Some Like It Hot (9 page)

But that made no sense to Cammie. For one thing, her father would never share a bottle of Cristal with three other people, if only on principle. Plus, she remembered, even after all these years, how her parents and the Strikers would get sloshed together. She recalled, on one occasion, walking in to see Mrs. Striker sitting on her father's lap. That memory made her feel like puking; she quickly banished it from her brain.

Cammie gritted her teeth to keep herself from tearing up. The hardest thing was that her mother's body had never been recovered. At the Forest Lawn Cemetery, the headstone was merely symbolic, though she gave it the same respect as if her mother were actually buried there.

Mom. Mommy. How could you leave me?

Once when Cammie was about twelve, a bird had managed to fly into the chimney of one of the six fireplaces in their new mansion, and the bird had headed straight for Cammie's room. It was a small yellow finch, and it perched on the silver headboard of Cammie's bed as if it belonged there. Yellow had been Cammie's mother's favorite color. She'd wanted the bird to stay, hadn't even called anyone to tell them it was there. But then she went off to school, and when she returned, the bird was gone.

Though Cammie had never told anyone, she always wondered if that bird had been … more than a bird.

“Where'd you go?” Adam asked softly. His voice pulled her out of her musings; he put his large hands on her hips.

“Just thinking.” She nudged her chin toward the distant yacht. Adam knew all about her mother. She'd told him everything. Except this: “Today is her birthday.”

“Your mom's?”

Cammie nodded.

Adam turned her around and held her fast as a bigger-than-average wave rolled by.

“That's tough.” He kissed her lightly. “Want dry land?”

She nodded, not trusting herself to speak. They waded back to the beach and padded to their blanket, using two oversize black towels to dry off.

“Remember in Vegas, Cam? When you asked me if I'd help you find out what really happened to your mom that night?”

Cammie nodded. She
had
asked him.

“Well, I asked my parents to see what they could find out. I mean, they're lawyers. They can get access to all kinds of stuff that we can't.”

Cammie felt her throat close. Yes, she'd mentioned it to him, but she hadn't expected he would do anything about it. The idea that he'd actually followed through made her feel … what? Threatened. Scared. Closed down.

“Why did you do that?” She struggled to keep her voice steady.

He looked bewildered. “You asked me to.”

She tossed her towel on the blanket, allowing anger, which covered her fear, to percolate. “No, I didn't. I mean, we talked about it, but I never told you to tell your parents and you know it.”

“Wait. You're
mad?”

Cammie stared past him down the beach. “I don't want to talk about it.”

He touched her arm. “Come on, look at me.”

Her eyes narrowed. “What?”

“You told me you wanted to find out the truth, right?”

She had. So why did she feel so … invaded by what he had done? She couldn't answer him, because she didn't know.

“Maybe you're—I dunno—afraid of what they might find out,” he guessed. He reached for her again, but she stiffened. “Cammie, I'm sorry. I didn't think this would upset you so much—”

“I'm not upset, okay?” she snapped. “I'm pissed that you did this shit behind my back, Adam.” She simply couldn't stop herself from venting at him—if she didn't, she felt as if she might explode.

He shook his head. “You are not making any sense.”

“Ask me if I care. On second thought, don't ask me anything. I'm out of here.”

She padded through the sand toward the stairs that led up to her friend's house, leaving everything behind—clothes, towels, food, Adam. He wanted to do something useful? He could clean up after them. The worst part, though, was the one thing Cammie couldn't leave behind: her fear about the truth regarding her mother's death.

Lately, in the darkest part of the night when she would awaken and be unable to get back to sleep, she wondered, why was it that she could never be satisfied with anything? Things that used to make her happy—spending massive amounts of money on new clothes, for example, or being the hottest girl in any room, wherever she went—weren't making her happy any-more. It was almost like looking at someone else's life. It
should
have been wonderful, but it wasn't. Because her mother wasn't there to share it with her.

Sometimes it made Cammie so sad that silent tears trailed down her cheeks. She'd hug her pillow and wonder about a horrible, unthinkable thing: Had her mother killed herself? Had she wanted to be dead more than she wanted to be Cammie's mother?

Maybe that was why she wasn't satisfied with a wonderful guy like Adam. If her mother didn't love her enough to stick around, she must be utterly unworthy of love. Love made you weak, vulnerable, gave people power over you.

Love, Cammie knew, could destroy your heart.

Mr. I'm-So-Talented-But-I'm-All-Fucked-Up

“N
ext exit, Ojai.” Cammie read the highway sign from the back of Sam's black Hummer. “Thank God. I hate long car trips.”

“Two and a half hours isn't a long car trip,” Sam pointed out. She turned to Anna, who sat next to her. “Wait until you see this place. More famous people have freaked out there than at the Ivy.”

“You'd think rich people could have breakdowns closer to Los Angeles,” Cammie groused. She held the window button down, then stretched out in the back-seat, thrusting her orange Nars Boccacio-polished toes out on the driver's-side window.

“The air-conditioning won't work with the window open,” Sam said.

Cammie ignored her.

“How is Dee doing, anyway?” Anna asked.

“So much better,” Sam replied, peering at Cammie in her rearview mirror. “Which Cammie would know if she'd managed to get her ass out here more than twice since Dee got admitted.”

“I'm impervious to guilt, jerks,” Cammie sang out. “According to daddy dearest, some of the biggest deals in Hollywood get made at Dee's new home away from home. He's threatened to check himself in just to close a film thing he's doing with Mr. I'm-So-Talented-but-I'm-All-Fucked-Up, and we all know who
that
is.”

Sam smirked at Cammie in the rearview mirror.
“You
definitely do, anyway. You made out with him at Nicole Richie's birthday party at House of Blues.”

“I did not
make out
with him,” Cammie corrected. “He may have semi-made out with
me
, but only because I was so pissed off at Ben.” She pretended the comment had been unintentional and clapped a hand over her mouth. “Oops. Sorry, Anna.”

Anna didn't bother to respond. She'd vowed that Cammie would not get to her during this trip to visit Dee. Ben, she told herself, had been with Cammie when he'd been much less mature. It had nothing to do with what he and Anna shared now.

But her eyes slid to Cammie anyway: her endless, tanned, perfectly toned legs, which led to her low-slung purple-and-silver paisley miniskirt, which revealed a belly chain with Adam's initials dangling from it, topped off with a flirty white lace Gianfranco Ferre blouse that was unbuttoned enough to show the lacy top of her La Perla lavender-and-silver bra and miles of cleavage. Cammie was not known for her subtlety. Ever.

Sexual attraction was biological, Anna reasoned. Either you were attracted to someone or you weren't, and no amount of liking someone, or knowing intellectually that they were right for you, could change that. Well, Ben was male; therefore, Ben had been attracted to Cammie. So why wouldn't he be attracted to her now? Or to some other girl who was everything that Anna was not?

“… these jeans, Anna?” Sam asked.

“Sorry, what?”

“I said, my so-called stepmumsy told me the Allen B. by Allen Schwartz jeans I'm wearing were being hawked on the Home Shopping Network.”

Anna frowned. “So?”

“So what woman with a shred of self-decency even watches Home Shopping Network?”

Anna shrugged. “Don't know.”

“It sucks,” Sam groused. “I'll see my jeans on some fat-assed tourist shopping on Montana Avenue. Gawd.”

“Isn't imitation supposed to be the sincerest form of flattery?” Anna asked.

Sam shot her a look. “I
know
you're kidding.” She fingered the lacy shoulder seam of the scarlet Sandy Duftler camisole that crossed over her bust. “See this cami? I bought it two weeks ago. So I go to this party last week and Kirsten Dunst is wearing it. Now if she sees me in it, she'll think I'm copying her. She won't be flattered; she'll just think I'm pathetic. Which is why I can only wear it outside L.A.”

Anna laughed. Sam's fashion obsession was hilarious, really. And it certainly pulled Anna out of her mental overtime on Ben and whomever he was attracted to when she wasn't around.

Cammie took her Prada eau de parfum perfume from her new pink, mint green, and aqua plaid canvas Antigua tote and spritzed it on—the Hummer was now filled with the fragrance. “I brought a bottle of this for Dee. It's her fave.”

Anna craned around and smiled at Cammie. Regardless of Cammie's occasional rant, Anna knew she really did love Dee. “That was nice of you.”

Dee had been transferred to the Ojai Institute shortly after her breakdown in Las Vegas, and she'd been there ever since. According to Sam, though, she had a release date three weeks hence.

“Cam?” Sam called from the front seat. “I've been meaning to ask you about something.”

“Ask away.”

“About prom. I know that prom is on the diabetic side of the too-sweet lifeline, but it could be hilarious. I mean, think about it,” Sam rushed on. “Kevin Johnson and his middle linebacker man-boobs? What'll he wear, a sumo diaper or a tux? And what will his boyfriend, the crossdresser, wear? The entertainment possibilities are endless! You really ought to—”

“Yeah, okay,” Cammie said, flipping her Stila lip gloss back into her tote bag.

Even Anna had to turn around at that one. Just two days ago, Cammie had insisted that she'd never, ever go to prom. And now the mere mention of one of the odder couples in their senior class had made her agree to go?

“Wait,” Sam began, “did you just say
yes?”

“What's the BFD?” Cammie asked. “Adam wants to go.”

Oh, so
that
was it. Adam wanted to go. And Cammie wanted to make Adam happy. Well, Anna had always said that Adam brought out the best in Cammie.

“Damn, you're easy,” Sam exclaimed.

“Only when I want to be”

Sam smiled. “It's sweet that you're willing to do it for Adam. Let's face it, no one expects sweet from you.”

“Yeah.” Cammie sighed. “We had an argument this morning.”

“About what?”

“Forget it.” She stared out the window, a shut-down look on her face.

Anna didn't mind that Cammie was upset about a fight with Adam, but she was glad the fight hadn't been enough to break them up. It meant that, theoretically at least, Anna would not be treated to the spectacle of Cammie rubbing herself all over Ben like a cat in heat on the dance floor.

She cringed at her own train of thought. How ridiculous was she being?

“It could be fun,” Sam went on. “You and Adam, Anna and Ben, Eduardo with me.”

“Eduardo said yes?” Anna asked, surprised that Sam hadn't told her.

“You need to read your e-mail, Anna,” Sam replied. “I sent you one right after I talked to him. He's flying in on his father's plane.”

Anna had a moment of true joy for her friend. “That's great. I'm so happy for you.”

“Thanks,” Sam replied. “I still have to work out the logistics of him and shooting the prom-weenies movie at the same time, but multitasking is my middle name.”

Now that Eduardo was coming to prom, Anna wondered why Sam didn't just drop the movie idea altogether. Evidently, though, what had begun as an excuse to invite Eduardo to prom had turned into something Sam really wanted to do.

Ten minutes later, Sam pulled up to Ojai Psychiatric Institute's understated main gate, with its stone block-house guarding the entrance. They stopped there for visitors' badges; Sam explained that steel spike strips that could blow out her tires would have elevated from the driveway at the touch of a button if they hadn't. She'd visited Dee often and knew the whole drill.

“It looks like a resort,” Anna noted as they drove past a series of classic gardens landscaped in the British style, lush lawns, a regulation basketball court, and two baseball diamonds. A hard right turn revealed a magnificent vista of the distant Pacific. There were picnic tables scattered about, two clay tennis courts, a volleyball court, a gazebo, and an actual concrete band shell appropriate for outdoor concerts. A cobblestone path paralleled the entry road, and every fifty yards or so Anna would see one or two people out for a stroll. Without fail, they waved politely to the Hummer. Anna found herself waving back.

“That wave will cost you a thousand bucks a day if you stay here,” Sam declared. “Professional assessment, two grand a day. Treatment, a thou a day, for as long as you need your hand held and your brain fried. They don't accept insurance, either—and don't ask me how I know. If you're going to go crazy, it's a good idea to be rich.”

The Hummer approached the main building—a low-slung structure of yellow sandstone with a circular drive that circumnavigated a lavish Italian-style fountain. Sam pulled up between a Porsche 917 and another Hummer in the visitors' parking lot. “My advice,” she said, before she turned off the engine, “if you recognize a famous face, pretend you don't know them.”

“That won't be difficult,” Anna pointed out. “I'm bad at celebrity spotting.”

It had been a difficult decision for her, whether or not to come to visit Dee. In the brief time Anna had known Dee, she'd found her … well … odd. Early on, she'd announced to Anna that she was pregnant with Ben's baby. Now
that
had been weird. It had also turned out to be a bald-faced lie. Dee had a habit of trying and discarding philosophies like plates of tapas at Meson G on Melrose Avenue—a bite of Jainism one day, a taste of Marianne Williamson New Age woo-woo the next, followed by a plate of Jewish kabbalah mysticism. Who the real girl was inside that delicate body, Anna didn't know, but the fact that she'd been in Vegas when Dee had had her Vegas breakdown made Anna feel somehow involved.