Just Like Me, Only Better (7 page)

Rodrigo broke the silence. “Beverly Hills is known for its many species of trees. Each street is lined with a different kind.”

I said, “Really? Fullerton has that, too.”

He had no response to that.

At the top of the hill, we turned on to Mulholland Drive, a windy, patchy road with a flimsy guardrail and sweeping views of the San Fernando Valley. We passed cypress trees, oleander hedges, and fortress-worthy fences. Finally, we reached a stone gatehouse shaded by ficus and magnolia trees. The gatekeeper recognized Rodrigo’s car and waved us through. Immediately I saw . . . more gates. And big trees.

“How many houses are in here?” I asked Rodrigo.

“A lot.” Helpful.

The gate in front of Haley’s house was probably ten feet tall, dark wood supported with darker metal. Rodrigo squeezed a remote control, and the gates swung open, revealing . . .

A house. It was a big house, sure, about the same size as Darcy’s (oops—
Darcy and Hank’s
), but it was kind of generic: beige stucco, stack stone, clay tile roof. It was like a larger, more upscale version of the tract house Hank and I once shared.

Rodrigo parked his little car between a Mini Cooper and one of two black Cadillac Escalades. Two extremely large men in black pants and black sport shirts leaned against the more distant SUV. They wore sunglasses and clutched small walkie-talkies. Or maybe the walkie-talkies weren’t small; maybe they just looked that way because the security guys’ hands were so big.

I followed Rodrigo to the tall front door, which was made of some glossy, caramel-colored wood. He pushed a button next to an intercom.

“Jes?” came a tinny voice.

“It’s me, Esperanza.”

Static, and then: “Who?”

“Rodrigo.” His mouth tightened and his lips grew white. “She knew it was me,” he muttered.

There was more static and then a
click
. Rodrigo pushed open the door, and we stepped inside to . . . Frontier Land. Seriously. It looked like a lodge in Montana or Colorado—or maybe in Anaheim. There were enormous log pillars and shed antler chandeliers. Indian blankets draped the leather furniture. An enormous grizzly bear stood next to a towering stone fireplace, arms raised and teeth bared—a moment of ferocity frozen forever. Horse paintings—lots of them—decorated the knotty pine walls.

“Veronica! Welcome!” Jay, standing in front of the fireplace, wore his usual too-sloppy-for-preschool attire.

A messy blond woman, not Haley, sat on the couch.

Jay said, “Veronica Cza . . . Cza . . . Veronica, I’d like you to meet Simone LaPlante. Haley’s stylist.”

Simone remained seated (or
planted
—har, har) on the biggest of the leather couches. By way of greeting, she tilted up her pointy chin and raised a hand, countless gold bangles weighing down her skinny wrist, chunky rings crowding her surprisingly stubby fingers. She wore a loose gray sweater, black leggings, and slouchy suede boots.

She brushed her wild blond hair out of wide, tired-looking eyes rimmed with smudgy gray eyeliner and looked me up and down. “Size six,” she declared in a monotone.

It took me a moment to realize that she was talking about me. I straightened in my brown turtleneck dress, feeling svelte and possibly even stylish—though I wished I had worn a little more jewelry.

“Yes,” I said. “That’s right.”

Her mouth turned down. Judging by the lines on her face, her mouth turned down a lot. “Haley’s a two.”

“Haley’s really excited about meeting you,” Jay told me.

I glanced around the vast, high-ceilinged room. “Is she here?”

“She’ll be down any minute,” Jay said.

“I need to be back at my car by two-thirty,” I said. That was two hours from now—traffic had made us late.

“Would you like something to drink? Mineral water? Pomegranate iced tea?” He turned his head and called, “Esperanza!”

“Water would be great. Thanks.”

The blond woman continued to study me. I looked at her straight-on, expecting her to smile with embarrassment. She didn’t.

“Esperanza!” Jay called again, louder than before. When she still didn’t appear, he lowered his voice. “Rodrigo, get Veronica some water.” He turned to me. “You want fizzy or flat?”

“I don’t really need anything,” I said.

“Bring both,” he told Rodrigo, who slumped out of the room.

“She’ll do,” Simone announced, rising from the couch and slinging an enormous suede patchwork handbag over her shoulder. She was shorter than I would have guessed, not much bigger than a skinny eleven-year-old.

She continued, “Bone structure, features, coloring—all a good match.” She looked me up and down. “But it would be better if she lost a little weight.”

“I wouldn’t worry about the weight thing,” Jay assured me once Simone left. “Haley’s actually packed on a few pounds in the last couple of months.”

Rodrigo returned with two bottles of water. A stout, middle-aged Latino woman followed him bearing a wood tray. She wore bright white Reeboks, black stretch pants, and a tight, black Ralph Lauren T-shirt, the signature “RLL” emblazoned in rhinestones across her ample bosom. A knockoff Chanel clip—at least, I assumed it was a knockoff—held her burgundy hair off her face and out of Haley’s food.

“Hello, Esperanza,” Jay said. “You can just put the tray on the table, and we’ll keep Miss Haley company while she has her . . . Is that a meal-delivery meal?”

“Is pancakes,” Esperanza hissed, ignoring his instructions and heading for the staircase.

“Because Miss Sasha was supposed to talk to you about that,” Jay told Esperanza’s retreating back. “Miss Sasha says Miss Haley should stick to meal-delivery meals from now on.”

Esperanza disappeared up the stairs without turning around. “Haley hasn’t had breakfast?” I asked Jay. It was now a quarter to one.

“It’s her favorite meal,” he said. “Sometimes she eats it three times a day.” He cleared his throat. “Will you excuse me?” He headed up the stairs.

Rodrigo was still holding the bottles. “Here.”

“Oh,” I said. “Thanks.” I took the plain water because fizzy stuff makes me burp. When I went to twist off the top, I realized that my hands were shaking. The silence felt unbearable.

“Have you written any more screenplays besides the one you mentioned?” I asked Rodrigo.

“I’m working on another one.”

“What’s it about?”

He wrenched open the mineral water. Some foam erupted out the top. He took a long drink before he finally spoke. “It’s about an artistic man who moves to California from a small Arizona town only to have his dreams dashed by the corporate Hollywood machine.”

I did my best to come up with a witty response. “Kind of like
A Chorus Line
meets
Erin Brockovich
?”

He wiped some fizz from the side of his mouth and narrowed his eyes. “No.”

“Put it on the table, please, Esperanza.” Jay’s voice echoed through the high-ceilinged room. Esperanza came down the stairs first, still holding the tray. Muttering in Spanish, she placed it on an enormous wooden farm table and then stood there, hands on hips, waiting.

“You can go, Esperanza,” Jay said.

Her nostrils flared. She didn’t move.

The first thing I saw of Haley was her hair. It was blond, it was big, and it was sticking out in some really weird directions. She wore a purple tank top and dark plaid flannel pajama pants. Her slippers were pink and fuzzy.

“Wanna sleep,” she whined.

“I make pancakes, Miss Haley!” Esperanza trilled. “Chocolate chip—
es muy delicioso!
You want whipped cream
tambien
?”

Haley shook her head.

“You want I make bacon?” Esperanza asked.

Haley nodded, and Esperanza hurried out of the room.

Jay muttered something about “meal-delivery meals” and then put on his happy voice. “Haley, you big sleepyhead! This is Veronica, the woman I’ve been telling you about. Don’t you think she looks like you?”

Haley didn’t answer, just folded herself into a log chair upholstered in Buffalo plaid. She leaned over her plate, elbows unapologetically planted on the farmhouse table, her pale, messy hair skimming her coffee cup.

“She’s not a morning person,” Jay told me. (It wasn’t morning.)

“What are meal-delivery meals?” I asked, just to say something.

Jay cleared his throat. “Meal-delivery meals are healthful and tasty food options delivered daily to meet optimal dietary requirements.”

“They’re
shit
,” Haley said, finally looking my way. Kitty Kilpatrick would never say such a bad word. “Yesterday they sent me
fish
. For
breakfast
.”

“Fish is commonly served for breakfast in many Asian cultures,” Jay said evenly.

“I’m from Montana.” Haley shoveled a forkful of pancakes into her mouth.

Okay, now I understood why Jay made me sign a legal document before I set foot in this house.

“Why don’t we sit,” Jay suggested, directing me to the table.

“Are you hungry, Veronica? Esperanza would be happy to make you something.” Sure she would.

“Thanks, I’m fine.” I couldn’t tell whether the sensation in my gut was anxiety or hunger.

Jay pulled out the chair at the head of the table for me, an oddly formal gesture for a guy wearing ripped jeans and red high-tops. At this level, I could see Haley’s face better. On TV, she looked like a prettier version of me. In person, not so much. A line of pimples ran along her jawline, mixing with her freckles. Last night’s eyeliner formed a murky half-moon under her eyes. Her blond hair was greasy and dark at the roots. She looked neither fresh-faced nor perky.

“Wow,” Jay said, looking from Haley to me and back again. “It’s like seeing double.”

I raised my eyebrows.

“Except for the hair color,” he clarified. “So, Haley. Like I was telling you yesterday, I’ve talked to Veronica about doing a little work for us.”

Esperanza appeared with a platter full of steaming bacon.

Haley granted her an enormous smile. “Esperanza, I love you! Can you bring me the phone?”

“We could hire Veronica on a trial basis,” Jay told Haley. “Send her out a couple of times, see how it goes. How does that sound to you, Veronica?”

I nodded. “It sounds good.”

Esperanza came back with the phone. Haley put down her fork and pushed in some numbers. “Josh! I can’t get my TV to work! . . . The one in the bedroom—I don’t know, maybe the others, too, but that’s the one I wanted to watch . . . I tried that . . . Uh-huh. . . . No, Josh! Sooner! Please?” A smile flickered around her mouth, and her voice turned flirtatious. “You are the best, Joshie.”

She pushed the off button and laid the phone back on the table.

Jay cleared his throat. “So what do you think, Haley?”

“About what?” She stuck another piece of bacon in her mouth and chewed with her mouth slightly open.

“About Veronica. Posing as you. So you can get a little . . . space. To gain some creative freedom.”

She rolled her eyes. “Sure. Fine. Whatever.”

 

 

I was twenty-five minutes late to Las Palmas Elementary. Ben was standing on the front lawn next to a pissed-off-looking Shavonne, whose bright yellow T-shirt clashed horribly with her red hair. She held her silver cell phone pressed to her ear. At the sight of me, she said, “Never mind—she’s here.
Finally.
”

She snapped the phone shut. “I was talking to my mom.”

She was trying to intimidate me. And she did, kind of.

“I called her,” I said. “To let her know I was stuck in traffic.”

Actually, I’d called to see if Deborah could pick up the children, to which she’d responded, “My understanding was that you would drive both ways today.”

I kissed Ben on the top of his blond head. “Sorry I’m late, buddy.”

For months after the divorce, Ben used to cry if no one was waiting outside his classroom when he got out of school. “I thought you forgot about me,” he’d say—and my already-broken heart would splinter just a little more.

He’d moved beyond that fear, but he still looked shaken on the rare occasions that I was late. Right now, he glared at me.

“What?”

“I told you not to kiss me in public.” That wasn’t what made him mad, and we both knew it.

I tried to smile. “Where’s Shaun?”

“Playground.”

Mrs. Herbert, a scary third-grade teacher in a bright orange vest, got to me before I could coax Shaun down the slide. “Mrs. Czaplicki, are you responsible for Shaun?”

Some dark force was responsible for Shaun, but that wasn’t what she meant. “I’m driving him,” I said.

“At the beginning of the school year, all parents were required to sign a school site supervision form.” Mrs. Herbert’s voice was hoarse, as if she were recovering from a cold—or from a day spent yelling at her students.

“Right,” I said.

She crossed her arms under her large bosom. “And that form made it very clear that the school cannot be held responsible for supervising children after three-fifteen. It is now three-thirty.”

“I was stuck in traffic. I got here at three-twenty-five,” I said, drowning in my inadequacies. “But I couldn’t find Shaun.”

“And children aren’t allowed on the playground after school hours
at all
unless they are being supervised by a parent or other responsible adult.”

“I know,” I said. “He knows.” Out of the corner of my eye, I could see Shaun sticking his tongue out at Ben.

“Parents think teachers have all the time in the world,” Mrs. Herbert droned on. “That we have nothing better to do than hang out after school, but the fact is that we have our own families to go home to, plus a pile of papers to grade.”

“I know,” I said. “I work here, too.”

“You do?”