Love at 11 Page 8

  “It’s okay, I guess.” I shrugged. What else could I say? That it was a hideous job with hideous people? That it proved on a daily basis that journalism was truly dead? No. People didn’t want to hear that. They only wanted to know what anchor X was like off the air and where reporter Y got her hair done.

  “I’m actually trying out for this role of a TV reporter in a new Penny Marshall film,” Jennifer told me. “Maybe if I get it, I can interview you. Kind of get into character. I love method acting, don’t you?”

  I had no idea what method acting was, though I was pretty sure it had something to do with Marlon Brando and James Dean.

  “Uh, yeah. Method acting’s cool,” I agreed, a little hesitantly.

  “Method acting’s for freaks,” Jamie interjected, taking a sip of his Corona. Damn. I so wanted to change my answer.

  “Oh, I suppose you’re going to tell me that the great Lee Strasberg was a freak, too, huh?” Jennifer demanded, dropping her fork with a clatter. “And that we actors are simply empty vessels, on set to illustrate an illustrious director’s vision and not artists in our own rights.”

  “You said it, not me.” Jamie said with an easy grin. “To me, method acting is nothing but mental masturbation. Feels good, but it doesn’t get you anywhere. Why don’t you use your imagination instead? You don’t have to experience something to act it.”

  “Tell that to Mr. Robert DeNiro. Dennis Hopper. Some of the greatest actors of all time have been method actors.”

  I forked a piece of quesadilla into my mouth, trying to follow the conversation without much luck. It was suddenly painfully obvious that I knew nothing about Jamie and Jennifer’s Hollywood world. They seemed so glamorous, sitting there, dressed to the nines, chatting about filmmaking, acting, and the rest. What did I have to contribute to this kind of intellectual discussion? I was a fool to have thought Jamie would ever like me or relate in any way to my pathetic common existence. I couldn’t have conversations about who directed this or what 1939 film dealt with that. I didn’t even go to foreign films ‘cause of the subtitles. I always said that if I wanted to read something, I’d hit the bookstore.

  I watched as Jennifer pressed her point, hands gesturing, eyes flashing with passion. She had a dream. A goal. She studied her craft. She’d probably be a famous actress someday. She certainly looked the part. Real pretty, with watery blue eyes, pale skin and straw-colored hair. Kind of Paris Hiltonesque. No wonder Jamie was in love with her.

  And Jamie—I glanced over at him—how his eyes were alight as he bantered back, easily countering her statements with intelligent ideas of his own. I felt bad for him, being stuck at News 9 until the economy cleared up. He must feel so stifled, shooting brainless news video. He had this whole world. This whole life that he had to leave behind.

  “Uh, Jen? I think we’ve put Maddy to sleep,” Jamie’s voice brought me back to the present.

  “I’m sorry, Maddy,” Jennifer said. “It must be so boring for you to have to listen to us drone on and on about filmmaking.” She didn’t sound too sorry, actually, but I let it slide. After all, I was the one barging in on her date.

  “No, it’s fine. I’m fine.” I straightened up in my chair, suddenly realizing I’d almost been asleep.

  Jennifer excused herself to go to the bathroom. Once alone, Jamie turned to me and smiled.

  “Sorry about that. Ever since she took Acting one-oh-one at Hollywood Community College she thinks she’s Cecil DeMille.”

  Argh. I didn’t know who that was. I mean, of course I’d heard the name but I couldn’t place it to an occupation. I was so subscribing to Variety when I got home.

  “It’s okay. It was interesting.” I tried to sound convincing.

  Jamie laughed. “Yeah, right. You’re a good sport. But Jennifer’s like a pit bull when she gets on a rampage like this. She loves to argue. And I can’t help egging her on, she gets so pissed.” He took a bite of his burrito and chewed. “It’s how all these Hollywood types act. They memorize a few directors’ names, throw in a couple obscure film references and they think it makes them sound all intellectual. And then at parties they sit around and argue points that don’t even make sense with one another. Each has no idea what the other is talking about, yet out of fear that they’ll be labeled wannabes, they pretend to.” He took a sip of Corona. “I can’t stand when Jen acts like them, so I always call her on it. If she’s going to spout of filmmaking nonsense around me, she’s got to at least know what she’s talking about. I don’t like being around pretentious fakes.”

  “Well, you don’t have to worry about me. I admittedly know zilch about Hollywood,” I said, making a zero out of my fingers and thumb. “In fact, I don’t even like artsy movies.”

  “You know, most of these snobs don’t like art films, either. They simply pretend to so they’ll seem cool, intellectual.” He grinned. “If they knew my secret love of cheesy eighties movies I’d probably be banned from LA.”

  My eyes widened with interest. “You like eighties movies?”

  He looked sheepish. “Not very manly, huh? Combine that with my love for eighties music and I might as well go around wearing a skirt.”

  “Actually, I think it’s very manly to admit you like something unmanly. Shows you’re sexually confident. So what’s your favorite eighties movie?”

  He thought for a moment. “Probably The Breakfast Club.”

  “I love The Breakfast Club.” I tapped a finger to my chin, thinking. “But my favorite would have to be Some Kind of Wonderful.”

  “Some Kind of Wonderful,” he repeated. “Yeah. I never got that one. I mean, why would Eric Stoltz spend the whole movie drooling over the boring, popular girl, even though he had that smoking best friend all along? I mean, he made poor Watts actually sit through their date.”

  “Right,” I said, suddenly realizing the movie’s parallels to our present situation and hoped he didn’t think I’d brought it up on purpose. Time to change the subject. “And then there’s Pretty in Pink.”

  “That’s worse.” Jamie groaned. “At least in Some Kind of Wonderful he ends up with the right girl at the end. Molly Ringwald screws poor, faithful Ducky in favor of that sissy Andrew McCarthy.”

  “Hey, watch what you say about my boyfriend!” I laughed. “In third grade I was going to marry him, you know.”

  Who would have thought I’d ever end up at a Mexican café debating the endings of John Hughes movies with a hot guy? Now if only the hot guy in question wasn’t on a date with another girl, I’d be all set.

  “What are you guys talking about?” Jennifer asked, returning to interrupt our debate.

  “Eighties movies,” Jamie said. “What’s your favorite, Jen?”

  She rolled her eyes and turned to me. “Oh Maddy, don’t get him started. He’s like a girl with that stuff. You’d think he was gay.”

  I laughed. “It’s okay. I like them, too.”

  Jennifer shot me a sympathetic smile, as if to say she understood I was just humoring her deluded fiancé and then launched into another tirade about acting in independent films.

  At the end of the meal, Jamie insisted on paying for ever one. I protested, of course. But he laughingly forced my money back in my pocket. Then we headed out into the balmy San Diego night air and for a moment everything seemed all right with the world. The two of them walked me to my car and both hugged me good night.

  I got into my car and waved to them as they walked away. What a weird night! Definitely not how I planned it. But somehow it all seemed okay.

  Still, I was exhausted. Trying to be ultra-charming through a whole meal proved more than a bit tiring. I couldn’t wait to go home, crawl into my cozy IKEA platform bed, and go to sleep.

  I pulled into my neighborhood about ten minutes later. Unfortunately, there was no street parking to be found. Sometimes this happened on Saturday nights in Pacific Beach (known to the party-loving locals as PB). One resident would invite fifty of their closest friends over for a little get-together and there’d be no place to park for the poor slobs who actually lived there. I didn’t mind walking ten blocks back to my house as much as I minded the noise, and prayed that the party was on the other end of the street.

  Unfortunately, this time around the party noise seemed to be coming from my apartment building. Worse, as I got closer, I realized it seemed to be coming from my actual apartment.

  “What the hell?” I muttered as I fit the key in the lock. The door swung open. There was a rave going on in my house.

  Techno music blared from my stereo. Kids in baggy pants, bright-colored T-shirts and even brighter-colored hair packed the place to the brim. People were dancing on my beige sofa. They were smoking and flicking ash on my carpet. There was even, I realized in horror, a smoke machine puffing out billowing clouds. The neighbors were going to think the place was on fire!

  “Lulu!” I screamed, slamming the door. Like one of those ‘80s movies we’d just been discussing, someone turned down the music. Everyone stopped dancing. And stared. At me. The evil adult, come home to ruin the party. As I fielded their disgusted glares I suddenly felt very, very old.

  “What?” demanded my sister, coming out from the kitchen. She had a bottle of beer in one hand and a lollipop in the other.

  “Outside. Now,” I said, pointing to the front door. She grudgingly complied.

  “Who are these people?” I asked as I shut the door behind us. I could hear someone inside requesting the music get turned back on, now that the “wicked witch has left the building.”

  “Just some friends,” Lulu said sulkily. She popped the lollipop in her mouth and sucked. “We were at this rave and, like, the cops came and busted it up. So I figured you wouldn’t mind if I had some people come by for a little after-hours …”

  “I wouldn’t mind?” I asked. “Since when did you think I wouldn’t mind?”

  “Well, you had a date. I figured maybe you’d get lucky and not come home.” Her rationality was truly amazing. “What’s the big deal anyway?”

  “The big deal is that I’ve had a long night and all I want to do is go to sleep, but there are fifty freaks sprawled around my living room.”

  Oh, man, I sounded like my father. I, Maddy Madison, was officially a party pooper.

  “They’re not freaks. They’re my friends.”

  “And you’re drinking! Is anyone here even of age?” Lulu shrugged. “I think Bill is. He bought the beer. Though I guess he could have a fake ID….”

  I couldn’t believe this. I had to stop the party. Now. The cops could come and bust me for allowing underage kids to drink in my home. And they probably wouldn’t believe me when I told them I had absolutely nothing to do with it.

  “What’s your problem?” Lulu whined. “I always thought you were cool.”

  Oh, man. She was actually pulling out the “cool” card? Her words hit me hard. I am cool, I wanted to protest. Really!

  I swallowed hard. I didn’t want Lulu to hate me, but at the same time I couldn’t allow this type of thing to go on. It was for her own good, after all. I had to be the adult, as much as it pained me. She’d thank me someday. Maybe.

  “Lulu, if you’re going to live in my house, you need to follow some rules. You can’t walk all over me, trash my house and completely disrespect me and then tell me I shouldn’t mind because of some warped sense of coolness you think I have. It’s not acceptable.”

  “Fine. What-EVER. I’ll stop the party. Geez!” Lulu opened the front door, then turned back to shoot me an evil glare. “You know, I was totally wrong about you.”

  “Sucks to be you then, doesn’t it?” I snarled back. As soon as the words came out, I regretted them. As a rule, responsible adult types should not say phrases like “sucks to be you.” But hey, I was parenting on the fly here.

  To her credit, it took her less than ten minutes to clear everyone out. Of course, she wanted to go with them to the next party, but I, the loser adult, told her to go to bed. Actually, I told her if she went to bed I wouldn’t tell Dad about the party, but hey, whatever worked.

  After giving her a blanket and pillow and settling her on the couch, I headed to my bedroom, which unfortunately hadn’t been spared from the party mess. Worried about potential teenage hormone-induced action between the sheets, I stripped the bed and made it again.

  When had my life spun so out of control? It used to be so deliciously boring. Not that I was uncool as Lulu said or anything. Was I? I mean, coolness shouldn’t be judged by one’s acceptance of an underage rave at her apartment, should it?

  I crawled into my newly made bed and blocked the troubling thoughts from my mind. A good night’s sleep and everything would be okay.

  I hoped.

  Chapter Seven

  FROM: “Laura Smith”

  TO: “Special Projects Group”

  SUBJECT: Sweeps Story List

  Hi Guys!

  After much planning, Richard and I have finally finalized the story list for May. I think we’ve got some good ones this time! Please review the following stories:

  Spray-on Nylons —A new spray makes wearing pantyhose passé.

  Cellulite Sneakers —Special sneakers help you lose weight while you walk.

  Pudgy Pets —Now it’s Fido and Fifi’s turn to go low-carb.

  The Fast Food Diet —Big Mac can mean BIG weight loss.

  Nocturnal Positions —The positions you sleep in can predict the future of your marriage.

  Nail Salon Nightmare —How acrylic nails can lead to amputated fingers.

  We will also be kicking off our latest Household Products That Kill series. Maddy has been working on our first segment—“Cosmetics That Kill” which edits tomorrow. We’ll also be assigning Deadly Doorknobs, Kitty Killer, Bad Beanie Babies, and Suspicious Sinks. And we’re looking for additional ideas, so if you come across something that can kill, please pitch it to me ASAP.

  When working on these stories, please keep in mind that we are not to name any brand names unless we are saying something GOOD about the product. And please make sure if you’re writing about an experimental new diet product that may or may not work, you add a quick sound bite at the end from some grumpy, old physician who doesn’t believe anything but old-fashioned diet and exercise will lose weight. (As if people have time for that! :))

  Your Boss, Laura

  Monday morning. Back at work. I had to write the “Cosmetics That Kill” story and get Terrance to record it. It amazed me sometimes to think how little I got paid to shoot, write, and edit a story and how much he got paid to read it. When I first started, my family always harassed me about when I’d be on air. Uh, that would be never.

  It bugged me that most non-news people thought producers were all wannabe reporters. That we were all just sitting back, waiting for our big break. I had no interest in going live on the air. I liked working behind the scenes and never having to worry about getting fired because the latest surveys found that viewers trusted five-foot-two brunettes more than five-foot-six blondes. As a producer you got to do all the fun stuff and never had to worry about your hair and makeup or getting old and fired. The only downside was the pay. But I’d heard top Newsline producers made a good six figures, so at least I had a goal.

  The mail icon popped up on my computer screen. I knew I should have closed the program before starting my script; it was too tempting to click over to see who had written, even though usually it was either spam, e-mail forwards, or pesky viewers who wanted to complain about a story I’d produced. Not that I minded viewer feedback, but nine times out of ten the viewer in question hadn’t actually viewed my story—just the promo—and were condemning me on the fifteen-second tease I didn’t even write.

  This time there were two e-mails in my box. One from my dad and one from the promotions department. Both were bound to be equally upsetting.

  I clicked open my dad’s first.

  Hi Maddy,

  How’s my little girl? How’s work? When are they going to let you on TV?

  Anyway, Cindi and I were wondering if you’d like to come to her ultrasound appointment tomorrow at noon. I bet you’re just DYING to see your little unborn sister or brother. (Don’t tell anyone, but I’m hoping for a boy!)

  Let me know if you want to come. It’d mean a lot to Cindi. She really wants to meet you! Oh, and she wanted me to ask you if you knew her older brother. She thinks he might have went to high school with you. Does the name Tad ring a bell?

  Love, Dad

  P.S. Is Lulu eating right? The girl is too skinny.

  Ewh. All I could say was ewh.

  Why on earth would I want to go see photographic evidence of Dad cheating on Mom? To me, the ultrasound would be a live video starring the evil seed that broke up my parents’ marriage. Sure, technically the fetus would be my half brother or sister, but just because we shared a sperm donor didn’t mean I had to have anything to do with this unborn creature.

  And how dare he ask about Lulu as if it were no big thing? He should be the one making sure she ate, not me! He or Mom, who was now equally pissing me off with her globe-trotting adventures. One of them needed to climb the hell back on the parental wagon and start acting like the adults they were supposed to be.

  Lulu still wasn’t talking to me after Saturday night’s incident. She’d left the house before I woke up Sunday morning and for part of the day I’d sustained the hope that she’d gone back home. But late Sunday night she showed up again, drunk off her ass, and passed out on my couch. Like a good sister, I left her a glass of water and some Advil on the coffee table. I wanted to lecture her about underage drinking but didn’t want to set her off again. Besides, it wasn’t that big of a deal, was it? I mean, I drank when I was sixteen. Maybe not on Sunday afternoons, but still …