“Excellent,” Sam decided. “We're out of here.”
Jackson took out his tiny platinum cell phone, punched in a few numbers, and then nodded. “Good enough. You know my new driver, Casey? He'll be at the side entrance. Don't want to face the hordes.” He draped an arm around Sam. “Let's go home, make ice cream sundaes, and cry into the hot fudge.”
At that moment, Sam loved her father so much. There was no Poppy, no drooling baby, no assistant directors calling him into the studio to reloop a scene, no locations for three weeks, nothing. Just a dad and his daughter.
“You're on,” Sam agreed. “If Anna can join us?”
Anna smiled. “Lead me to the mint chocolate chip.”
“You want a goody basket first?” Jackson asked them. He pointed to the far end of the restaurant. “I can get you one over there.”
Sam thought for a moment.
Vanity Fair
always prepared giveaway baskets for all their party attendees. Last year's had contained a Dell portable jukebox, a bottle of Angel perfume by Thierry Mugler, and a PalmOne Treo 600 Smartphone. This year's was bound to be better. But then she shook her head. Stopping for a goody basket would ruin the moment and probably give Cammie time to figure out a way to horn in on the evening. Right now, she was enjoying a few moments of payback for Cammie's not having taken the time to watch the awards show. She'd probably catch hell for it later—Cammie was one of those girls who never forgot a snub—but right now it was well worth it.
No. She'd make do with her father's Oscar basket. Since he was a major award nominee, it would be a lot better than the one from
Vanity Fair
, anyway—an article she'd read in
Variety
had placed the value of this year's goody basket for actors at just south of ninety-five thousand dollars. Each basket was reported to contain gift certificates for cruises to Puerto Vallarta and Juneau, a spa weekend in Ojai, and a stay at the Carlyle Hotel in New York; plus a plasma television set (or rather, a certificate for one—you had to pick the set up at Circuit City), a box of Shu Uemura cosmetics for the actor's wife/girlfriend/lover of the moment, and a top-of-the-line Averatec computer. And that was just for starters. Sam reminded herself to grab the basket before the Pop-Tart got to it first.
“'Bye, Cammie.” She gaily bid her friend adieu. “Enjoy the party.” It was fun to see Cammie left behind for once.
“G
ood morning, students! I just took my Fresno boobs for a walk on Rodeo Drive, and now it's my pleasure for us to welcome you to the Beverly Hills High School senior assembly!” Sam chirped to Anna, inventing a speech for their new principal, Charlotte Manning.
It was the morning after the Oscars, Monday, and the entire senior class was assembling in the luxurious Streisand Theater—donated by the famed singer/actress/director—for a group preview of the Washington trip, scheduled to depart on Tuesday afternoon. Built the same year as the Kodak Theatre, the Streisand Theater looked like the Kodak in miniature. Instead of several tiers of seats, there were only the orchestra level and a balcony, but the space still seated more than a thousand and had a lighting grid and sound system that would have been the envy of a top commercial performance venue. Streisand had paid for the entire million-dollar renovation.
Anna knew that Principal Manning had only been on the job a few weeks and had, as Sam had intimated, come from a high school in Fresno. She'd replaced Principal Kwan, who'd been hired in midterm by Governor Schwarzenegger to head up the Office of Educational Diversity at the state capital in Sacramento. Most people found this hilarious, because, as Sam had told Anna, while Beverly Hills High School did have its share of nonwhite students, there was no economic diversity whatsoever. The average family income easily topped a quarter of a million dollars a year.
Everyone in the student body made fun of the new principal, known for her outsized breasts, her fondness for skintight cashmere sweaters, and her perk-perk-perky personality. As the fortyish woman stood at the podium and waited for her students to take their seats, Anna noted that today's cashmere was sapphire blue, with little fluffy pom-poms hanging from the cowl-neck collar. Which was a terrible thing to do to cashmere.
Dee Young—another of Sam's lifelong friends with whom Anna had become acquainted—slid into a seat next to Anna and Sam. She was petite, no taller than five feet, weighing no more than ninety pounds. With her wispy blond bangs that nearly touched her cornflower blue eyes, Dee seemed almost doll-like, except for her clothes, which were standard-issue Beverly Hills High School sexy without trying to be—blue Habitual jeans, a tiny white tank top by Emerge, and a plain white men's dress shirt from Brooks Brothers with only one button buttoned. The dress shirt was for the principal's benefit only.
“She really shouldn't wear blue,” Dee mused, in her plaintive little-girl voice. “I mean, her aura is kind of puke green and it clashes. Do you think I should tell her, Anna?”
“I don't know, Dee,” Anna replied, trying not to betray how increasingly odd she found Dee to be. “I can't see her aura.”
“How about you, Sam?” Dee asked, wide-eyed.
“Definitely tell her,” Sam instructed. “Right after the assembly.”
“You're kidding me,” Dee surmised.
“Gee, ya think?”
Cammie, who had just slipped into a seat in the row in front of them, craned around. “Dee?”
“Yuh?”
“After you talk to her about her aura, can you ask her for her opinion on the meaning of life? Because we're all just dying to know.”
Dee scrunched up her precious little forehead; her cornflower blue eyes went dark. “I don't really need to. Last week at the Kabbalah Centre, a rabbi told a story about how the great sage Hillel was asked to explain the same thing. He said that what is hateful to you—”
“Stop.” Cammie waved a hand, and Dee immediately shut up. “I can tell you what is hateful to me. What's hateful to me is that you actually wanted to answer my …”
Cammie's voice trailed off as Adam Flood made his way to the empty seat next to her. He moved with the rangy, athletic motion of the basketball point guard he was. Largely because of Adam's efforts on the hard court, the high school had posted its best record in years.
“What's hateful?” Adam asked.
Cammie grinned. “That we have to be here, instead of in my shower.”
Adam plopped down in the seat. He'd recently cut his hair, so the small star tattoo behind his left ear was more noticeable than usual. “I'm with you,” he agreed, and lightly kissed Cammie. He was wearing black jeans and a Beverly Hills High School basketball jersey.
“You know, Cammie, you're a much nicer person when Adam is around,” Dee observed.
Parker, who was sitting to Dee's left, patted her thigh. “Don't let her get to you, Dee. Hey, so I got a callback for that gig on
Everwood
. If I get it, they're going to fly me to Salt Lake City, where they shoot.”
“To play a boy slut, right?” Cammie asked. “Typecasting.”
“Lighten up,” Adam told her, giving her shoulders a squeeze.
“Sorry,” Cammie said with a sigh. “I just hate wasting my time. Let's get out of here before the walking bad boob job starts her speech. I'm dying for a double espresso. How about the Coffee Bean?” She slid out of her seat and tugged Adam up with her.
“Later.” Adam gave them a half salute as he followed Cammie away.
It was amazing to Anna that Cammie would say she was sorry about anything. But if anyone could get her to say that magic word, it would be Adam. There'd been a time, not so very long ago, when Anna and Adam had been an almost-couple. But in the end, Anna had gone back to Ben, following her heart instead of her head. She'd never regretted that decision, but it had hurt Adam, and she was ashamed of herself for it. Adam Flood was perhaps the last of the truly good guys. Thoughtful, ethical, but not a helicopter guy who hovered over you all the time and swooped in when you wanted to be left alone. Too good a guy, in Anna's opinion, for Cammie. Still, they seemed happy together.
“Come on,” Sam whispered to Anna as the principal tapped the microphone a few times, making sure that it was live. It wasn't, so she motioned to one of the school custodians to assist her. “Cammie's right. I can't sit through this shit, either. We're going to Vegas, not Washington. What do we need the travelogue for?”
“Well … I might go to Washington, actually,” Anna began awkwardly. “I'm not sure I really want to spend any more time with Cam—”
“Shut
up
!” Parker exclaimed. “You can't!”
“Yes, actually, I can,” Anna maintained.
Parker gazed into Anna's eyes. “I mean, I'd miss you.”
“Why would you miss Anna?” Dee asked. “Are you two sleeping together?”
Anna sighed. “Dee, we're not dating. We're not even close to dating. Right, Parker?”
“Right,” Sam answered for Parker. “Save it for your callback. Okay? Anna, you ready to book? We can go get a Robeks' juice and be back in time for second period.”
“I think I'll stay.”
“Suit yourself. I'll bring you back a smoothie.” Sam edged out of her seat and headed for the rear doors of the theater.
As soon as Sam was gone, Parker switched seats to slide in between Dee and Anna. “I'll stay, too. I wouldn't want you to be here alone.”
Dee pinched herself. “I'm real. As in, existing in this moment of time and space. I matter.” She shook her head. “I mean, I
am
matter.”
Fortunately, Principal Manning began her spiel about the Washington trip, sparing Anna any more conversation with Dee and Parker. The presentation was high-tech and included a professional-quality film that spotlighted all the trip's key destinations. Anna noticed that Dee was taking notes, in her very tiny, very precise handwriting. When the assembly broke up, Anna was no clearer on where she wanted to go the next afternoon. To Vegas, where she'd never been? She was definitely inclined to experience it, but—and a major peach-shaped butt it was—it meant days in close proximity to Cammie Sheppard. On the other hand, there was Washington, D.C.—minus Sam, her one real friend in Beverly Hills. Who would she hang with if she went to Washington? Her mother had gone to boarding school with the wife of a senator from Virginia; Anna could look her up. On second thought, she'd met the woman—a right-wing conservative who broke into Latin now and then simply to prove that she could speak it.
Cammie Sheppard was looking better by the nanosecond.
“I'm sorry I can't be your roommate on the Washington trip, Anna,” Dee chirped as she and Parker walked with Anna across the central quad, heading for their second-period American history class. “I can't go. And I'm not going to Vegas, either.”
“Really,” Anna told her. She'd been sure that Dee would be part of the Las Vegas contingent. “How come? And why were you taking such careful notes in there if you weren't going?”
Dee tore the pages out of a zebra-striped spiral notebook and handed them to Anna. “I did it for you.”
“Wow, talk about thoughtful.” Parker wrapped an arm around Dee's slender shoulders.
“I'm not really into having sex right now, Parker,” Dee warned him. “My body is a temple.”
Parker removed his arm and looked confused. “Who said anything about sex?”
“You put your arm around me. That means you entered my personal space,” Dee explained. “Right now, I'm at a celibate life stage. Sort of like the Essenes around the time of Hillel. Do you know anything about the Dead Sea Scrolls?”
Parker stopped and peered at her. “Are you, like,
medicated?
”
“No,” Dee replied. “All illness is in the brain. We create our own reality. I have chosen to create perfect health. Oh, and virginity. Excuse me.”
She drifted off, leaving Anna with Parker in the center of the courtyard. Anna realized that she'd never gotten an answer as to why Dee wasn't going on either of the two trips. Maybe part of her new celibacy meant that she wasn't allowing herself to get anywhere near a hotel room?
Parker shook his head as Dee departed. “Okay, I agree—she's really out there.” Then he tapped the notebook pages still in Anna's hand. “You're not really thinking about going to Washington, are you?”
“I'm not sure.”
Parker casually touched a stray hair that had fallen out of Anna's messy ponytail.
“I'd really love it if you'd come with me,” Parker confided.
“We're just
friends
, Parker,” Anna told him. Didn't this guy ever get a clue?
“But we could be friends with
benefits
. I've had my eye on you for a long time. You're special. Really special.”
What the hell was he talking about?
“Parker?”
“Yeah?”
“Tell me something. Are those lines from your audition?”
“Busted.” Parker sagged visibly. “How'd I do?”
“Very … convincing,” Anna reported. Then her cell rang. She extracted it from her purse and checked the number. It was Cyn, calling from New York. “I've got to take this, Parker. Excuse me.”
“Sure. But it would be great if you came to Vegas. You'll love it there.”
“I'll definitely think about it.” He moved away as Anna raised her cell phone to her ear. “Hello?”
“Bitch!”
Anna laughed. She and Cyn had been inseparable in Manhattan, ever since the day when they were both in preschool and Cyn had peed on Anna's mother expensive Hermès handbag.
As they'd grown up, Cyn had turned into the sexy daring one, Anna into the proverbial good girl. Cyn was the one who had introduced Anna to the joys of a perfect margarita. She had gotten Anna to stay out all night at after-hours clubs in the East Village and brought her to see bands she'd never heard of. Anna had liked all these experiences—some more than others, of course. It was an unlikely friendship in many ways. But overall, she couldn't have asked for a better friend than Cyn. And Cyn loved Anna just as much— she claimed that Anna was smarter and more insightful than pretty much anyone she'd ever met.
Anna's life would probably have continued on that way if Cyn hadn't hooked up with the boy on whom Anna had been crushing forever, Scott Spencer. Seeing them together, hearing about how sexy Scott was, what the two of them did, in excruciating detail—it had gotten painful.