Playground (30 page)

yard. “People think they’re smarter than me, but they’re not! They

say one thing, but I like to figure out what they really mean. I am

one step ahead of them! People always want something from you.

You can’t trust anyone!” Dad instructs.

He thinks he’s teaching me invaluable lessons on how to sur-

vive in the world, but what he’s really doing is scaring the shit out

of me. Fear pulses through my veins as this unsettling experience

numbs my entire body. Life with him is becoming a constant

merry-go-round of fear and terror—he’s a far cry from the fun-

loving Hollywood scenester I used to know.

Later, we end up in Dad’s bedroom, where I watch him sort

through various types of guns, petrified as he hands me a loaded

revolver and shows me how to use it.

“Keep this by your bed at all times,” he urges. “It’s for your own

protection.”

I nod before walking slowly down the hallway to my room.

I close my bedroom door and head straight into my bathroom,

popping numerous Xanax and Halcyon pills to relax. I pull a large

bong from underneath a cabinet, fill it with pot, and open the win-

dow. When I’m done, I cautiously reenter my bedroom, taking one

step at a time, concerned he may come in. I place the gun carefully

underneath my bed, near the headboard. My entire body and fin-

gers tremble uncontrollably.

I see shadows beneath my bedroom door. My eyes zoom up

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close to the door, where no lock exists. Inexplicable, terrifying im-

ages of someone bursting through my bedroom door to kill me

race through my head. The house used to be so quiet and now

every noise makes me jump. My bedtime tremors for unpre-

dictable behavior make the nights nearly impossible to sleep.

Living my father’s suspicious and distrustful delusions will

haunt me forever. The paranoia will creep up on me when I least

expect it.

Nothing will remove the voices from my head. The slightest

turn of events can turn a peaceful afternoon into a thundercloud

of anger and confusion as the entire world crumbles to despair.

There are no answers. There are no solutions. By this time, I

have learned to run and hide, to isolate, to numb myself, and lash

out at those who get in the way.

Anything to avoid feeling my feelings.

201

Seventeen

O n my way to school one day, not long after the night when

Dad gave me the revolver, I close the front door to Dad’s house

when across the street, I notice three suspicious, shady-looking

men smoking cigarettes against a shiny four-door Mercedes

with dark tinted windows. The men don’t look American; in

fact, I’m not sure what they are, but they have dark complexions

with mustaches and appear to be looking around every few

seconds as if they are waiting for someone. I attempt to brush it

off like it’s no big deal and tell myself I’m being paranoid. I am

not ready to deal with everything that is happening, because I

don’t know what is happening. All I know is that my father con-

tinues to reinforce that I not mention any of this absurdity to

anyone.

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

At seventeen, I am sworn to secrecy and told to keep a gun by

my side at all times.

The freedom package has officially crumbled.

For Dad’s fiftieth birthday, Eric Jacobs throws him a birthday

dinner at his exquisite estate in Beverly Hills. It’s the kind of

home you see in magazines: lavish furniture, gallery-style paint-

ings, impeccable decor that seems so perfectly placed. There are

hundreds of sexy young models running around in silky

dresses.

“Where’s Pops?” Eric hugs me hello.

“Late as usual.”

“He can’t be on time even to his own birthday,” Eric

chuckles.

“What do you think of your father’s new girl?” he asks sin-

cerely.

“I’d rather not say,” I smirk and he laughs.

“Listen, kid, if you ever need anyone to talk to, you come see

me, okay?” Eric offers in a creepy tone; I can tell he’s the type to

take advantage.

There’s commotion by the front door as Dad and Vicki arrive.

They’re perspiring, rushed, and scattered as guests dash over to

greet them. I venture around the house, making my way into the

living room before everyone is seated. The place settings are ex-

quisite with extravagant floral arrangements and a bottle of Dom

in the center of each round table. Name cards are perfectly dis-

played, though my father’s seat has no name tag. Instead, an over-

size plastic hypodermic needle is set in front of his place setting.

My eyes rush up close to the needle. I stare at it for a while, unable

to move. I don’t know why I am so surprised to see it out in the

open.

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I thought it was a family secret, the dirty kind people don’t talk

about in public or even to those closest to them.

If others knew what evil lurked behind our doors, how come

no one did anything to help?

Dad comes up from behind me, draping his arms around my

shoulders.

“Need a tranquilizer?” Dad jokes. I jump, noticing glossy sweat

running across his face.

He picks up the large plastic needle and begins poking every-

one near him in the ass.

“Come here, little one; Dr. Feel Good has a little something for

you!” he teases a friend’s wife, who shrieks and runs away.

Everyone laughs as Dad chases her for a moment and then

stops to catch his breath. I suppose in a world of partiers, a plastic

needle as your name tag is commonplace, even funny. But some-

how I am far from laughing. Eric wraps his arm around Dad’s

shoulder.

“We knew it was your birthday and we know you don’t sleep

with hookers, but we ran into a couple old friends who wanted to

come say hello. You might recognize them.” Eric coughs to himself

as four skinny girls with size-D silicone boobs step forward.

“Oh my God,” Dad chuckles cheerfully.

“Doc, I haven’t seen you in so long!” One of the girls plants a

big kiss on him as Vicki enters coked out of her mind.

“What are you doing? You’re cheating on me! I knew it! You

motherfucker!”

Vicki picks up a china plate, throws it at the skinny girl, and

runs after her. A catfight ensues. Vicki throws a punch at the

hooker but misses, hitting Dad in the eye. He flinches and reacts

by throwing an arm in the air and accidentally knocks Vicki in the

nose. Blood pours out. The girls stop fighting. Someone grabs a

napkin and hands it to Vicki. She pinches her nose with it, but the

bleeding is so intense that the napkin is quickly drenched. Another

girl brings her a towel.

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

“Don’t worry, honey, you needed your nose reset anyway,” Dad

assures her and the guys laugh, a deafening tone that resonates

through the room.

My mind wanders, preoccupied with thoughts of Kendall, my

mother, safety. I need an escape. A phone will work. The den has a

warm feel to it with mahogany wood and lots of reds, greens, and

browns. Books line the shelves. I pick up the receiver on the desk

and dial while staring out at the spectacular landscape hoping

Kendall answers.

“Hello?” Kendall says softly. My body heat rises.

“Hey.”

“Hey . . .” She lingers and I can feel my stomach turn, craving

her affection more than ever. The urge to see her day or night re-

gardless of the consequences beats inside to such an extreme that I

would risk anything to be with her, to hold her in my arms. My de-

sire for her has turned into something much deeper, much more

uncivilized.

“I miss you. I need to see you.” My heart pounds, wishing she

could reach through the phone and comfort me.

“I can’t,” she whispers.

“Why?”

“Oh, Jennifer, what am I going to do with you?”

“Anything you want,” I try to flirt, but it comes out sounding

more like a plea for help.

“I’ll figure something out, okay?” she says quietly.

“When?”

“Soon,” she assures me. “I gotta go.” She hangs up.

The phone goes dead.

I rejoin the party, where a group of coke whores are playing

Twister.

Blood drips from their noses onto the mat.

The scene is horrifying. My tolerance for this deranged be-

havior has peaked. I leave abruptly and drive to the Mansion,

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searching for some kind of normalcy. Thank God Tobey is there.

We end up ordering milk shakes and watching reruns of Dallas in

one of the upstairs bedrooms. My entire childhood was a perfect

cliché. Tobey falls asleep and I stare out the window lost in the

hours that go by.

207

Eighteen

Most days after school Kendall and I meet at the park across

from the Beverly Hills Hotel. Our passion is rekindled whenever

we haven’t seen each other for a while. Usually we meet at the last

minute. We are in the bathroom kissing, hungry to be touched.

Our desire for each other is so intense it startles us both. The feel-

ings I have for Kendall are different from anything I’ve ever felt

before. There is no reasonable explanation; it is simply a connec-

tion we both seem incapable of stopping.

We lean against the wall, our bodies pressed close as she plays

with my hair softly and then pulls on it harder. I sigh, wanting her

to hurt me. She moves her hand slowly in between my legs, mak-

ing me beg for more. Once I’m aroused and totally helpless in her

arms, she smiles alluringly, knowing she has me. When we are

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

done, we separate. Kendall slips into the limo while I cross the

street and walk two blocks to my father’s house on the corner.

At home, I look in my desk drawer for my journals and notice

that they are missing. I bump into Vicki, who looks thin and hag-

gard, which makes her appear twice her age. Our relationship has

turned openly hostile. She wipes blood from her nose as her nose-

bleeds are common these days. She avoids eye contact.

“Are you okay?” I ask, feeling momentarily sorry for her.

“Mind your own business. I’m warning you, stay out of my

shit,” she threatens with gangster attitude.

“What shit would that be, Vicki?” My voice overflows with

sarcasm.

I move in closer as she uses her sleeve to put pressure on her

nose, and we both pretend there’s not blood oozing out of her nos-

trils. “You took my journals, didn’t you?”

“Listen, you little punk. You shouldn’t talk to me like that. I’m

watching you and if you’re not nice to me, I can put you and your

father in serious danger.”

Her words are meant to be threatening, but she looks so pitiful

that I try hard not to laugh. Vicki moves in close and points her

bloody finger in my face.

“I can have you and your father killed—do you hear me?”

My stomach tightens, all urge for laughter is gone as adrena-

line rushes inside me like a volcano ready to explode. Rage rips

through my skin and starts to pulsate. However, I stand there in si-

lence because a part of me knows that she is linked to the Mob and

really could have us killed.

I leave abruptly and drive around aimlessly until I find myself

parked in front of Hayden’s condo. I rush in without warning and

find him alone, doing blow on his living room table. He barely

looks up when I enter.

“Hayden?”

“Yeah?” he answers, distracted, inhaling.

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“I need to talk to you.”

“Oh, now you want to talk to me?” He finishes an enormous

line, stands, and pulls up his Levi’s, showing off his tan muscular

stomach and white Calvin Klein boxers.

“I’m sorry, but a lot of shit has been going on at my father’s

house since he met Vicki. Her ex-boyfriend is a huge Colombian

drug lord, and Carmela and I found kilos of coke in his bathroom,

and Dad’s walking around the house with an Uzi.”

“Sounds like a bad TV movie.”

“Minus the commercials.”

“What else have you not kept me in the loop about?” he asks, a

look of distrust emanates and I become immediately fearful that