Playground (19 page)

J E N N I F E R S A G I N O R

doesn’t last very long; the kind that, without one even knowing it,

turns into a frown.

The annual Midsummer’s Night Dream party rolls around, and

Hayden and I enter the foyer of the Mansion in striped pajamas.

The house is awash in decadence and high style. Glam rockers,

celebrities, and models prance around in outrageous transparent

costumes flaunting themselves for all to see. There’s a sea of plat-

inum, feathered hair, and glitter. Playmates stroll by in floor-length

spaghetti-strap gowns that drip with tear-shape Tiffany beads

clinging to their bodies like a second skin. Others glide by in

Trashy lingerie bikinis and faux-fur scarves that drape to the

ground. A striking statuesque woman wears a Vivienne Westwood

creation composed of a synthetic white cape and black satin

minidress with a tutu skirt.

The Mansion’s great hall is lined with television screens. A buf-

fet of appetizers and finger sandwiches are spread out. Tommy

slips me a brownie full of reefer. Hayden and I take a few bites as

we pass Emilio Estevez, Charlie Sheen, and Scott Baio on our way

to the bathroom. I accidentally walk in on Tom Cruise urinating in

the bathroom by the foyer. He has long brown braided hair and I

only see the back of his Levis. I apologize, close the door slowly,

look down at my pot brownie, and toss it. I shake my head when I

see my father in the same Snow White and the Seven Dwarves Doc

T-shirt and slippers he’s worn to every pajama party for the past

decade. The other backgammon boys are in robes, boxers, and

briefs.

I continue roaming, passing other Brat Packers Rob Lowe and

Judd Nelson. I bump into the gang of Playmates. Tobey wears a

strapless top with sequins and bugle beads in fuchsia flower pat-

terns with a pleated aqua skirt.

“Where have you been?” Tobey asks.

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“We haven’t seen you at the gym,” Charlie adds.

“I’ve been laying low. Hayden and I have been doing our own

thing, but I miss you guys.”

Tobey rubs me warmly on the back.

“Where’s Kendall?” I ask, scanning the room.

Austin points. Kendall looks totally wild in a silver wig, knee-

high boots, and silver chains that dangle from her silver bikini bot-

tom. She acts remarkably composed for someone in such a skimpy

outfit, but I know Kendall loves to be in the nude. She looks in my

direction and I smile at her outrageous outfit. As she walks past me,

I grab her hand.

“Hey, you,” I say, smiling.

She grinds her teeth and pulls my arm.

“Come with me,” she urges.

I grab Hayden and the three of us rush to the game room in a

whirlwind. When we reach the blue room, it’s crowded with other

people. I turn to leave, but Kendall moves us swiftly through the

blue room and into the red room, which consists of a red seventies-

style round bed with mirrors on all the walls. Jamal is in there doing

lines of coke with another flamer.

Kendall locks the door behind us.

“What’s up, girlfriend?” asks Jamal, who’s dressed in yellow

and royal blue Spandex.

“I’m in need,” says Kendall.

Jamal uses his acrylic fingernail to scoop coke out of a little

Baggie and shoves it up her nose.

“I owe you, big-time,” Kendall smiles.

“You’re golden, girl.”

He pours the coke on a hand mirror and cuts it with a razor

into six lines. Hayden’s eyes light up. Jamal hands Kendall a crisp

rolled-up bill and she bends down to do a line.

I light a cigarette.

Kendall comes up for air.

“You saved my life,” she tells him.

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“You rock,” Hayden chimes in, waiting for the bill to come

his way.

I exhale smoke.

“You guys are so glamorous,” I say.

Jamal offers me the coke.

I lean down and sniff hard. My eyes water.

“I don’t feel anything,” I say, immediately wanting to do more.

I inhale another line and sit down beside Hayden, who’s busy

snorting from a small spoon. He turns to me, but his eyes look

past me.

“Just wait; you’ll feel it,” Hayden informs me.

Ten minutes later, Kendall, Jamal, Hayden, and I are flying high.

“I’m on fire!” Hayden shouts.

“I have to get back to the house. Hef might be looking for me,”

Kendall says, worried. Jamal winks, and he slips me a vial on the

way out of the game room.

The cool air hits my face and makes my whole body shiver. I

grind my clenched teeth as we try to find our way back to the main

house. The castle finally comes into view as Hayden and I are ban-

tering back and forth at high speed. We kiss before entering,

acutely aware that everything feels very intense.

Over the next few months, Hayden and I fuel ourselves with co-

caine and the nights begin to run together. Suddenly it’s Decem-

ber, which is more hectic than usual. The social season is in full

swing.

Hef has a huge Christmas party and we are greeted by festive

decor, all the sights and smells that fill the Mansion: a massive

Christmas tree, poinsettias, strong eggnog, Christmas carols, and

hundreds of candles.

The party looks like something out of a Ralph Lauren ad. Tan

girls with blond hair glide by in Diane von Furstenberg wrap

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Playground

dresses and stiletto heels, their faces shiny with lip gloss and blush.

Guys wearing Armani blazers, and Christian Dior or Pierre

Cardin suits, in slate gray, navy, and black, strut by while sipping

eggnog and Manhattans.

We move from the great hall into the med room peering in at

all the familiar faces. The fireplace is blazing in the living room

along with the dimly lit lamps on the wall. The buffet table has an

incredible spread as Mansion regulars sit at the mahogany table

and enjoy.

Kendall’s watching me.

The lights throughout the Mansion catch her gold mesh bib

necklace, which dazzles me. It looks like liquid gold is pouring

down her chest. She sways slowly to the music, poured into her

cream-colored silk charmeuse Halston dress, her toned brown-

sugar shoulders sensuously exposed.

We make eye contact as Atlantic Starr’s “Secret Lovers” plays

on the stereo.

I greet Austin, Tobey, Morgan, and Charlie as they return from

the buffet. The backgammon boys throw air kisses as Troy, a hip,

twentysomething butler, and a DJ offers me a glass of eggnog. We

clink glasses.

“Merry Christmas,” we cheer.

I look around the med room at my new family.

Kendall and I play childish games, passing notes underneath the

table. I open mine carefully, making sure Hayden does not notice.

“I miss you,” Kendall writes, signaling me to meet her upstairs.

I shake my head no, with a silly smile on my face.

Hayden catches the tail end of our silent dialogue and assumes

we’re talking about coke.

He nudges me, all excited.

“Let’s go.”

“Not now,” I whisper, but he urges me to get up anyway and

the three of us end up in the foyer.

Kendall points out mistletoe above our head, so I lean up to

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kiss Hayden. He turns and quickly inhales a bullet of coke before

our lips can meet. Pissed, I shove him aside and Kendall giggles.

“Are you okay?” Hayden sniffs, wiping his nose. He looks con-

cerned. I guess my paralytic smile is obviously unconvincing.

“Yes.” I couldn’t think of what to say.

“What’s wrong?” he asks again.

“Nothing’s wrong. I’m having a fabulous time. In fact, I’m so

happy I can’t eat a thing.”

My father comes gallivanting over in his Gucci loafers and Ital-

ian suit, waving his manicured hands. His gold Rolex watch sparkles

halfway across the room. He’s been here all day. He glides by women

floating in paper-thin chiffon Victor Costa gowns and elaborately

patterned draped jersey Missoni dresses. He grabs Kendall and

strangles her affectionately as we all laugh nervously.

“He can’t deal when he’s not the center of attention,” I joke,

trying to lighten the mood.

“Hi, dear; sweet as ever I see,” Dad responds in a blasé tone.

“I’m your daughter; I’m entitled to act bitchy.”

“That’s what they all say.” He shrugs.

“Stop confusing me with your teenage girlfriends,” I snicker as

everyone gathers around for a holiday picture.

We huddle into place. My lips curl upward as I fake smile for

the group photo.

The holidays come to an end and thoughts of another year passing

start to hit me. Even though I’m still a junior, I know somewhere

inside I have to start thinking about what I am going to do after I

graduate, if I graduate. I need to avoid going to the Mansion and

start concentrating on homework. I need help and fast.

I decide to visit Grampy Joe, my seventy-five-year-old paternal

grandfather, at his condo in the Valley. He is thin with tiny specta-

cles covering his personable, wise, yet worldly eyes. Dickens, Keats,

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and Yates line his bookshelves. Stacks of
The New Yorker, Time,

and the
Wall Street Journal
lie on the kitchen counter. CNN is per-

petually on in the background.

He looks dapper in the wrinkled suit he puts on every time I

come to visit. Since my grandmother passed away, Grampy keeps

himself busy by reading, swimming, and burying himself in lots of

paperwork. We usually watch the news and debate politics, but to-

day I need help with my homework.

I’m sitting at the faded oak table in the living room as Grampy

finishes a phone call in the den. His voice is harsh and stern, and

for a second reminds me of my father’s.

Perhaps at one time, my grandfather was a two-timing lady’s

man, a man like my father, who created my father; however, I

barely see those sides of him. They are small glitches left over from

a lifetime ago. Today, all I see is a kind, wise, loving soul who wants

the very best for his granddaughter. I see a man who is my mentor,

my confidant, and in many ways my truest friend.

He sits down and shakes his head.

“Now, where were we?” he asks.

I move my sunglasses higher onto my nose, hoping he does

not see my glazed eyes. Grampy’s thinking is so clear: he’s so as-

tute, both politically and socially, that it’s almost painful to be

around him.

“I don’t know how you can go to school and never read,” he says.

“I read; I just can’t remember anything,” I tell him, wondering

if he smells the pot on my breath.

“Do you still want to be a writer?” he asks.

“Maybe,” I mumble.

“How do you expect to be successful if you don’t read? Who’s

going to listen to what you have to say?”

“I don’t know . . . people,” I say like some burnout. “I want to

raise awareness.”

I’m struggling to make sense.

“You develop opinions by reading,” Grampy stresses.

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