“Scallop?” A curvaceous, raven-haired gladiator/ waitress stepped in front of Cammie, holding out the tray. “They're prepared in—”
“Already know, no thank you, but thanks for the offer,” Adam told her with a grin.
“How about a drink?” the waitress offered.
Cammie shook her head. “Maybe later.”
They continued making their way through the crowd, passing the granite tables that supported the goodie bags each prom guest would take home. In a rough muslin bag (that had been Sam's idea, too, as she reasoned that velvet had not yet been invented in the first century) each guest whether male or female—the bags were unisex by design—would find two coveted tickets to the
Ben-Hur
premiere slated for next summer at the Kodak Theatre, a set of twenty-four-karat hammered-gold earrings and cuff links handmade in Milan, a minivial of Jackson Sharpe's new signature cologne, a new iPod with fifty Slick Willy songs already loaded, and an official limited-edition
Ben-Hur
satin baseball jacket with the Beverly Hills High School coat of arms embroidered on the chest.
Finally, they reached the base of the north-end bleachers, where they found an assortment of faux-marble roundtop tables and gold lamé-covered chairs. Each table had a custom centerpiece—a collector's edition of the 1959
Ben-Hur
script signed by its director, William Wyler, plus replicas of props from that film.
“So, what's up?” Adam asked, as he pulled out a chair for Cammie, and then sat next to her.
Cammie couldn't believe she was actually nervous enough to clear her throat. “We haven't really talked about that stupid fight on the beach the other day.”
“It's okay. It's over. We're good, right?” He scratched the little star tattoo behind his ear—the way he always did when he was nervous.
Well, fine. At least she wasn't the only one. “I overreacted,” Cammie admitted. “I guess …” This was harder than she'd thought it would be.
She started again. “I think about my mother,” she murmured. “A lot, actually. I'm … so used to doing it in private, inside my head. I guess … with what you said … I felt kind of invaded. Or something.”
Adam reached for her hand. “I shouldn't have sprung it on you like that, Cam.”
He scratched the tattoo again. Cammie wondered why.
“Cam, there's something I need to … shit.”
An alarm went off somewhere in the vicinity of her heart. “What's wrong?”
“Nothing.”
“Bullshit. What?” she demanded.
Adam let go of her hand and got to his feet. “Let's go dance. We've only got one senior prom. It's not that important. We can talk later.”
“Adam, you're a terrible actor. Is this about what you were talking about on the beach? My mom?”
He nodded, looking miserable. “Kind of.”
“Something bad?”
“I don't know. Maybe.” He shook his head and ran a hand through his spiky hair. “Damn, I fucked this up. I just wanted us to have the greatest prom night. I blew it. Let's just go dance. I
promise
we'll talk later.”
For a brief moment, Cammie was tempted to go with him, because she sensed that whatever it was, once she heard it, her night—and maybe even her life—would not be the same. But she couldn't help herself.
“Whatever this is … how did you find out?”
“My parents.”
Eight years of fear, anguish, and uncertainty over her mother's death welled up inside her. “You got information from your
parents?
And you didn't tell me?”
Adam edged the tip of his tux shoes into the earthen floor of the Colosseum. “I pretty much hate me right now, if that makes you feel any better.”
Cammie pushed him. “Fuck that. I don't
care
. Just tell me.”
“Not here. Later. Tomorrow—”
“Now.”
“Cam, please. You have to see it for yourself.”
Cammie stiffened. There was something for her to see?
“What is it? And
where
is it?”
“My house.” Adam hesitated. “My room. Geez, Cam—”
“Shut up.” She raised a trembling palm to him. “I'm going to your house, Adam. You can come along or not.”
“S
o that's how I ended up in Ojai,” Dee concluded. She and Jack were walking together on the wood-chip-strewn path that led away from the Colosseum set toward the temporary Roman bath-house. Every so often they had to move to one side of the path to let a horse-drawn chariot pass. Inside each chariot was a bucket of rose petals—they'd already been showered twice by laughing students coming back from the bathhouse, either in their prom clothes or in their new custom-made robes.
The night was calm and clear, with so many more stars than in the light-polluted skies of Beverly Hills that Jack could point out the Milky Way. The only discordant thing was how Marshall trailed them like an overzealous bodyguard with a rock star client.
“You've really been through it,” Jack commented.
“Yeah,” Dee agreed, “but it was worth it. I feel lucky and grateful now. Lots of people helped me, and my true friends stayed my friends all the time I was weird. Like, when you're different, usually people will just turn away.”
Damn
. What Dee was saying really hit home with Jack. People turned away from his sister, Margie— practically shunned her—all the time.
“I think I know what you're going through,” he murmured.
“Really?” Dee asked. “How?”
There was something about Dee's forthrightness that made Jack want to be up front. He started telling a story he rarely told—the story of his sister—and didn't finish until fifteen minutes later, when they'd found seats on a bench by the entrance to the bathhouse. All the while, Dee listened intently. Meanwhile, Marshall had the discretion to stay out of earshot, if not sightline. When Jack finished, Dee's gaze was steady.
“She's so lucky to have you for a brother,” Dee declared.
It was so clear that she meant it.
Oh no
. This was not how it was supposed to be. Blind dates sucked. When it turned out that Cammie had been telling the truth, that Dee was quite the cute little package, he'd been pleasantly surprised and had immediately considered the possibility of bagging a richie-rich Beverly Hills girl. Dee was older than Maddy, after all. More worldly, he figured. Why not give it a go?
The problem was, the more time Jack spent with Dee, the more he found himself
liking
her. She was nice, sweet, certainly smart enough, and had a childlike enthusiasm for life. Her honesty was both disconcerting and damned attractive. As the evening had progressed, he found himself genuinely caring about Dee. Worse than that, he felt
protective
. Protective had not been in the game plan at all.
The moon reflected in her azure eyes; he gently raised her chin with his forefinger. He was just about to kiss her when the crunch-crunch of feet on the path was followed by a pale hand karate-chopping the air between them. Dee was so startled she screamed. Jack's instant reaction was to jump the guy to protect Dee … until he saw it was Marshall.
“What the hell was that for?” Jack barked.
“You could be passing illegal substances from your mouth to hers,” Marshall shot back so intently that the next thing Jack expected was for his Miranda rights to be read to him.
Only Marshall was no cop, which let Jack fire back. “Only if my
tongue
is illegal, dickhead.”
The chaperone was undeterred. “Rules are rules.”
“Come on, Marshall,” Dee pleaded. “Have a heart. Couldn't you maybe bend them a little? Like, check our mouths for contraband?”
Marshall shook his head. “It's my job.”
“Job this.” Jack gave Marshall a one-finger salute, thoroughly irritated. Then he took Dee's hand. “Let's go back to the Colosseum. At least the Thought Police will let us dance.”
They walked around to the front of the bathhouse and climbed up into one of the waiting chariots. Their chariot driver announced his name, Antonio—six feet, two inches of curly-haired, chiseled Italian muscle in an undersize toga that revealed how much time he'd spent in the gym. Dee's eyes, though, were on Jack all the way, which made him feel great.
The ride back to the Colosseum took only a couple of minutes. Just outside the entrance was an incongruous row of green Porta Pottis used by the film-production crew. As Antonio helped them down from the chariot, Dee announced that she had to use the facilities. She excused herself and stepped into one of the portable bathrooms; Marshall took the opportunity to visit another. Jack was surprised the guy didn't ask Dee to collect her fallout for urinalysis.
“'Zup?”
Jack turned; it was the dude who was Sam Sharpe's date. What was his name again?
“Parker Pinelli,” the guy filled in.
“Yeah, right. Not much, man. Where's your lady?”
“Sam? Chicks on the prom committee dragged her off somewhere.” Parker glanced around, saw no prom chaperones were in sight, and took out his flask. “Me and Sam pretty much killed it, but there's some left. Chivas.” He held it out to Jack.
Jack shook his head. He had the sense that Dee would prefer it if he stayed sober. Marshall too.
“Mind?” Parker unscrewed the top.
“Go for it,” Jack said. “But watch the door to that one.” He cocked his chin toward the green door behind which Marshall was otherwise engaged. “Dee's jailer is in there. He'll probably call out the National Guard if he sees you.”
“Thanks for the heads up.” Parker tilted his head and drank. “So, Cammie hooked you up with Dee, huh? What do you think?”
Jack nodded. “Great chick. Except for that asshole Marshall, this would be sweet.”
“Maybe we can find a way to lose him before the after party. We're going to Hermosa Be-”
The door to Marshall's Porta Potti opened; Parker smoothly pocketed his flask before Dee's chaperone could get a foot back on the ground. Nonetheless, Marshall approached them warily, sniffing the air like a rookie bloodhound. “Is that
liquor
on the wind?”
“I think so,” Parker reported earnestly. “Some girls just walked by with a bottle of contraband tequila. They went back toward the bathhouse. If I were you, I'd give chase.”
“I have to do my duty,” Marshall murmured, looking around. “Speaking of … where's Dee?”
“You just missed her,” Parker fabricated, hitching a thumb at the entrance to the Colosseum. “She went inside to find Sam. You oughta head in there. Who knows what trouble she could get into? I mean, dude, it's a
zoo
.”
“She didn't wait for me? She
knows
she's supposed to wait for me!” Marshall's nostrils quivered. “Excuse me.”
As he strode off with razor-sharp precision toward the entrance to the Colosseum, Jack cracked up. “Thanks, man. You're a hell of an actor.”
Parker folded his arms. “So, I hear you're working on some reality thing at Fox.”
“I'm just interning for the summer.” Jack's voice dropped lower. “But I pitched a big idea to my boss and she loved it. I call it
The Pickup Artist
. Guys see how many hot girls they can pick up; people at home vote on who got the hottest girl; that kind of thing. She's giving me a lot of time to work on it.”
“Yeah?” Parker looked impressed, as Dee stepped out of her Porta Potti, the squeaky door echoing in the night. “Tell me more.”
“Sorry that took so long.” Dee looked around for her chaperone. “Where's Marshall?”
“Your genius friend here ditched him for us,” Jack explained.
He was getting an idea. This guy Parker was perfect—really killer looking and clearly a terrific actor. He had a lean and hungry look in his eyes that Jack recognized from his own bathroom mirror. They were the eyes of burning ambition: someone on the outside, looking in.
“I need to talk to Parker for a few minutes,” Jack squeezed her fingers lightly. “Can we hook up by the refreshments in, like, five?”
Dee hesitated, then flashed Jack a radiant smile. “Definitely.”
“Five minutes, no more.” Jack pointed to his watch, a utilitarian Coleman brand that he'd bought at Target because it had been highly rated for longevity. When you grew up like he did, you didn't waste money on stupid things like trying to impress people with your freaking watch.
“Excellent.” Dee gave a shy little wave and walked away.
“She's different,” Parker noted. “From how she was before, I mean. Good different. Maybe you bring out the best in her, huh?”
Jack studied Parker carefully. “You're a professional actor, right?”
“Yeah.”
“I'm thinking about shooting a quick pilot for my idea; so I can show my boss what I've got in mind. Those suits are lazy; they don't read. They like to see it on the screen. Maybe I'll call you about it. Interested?”
Parker's “definitely” came so fast that Jack upped the blond boy's ambition quotient to the top quintile.
Jack checked his watch again. One minute to when he said he'd meet Dee.
Gotta hustle
. He clapped his potential employee on the back. “Glad I met you, man.”
“Same here.” Parker plucked a cheap business card with his name and phone number on it out of his pocket; Jack realized that Parker must carry these cards everywhere, always prepared for his big break.
Huh. Jack studied the card for a moment. It's perfect, he thought. Parker thinks he's using me, and I think I'm using him. In fact, we're using each other.
How Hollywood.
Long Blond Hair Down to Her Butt
T
he girl stood by the massive oak door all the way across the crowded living room—beyond his aunts and uncles and cousins, beyond his grandmother and his mother, even beyond his father, who was passing out Partagas Serie D cigars made in Havana, Cuba, to all the men at the fiesta.
She was the most beautiful girl Eduardo had ever seen.
Her long white-blond hair fell in a waterfall to the small of her back. Her cheekbones were two baby apples, her lips two silken pillows, her sooty-lashed eyes surprisingly dark against pale skin. A swanlike neck led to graceful shoulders, which curved into full, luscious breasts. Her waist was minuscule, really; it swelled to smallish hips and then to long, coltish legs that went on forever. Her dress was shimmering gold, tight around her hips.