Pink Smog (6 page)

“How'd you hear that?”

“It's all over.”

He came and sat next to us. He was so ridiculously foxy that we just stared at him. I felt my cheeks smolder.

“Yeah,” I finally said. “Staci tried to make it look like I wrote that thing about Miss Spinner.”

“Staci Nettles is a bitch,” Bobby Castillo observed matter-of-factly. “What I don't get is why people don't think being mean sucks. You can't be fat or skinny or too smart but you can be an asshole and it's a bonus point.”

“You can't have pimples and you can't not have a boyfriend,” Lily added.

“You can't not have boobs,” I said.

“It's fucked up,” said Bobby Castillo. His pretty lips sure could spew the four-letter words. I was impressed.

“We should start the anti-mean club,” I said.

“Yeah. The mean people suck club.”

The club for cool outcasts.

That was one club I wanted to belong to. I looked at Lily hunched in her sweatshirt, the sleeves pulled over her hands. She was cold, shivering slightly, even in the heat. Bobby Castillo, with his lean torso, his long, skinny legs, reclining on his side now, like a wildcat beside us. And me in roses. I realized that mean people had their purpose, too. They brought you together. They unified you. They made you find your friends.

T
hat afternoon I decided to take myself out to the movies as Kurt had suggested. Though I wondered how much it was okay to go on imaginary dates with imaginary friends and when it got to be something you needed to see a doctor about.

But, a sign of looniness or not, I needed practice. I hadn't been to a movie since Charlie took me to
Funny Lady
, and I was working my way to asking Bobby and Lily out soon.

I rode the bus to Hollywood Boulevard and watched
Benji
at the Chinese Theater. I loved movies with dogs in them but Benji's sparky eyes and perky teeth made me want a dog so much that I kind of wished I had chosen to see something else, even
Funny Lady
again. To cheer myself up about not owning a dog, I went to Will Wright's and got a pistachio, chocolate, and strawberry ice-cream cone—my own Neapolitan mix. It was fun to be out by myself in Hollywood, tripping merrily along the stars with names famed and forgotten, thinking of my new friends and the pleasure I was having, even all alone. I bought a shirt that said HOLLYWOOD CALIFORNIA! and had some palm trees and shooting stars on it. I pretended I was a starlet on a date, waiting to be discovered. No one seemed to notice me at all but I didn't care—I was having fun!

Then I saw two people I recognized—Mimi Jones and Carla St. Clair from my building, so I followed them. They were hurrying along in their high heels, laughing and carrying shopping bags. They looked so happy and I wished I had a best friend like that. Then I was standing in front of the tall art-deco building that housed the Hollywood Museum—Carla and Mimi had gone inside. I looked up at the green marble facade and suddenly I understood.

Factor's fairest
.

Max
Factor.

The building had once been the place where famed Hollywood makeup artist Max Factor worked his magic on all the stars. Bette Davis, Jean Harlow, Rita Hayworth, Ginger Rogers, Judy Garland.

As I walked into the pink-and-white marble lobby decorated with potted palms and chandeliers, I wondered who had sent me here. And why?

There were individual little boudoir-style rooms for blondes, brunettes, brownettes, and redheads, filled with photos of actresses and painted to go with the appropriate hair colors (blue, mint green, rose, and peach, respectively). There were glass cases displaying the makeup the actresses used and wigs they had worn, like Billie Burke's blonde Glinda curls and Marlene Dietrich's twenty-karat gold-dusted wig. The blonde room was best, of course, because of Marilyn.

On the upper floor there were dresses she had worn in movies including a pink one from
Let's Make Love
, giant photos of her, including the famous
Playboy
nudes where her skin was like breathing marble, and even the last check she had signed. It made me want to cry to see her handwriting. It made her seem so real and so gone.

I had been here before, with Charlie and my mom, but I hadn't thought about it in years. Now everything in the building seemed to come alive. I could hear the whispers of the stars and smell their perfume. Satin and lamé swished and shimmered. Lights and gold dust twinkled in my brain.

I didn't know why I had been sent here but I felt better for having come. I felt hopeful like I'd just woken up from a beautiful dream I didn't quite understand.

I never found Mimi or Carla. I was starting to doubt I'd really seen them go into the museum at all.

As I was leaving I ran my fingers through my new haircut and asked the petite redhead at the desk what room I belonged in. She peered at me over her rhinestone-studded cat glasses, frowned crossly, and said, “We don't have a mousette room.”

I couldn't help but laugh. Mousette. I didn't mind. It sounded unique. Besides, the redhead's hair was the color of burned tomato sauce and I had been called the fairest of them all. By someone, at least.

I headed for the door but Tomato called me back.

“Wait a second.”

She sounded angry and I wondered if I had touched something I shouldn't have or just offended her with my tasteless hair color.

I went back to her. “Yes?”

“I think I have something for you. What's your name?”

“Weetzie,” I said.

“Weetzie. What kind of a name is that?”

I didn't really think it was any of her business but I said, “A diminutive of Louise. Like Brooks.” “She would never have hair that color,” the woman said. “She was a true brunette!”

“What were you going to ask me?” I asked.

Grouchy handed me something from a drawer. It was a shiny envelope with my name written on it.

“For you.”

“Who gave you that?”

“I'm not to tell. Now go on.” She shooed me toward the door. “And don't come back until you're an actual shade of something.”

Rude, but I didn't care. I jammed my finger under the flap and shimmied it open. There was another piece of paper and when I unfolded it, more glitter fell out. Luckily, I was on the sidewalk by this time so the red terror wouldn't yell at me.

The note read, in cutout letters:

Fee Fi Fo Fum

I smell the bones of an extinct one

Be she live or be she dead

I'll pay homage to her head

Now this one was kind of creepy. I felt a little sick to my stomach. Who was writing these? The man with the turban? The red-haired lady? Winter? That last one made me get a fluttering feeling in my rib cage. And how were the notes getting to me? And what did this one mean? It didn't make any sense at all.

But I wasn't going to let that ruin my mood. Whoever had written the first note had sent me to the Hollywood Museum and I was happy about that. Maybe the second note would take me somewhere special, too. I needed to think about it.

On the way to the bus I pretended I was a starlet on a date, waiting to be discovered, even with my mousette hair. This made me walk differently and my skin felt warm and shivery at the same time.

At home I put the note with the other one in my ballerina box and then went to swim some laps in the pool as the sun was setting. The water was still heated and all my muscles relaxed, flowing into blue light. Then I lay in a lounge chair, letting the breeze tingle my skin and watched the sky deepen from light blue to light pink to dark pink to purple, shades Max Factor would have admired on even the drabbest mousette.

At school the next day Lily found me.

“You look all glowy,” she said as we walked to our new lunch spot.

“I took myself on a date.”

She grinned. “They say in magazines you are supposed to do that to cheer yourself up.”

“Exactly. It kind of worked. But I was practicing for when I get to hang out with you.”

Bobby bounded up behind us.

“What's this about hanging out? I want to come.”

Lily and I exchanged a secret smile. She was glowy now, too.

“Weetzie went on a date,” she said.

“With who?”

“With myself!”

“Cool! But next time you better invite us.”

So the next afternoon, Bobby and Lily and I took a bus to the Santa Monica Pier. The sky was grayish blue and the waves were steely teal. It was colder than normal and the air smelled starkly of salt. We walked along past the kids playing pinball, the vendors selling straw hats and beach toys, the fishermen brave or desperate enough to eat fish caught in the bay, and the stand-up cutouts of Marilyn and James Dean through which you could peek to have your picture taken. We played a game in the arcade and almost won a giant Pink Panther, but didn't.

“I think those games are cruel to plastic ducks, anyway,” Lily said.

“And Pink Panthers are an endangered species,” I added.

Bobby and I got ice-cream cones but Lily didn't want one and I didn't push—she looked as if I were going to stab her with my swirly pink-and-white confection when I held it out to offer her a taste. To take her mind off it, I suggested we ride the carousel. We waited in line with the little kids. The horses were painted glossy colors. They had carved saddles and wild eyes and flared nostrils. I remembered coming here with Charlie and how I made him stand beside me so I wouldn't fall off, the feel of his hands around my waist and the flash of his smoky grin. I realized that even though I missed him I was having fun without him and I didn't need anyone to hold me on anymore.

I
was feeling almost happy the next day when I skated home from school. I wasn't even thinking about my dad. The day was beautiful and brushed with gold. Palm trees rustled restlessly in the Santa Anas. Afternoons were almost as good as Saturdays. School was over and night had not come yet with its memories and ghosts and dreams.

But when I got home I found my mom crying on the couch.

“What's wrong?”

She pointed to the TV. On the screen a woman in a silver jumpsuit with her hair in a high ponytail, the kind only the very beautiful and very confident can pull off, was cavorting for the camera. It was my dad's sci-fi movie
Dream Invaders
, based on
A Midsummer Night's Dream
, and it had been a big flop. I hadn't seen it since I was a kid.

I stared at the woman. The movie was black and white but I recognized the shape, if not the color, of her eyes. Suddenly, I realized why the woman in number 13 looked familiar.

“Who is she?” I asked.

“Hypatia Wiggins,” my mom hissed.

“What kind of name is that?”

My mom took a gulp of her drink and pointed at the TV. “No one just leaves,” she said. “There is almost always someone else involved.”

Then I remembered hearing the name—Hypatia Wiggins, how could you forget?—batted back and forth between my parents as they stood by the pool with the sky blooming toxic pink around them.

“What can I do for you?” I asked my mother.

“You can find out.” She turned to me and her eyes were fierce. “Find out what happened. Why he left me.” So, that afternoon, instead of just relaxing and basking in the fact that I actually might have made a couple of friends, that I might be feeling all right even without Charlie, I went and knocked on the door of number 13 where the mysterious lady lived.

No one answered so I knocked again. I almost decided to leave—what did I think I was doing? But then I pushed really gently on the door and it opened.

I stood waiting for the dogs to come running but everything was quiet.

“Hello?” I said. “Anybody home?”

Silence.

I peeked inside. The condo had almost the same floor plan as ours, just smaller. It was dim and the brocade drapes were pulled closed. I whistled, waiting for the dogs to attack, but they didn't seem to be around. I slipped inside and locked the door behind me.

I wondered if I was making a mistake. Would this only make things worse? But maybe I'd be proven wrong. Or, at the very least, I might be able to find something to help my mom move on with her life.

The whole place smelled of incense like a fabric store in the Valley. Joy Grier used to take me and Skye and Karma there to buy fabric from bolts of cloth in bins collaged with magazine cutouts of naked ladies. The front room of the condo was sparsely furnished but the bar was stocked, even better than ours. There was a purple velvet sofa that my mom would have loved, a glass coffee table, and an entertainment center with a TV. Three matching brocade dog beds were on the floor. On the walls were framed modeling photographs of the woman wearing false eyelashes and elaborate hairdos and family photos of her with her arms around two children. The boy was fair and tall and the girl was thin and dark-haired. I recognized both of them.

None of them, in any picture, were smiling. Not in one single picture. I felt a chill along my shoulder blades.

I went to the first bedroom. On the door was a painted sign that said,
Annabelle's Room. Keep Out!
I didn't. The walls were painted an aggressive shade of pink and there was a fancy dressing table with a ruffled skirt and a large oval mirror. On the walls were pictures of movie stars from the 1950s. There was a huge collection of Barbie dolls scattered around the room. Most of them looked endangered, with blindfolds over their eyes, ropes around their wrists and ankles, tape over their mouths. Some had pins stuck into them or were missing limbs or even heads. Some had jewelry made out of what looked like tiny bird bones. I felt as if the dolls were watching me with their startled, always open, blue-shadowed eyes, asking me for help.

“Sorry,” I told them, and ran out of the room. I was covered in a film of cold sweat as even as perfectly applied sunscreen.