All Night Long (13 page)

The band started a medley of songs by Ricky Martin; Esme pretended to listen. But really, she was lost in thought. There'd been many strange experiences since she'd decided to come to live at the Goldhagens' and take care of their children. But this football game, where her old high school was playing her new high school, and where her old friends were sitting together on one side of the field, while the kids from her new school were on the other side of the field, had to be one of the strangest.

“I should go back over there,” Esme mumbled. She was trying to pick out Lydia and Kiley from clear across the field but couldn't.

“Come on, Esme,” Marisol called. “Be with your homegirls.”

Oh. Great.
Now
they were her homegirls. Just a moment earlier they had been treating her like a traitor to La Raza.

“Now they're your homegirls, huh?” Jorge asked, his voice low, as if reading Esme's mind. But that was how it had always been with them. His eyes flicked over her. “You look nice,” he added.

She was wearing a short black skirt and sandals with a skinny three-inch heel, and a black halter top. She sat with Jorge and they talked about everything, paying little attention to the game down below—Echo Park was way ahead. Jorge's band, the Latin Kings (he wrote the lyrics for their songs), had played at a recent immigration rally. He was already thinking about where he wanted to go to college and had recently been on a trip to Princeton with his parents to check it out. Esme knew he had the grades and the test scores to get in.

“You want to go to Princeton?” Esme asked. “Could you pick any place whiter?”

“Well, just think,” Jorge teased, “I can rep all the brown people.” He leaned his forearms on his thighs, hands dangling. “I don't know where I want to go yet, really. What about you?”

“I can't think past senior year of high school.”

“Don't give me that,” Jorge said sharply. “You
are
going to college.”

“Fine, I'm going to college, I just don't want to talk about it.”

Down on the field, the Echo Park marching band finished up its halftime show with the school fight song, and then marched off the field to thunderous whoops and hollers from the local fans. The announcer came on to say that in keeping with tradition, there was no Bel Air High School marching band, but that a famous BAHS graduate would be entertaining. The Bel Air side cheered when a former member of the Eagles was rolled out onto the field on the back of a flatbed truck with his band, and launched into “Hotel California.”

Jorge stood up. “Your friends are here, right?”

Esme nodded.

“Then let's go over and say hi. I haven't seen Kiley in forever.
'Cept on television, of course.” He laughed; so did Esme. To-day's testimony at Platinum's trial had been all over the news, as a representative of the Los Angeles Police Department testified to the drugs that they'd found in Platinum's living room. Platinum's lawyer tried to argue that the drugs might have been planted, but Judge Terhune had disallowed the line of inquiry.

Esme hesitated. Across the way were Kiley and Lydia, yes. But there were all those other people.…

“I don't know, Jorge. Maybe we should just stay here and hang out.”

“What? Eh, you afraid?” Jorge looked at her closely. “You can't be afraid. That's where you're going to be going to school. You made that decision already.”

Esme fidgeted, and Jorge sat back down.

“I'm not like you,” she told him.

“Not like me how? You're much better looking, not to mention just as smart and just as talented. Okay. You don't rap. But you're an artist, Esme.”

“I don't get it,” Esme ruminated. “Back in June, you were wondering if I should even take this job, or go to this school. Now, it's like you want me to be one of them. Jorge, I'll never
be
one of them.”

Jorge grinned. “Now, my girl is being honest. Tell me what you're thinking.”

Through the rest of halftime, and most of the third quarter, Esme talked and Jorge listened. All the time they'd grown up together in the Echo, she'd felt that Jorge was like a brother to her— a wiser, smarter brother, even though they were the same age. Jorge's father was a public defender. Jorge himself talked about going to law school at UCLA, working in government, and running
for mayor. It wasn't impossible. The current mayor was Latino. All it took was brains and drive, and Jorge had plenty of both.

Esme told him about Tarshea. About Jonathan. About what was going on with her tattoo business and how much money she was making. About the weird orientation sessions she'd had here at this very school. About how the hopes and dreams of June had come crashing into the hard reality of August. About how she was having second thoughts about anything and everything.

“You finished?”

Esme nodded, and she felt Jorge's muscular arm go around her. It was the nicest gesture that he could make, and she felt so comfortable.

“You have a lot going on,” he acknowledged. Then he stood and reached a hand down to her. “I'm gonna mull all that. We'll talk about it later. Now let's go say hi to your friends.”

His arm stayed around her all the way down the bleachers, and all the way around the field.

She spotted Kiley first, about halfway up the bleachers on the Bel Air side. With the score sitting at forty-five to ten, and only ten minutes to go in the game, the crowd had thinned out considerably. Also sitting with Kiley and Lydia were two of the girls who'd given them the orientation tour. Staci what's-her-name and Amber. Staci wore an aqua-and-brown-polka-dotted babydoll tunic with brown leggings and ballet flats. Amber wore a lace kimono over skinny jeans and sky-high Jimmy Choos. They had guys with them—cute in a generic, we're-cool-rich-boys kind of way.

“Hey, y'all!” Lydia called when she saw them. “Were you guys across the field hollerin' for the other team?”

“Yeah,” Esme said, just as Echo Park scored another touchdown.

“Evidently it worked,” Jorge added with a laugh.

Staci and Amber had to wait patiently to be introduced. Then they introduced the guys. Richie, the red-haired guy, was Staci's boyfriend, and was in the film program at USC. Trent was with Amber—he went to BAHS, and Amber reported that he played guitar in a fast-rising post-punk group that already had gigs at some of the biggest clubs in Hollywood.

“And how do you know Jorge?” Staci asked easily.

Here it was. Esme was going to have to admit the truth. That she knew him from the Echo. Then there'd have to be a long explanation of who Jorge wasn't. That he wasn't a gangbanger. That he wasn't a hood. That he wasn't going to take names and numbers and come back with his
cholos
.

No, wait. She didn't owe them any explanations. She didn't have to tell them shit. Before Esme could decide what to do, Jorge did it for her. And he did it in such a funny, charming, disarming way that Staci and Amber were utterly dazzled.

“Your friend is so cool!” Staci exclaimed. “You've got to come out with us sometime and party, Jorge. Did I pronounce your name correctly? I took three years of Spanish.” She batted her perfectly mascaraed eyes at him. Esme suspected instantly that she had extensions glued on.

“You said it perfectly,” Jorge assured her.

“We're just thrilled that we've got Esme and her friends in our class this year,” Amber said. “It's always so boring, same people, same faces. And even the new faces are the same. Just like ours. But these girls?” Amber indicated Kiley, Esme, and Lydia. “These girls are a breath of fresh air.”

“They're so fun. We're gonna hang out together and party and everything.” Then Staci looked at her watch with regret.
“Well, I guess we're gonna book. Trent's playing a gig at a private party in Mar Vista tonight. Wish we could invite you guys, but you know how it is.”

“Have fun,” Lydia told them.

After a round of warm goodbyes, Staci and Amber took off with their boyfriends.

“See? Not so bad,” Jorge told Esme.

“Please. That was as much of a game as the one that just got played down there.” Kiley chucked her chin toward the field, where the gun had just gone off to end the game. Echo Park had killed—fifty-one to ten. There was only the most cursory of postgame handshaking on the field.

“Jorge, Bel Air girls are not your strong suit. The fact is, they hate us,” Esme explained. “Well, me and Kiley, anyway. They think Lydia is cool.”

Esme looked at her friend from the Echo. He seemed truly surprised.

“Don't you get it?” Esme asked Jorge, irritated at his innocence. “They were playing us!” Something hard and hot turned in her stomach. Her fingers balled into fists. She wasn't a violent person, but she would have liked to hurt those girls, because she knew what Jorge didn't seem to comprehend.

“You know that expression ‘kill 'em with kindness’?” she asked Jorge.

He nodded.

“Bang-bang. We're dead.”

“Hurry up, y'all. I
knew
we should have come earlier.”

Lydia was practically dragging Martina and Jimmy by their wrists through the booths and tents that comprised the Melrose Trading Post, lamenting the fact that these booths were closing almost as fast as she passed them.

That's what I get for showing up at four o'clock
, Lydia thought.

The chichi flea market in the midst of the Fairfax district—a Los Angeles neighborhood that was equal parts hipster and Orthodox Jews—had bloomed from the attention of Hollywood stars and the bargain-savvy alike. Here, on the torrid asphalt of the parking lot at Fairfax High School, would-be Melrose Avenue merchants and flea marketers met to sell their wares.

The assortment of stuff available was staggering, as was the crowd that came from all over the city. One-of-a-kind designer clothes and furniture hid in plain sight alongside random junk. On previous outings to the flea market, Lydia had scored a
vintage hot pink silk Chanel bed jacket and a tweed Dior pencil skirt (the lining was ripped, but so what?). She'd also scored a Nanette Lepore leopard-print chiffon blouse (missing buttons, which was why it was selling for eight bucks, when Lydia knew for a fact that at Neiman Marcus a similar shirt
with
the buttons was currently going for north of three hundred dollars). She'd found it crumpled up between an empty propane tank and a rusting saxophone.

If you had taste and a good eye, the place was a fashion gold mine.

“Come on, come on,” Lydia insisted.

“It's too hot to walk fast,” Jimmy whined.

Martina yanked away from her. “No! We're leaving Faith behind.”

That's right. Faith.
Kat had taken Lydia's mom to Valerie's on Rodeo Drive for an eyebrow waxing, and Lydia had brought Martina and—wonder of wonders—a
friend of Martina's
to the flea market. Lydia had never known her cousin to have a friend before, so she considered this a wonderful sign. That friend, Faith, was now twenty yards back. She was lost in a world of her own, adjusting her glasses and hovering over a table attended by a cadaverous guy dressed in black with a beard nearly to his navel. That table, Lydia saw, was littered with nothing but junk: a neon beer sign, an assortment of lampshades, and what looked to be a carved wooden pterodactyl.

On one hand, Lydia was thrilled for Martina. Her cousin had met Faith Phillips, whose father, Bingham Phillips, was executive producer of a very popular reality show, at the country club. On the other hand, the friend was Faith. With her two-hundred-dollar streaked chestnut brown hair and disdainful dark eyes,
haughty Faith treated Lydia like an unwanted escort for the day. She was a year older than Martina, and thought she knew better about everything. On the ride here from her home in Pacific Palisades—X detoured there to pick her up—Faith had issued long dictates concerning everything related to taste: the best food (soy curd), acceptable clothing (FUBU was in, Juicy Couture was out), music (ABA—Anyone but Avril), and the funniest movie star (Adam Sandler, not Ben Stiller).

“You just ditched my friend!” Martina cried, and stomped back to Faith. Lydia followed. Jimmy groaned, folded his arms, and refused to budge.

“Wait right there!” Lydia called to him. Faith was examining a crystal pin in the shape of a dolphin. “Faith, honey, try to keep up, okay?”

Faith ignored Lydia and held the pin up for Martina to examine. “Do you like it?”

“Do you?” Martina asked, afraid to venture an opinion lest Faith disagree.

“Dolphins are out,” Faith pronounced, tossing the jewelry back into a tray crowded with cheap trinkets. “Unicorns are in.”

“This is so boring!” Jimmy yelled, marching over to them.

“We can look for things you like,” Lydia offered.

He folded his arms. “I don't like
anything
.”

It wasn't really like Jimmy to be so negative. Now that Lydia thought about it, he'd hardly said anything all day, except for occasionally complaining. From the moment Faith had gotten in the car, he'd been silent. He hadn't talked about any of his favorite subjects—bugs, golf, or the Dodgers.

“You want to see if we can find you a new Dodgers cap?” Lydia offered.

Jimmy shook his head and stared at the ground.