Almost Royalty: A Romantic Comedy...of Sorts (29 page)

“If I even have any, it would be in the cabinet above the microwave in the kitchen.”

Josh walked into the kitchen and started scrounging through a cabinet. I dug a hole in the pot. Abyss trotted over, sniffed the cactus and started moving in.

“You listen here, young lady, you leave this cactus alone. OK, Abyss?”

“What’s this?” said Josh.

“Did you find some tea?”

“No. What’s on your sandwich—with the tomatoes and mayo?” said Josh.

Oh. I forgot to hide the Velveeta.

I took a deep breath.

“It’s Velveeta,” I said.

Josh didn’t say anything. He picked up the sandwich, put it in the microwave, and turned the microwave on.

“I love Velveeta,” he said.

What Are You Hiding?

“OK—so who was it?” said Marcie.

“First say hello, and then let me get a cup of coffee,” I said.

It was 6:30 a.m. on a 62-degree November morning. The sky was cornflower blue, not a cloud grazing past. The air was so clear that L.A. sparkled with sunlight, requiring me to wear my amber tinted, aviator sun glasses or risk a migraine from the bright sunlight.

From the Westside, you could see the snow caps on Mt. Baldy, 90 miles away. We had more days like this—sunny, clear, and smog-free, than the rest of the Los Angeles-hating US (especially our friends in “The City”) would like to admit. But this was cool for Los Angeles. In Massachusetts, Indiana, and Wyoming, 62 degrees in November would have been a heat wave.

We were at one of the profoundly unavoidable coffee franchises on San Vicente Boulevard in Brentwood. Today our training program was to attempt 10 miles after fortifying ourselves with coffee.

Unfortunately, I could see that Marcie had already proceeded into the carb-loading period of this morning’s agenda, two butter-drenched sticky buns and a hot chocolate Enormouso.

It appeared that our marathon training program was possibly having the opposite of the intended effect. I noticed that Marcie’s wardrobe, instead of switching from summer to fall, had gone from wearing fun show yourself things—tight, form fitting, brightly colored—to cover and hide yourself things—black, over-sized and baggy.

And yes, she was, as per her gain/‌lose cycle, growing her hair long and hiding.

Bettina stumbled in late. She was also a member of the opposite of the intended effect club. Her hair was long and her clothes were baggy.

Bettina headed straight to the butt-expanding counter. Her order: a glazed donut and a cinnamon twist with a vanilla latte Enormouso.

“Sorry, my nanny was late,” said Bettina.

“Nanny?” I said. “I thought you fired her. You mean your mother-in-law?”

Bettina had reluctantly fired Tom-Fricken-West’s nanny. It was one thing when her nanny had bought and then charged her for items which Bettina had neither asked for nor needed. Bettina had not been happy when she discovered that her nanny regularly talked on the phone, Bettina’s phone, for two hours per day and ignored the children, even when they were crying.

But when Bettina began noticing that her clothes were missing because her nanny was “borrowing” them, she gave up. She fired her, and somehow didn’t show up for our bi-weekly jogs for two weeks.

Bettina was pretty erratic with exercising, so it could have been a lot of things. When she finally showed again, I didn’t press the case.

“Nanny. Mother-in-law. What’s the difference?” said Bettina.

I looked at her.

“Well, to begin with, one is a member of your family… and I don’t mean the one you pay. You know, the one who gave birth to your husband?”

Bettina yawned. “Look who’s talking. How’s your door?”

I ignored her. “So, Miss Sticky Bun, what was your question?”

“Who was it?” yawned Marcie.

“Richard—the guy from the Ivy & Elite.”

“What did he want?”

“After breaking my cactus pot…”

“Thank God…”

I rolled my eyes.

“…and pounding on my door for 20 minutes. He was mad at me for not returning his calls.”

Marcie lurched forward at me. “You didn’t return his calls! What’s wrong with you?”

I looked at her.

“And he still wants to go out,” I said.

“Yeech. Why?”

“He thinks I have potential to break into the L.A. Civilian Royalty… with the right coaching.”

Marcie shook her head. “Give me his number. I’ll straighten him out on that.” She looked at me. “I think you should give him a second chance.”

“Are you nuts? I had to call 911.”

“Do you
really
think there are that many eligible guys in L.A.?” said Marcie.

Bettina looked up. “Did they come? The police?”

“Eventually. But first Josh came over.”

Marcie looked surprised. “Josh?”

Bettina looked alarmed. “Josh? You didn’t tell me that.”

“You didn’t ask.”

“What did he want?” asked Marcie.

I looked at her.

“I don’t know… to play with Abyss? He came over to help me.”

“Why?” said Marcie

“Yeah, why?” said Bettina.

“I don’t know… he’s a nice guy.”

“Do you think he likes you?” asked Marcie.

“I don’t know.”

“How long did he stay?”

“Overnight.”

“Are you kidding?”

I was surprised by Bettina’s interest.

“Did you sleep with him?”

“And improve on your record?”

“What?” asked Marcie.

Bettina started blushing. “She’s kidding.”

I smiled at her.

“He spent the night on the couch.”

“Oh, he’s just being nice.”

“Maybe.”

“What else would it be? Isn’t he still dating that great girl… Carnie?” said Marcie.

“Cody. They broke up.”

Marcie nodded her head. “Hmm.”

“Why are you so interested?”

“He’s a great guy,” said Marcie, “but not right for you.”

“Why not?”

Marcie shook her head. “He’s just too classy and much higher than you on the Eco-Chain. He’s not your type.”

“Who is?”

Marcie raised her brows. “Hmmm, I need to think about that. But I know someone who might be a better match for him.”

“Who’s that?”

She smiled.

“You’re engaged. Aren’t you?”

I looked to Bettina, who turned her face away.

“Isn’t she?”

Marcie arched her back and yawned. “Well, Greg and I couldn’t agree on a budget for the wedding. My wedding should cost at least $250,000. He wants something different.”

“When did this happen?”

“Early October,” yawned Marcie. “I need more coffee.”

“So for four weeks you didn’t tell me that you broke up?”

“Not broke up. We’re not broken up. We’re just re-thinking things. Giving each other space.”

“Over the wedding budget?”

“It’s the most important day of my life and I deserve to have it the way I want it.”

“I guess my wedding dress is safe again.”

“It was always safe. But if I want it, I think you should let me have it. You know I should get what I want from my friends.”

“It’s a wedding, not a coronation.”

“You wouldn’t understand,” said Bettina.

“You might be right.”

Marcie smiled. “So Josh is available?”

I didn’t like where this was going. “I guess so.”

“What? Do you
like
him?” mumbled Marcie.

“Ye… ah.”

“He’s just not right for you. What does he think about all the makeup you wear?” sneered Marcie.

“He’s a guy. He doesn’t care.”

Bettina looked at me. “I think I know someone to set you up with. He’s more your style.”

“I know,” said Marcie. “Have you tried online dating?”

Bettina started laughing. “That’s a great idea! But I’m still going to give this guy a call to find out if he’s available.”

“Speaking of available, could you let Josh know that I am?” said Marcie. “Work on your thing for those online personals. I’d love to see it.”

“Hey, how about Richard? He’s available,” I suggested.

Marcie smiled contemptuously. “Nooo. He’s definitely not right for me. If he’s interested in you he wants a project not a princess.”

“Are either of you planning on running today?” I asked.

They looked at me.

“I didn’t think so.” I stood up and put on my glasses.

“You aren’t going to run in all that makeup?” Marcie said while rolling her eyes.

“Always have, always will. See ya.”

I walked out of the coffee joint and began my run alone.

I started up San Vicente at my pace, which I had determined to be about 11 minutes per mile. By the time I crossed 26th and tripped over the pot holes bordering the Brentwood Country Club, I thought about bagging it all to order a mocha Grande Enormouso at another location of the coffee chain which was less than two miles from the other location that I had just left. And I thought about what, if any, personal ad I would place.

I was surprised and bothered that Marcie hid her “not a breakup…” from me. But I was also bothered that she continued to bug me about my makeup. Because she knew.

Marcie knows that for the last 18 years I have worn makeup to cover my birthmark. She knows that my recent trip to the Demerol-addicted Laser God was not just for a little scar. It was to attempt another treatment for my birthmark. Which didn’t work. She knows that I’ve had many treatments that didn’t work. But she doesn’t know how many.

She doesn’t know that I’ve had three operations to remove skin, which didn’t work because it left scars. Five treatments with a laser which left a patch of my nose with the texture of cottage cheese, two operations to correct that, and two treatments with a new laser that doesn’t leave a cottage cheese texture. I’ve had ten procedures.

She knows that in grade school I always got to play the lead in
Rudolph, the Red-Nosed Reindeer
without resorting to makeup or props.

She knows that the day that I discovered makeup I went from “The Girl with the Birthmark,” “Oh my God, what happened to you?” and “Man, you’re so ugly,” to “Wow, who is that?” Like Julia, I’m not sure which one she is more comfortable with.

She knows that since that age of thirteen, I’ve worn makeup to run, swim, hike, scuba, study, and work.

When I get back to my apartment, Julia is sitting outside.

“Hello,” I said.

“You’ve changed your locks,” said Julia.

“I did that ages ago. Would you like to come in?”

“Thanks. Got any coffee?”

“I’m sure I could find some.”

There are 15 bags of Whole Bean Guatemala Antigua in my freezer. I pulled one out, opened it, and began to grind. I know that the universal coffee-to-water ratio is one tablespoon coffee to one cup of water. Mine is closer to four to one.

In the background, I see a brown and white streak going through my French doors.

“Where’s your cat?” asks Julia.

“I don’t know,” I lie.

Abyss hates Julia because Julia moves too quickly and has a habit of vacuuming my place when she’s nervous. Abyss has hidden. I’m guessing she’s under my bed.

“I need to borrow something from you,” said Julia, “something to wear.”

“Uh-huh.”

“Christmas is coming. And I’m going to have the Hamiltons over for a tree-trimming party. I’d like you to co-host it with me.”

“Julia.”

“What?”

“We’re Jewish. When are you going to tell them?’

“For a smart girl, you don’t understand much,” said Julia, “what was your IQ again?”

“148.”

“No… no, that’s not quite what I remember.”

Age 9.

Something is wrong at school. I’m in the highest reading group, the highest math group, and get straight As. But the teacher hands out envelopes to all six of my friends in my reading and math group but not to me. I know something is different because my friends seem really happy and start to play with me less, but won’t tell me what was in the envelope. They whisper, but when I ask them what they are talking about they won’t tell me. Finally, my friend Frances breaks.

“You’re smart, Courtney, but we’re gifted and you’re not.”

I don’t know what gifted is, but I know that it’s something I need to be. I’ve figured out that it’s my job to lead my mother and me out of the desperate mess of her husbandless and my fatherless life. I’m not sure how to do it, but I know that I better get into every good program and class that every kid with a father and mother and a big house gets into. So I shadow them and try to pick up the clues of what they, the kids whose parents are planning and paying attention, are doing. But now I know that I will not be in the gifted program. I’ve failed. I cry for weeks and make myself sick. The one thing I could always count on was my intelligence and I have failed. I’m not gifted.

“Go to the principal,” I tell my mom.

“I’m busy,” she says.

I am miserable for months and put myself on my first self-improvement program. I read two books per week and command myself to be the best in everything, from reading to kick-ball. I become the best violinist in the school because I start practicing three hours per day. I get the best grades and never make any mistakes. But I have failed. I will never be gifted. I will not be in the gifted program.

“I need you to go to the principal,” I tell my mom.

“Stop bugging me,” she says.

The principal calls me into her office because I’m crying in class.

“You’re one of our finest students,” she says.

“But I’m not gifted,” I tell her.

The principal looks upset.

She tells me, “Have your mother call me.”

I tell my mom.

“The principal wants you to call her.”

My mom promises to call, but never quite gets around to it.

Four months later, the principal calls my mom. Even they know something is wrong: The recent state standardized test scores have been released and I have the highest score in the school in reading and rank in the 99-plus percentile in math. I have scored higher than all of the “gifted” kids in the school, but I am not “gifted” because I didn’t show much imagination on the day that I was given my “gifted” test, which I come to learn, is called a Stanford–Binet: An IQ test.

“Bullshit,” my mom tells the principal, “trust me, this kid has got more imagination than any person I’ve ever met.”