Amen, L.A. Page 14

  I was just doing the last of the sinks when my cell rang. I checked caller ID: it was Alex. As I moved to answer it, I heard Brett’s cell ring. His ringtone was a song by one of my favorite bands, the Shins.

  “Hey, Alex!” I looked for someplace to sit. There were some benches by the sinks, and I headed for one. Meanwhile, Brett indicated that because of the echo, he’d take his call outside. I waved to say I understood.

  “Hey. What are you doing on this glorious day?” Alex asked.

  “Well, I’m with Brett, and I stink,” I replied, using my forearm to wipe sweaty hair from my forehead. I told her about my church volunteer project and how I’d run into and was working with Brett.

  She laughed. “His cell just rang, right?”

  “How did you know?” I rubbed at a knot on my left shoulder. Repetitive motion will do that to you.

  “Because I’m at Brooke’s, and we decided we’re having a party tonight, and I told her that I would call you, and she said she would call Brett, and she’s sitting in the hot tub—it’s great in the rain!— with me right now, on the phone with him. Say hi, Brooke!”

  I heard a muffled “Hi, Brooke!”

  “So we’re having this party, and we’re inviting you and Brett and a bunch of other people, and I wanted to know if you would come.” Alex laughed again. “I have a feeling Brett will be there.”

  I wasn’t sure exactly what to say. First, I wasn’t sure if I could go, or even if I would be allowed to go. My mother had a big fund-raiser dinner that night, and I didn’t know if my dad had plans. If Gemma was sick, someone would have to stay home with her and Chad. Second, I wasn’t sure that being at a party was the smartest thing for Alex. Parties meant partying, after all, and I thought that if Brooke was in charge, the main drink would more likely be Long Island Iced Tea, which has like a zillion different kinds of alcohol in it, than Lipton. Of course, if this was going to be a Brooke-type party and Alex was definitely going to attend, it would probably be a good idea for me to be there, too. Then again, my parents knew enough about Hollywood kids by now that even the Alex factor might not be enough for them to let me attend. Too much temptation. Too much Long Island Iced Tea.

  Then there was the at-a-party-with-Brett factor. That I liked. Sure, Skye could well be there. In fact, she’d probably be there. But I took Brett at his word. If something serious came up with someone else, then Brett-and-Skye wasn’t a big impediment. In fact, it wasn’t an impediment at all. If he was stretching the truth on that issue, I’d find out sooner rather than later, which was a good thing.

  I hoped my dad would want to stay home that night with Gemma and Chad. Since his novel had been optioned, he’d been obsessed with writing, which meant my butt was probably covered.

  Which was why I said, “I’d love to come.”

  Chapter Fifteen

  “Your mother just called,” my dad announced as he let me in the front door. Somehow, I’d misplaced my house key. Probably it was in one of the shower stalls at the downtown shelter. Maybe I’d lost it when Brett offered to rub my sore neck. I could still feel his hands on me, gently kneading my muscles.

  “Earth to Natalie?” My father waved a hand in front of my face.

  “Sorry, Dad. What?”

  I kicked out of my sodden running shoes. I’d had to wade through a puddle to reboard the bus. Though the rain had eased in the afternoon, it picked up again after Mr. Bienvenu had dropped us all back at the church. From there, because of street closures and nearly impossible traffic, it had taken me an hour to get to Ricardo’s mansion. I didn’t pull the Saturn through the gate until nearly six.

  “Instead of drinks at the Beverly Hills Hotel, they took her downtown. Kent Stevens wants her on the board of some city agency; he was going to introduce her to the mayor.”

  My dad had thoughtfully put down some towels in the foyer so wet feet wouldn’t destroy the flooring. I took off my white socks—they were as soaked as my sneakers—and wiped my bare feet on a gray towel as I sniffed the air, which smelled of tomato and garlic.

  “Spaghetti sauce?” I asked hopefully. My dad was a more-than-decent cook.

  Dad gave a mock bow. “Hey. I live to serve.”

  “Mom’s going from the meeting to the donors’ dinner?” I asked.

  “Straightaway. Do not pass Go, do not collect two hundred dollars.”

  “Are you meeting her there?” I asked. Not that I wanted him to. I wanted him in all night so I could go to Brooke’s party.

  “It’s pretty clear that I wasn’t invited,” Dad reported, to my relief. “I guess your mother could have pressed the point, but … well, it’s different here from Minnesota.”

  I understood. In Mankato, whenever my mom had any kind of a function that involved food, whether it was a board meeting or the annual Mankato Little League awards dinner, where she’d deliver the invocation, my father was asked to be there, too. Here in Los Angeles? It was different. Very different.

  I balled up the used towel. “Well, maybe after she’s been here for a while.” I wanted to offer some support, even though on the inside I was singing. Yes, feel free to call me a hypocrite.

  He gave a little laugh. “Maybe. Anyway, it worked out for the best tonight. I would have had to stay home with your sister anyway.”

  “Then you should be grateful,” I told him.

  “A little,” he admitted. “I’d feel better if I weren’t worried about Mom.”

  I was glad he said it. Because I was worried, too. She seemed so stressed. Back in Minnesota, she’d worked hard. It hadn’t been unusual for her to do something church-related every day of the week, even though her nominal day off was Monday. But the new job was huge. Her BlackBerry was always sounding. She checked it more often than a politician, and I wondered if that was what she felt like—a newly elected politician—constantly taking the pulse of her constituency, constantly checking her poll numbers, constantly worried that the honeymoon of the first weeks in office would give way to the reality of marriage.

  There were so many people watching her, counting on her, wanting her time. “She’s so busy,” I mused. “She’s never been good at saying no when someone needs her.”

  “Yeah,” Dad agreed. “Hey, don’t you worry, sweetie. I’ll talk to your mom. But now I need to get back to my sauce.”

  “Gemma’s ready to eat pasta?”

  “Gemma’s ready to eat nothing. She’s on tea and toast and has a temp of a hundred and one.”

  “Is she feeling any better?”

  My dad cocked his head at my feet. “Marginally. You should put your slippers on. I believe I saw them in the front hall closet.”

  “I’m actually going to shower,” I said. “What about Chad? Did he swim today?”

  “I think he has a touch of whatever Gemma has, too. He’s in his room playing some addictive video game. His practice was canceled.”

  I went upstairs, took the world’s quickest shower, pulled on some jeans and a cozy sweater, then went back down to the kitchen. Dad was stirring his sauce with a wooden spoon, and fusilli pasta was draining in a colander. The table was already set for us; he motioned me to it.

  “This looks fab, Dad,” I said when I sat down.

  He took a cucumber-and-dill salad he’d made earlier from the fridge, and put the rest of the food on the table. “Today the Shelton house, tomorrow Top Chef.” He slid into the seat across from me and nodded at me to say grace.

  One of our family traditions was that grace could not be rote. It had to be original and in the moment. I thought about my day. The image of that huge line of people waiting for food, clothing, and shelter at the homeless shelter flashed brightly in my mind. Then Brett flashed through my mind. And the party I wanted to go to, and …

  I mentally chided myself and headed back to the thoughts of the shelter.

  “God,” I began, “we thank you for the good things in our life, for our good luck and fortune, and for life itself. May we enjoy this meal while remembering you
r gifts and remember always to bring your gifts to others, for here on earth your work truly is our own. Bless this table and this home in Jesus’s name. Amen.”

  My father looked at me with something approaching awe. “That was inspiring, Natalie. Really.”

  I felt embarrassed. All it was, was heartfelt.

  “Thank you.”

  “I hope you have the chance to sit at a table sometime with your eldest daughter and hear her offer grace like that.”

  Okay. I admit it. I choked up a little at those words. We ate in silence for a few minutes. His fusilli was, as always, incredible. I saw that my dad was chewing with gusto. I took the moment to ask if I could go to the party.

  Dad wiped his mouth with a white paper napkin. “Who’s giving it?”

  “A friend of Alex’s, named Brooke. It’s at her place.”

  “Will her parents be home?”

  “Yep,” I replied.

  Okay, you may note here that I had no idea whether Brooke’s parents would in fact be home. I’m a teenager, not a saint.

  My dad nodded. “Your cell is charged?”

  “Definitely.”

  “You know my cell by heart? And the landline number here? Just in case you lose your cell?”

  That was so my father. Thinking ahead, figuring out what to do in a situation that wouldn’t be a problem until it became a problem.

  Anyway, he’d nailed me. There was indeed a landline at the mansion, presumably for emergencies when film crews rented it out. I had the number programmed in my cell. But by heart? Ha.

  “I know your number. I’ll write down the landline,” I promised.

  “Good.” He smiled. “Then go. Have fun. And use—”

  “Good judgment,” I said with him. My mom and he had been telling me that forever, based on the theory that if something is important to you, then you shouldn’t shut up about it.

  “What time can I expect you home?”

  “I don’t know. No later than midnight, I guess.” Twelve had been my consistent curfew in Mankato. Since the town basically rolled up at eleven, staying out till midnight was no great shakes. “Will that work?”

  “Hey, you’re about to go into your senior year of high school, and you’re in Los Angeles.” He slurped up some more spaghetti and grinned at me. “Make it one.”

  “Are you ready to rock and roll? I said, are you ready, ready, ready to rock and roll?”

  “Yeah!” The crowd of two or three hundred high school kids who’d been drinking, dancing, swimming, and cavorting in the party space—there was no other way to describe it—behind Brooke Summers’s ivy-covered mansion shouted as one as the lead singer from the Sex Puppets egged them on with a raised fist. Evidently, Brooke was kinda-sorta dating the drummer, which was how she had been able to get them for a last-minute gig.

  “I can’t hear you!”

  “Yeah!” the crowd cheered again.

  “I can’t hear you!”

  This time, the roar from the crowd was deafening, and the band’s guitarist decided that he could start the next song. The band started to wail, and all thoughts of conversation were swept up in their infectious, eighties-influenced power pop.

  As people all around me started to dance, I stared up at the crystalline moonlit sky. It had turned out to be a beautiful night. As quickly as the rain clouds had moved in before dawn, they’d moved out just before sunset, leaving the city glistening and spotlessly clean. The air, usually polluted by millions of car-commute miles, had been rubbed, scrubbed, and rescrubbed by the downpour. The sunset had been magnificent as the sun dropping behind the Pacific lit the city in hues of blue, purple, and pink that artists could only ever dream about.

  “Want to dance?” Alex’s voice took me out of my reverie.

  “What?”

  “Come on!”

  She took my hand and led me into the seething mass of humanity in front of the stage that had been erected at the south end of the Summers’s double tennis court.

  Let me say that back in Mankato, dancing with my girlfriends was no big deal, and we had lots of fun at parties. But they were nothing like this.

  In Mankato, you park your own car and walk in the front door. You say hello to the parents of whoever is giving the party, and you go into the basement, or you go out back.

  Here, Brooke had valet parking for her guests. The Latino valet snickered when he took my Saturn. No wonder, since the car in front of me was an Aston Martin, and the one behind me a Jaguar. But at least I didn’t have to worry about where to put my car. There was a line of golf carts—also driven by uniformed Latino guys—to shuttle guests from the gate to the house, so I climbed onto the backseat of one of them, and away I went.

  Alex had told me that Brooke’s family was only partly a showbiz family. Her mother was a famous independent-film producer. One of her films, Mocking Bird Lane—about a boy named Lane who thought he could fly and, magically, just once, did fly—had been nominated for a Golden Globe. Brooke’s mother could finance her movies because Brooke’s father was the sole owner of a construction business that didn’t just build houses. He built freeways, factories, and high-rise office buildings. The L.A. Times had recently reported that he’d received a multibillion-dollar contract to renovate the entire port of Long Beach, a project expected to take five years.

  Constructing all that good stuff meant he had ample funds to invest in his own dwelling. Brooke’s house—I kid you not—looked from the front like the White House, only with a nicer porch. But I never got inside, since the golf cart took me around back, where the party was under way.

  Alex had asked me to text her on my arrival. I did, and she was waiting for me at the drop-off point. She wore a pale pink minidress with brown high-heeled booties and greeted me with a huge hug. “You look hot!”

  I’d made an effort to do my hair and makeup and put on a short black skirt and a white tank top. I didn’t think I looked fantastic, but I didn’t look out of place, either, unless you knew that my outfit was from Target. I took in the guys and girls arriving, already in full party mode, many with beers in hand. Rock and roll blared from speakers somewhere below us, and we could hear the whoops and screams of kids apparently jumping into a pool, as yet unseen.

  Alex took me on a tour of the back, and at least I didn’t look like a bobble-head doll, searching for Brett. He’d told me before we left the shelter that he was having Saturday night dinner with his parents and brother and wouldn’t be able to come to the party until ten-thirty at the earliest. That was fine with me. It gave me more time to start feeling less out of place.

  The backyard—and the party—was on three tiers. The top tier was landscaped, with dozens of tables and chairs for hanging out, plus chaise lounges and swings. The main bars and buffet stations were up here. There was one station for Japanese, another for Mexican, and yet another for vegetarian alternatives. I saw kids lined up at the bars and saw that Coke, juice, and iced tea were not the only things being served. I raised my eyebrows questioningly at Alex.

  “Not to worry,” she told me. “That’s why we’re going down below.”

  “I’m with you,” I assured her.

  “I know. That’s why I feel great.”

  We went down a long, broad white set of marble steps to the second level, the pool level. Or I should say, pools level. The main pool was shaped like a teardrop. Another was rectangular, with waterslides and a high dive, and there were three hot tubs. Each featured dozens of kids in various stages of undress, and a cannonball contest was under way at the high dive. Two huge guys turned and lowered their surfer jams, mooning the crowd.

  “These are your future classmates,” Alex quipped as they sent up huge splashes of water.

  “Yeah. And one day their vote will count just as much as yours and mine.”

  Alex laughed and linked her arm through mine. I could feel curious eyes on me as she led me around the teardrop pool and toward yet another long staircase. Who’s the girl with Alex? Never saw her be
fore.

  Finally, we were on the lower level, where the twin tennis courts had been transformed into music-and-dance central. In addition to the raised stage for the Sex Puppets, professional lighting towers had been erected, so the whole thing approximated a nightclub experience. Not that I’d ever been to a nightclub. But I’d seen them on TV.

  That was how it came to be that Alex and I were dancing.

  “Loosen up!” She spun and swung her ass at me sexily, then pushed her hands overhead, up toward the moon.

  Oh. What the heck.

  I danced like Alex was dancing. I didn’t do as well as she did, but I tried. And I liked it. It was fun. Really fun. As I danced, I felt a pair of hands take hold of my waist and dance with me from behind. I swiveled to tell Mr. Wandering Hands to shove off. Then I saw who it was and grinned.

  For the second time that day, Brett Goldstein had surprised me.

  Chapter Sixteen

  The first thing I did was take a surreptitious look around, to see if Brett was with Skye. Nope. No Skye. Then we danced, the three of us, for so many songs I lost track. Sometimes it was Brett and me, with Alex egging us on. Sometimes it was Brett and Alex, with me dancing around them like a siren. Sometimes it was Alex and me, Brett to one side, all of us rocking out to the Sex Puppets. The music got faster and faster, till they thrashed through their last song like the Dropkick Murphys on a caffeine overdose.

  After the final song, the crowd whooped. The lead singer announced a thirty-minute break, and Alex told us she was going to find a bathroom in one of the cabanas. That left Brett and me alone, which was not necessarily a bad thing. It got even better when Pinhead Gunpowder came on the sound system with their version of “Big Yellow Taxi,” and Brett suggested that the two of us take a walk to yet another area of Brooke’s back forty, down a cobblestone path to a secluded gazebo and pond illuminated by burning torches, far enough away that the party noise was a dull roar.