Cruel Summer (12 page)

After the necessary introduction to Paulina, Vanity perched down onto an empty chair and launched into a breathless tale without preamble. “This day is completely insane. I was supposed to meet my publicist here for lunch, and she just called to cancel. You won’t believe this—Katee K was arrested.”

Christina and her mother traded looks of mutual dismay.

Katee K was the breakout star of the Disney Channel series
Kamp Kool,
a harmless sitcom about the summer camp adventures of a well-meaning but troublesome teen, played to scenery-chewing effect by, of course, Katee K, the squeaky-clean marketing phenom who was ruling the airwaves with a hit single, “Some Girl Said,” and invading Target stores with her own clothing line, room décor merchandise, and youth cosmetics. In short, the second coming of Hilary Duff was on a mission to conquer the world.

“For what?” Christina demanded to know. Granted, she was no Katee K fan, but the silly teen star was ubiquitous.
Everybody
knew who she was. And that included the culturally clueless Paulina.

“She stabbed her mother,” Vanity said flatly. One beat. “Can you believe that?”

“Oh my God,” Christina murmured.

“She’s not dead,” Vanity went on. “She’s in stable condition. The doctors say she’ll be fine. But Katee K’s in police custody. I mean, this is attempted murder.”

“How old is she?” Christina asked.

“Thirteen,” Vanity replied. “My publicist reps her, too, and I’ve heard horror stories about this mother. Not that she deserves to be stabbed, but she uses Katee as the family meal ticket and works her like a mule. It’s no wonder the girl snapped.”

All of a sudden, Paulina stood up. “Why don’t you girls sit here and gossip. Have a dessert—my treat. There’s an event I was planning to skip today, but the responsibility is gnawing at me. I should put in a quick appearance.” She shifted to address Vanity directly. “Could you give Christina a ride home?”

“Sure,” Vanity said easily.

But Christina was mortified, feeling quite certain that right now Vanity St. John was wishing she’d never even said hello.

“Perfect. I’ll see you at home tonight, sweetie.” And then Paulina was gone, offering a buoyant, “Have fun, girls!” before disappearing from the patio.

Initially, there was an awkward silence.

“You don’t have to take me home,” Christina said apologetically, desperately trying to fill it. “I can catch a cab or call my friend Wilmar. I mean, I’m sure you have other plans.”

“Actually, I don’t,” Vanity said. “Katee K stabbed them to death, remember?” She smiled.

Christina was suspended over the abyss, fighting with superhuman effort the overwhelming impulse to jump up and down. One-on-one time with Vanity St. John? It seemed too good to be true.

“Besides,” Vanity went on, “this will be good homework for me. By direct order from my therapist, I need to make a girlfriend or two.”

Christina looked at her curiously, waiting for the punch line. But it never came. “You’re not kidding, are you?”

Vanity shook her head.

“I thought you had all the friends in the world.”

“I have all the
acquaintances
in the world,” Vanity corrected. “And on Saturday night, there’s a big difference between the two.”

This confession intrigued Christina. There was something about Vanity that added up to so much more than her beauty, her fame, and her wealth. “I’ve never been to a therapist before. What’s it like?”

“Intense,” Vanity said. “If you do it right. Some people just skim the surface and talk about the time somebody stole their bicycle. I’ve been going once a week for six months. I’ll probably be on the couch for years.” She sighed. “Just so you know, I’m totally screwed-up. You might want to catch that cab after all.”

Christina smiled. It seemed incredible that Vanity could just drop her defenses and announce information like that to someone she barely knew. “I
should
be in therapy,” Christina offered. Yes, it was lame. But in terms of surrendering inhibitions, this was heavy duty for her.

“So you’re an emotional mess, too?” Vanity asked lightly.

“You have no idea,” Christina assured her.

“Well, at least we’re not stabbing people. Katee K trumps both of us, don’t you think?”

Christina laughed.

Vanity laughed, too.

“Do you want to share a dessert?” Christina asked. “I can’t finish one by myself.”

“Oh, I never eat dessert,” Vanity said. “I save my calories for alcohol.”

Christina experienced a hot flash of pure embarrassment. If ever there was a moment when she felt seventeen years old going on twelve, then this was it.
Do you want to share a dessert?
Ugh! Resisting an urge to vault over the ledge and bury herself in the sand, she said, “I’ll skip it, too.”

Vanity peered up at the blazing sun. “It’s a gorgeous day. We should hang out by the pool.”

“Can we do that?” Christina wondered aloud. “I thought you had to be a hotel guest.”

Vanity waved off the concern. “I have VIP status here. It’s cool.”

Christina glanced down at her bohemian ensemble. “It sounds like fun, but I don’t have a swimsuit.”

“No problem. We’ll find one for you at the boutique,” Vanity suggested.

Christina felt an instant wave of panic. Swimwear at the Shore Club would be top designer only and easily run at least two hundred dollars.

“And don’t worry about the price,” Vanity chimed in, as if reading her mind. “I’ve got house credit for days from doing promo appearances here. It’s on me.” She stood up. “Ready?”

Christina nodded, careful to mute her enthusiasm and excitement. Only if she played things as cool as Vanity St. John could she survive this day. And the pressure to do just that made her shiver in the ninety-degree heat.

With a shake of her swan’s neck, Vanity led the way, and her mere movement created a look-now stir among the Ago herd. Certain male eyes were rheumy with kill-me-now lust; most female ones were jungle green with I-give-up jealousy. But Vanity just marched on, like a messenger goddess from a superior civilization who walked on the water of her own liquid charisma.

Christina trailed behind her. In a matter of minutes, her dull life had been steamed up in ways she hadn’t counted on today. Down deep in her beat-up Chloe bag, her Sidekick II jingle-jangled. She peeked at the screen, saw a text from Wilmar, and felt a frisson of guilt. Why? Because she felt no inclination to even skim the message.

She knew what the deal was. It would be endless questions about Eric’s
Godchild
party, celebrating the
manga
by Kaori Yuki. Everyone was expected to bake a homemade tea cake and arrive in costume as their favorite
Alice in Wonderland
character. Several days ago it sounded like great fun. In fact, the event had been looming out to Christina as a social life-line.

But now alternatives were beginning to present themselves. Max had sought out her company the other night. Vanity was seeking it out now. The clichéd fork in the road was right in front of her. One path led her back to the socially inferior outcasts she knew; the other could take her to exciting new places…and perhaps even embolden her to start living in the hot danger of reality as opposed to the mild safety of fantasy.

“Aren’t you going to answer that?” Vanity asked.

The choice was first grade simple. “No, I’ll get it later,” Christina said.

A
bsolutely not,” Vanity said, shooing away the one-piece bathing suit.

“But I can’t wear a bikini,” Christina protested. Miserably, she glanced down at her chest. “I’m too flat.”

Vanity rolled her eyes. “Don’t be stupid. Flat is good.
Models
are flat. The
Playboy
look is so over. Have you met Max’s sister, Shoshanna?”

Christina nodded as she browsed another rack in the tiny boutique. “Yes, I met her
and
her boobs.”

Vanity giggled. “You’re so funny. But you’re so right, too. It’s like, ‘Hi, I’m Shoshanna, and these are my tits.’
So
ridiculous. And it’s not even that attractive. I mean, I’m sure most guys would disagree with me, but let’s face it, most guys are gross. Look at you. I would
kill
to be that skinny. You’re every designer’s dream. Couture was made for your body. I know you’ve got this whole bohemian thing going, which is cool, but you should keep an eye out for some vintage couture when you’re out there digging for finds. It’d look great on you.”

“Thanks,” Christina murmured shyly. For a moment, she fixed a penetrating stare on Vanity. “I really wouldn’t know what to hunt for, though.” There was an awkward pause. “Maybe we could go together sometime.”

“Sure,” Vanity chirped. “That’d be fun.” She snatched a mango-colored tankini and pushed it into Christina’s hands. “This’ll be perfect. Try it on.”

Christina stared doubtfully at the single-strap, form-fitting tank and boy shorts set.

“Trust me,” Vanity insisted. “You’ll be
delicious.
” She clapped her hands. “Now hurry up. We have to be at the pool by the time Max and Pippa get here. Otherwise, she’ll try to get in on this and have me foot the bill for her entire fall wardrobe.”

Christina ducked behind a curtain into a narrow dressing room. “What do you mean by that?”

Vanity vented while Christina gave the tankini a whirl. “She never has any money. I mean,
never.
So you end up paying for everything. Classic example: It was her idea to go shopping the other day, but—surprise, surprise—she was completely broke. Her plan was to take back old stuff for refunds and then buy something new. How disgusting is that? Anyway, I would’ve been asked to pick up the difference on some outfit that barely fit her.
And
pay for her Starbucks fix.
And
the check, had we gone to a restaurant.
And
her movie ticket, had we done that.”

“Do you think she’s using you to buy her things?” Christina asked.

“No, because it’s not just me. She does it to everybody. If Pippa was standing here right now, she’d hit you up for the money to get a Diet Coke. I swear. It’s ridiculous. And it bugs the shit out of me. If I’m going to sponsor the daily living expenses for a charity case, then it’s going to be a poor child in Africa. Okay? Not Pippa Keith. I mean, quit bitching about your stupid allowance and get a job already. You know?”

Christina said nothing.

“How are you doing in there?” Vanity asked.

“I’m not sure,” Christina murmured.

Vanity flung open the flimsy curtain. “Silly bitch. You look
amazing.
”

Christina stood there modestly, one hand on the bare skin where the tank top stopped just short of her belly button, the other hand on the left hem of the boy shorts that barely covered her butt cheek.

“Where did you get an ass like that?” Vanity asked.

Christina stared back at her in shock.

“Oh, I forgot,” Vanity said quickly. “You’re a Latin girl.” She zeroed in on the glorious Perez bottom. “But it’s not that big. It’s, like,
perfect.
God, you make me sick.”

Christina glanced at the price. Instantly, her eyes widened. “This is three hundred dollars!”

Vanity waved off the money concern and carefully removed the tag. “They’re all about that much. It’s no big deal. Wear it straight to the pool.”

“But it’ll take me forever to pay you back,” Christina whispered.

“Would you stop!” Vanity insisted. “You’re not paying me back. This is just one of the perks I get. It’s not costing me a dime. I’m happy to share.”

“Well…thank you,” Christina gushed quietly. “Still, I feel like I should offer you
something.
”

Vanity glanced down at the sketchbook that Christina took with her everywhere. All of a sudden, a crazy idea came to mind. “Draw my picture. A comic book version of me. Turn me into a superheroine. You know, like Batgirl or Super-girl.”

Christina beamed. “Okay!” Then she dove for her pad, flipped it to a blank page, and started skating her pencil across the paper in a series of long, sweeping, rapid-fire strokes. “Stand right there,” she demanded.

Vanity laughed. “I didn’t mean right now!”

“Just give me a minute,” Christina said, her intensity total, her left hand sketching furiously. “This is just a rough concept. I’m trying to get your overall shape and profile. Don’t mind me. Keep talking.”

For some reason, being an artist’s subject made Vanity feel more vulnerable than being a photographer’s. “Do you want to hear something completely crazy?” Vanity asked.

“What?” Christina wondered, barely looking up, her eyes alternating from Vanity’s body to the pad.

“I got a call from my publicist.
InStyle
wants to do a story on what’s in my purse. Of course, it won’t be about what’s really in there. They don’t want to know about the dirty thong underwear that’s stuffed in the side pocket or the pack of American Spirits that’s unopened because the last thing I need to start is another bad, self-destructive habit. The list of contents will be carefully engineered. It’ll be cutting-edge stuff that’s not in there now, but that I’ll get for free for saying that it was. Like a new lipstick with an insane name like Orgy. So, ultimately, the article about
my
purse will have almost nothing to do with me.”

Christina’s pencil stopped moving. “How bizarre.”

“Welcome to my life,” Vanity said. “That’s what being famous is all about.”

“Do you like it?” Christina asked.

“Right now I’d have to say no. But if you ask me again in five minutes, when we go out to the pool and instantly get all the chairs we need at peak sun time, then I’d have to tell you yes.”

Christina gave her one of those long, intense stares, then turned over the sketch pad for Vanity’s inspection.

Vanity gasped. The instant drawing looked exactly like her—the hair, the eyes, the bridge of the nose, the mouth, every feature practically photo-exact. “Oh my God. This is amazing.” For a long second, she just stared at Christina, envying her for possessing such a talent. It made Vanity wonder what she could do besides make paparazzi move like rats in a cage.

Her Sidekick II jingled.

Vanity saw that it was Max and picked up right away. “Hey, where are you?”

“On the way. I was thinking all the girls could sunbathe topless. That way you won’t have to worry about tan lines.”

Vanity rolled her eyes. “Oh, how thoughtful. And I suppose that idea has nothing to do with the fact that you’re a complete sex maniac.”

“Me?”
Max asked with faux innocence. “I’m saving myself for marriage.”

“By the time
you
get married, the only thing left will be…well, it’s probably such a deviant act that nobody’s thought to categorize it yet.”

Max laughed. “Listen, just throw your superstar weight around and score us some chairs. We need five.”

“Who’s the fifth one for?” Vanity asked.

“Dante,” Max said.

Vanity’s stomach dropped. Maybe she did have talent after all. If she could get through the day acting like she didn’t give a damn about Dante Medina, then she was a shoo-in for Best Actress in a Poolside Drama.

The Skybar pool at the Shore Club was sun worship to the nth degree. Total hard core. Burly bouncers muscled out club trash. Friendly cabana boys fetched twelve-dollar bottled waters. And at peak hours, the impression lingered that deck furniture could be more valuable than oceanfront property.

Apparently, Vanity had scored fame’s top afternoon trick in South Beach—commandeering coveted pool chairs. Five chaise lounges were fanned out in a prime location, and she was pole positioned dead center, slaying the daytime crowd in a copper shell bikini top and thong bottom. She took one glance at Dante and looked up at the sun.

Max played social maestro and introduced Dante to Christina. “This girl’s the only talented one among us going to MACPA,” he said. “She’s a real artist. The rest of us are hacks.”

Christina smiled as the symmetrical cut of her hair dipped several long strands into her shy, secretive eyes.

“I’m
not a hack!” Pippa protested with good humor. “When it comes to dancing, I know my onions.”

Max stretched out on a chaise, closed his eyes, and tilted his face toward heaven. “You don’t need school for dancing. Japanese tourists don’t mind if you’re a little clumsy as long as you’re naked.”

Everybody howled.

Vanity tilted up her stone-cold-fox body to check an incoming text message. She laughed and tapped out a quick reply. “Mimi’s catching pure hell trying to deal with this Katee K situation.”

“What could be worse than her singing or acting?” Max asked.

“You don’t know?” Vanity delivered the question in that tone girls employ when they can’t
wait
to tell. “She’s in jail for stabbing her mother.”

Pippa lurched forward. “Bollocks!”

Vanity nodded dramatically. “I’m totally serious.”

“Have you heard that song of hers that’s a hit?” Max asked. “The little bitch should’ve stabbed herself.”

Dante chuckled and shook his head, sharing a secret smile with Vanity in the process.

“It’s just so eerie,” Christina put in. “I never would’ve imagined that Katee K could so much as step on a bug. She’s so sugary sweet.”

“A hundred bucks says she’ll be doing porn by the time she’s eighteen,” Max said.

And that’s what they did for the remainder of the afternoon.

Laughed.

Drank.

Shouted.

And hung out.

Dante held court on the far end of the chair arrangement. With Christina sitting between him and Vanity, he felt almost bulletproof, the slight distance providing thick protection for the weaker parts of his psyche. Vanity St. John could be dangerous. Compared to her, an expensive gift from a hopeful
Queer Eye
husband and an abandoned car were child’s play.

A girl like her with a father like Simon St. John could cause real havoc in Dante’s life. He knew this with rock-solid certainty. So he coached himself to stay strong, to stay focused, and most importantly, to stay away. But even as he ran his mind through the rules of discipline, he found his body reacting in ways that guaranteed those rules would one day be broken.

“God, these drinks are going right through me,” Vanity announced to no one in particular. Suddenly, she was up and gliding panther quick across the deck, her perfect drum-tight buttocks grinding like a pepper mill. The tiny material of her thong was buried deep in the cleft of her ass, which, as far as Dante was concerned, made it the luckiest fabric in the world.

He felt a rise where it mattered. Slipping off his watch, he made the quick decision to leap into the pool before anyone could notice the tent forming in his board shorts. The water wasn’t nearly cold enough. Still, it managed to hide the obvious. Dante swam under, finding it difficult to navigate through the crowd of bodies. When he came up, he overheard a conversation in full momentum.

“Did you see Vanity St. John? She looks so much better in real life,” a model-perfect girl said. “I saw her in the last
Teen Vogue,
and they had her in this skanky outfit.”

“A buddy of mine saw her at a party the other night,” a guy put in. “He said she got wasted and hooked up with some stoner.”