The Summer of No Regrets (16 page)

Natalie came to the door of the Inner Sanctum in pajama bottoms and a Helo Kitty T-shirt.

The Inner Sanctum is the entire basement of the Shapiro’s split-level. A neon Hard Rock Cafe sign blinks over a wet bar filed with Italian syrups and a pretty decent espresso machine where Cheryl stood making lattes.

Natalie turned on the TV. “You look a little shell-shocked, Brigitta.”

I sat on the couch and puled a throw pilow into my lap. “Just some long nights.”

“Long nights, huh?” She raised her eyebrows and shot Cheryl a look.

I was not in the mood for this. Not after Luke’s desertion.

And Mom had been on the phone with the wildlife refuge all day.

And Mom had been on the phone with the wildlife refuge all day.

The kittens were not doing wel. They wouldn’t take any nourishment, and they were listless. I wanted to go see them, but the rehabber thought it wasn’t a good idea. They’d had too much human contact already, she said.

“How was Wednesday night?” Natalie clicked on a lamp with a fringy purple shade.

Wednesday? Luke? The Sea Star? What did she know about that? Guiltily, I remembered. Dad had caled her house. She had told him I was with her. I couldn’t even keep track of my lies, much less the lies told on my behalf.

“Can we just get to the show?” I found a spot on the couch.

“Fine.” Natalie increased the volume on a Mazda commercial and brought up the TiVo menu.

Cheryl handed me a latte. “Irish cream,” she said.

I took it, even though I hate Irish cream. Cheryl was trying.

I couldn’t tell Natalie about the kittens—especialy with Cheryl there. It felt too personal. Besides, the cougars were completely connected to Luke in my mind.

Natalie clicked on the saved
Letterman
show. “Get ready, girls.”

Letterman’s Top Ten was the Top Ten Secrets You Should Keep from Your Girlfriend. Number one was something about Viagra. (I didn’t get it, but Cheryl laughed.) It went downhil from there.

“Our first guest,” said Letterman, “can not only sword fight standing on a moving horse, he is a force to be reckoned with in a dark aley. From Prince of Imlandria to Prince of Bad Boys, please welcome Trent Yves!”

The band began the
Rocket
theme. Out from the back in a red T-shirt and black leather jacket strutted Trent. My stomach gave a lurch. His face! For a moment the boy on the stage looked so much like Luke I didn’t even have to squint. The audience went crazy. His dark hair was in a spike. He did a little spin on his heel.

spin on his heel.

I attempted a casual sip of my latte, which was a bad idea. It
was
just Trent, wasn’t it? The same one I’d looked at a milion times now online and on screen. I’d even seen him in interviews before.

“Trent,” said Dave, “it’s good to see you again.” Natalie poked me. “Look at him, Brigitta. I am teling you.”

“Oh, Natalie.” I roled my eyes unconvincingly and set my coffee cup on the end table.

The camera zoomed close, taking in Trent’s blue eyes, his strong chin. He grinned. “Looking good, Dave.” He had a British accent—the one he’d brought with him from England when he was little. He hadn’t used it in
Rocket
or
Presto!
because he played Americans. “I mean, you’re looking good, Dave,” he went on. “Everyone knows I’m looking good.”

The audience whistled.

I had a strong desire to throw something.

“And I hear
Rocket
’s looking good,” said Dave. “Cannes Film Festival, talk of an Oscar. But the women are complaining that you didn’t take your shirt off.”

Why did he look so much like Luke this time? After all the photos I’d seen online? And all the
Celeb’
magazines I’d paged through? Was my brain playing tricks because I was stressed about the kittens? Because Luke had disappeared again?

Trent grinned wider. “Wel, you know I got sunburned in
Imlandria
. I mean second-degree burns. We were out on Kauai.”

The British accent sounded so strange coming out of his mouth, even though I’d heard it in
Imlandria
.

He went on about his sunburn. “It’s an insurance thing.

They’ve got to protect the Trent bod. But I feel bad about it. I realy do. You hate to disappoint people.”

“You do,” said Dave.

“But, you know, I can fix that.” Trent stood and peeled off his

“But, you know, I can fix that.” Trent stood and peeled off his leather jacket.

No, I thought. Don’t do this.

The band began a “striptease” theme. The audience started cheering. I wanted to hide behind the throw pilow.

Cheryl’s and Natalie’s eyes were fixed on the TV.

“Take it off, Trent,” hooted Natalie.

Trent puled the shirt over his head, twirled it around a couple of times, and sailed it out to the audience. The camera panned to a couple of thirtysomething women, who were fighting over it. I felt physicaly sick.

The camera panned back to Trent’s manly six-pack. My eyes moved involuntarily to his stomach. Had I seen those abs before?

“Mmm,” said Cheryl, licking her lips.

I wanted to leave. This guy on the screen was so not Luke.

He didn’t have Luke’s gentleness, and he didn’t have his class.

But he had Luke’s body and face.

Trent put his jacket on over his bare torso and sat down.

Dave leaned forward confidentialy. “Now, Trent,” he said,

“you and Gwen Melier…Is there any truth to the rumors?”

“What rumors, Dave?”

My stomach took another tilt.

“Wel, that you and Gwen are…that you have a French connection.”

“Gwen speaks fluent French. Her father is French.”

“And your father is French. And we all know what a lovely lady Gwen is.”

“Lovely, yes,” said Trent.

A video clip came on the screen behind them: the rebuilt

“Trentmobile” was parked in front of a Malibu grocery store. Its license plate said “HOTTBOD.” Trent’s driver emerged. Gwen stood on the sidewalk screaming with laughter, trying to pull Trent from the backseat. His muscly arms, head, and shoulders appeared briefly. He was wearing sunglasses and a red shirt. He

appeared briefly. He was wearing sunglasses and a red shirt. He rocked her back into the car on top of him. Their legs kicked for a moment, then disappeared. An arm reached out and closed the door as the driver hopped back in and took off.

The audience whooped.

“Now what conclusions can we draw from this, Trent?” Trent never stopped smiling that horrible smile. “What conclusions would you like to draw, Dave?”

July 14

Why Trent Yves

Will Never Find God

Let us throw up together on our knees. If anyone saw the cheap display on
Letterman
of Mr. Cannes Film Festival, you will be nauseated with me.

Starlet, however, has found the True Faith. The more naked Trent became, the more she and a fellow devotee fell into worshipful ecstasies.

Too bad for them, because Trent’s only interested in Gwendolyn Melier’s cute little French butt—and himself. Some actors have vision and a hunger for God. Not Trent. He won’t find God because he thinks he
is
God.

Xombiemistress
responds:

He’s not my favorite either, Mystic, but give him a break. They expect stuff like that from the “25 Under 25.”

stuff like that from the “25 Under 25.”

Namaste.

Aquarius0210
responds:

Mystic, he really does have a beautiful body, uv got 2 admit. I thought it was funny. Lighten up. He’s had such a hard year with his dad going back to France. And that freak-out his mom had at the Emmys? She threw a chair at a reporter. And it nearly hit him. She only had a kid so she could make money off him. He’s cute with Gwen. They’re a perfect couple. Gwen’s an Aries, which is exactly right for a Libra.

Trentsbabe
responds:

i thought u were in luv w/him???

“Close your eyes.” Natalie brushed something against my eyelid.

I was alowing this out of pure, unadulterated guilt. “Open,” she said.

I scooted my stool closer to the bathroom mirror. My hair was in a ponytail on top of my head to get it out of the way. I had on foundation. Red lipstick. So far I looked like the bride of Frankenstein. Downstairs there were still Indigo Children. We should have done this at Natalie’s house, where the light was better in the bathroom, but Bekah was sick.

“It’s pink,” I said tentatively.

“This is just the undercoat.” Natalie plucked a few of my eyebrow hairs.

“Ow!”

“Sorry.” She patted my brow with a cotton pad. “We suffer to be beautiful.”

“You mean you suffer. I was happy being plain.”

“You mean you suffer. I was happy being plain.” Out at the dining room table we could hear snatches of Mom and Dad’s powwow with Malory.

“Old enough to make up my own mind…”

“Paying for your colege…”

A raised voice ending in, “You and Mom had already moved in together in colege. And your parents didn’t like it, either!”

“Close.” Natalie drew liquid eyeliner carefuly above my lashes. More eye shadow swept across my lid and out to my temple.

“What are you doing?”

“Art!” said Natalie happily.

I sighed.

“So,” she said, dotting something onto my cheekbones, “I read that no one has seen Trent Yves’ mother since she had that meltdown at the Emmys.”

“Mmm,” I said. I had been trying to put Trent out of my mind, which was hard because I’d lain awake last night in the Inner Sanctum running the
Letterman
show over and over in my head while Cheryl snored in the next sleeping bag.

Natalie rubbed off one of the dots. “People think she’s been institutionalized. She’s, like, crazy or something.”

“Wel, that would explain a lot,” I said. “He was pretty sick last night.” I laughed, though it wasn’t funny. The makeup session was doing nothing to distract me from my troubles. All morning my mind had bounced from the thought of Felix and Kalimar with strangers and unable to eat, to the image of an oh-so-Luke Trent Yves, peeling off his shirt and roling around with Gwen in the backseat of his car.

“Brigitta, don’t be so bothered at the sight of a little boy flesh.” She giggled. “Hold still.” She painted a black curve from my eyelid to my cheekbone that looked like a giant question mark.

“That’s…dramatic, Natalie.”

“Boy flesh is dramatic.” She did the other eye.

“Boy flesh is dramatic.” She did the other eye.

“No, I mean the makeup.”

She blew the lines dry. “Dramatic is what we’re after, Brigitta.

Live a little.”

I was beginning to look catlike.

“Anyway,” said Natalie, “as I was saying—that Luke Geoffrey? And his mother? Wouldn’t this be a perfect place to bring your demented mother?”

“She’s not demented.”

“Oh?” said Natalie. “You know this? You’ve seen him since he went incognito to the arcade?”

I hesitated. “I’ve seen them…from a distance, Natalie,” I lied.

“She looks perfectly normal to me.”

“But he’s always wearing sunglasses, right?” Luke had worn sunglasses on our road trip. And a hat puled down over his head. But there was reason for sunglasses at the beach. And he didn’t wear them when he was out in the woods with me. “No,” I said. “He’s just a normal guy, Natalie.” A normal guy. With a mom who drinks and who he has to take care of. Who disappears for days at a time and won’t tell me where he’s been. Who can check into a motel room on a debit card like he knows what he’s doing. Who looks like that IDIOT on
Letterman
.

“Okay, Brigitta. Normal it is.” Natalie put the brush into a pot of blue glitter and applied it thickly to my lids and temples.

“Voilà!” she said. “Now the hair!”

I looked like a circus performer.

Out in the kitchen, Dad yeled, “Think about your future!” and Malory shot back, “MY life, MY body, MY future!” There was a knock at the apartment door. Probably someone from the Indigo retreat. Mom and Dad would be mortified if retreatants had overheard their fight.

Natalie dusted powder over the top of her work. “This is perfect, Brigitta. I’m going to take some photos. I could use this in my portfolio.”

I could hear the Indigo guy saying, “Good afternoon, Mr.

Schopenhauer.”

Only it wasn’t an Indigo guy. I felt the blood drain out of my face. “Just a minute.” I got down off the stool and peered out the bathroom door. Luke was standing in the entryway shaking Dad’s hand. In his other hand was my violin.

“What?” said Natalie. “What is it?” She peeked over the top of my head. “Oh, my God, Brigitta!”

I puled back and closed the door. “You have to take this off my face, Natalie!”

Natalie started scrambling with curling irons and brushes.

“What’s he doing here?” She ran a brush through her own hair.

“Just take your hair down, Brigitta. It’ll be fine.”

“No! I look like a tropical fish!” What was Luke doing here?

Natalie grabbed the lipstick and applied it to her own lips.

“Damn!” She used a Q-tip hurriedly to erase her mistake, blotted with a tissue, and smiled. “Better. Don’t just sit there, Brigitta.” She squirted some perfume on both of us. I was frozen.

My feet had grown into the floor.

“Gita.” Malory poked her head in the bathroom, scowling.

“Ooh!” she said when she saw me. “That’s something. Gita, you’re wanted in the living room.”

Natalie stared at me.

I had no time to fix my face. Natalie pushed me out the bathroom door and somehow kept herself from barreling toward the living room.

Luke sat sipping a mug of tea (I hoped it wasn’t oolong). His hair had curled a little from the heat. He wore a white T-shirt that accentuated his biceps. My mouth went dry.

He was Trent.

Mom hovered nearby, giving me a “What’s up?” look with her eyebrows. Dad sat across from Luke/Trent, nodding at something he had said. Malory retreated to our room.

something he had said. Malory retreated to our room.

I felt like the room must be crashing down around me. I stepped around the pilar by the indoor garden. “Brigitta,” Luke/Trent said when he saw me. “Wow.”

I couldn’t meet his eyes.

Natalie gaped when he said my name and then quickly regained her composure. “Do you like it?” She puled up next to me. “I’m working on different designs. For my portfolio, you know. I think if I could get on with a major studio as a makeup artist, then I could pursue my acting at the same time. You know, I’d already have my foot in the door.”

“Ah,” he said.

The glitter was making my skin itch.

“Do you think that’s a good idea?” Natalie went on. “I mean, is it unrealistic? I know I have to start with things like shampoo commercials. But if I already have my foot in the door…”

“You’re very talented,” he said earnestly. “We’ve met before, right? At the arcade in town? I’m Luke. Luke Geoffrey.”

“Right,” said Natalie, winking. “I’m Natalie Portman. Only here I’m known as Natalie Shapiro.”

He stood and shook her hand. “I’m glad to see you again, Natalie.” I thought she’d faint.

“Mr. Schopenhauer?” He turned to Dad. “Would it be all right if I spoke with Brigitta privately?”

My heart began to pound.

Dad nodded approvingly, which was kind of surprising, considering that the risk to his other daughter’s virtue was suddenly an issue. “That would be fine, Luke. We have an interesting tree house on the property. Maybe you’d like to show him that, Brigitta.”

“Yeah,” I said. My stomach hurt.

Natalie folowed us out the door with her eyes.