty blue jeans, loafers, a button-down shirt, and a blazer, her hair caught in a ponytail.

Lindsay watched silently. Sara didn't suck. So far.

Then Sara came to one of the most famous lines in the movie. Diane Lane had done it rushed, in a whisper, almost as
though, if she said it fast enough, it wouldn't be real.

Sara's delivery was slow, dreamy. “‘I could fall in love with Dallas Winston. I hope
I
never see him again, or I will.'”

She's thinking about Nick, Lindsay realized with alarm. Worse, she's … she's … fucking brilliant.

Lindsay had been so busy on the phone, congratulating herself, she hadn't heard the rest of Sara's reading. Was it as amazing as what she'd just heard? Would she torture herself by listening in to the reactions of the judges?

Is Paris Hilton a spotlight-slut?

“What's your name again?” the director asked, interested.

“And you've never done any acting before?” This from a clucking producer. “And you're from the Texas panhandle? Near Oklahoma?”

When they got to the question “How would you feel about dying your hair red?” Lindsay vomited.

Oh, yeah, we're goin' to a party, party!

Naomi knew the song. “Birthday,” by the Beatles. Sara must have asked the deejay to play it in honor of Eliot's birthday. She was one of the few who remembered the reason they'd thrown a party. Naomi watched from her corner of the living room as Sara planted a kiss on Eliot's cheek and wished him a happy nineteenth birthday. Eliot blushed. Profusely. He tried to return the kiss, aiming for her lips, but Sara had already turned the other cheek.

Naomi chuckled inwardly. A snapshot of Eliot: His aim is true, but his target keeps moving.

None of the other partygoers, mostly guests of Lindsay and Jared, even noticed the song, or its honoree: They were too busy
reveling in the fabulousness of themselves. They were packed into the living room, game room, overflowing into the backyard.

In a twisted way—she was the only one in the room, or the zip code, who'd think this—it was like the homeless shelters, crowded and loud. Just switch designer for destitute, laughter for tears, and hope for hopeless. As Sara says, we're all children of God. Just some are more favored than others; more or less entitled. The haves and the have-nots.

Tonight was all about the haves. To wit:

A night of short skirts and long beers, buff bodies and bare skin, roaming eyes and brushing fingers, teasing, flirting, the rush of being young, hot, and born to the high life. All over the house, inside and out, there was dancing—dirty and otherwise—singing, raucous laughter, clinking of glasses, kissing of asses, touchy-feely-gushy and phony. All fueled by an open bar, uppers, downers, alphabet drugs, and, she guessed, simply the kind of bubbleheaded joy that being rich and worry-free gets you.

How does it feel to be, one of the beautiful
peo-
ple …”

It was the Beatles song “Baby, You're a Rich Man.” Had the deejay read her mind? Naomi skulked back into the kitchen, suddenly itching to get as far from the merriment as she could. Being invisible was something she had a lot of practice in. At various times during the evening, Sara, Nick, and Eliot had tried to involve her, but she'd resisted. She
appreciated the effort the boys from the Midwest had made to get to know her, how they'd quickly overcome their resistance to her moving in.

But times like this, Naomi realized she knew better: She should not even be here. She did not belong in Richie Rich's house. Naomi Foster was as far from “beautiful people” as you could be.

She knew her Beatles, though. They were tapes, not CDs, back then, that her parents used to play in the car. Her sister Annie liked to sing along, but could never remember the words. Naomi had memorized every lyric. Too bad she couldn't remember what it felt like to be happy, to feel whole, and wholly safe in that little car, just the four of them, with the four mop-tops in the tape player.

Jared's kitchen was a mess, the floor already sticky, countertops piled high with dirty dishes, stained glasses. She rolled her sleeves up and reached for a sponge when Sara suddenly appeared, hands on shapely hips. “Jared hired a caterer, remember? They'll clean up. Come sit with us.”

Naomi knew she should feel grateful, but all she felt was out of place. It must have shown on her face. Sara added, “You don't have to talk to Jared and Lindsay's friends. Me, Nick, and Eliot are sitting with Wes and Candy.”

Wes Czeny and Candy Dew were Sara's—and her—bosses
at
Caught in the Act
, and had been nothing but nice to Naomi. Which made her feel even less like socializing with them.

“Join us—do it for the birthday boy,” Sara coaxed.

Playing the Eliot card worked. Naomi reluctantly trailed Sara into the living room, where Nick immediately scooched over to make room for her on the couch. “Have a scoop of caviar.” Nick offered to spoon some of the expensive fish eggs onto a cracker. “It's salty, but hey—probably be a long time until the likes of us gets to enjoy this again.”

Naomi shook her head no. In the apartment in Northridge, her mom used to try and make Fridays festive. After dinner, she'd put out a spread of crackers and cheese, a cut-up pineapple with strawberries, cookies, pie, and ice cream. The family would sit down and watch TV sitcoms together.
All for Wong
was her sister Annie's and their mom's favorite;
Home Improvement
, her dad's and hers. It was their big splurge for the week. And that was only when her dad had picked up an odd job as a handyman, or Mom had managed to score a cleaning-lady gig. The apartment, a one-bedroom in a small complex, wasn't theirs. They were subletting temporarily, and, she'd only found out later, illegally.

“The kindness of strangers,” her mom had once said. “One day, we won't have to depend on that. Our family will be the kind ones.”

“One day” had never come for Laura or Lonny Foster. Naomi had long given up on it ever coming for her.

“Earth to Naomi.” Eliot had been trying to get her attention. She flushed. “Oh, sorry—did you need something?”

“I was asking if you did. I was taking drink orders. What's your pleasure?”

“I'm good, thanks,” she replied, and turned to the exchange between Sara and Wes. “When Nick makes it as a famous model, Lionel's going to represent him, and everyone's going to want to interview him. I'd book him for
Caught in the Act
now if I were you.”

Candy, already tipsy, went coy. “Nick can come in for a pre-interview any time.” She rested her hand on Nick's knee—just a moment too long. Sara's face went cross for that moment.

Eliot caught it. He bolted up. “So, who else besides myself would like another drink?”

“I'll have another martooni. Make it dirty, with three olives.” Candy held her empty glass up.

Wes, settled into the large armchair, seconded. “I'll go for another brewski if you've got a free hand.”

Nick started to get up. “I'm ready for more beer too. I'll help carry.”

Eliot looked at Sara. “How 'bout it—one tiny glass of wine or beer, anything?”

Sara didn't drink.

Nick nudged Sara. “Aw, come on, in honor of the E-man—just one won't hurt.”

Something told Naomi that Nick was wrong.

Everybody's movin', everybody's groovin', at the Love Shack! Love Shack, bay-yaay-bee!

Mostly everybody
was
groovin' to the B52s, Jared noted as he surveyed the house—Uncle Rob's house, that is—everybody but him. Anxious that groovin' could turn to wildin', he policed the premises to be sure no one was getting into things they shouldn't, that nothing belonging to his uncle was touched. His crew was cool, but when you put Lindsay together with her friends, mixed in boisterous music and an open bar, destruction was a foregone conclusion.

Which had always been one of La Linz's more adorable qualities—except when
he
had to be the responsible party at the party. That wasn't fun. Her shenanigans weren't nearly as cute.

A week ago, she'd wanted, begged for, the party—supposedly for Eliot's birthday, but clearly, for herself.

A week ago, he'd told her, “What part of ‘not gonna happen' don't you get?”

She'd cajoled, coaxed, kept him a very happy “prisoner” in the bedroom until he agreed.

Negotiations had begun the next morning. She'd won the round about having it in the house, 'cause, really, where else could they afford? He'd won the round about having it catered, with a clean-up crew, insisting she pay for half the expenses.

She'd countered that since Nick, Eliot, and Sara lived here too, they'd have to kick in. He'd said in that case, they got to invite their friends too. She'd make a face and gone, “Eeeww!” Until she realized, hello, how many Cali-friends did those three even have?

They were set, in agreement—everyone except Naomi chipped in. Then Lindsay came home from the second
Outsiders
audition, sick, bummed, so sure she'd lost out to Sara, that she didn't want a party, didn't want to see anyone. The drama princess wanted only to “hide in her room.” She could not face the world.

So Jared had become Cajole Boy, adamant that she was wrong. She hadn't lost the part to anyone yet; she'd done a kick-ass job at the audition—yes, he had heard that through the grapevine. She should be brimming with confidence. And furthermore, he actually heard himself insisting, they were so having a party. So there!

So here.

Here he was with a house full of people, the young, restless, bold, and beautiful … and he, acting like a nervous
parent, worried that someone was gonna break into the liquor cabinet. How'd that happen again?

In the end, he'd only asked three things of Lindsay. If anyone asked, the house was hers: She was renting for the summer. No dancing on the tables. And the biggie: no inviting anyone who might come into contact with his dad, and therefore rat him out, was allowed at the party.

She'd moaned that it wouldn't be a problem. Which cool people would want to party with a loser like her? Surely no celebrities.

So what, Jared asked himself as he patrolled the backyard, were all these bold names—the gossip and blog fodder—doing sitting in the chaise lounges and hot tub and playing video games?

Leave it to Lindsay: Her bout of self-pity had been brief, then she'd turned the house party into a tabloid's dream.

When he'd collared her, she'd waved him away dismissively. “It's Saturday night, they're only here for an appetizer. They've all got elsewhere to be. You know it as well as I do.”

Heaving a sigh, Jared checked his watch, hoping the magic hour had arrived and they'd leave. So far as he could tell, no paparazzi had trailed anyone. No photogs meant no outing via any Internet sights or tabs the next day: Jared's dad would be none the wiser to his summer scam.

“Yo, Ja-
red
, wuzzup, man?” His buddy Tripp fell into stride
with him as he stalked into the living room. “You're not looking too happy. Problems in paradise?” He motioned over to Lindsay, cavorting on the dance floor.

“You wish,” Jared said. “Lindsay and I are good. There is no window of opportunity for you.”

“Then, wazzup with the downer stares?” Tripp challenged.