25
Esme was heading down the path from the main house to the sandbox with Easton and Weston when she saw her mother approach from the other direction.
“Mama!” Esme exclaimed. It felt surreal that they both had the same employer.
“Esme.” Her mother smiled like the sun. “Y los niños. Cómo
están hoy?”
“Estamos muy bien,”
Weston said. Then she looked past Esme’s mother and pointed to the tennis court.
“Yo quiero jugar
al tenis con mi hermano Yon-o-tin!”
Esme followed Weston’s gaze to the tennis court, where Jonathan was rallying with a hard-hitting guy in his twenties.
“Esme?”
Esme turned back to her mother. “What?”
Mrs. Castaneda was gazing at her with a knowing look.
“
What?
” Esme repeated.
“
Qué pasa con
Jonathan?”
Esme flushed; her mother had always been able to read her like a book. “Nothing.”
Her mother sniffed. “See that it doesn’t turn into something,” she said in English. Then she smiled, said goodbye to the girls, and headed briskly toward the main house.
“Esme? Tenis por favor?”
Easton asked, tugging on her hand.
Esme looked at the court, where Jonathan whacked a cross-court forehand. He looked so perfect out there, like someone from
The Great Gatsby,
a book she’d devoured in eighth grade. Last night she’d dreamed of him, in a huge canopied bed with silk sheets strewn with rose petals. He’d kissed her, and undressed her, and—
Oh God. She couldn’t possibly face him. She couldn’t.
“No, you want to play in the sandbox, remember?” Esme reminded Easton in Spanish.
But Easton shook her head and charged off toward the tennis court. “Jonathan!” she cried, pronouncing her brother’s name
Yon-o-tin.
“Hey, little girl!” Jonathan waved. Then he noticed Esme and Weston, and gave them an easy wave, too. Moments later, Easton was out on the court, hugging his legs. Then Weston bolted from Esme’s grasp and did the same thing. Esme, with no choice, followed them.
“They seem very attached to you,” Esme said stiffly.
“Literally.” Jonathan grinned.
“Sorry to interrupt your game.”
His eyes met hers. “Actually, I was just thinking about you.”
The way his words affected her, Esme felt like an elevator in free fall. “Yes, well . . . ,” she managed.
His partner came up to the net. “Jon? You done for the day?”
“Yeah, let’s knock off, okay?”
“We on for Friday?”
“Absolutely.”
The other guy gathered his gear and left the court. “He’s a pro from the Riviera Country Club,” Jonathan told Esme. “He’s trying to improve my serve. It’s a losing battle.”
Esme had no idea what to say to that. She had no frame of reference for a life that included a compelling desire to improve one’s tennis serve.
“Ball,” Easton chirped. She picked up a stray yellow tennis ball.
“Hey, she used English!” Jonathan exclaimed.
“Ball! Ball! Ball!” Weston cried, not to be outdone.
Jonathan got his tennis racquet and handed it to Easton, positioning her hands around the grip. “Like this,” he said, and helped the child swing a two-handed backhand. Easton giggled with delight. “I’ll have to get them kids’ racquets.”
“Actually, I think Andre Agassi and Steffi Graf just sent two,” Esme said. “They’re on my thank-you list.”
“Excellent. Listen, toss a ball to Easton, okay?”
Esme picked up a tennis ball and bounced it to the girl. With Jonathan’s help, she swung and made contact, which caused her to chortle with delight.
“
Más, más!
Again! Again!”
“Learning English through tennis. We may be on to something.” Jonathan grinned.
For the next fifteen minutes, Jonathan helped Easton, and then Weston, swing at the balls that Esme would toss. He encouraged them after their misses and applauded their successes. He was, Esme realized, great with them, sweet, patient, and kind. He didn’t seem to resent instant siblings from another culture. Quite the opposite. What a good guy. But Esme didn’t want him to be a good guy. She didn’t like her heart’s staccato beat when he stood near her.
When both twins were chasing down tennis balls, Jonathan sidled over to Esme and handed her a racquet. “Maybe you need help with your swing, too. Hold it like you’re shaking hands.” Then he turned her sideways, got behind her, and stretched her racquet back. “How does that feel?” His voice was low, his breath hot on her neck.
“Did you ask your girlfriend that the other day?” Esme asked.
“What girlfriend?”
“The girl you were—”
“Jonathan?”
It was Diane Goldhagen, standing outside the tennis court fence. Esme quickly stepped away from Jonathan and made sure that her boss couldn’t see her reddening face.
“Hey,” Jonathan said easily.
“How are the girls doing, Esme?” Diane asked. Her voice sounded stilted, as if she had seen something she disapproved of but was too polite to point it out.
“We were going to the sandbox but they wanted Jonathan to give them a tennis lesson.” Esme tried to be reassuring.
“That’s fine. Hello, my angels!” she called to the girls. They turned and looked at her for a brief instant, then went back to gathering up balls as if she didn’t exist. But since Esme had started her job, Diane barely saw the twins; she was always out. So she couldn’t really blame the girls for not responding.
Esme figured she should play the good nanny, so she hustled over to them. “
Niños, es su mama!
Go see your mother,” she chided, ushering them toward the fence. They took exactly two steps in that direction, froze, and scuttled back to Esme. Their silence was deafening.
“Give ’em time,” Jonathan said.
“Right,” Diane agreed, though Esme could see how hurt she was. “Well, Esme, I’m off to a meeting at the Getty, then I’ll be at Yoga Booty, and after that I’ve got a facial at Sea Mountain Spa.”
Esme nodded.
“Oh. The cutest twin handcrafted rocking ponies were just delivered from the Olsen twins. Let Easton and Weston decide where they want to put them,” Diane continued. “I added them to the new thank-you list; there’s a hard copy on your kitchen table.”
“Fine,” Esme said. “I’ll take care of it.”
“Great. So, call my cell if you need me. Bye, my angels!” The twins paid no attention. They were too busy pegging each other with tennis balls. Diane attempted a smile, then left.
Anxiety washed over Esme. “I should have made the girls go to her. And I never should have . . .”
“What?”
Let you flirt with me. I have a boyfriend. I haven’t even told you
that. So why do I want you to take me in your arms and—
“No,” she said aloud, forcing herself to ignore him. She turned to the girls. “Come on,
niños.
Let’s go to the sandbox.”
26
“Where the hell is Platinum?” A.M. boomed at a flunky wearing headphones.
“I don’t know, A.M., I can’t find her,” the girl replied helplessly. “I called the house, the studio . . .”
A.M. rolled her eyes. “That’s so damn typical.”
Kiley looked around, taking in the surroundings. The four remaining contestants had been taken by minivan from Platinum’s estate to the Universal Studios lot in Burbank—a stop-and-go trip because of the traffic; it had taken nearly an hour. There had been speculation in the van that the challenge had something to do with the famous Universal Studios theme park and City Walk. But instead of going to that park, they went through the security gates of the actual movie studio, and only stopped when they reached an exterior movie set that had been made to look like a street in downtown Manhattan.
Platinum herself was supposed to be on hand for this challenge—the girls still didn’t know what it was going to be— but they’d been waiting a half hour and the rock star still hadn’t shown up. So they’d been left to cool their heels on a few benches that had been set out near the food service table.
A.M. checked her watch. “We’ll give her a few more minutes, then we’ll get started.” A makeup girl rushed to A.M. and touched up her powder, while the stylist sprayed gloss on her hair.
Kiley took a water bottle from the food service table, screwed off the top, and guzzled some down. It was just her, Cindy, Veronique, and Tamika, since Steinberg had bit the dust the day before. When Sid informed Steinberg that he hated to sing, she’d written a rap for him instead. But when it came time to perform it in front of his mom and the group, Sid had mooned the cameras and all of America. That put Steinberg on the next plane to New York.
After they had completed their Platinum-savvy exam, the others had succeeded in their missions, more or less. Tamika had created a gluten-free dish for the kids, though when Platinum sampled it, she said it tasted like ass. Veronique managed to keep Sid in the Meditation Room for twenty minutes; Kiley didn’t want to know how. Cindy had, as usual, shone on her assignment. She’d arranged for the kids to have an introductory lesson at a tae kwon do studio and then be videotaped while sparring against a blue screen. Meanwhile, she’d contacted an animation studio in Toluca Lake to retouch the video to make it look as if the kids were slaying dragons and demons. The finished product would then be ready in time for Serenity’s birthday party in two weeks.
What’s getting a kid to take a bath compared to that?
Finally, A.M. shooed the beauty contingent away. “Okay, we’re starting, I’ll kill Platinum later. You ready?”
Bronwyn nodded. “Three, two, one, and . . .”
“We’re here at world-famous Universal Studios for another
Platinum Nanny
challenge,” she told the camera, and then pointed to the far end of the street. “Contestants, take a look at this.”
At the other end of the set, a double line of black sport-utility vehicles rolled in their direction. There were four of them, complete with a sound track, as vintage Platinum rock and roll pounded from their open windows. They came to a stop directly in front of the contestants.
“Ladies, some people call Los Angeles a car culture. I call it the world’s most dangerous place to drive,” A.M. declared. “Not only are there hundreds of miles of jam-packed freeways, but we’ve also got some of the most lunatic drivers on the planet. As Platinum’s nanny, you’re going to spend a considerable amount of time behind the wheel. Taking the kids to lessons, picking up pizza in Santa Monica . . . you haven’t really lived until you’ve spent all day in a car with three feuding kids.”
“I hate to drive,” Veronique muttered. “In Paris I always take zee Metro.”
“This challenge will test all the skills you’ll need, and more,” A.M. continued. “In the backseat of these SUVs, you’ll find life-size crash test dummies made up to look like Platinum’s kids. You’ll be driving them through an obstacle course right here on the famous movie sets of Universal Studios. The fastest ones through the course stay in the competition. Finish last? Have a pleasant life.”
Kiley felt her mouth go dry. She’d only had her driver’s license for six months. And driving in La Crosse was a piece of cake; big traffic was when a train came through downtown on its way to Iowa and the railroad gates backed things up for a few hundred yards.
“We’re going to send you off at thirty-second intervals,” A.M. explained. “Veronique, you start. Then Cindy. Then Kiley. Tamika, you’re last.”
“Thanks a lot,” Tamika said.
“It’s to your advantage,” A.M. told her. “You can learn from their mistakes.”
“They got the dummies in the kids’ clothes,” Tamika remarked, peering into the SUV next to Kiley’s. “Now that’s freaky.”
“One more thing,” A.M. called. “If the crash test dummies hit their heads, you get penalized five minutes.”
A driver in full NASCAR gear helped Kiley behind the wheel and helped her put on the crash helmet and driving gloves. She turned the key. A Platinum song wailed from the sound system at earsplitting volume. She tried to turn it down. The knob turned, but the volume didn’t change. The other girls’ sound systems competed with Kiley’s; it was deafening.
A.M. held a bullhorn to her mouth. “Veronique, ready?” The French girl waved one arm out the window.
“And . . . go!”
The black SUV leaped forward, smoke pouring from the exhaust as Veronique roared down the first street and smoked into a hard right turn.
“Cindy, ready?”
Cindy waved.
“And . . . go!”
Cindy took her cue from Veronique and sped down the first street so fast that Kiley grimaced, afraid she’d collide with the far wall. But she managed to brake enough to whip around the corner. Then, she too was gone.
“Kiley, ready?”
Kiley had a hard time taking her white-knuckled hand off the steering wheel to signal yes. But she did it.
“And . . . go!”
Kiley accelerated as fast as she dared. In ten scary seconds she was at the far end of the street and executing the same hard right-hand turn she’d seen Cindy and Veronique do. The movie set street changed from Manhattan to the Wild West, complete with horses tied to hitching posts and cowboys passing time in front of the local saloon.
So far, so good.
That’s when all hell broke loose.
Suddenly, the cowboys pulled guns from their holsters and started blasting her.
Blam! Blam! Blam!
Kiley instinctively weaved the SUV to and fro in an effort to avoid the shots. Then something red spattered on her windshield, and she realized the “bullets” were only paintballs—annoying, but not deadly. But she had no time to think, because there was a quick right turn, and a left turn, and then suddenly she was on a dirt road filled with dozens of granite boulders. Kiley mashed the brake pedal, swerving in what felt like slo-mo. In her rearview mirror, she saw Tamika’s SUV gaining on her.
Faster,
she told herself, flinging the steering wheel from left to right. But then, a five-foot-high boulder blocked her way. She couldn’t stop.
She screamed and slammed into it.
It broke into a zillion pieces like the movie-prop, papiermâché boulder that it was. Kiley realized too late that she’d wasted precious time, that she could have powered right down the street, boulders be damned. Which is exactly what Tamika was doing, now that she’d seen Kiley crunch a “boulder” to smithereens.
Grimly, Kiley followed a huge arrow and turned to the left. She was now on a street that had been made to look like small-town USA—almost like Main Street in La Crosse. GO RAVENS! STATE BASKETBALL CHAMPS! A banner was strung from building to building. But there wasn’t time to take in the surroundings, because Tamika had powered her SUV practically alongside Kiley’s. Bad news, Kiley knew, because it meant that her best friend in the competition had made up nearly thirty seconds.
Just below the banner was a broad puddle, maybe twenty feet across. Kiley and Tamika reached it at the same time. Splash! The two SUVs blew into what turned out to be a three-foot-deep pool of water.
Kiley and Tamika roared out of the water neck and neck. Both girls raced toward yet another sharp right turn. Kiley gripped the wheel. She was on the right side; she had position. But Tamika was edging ahead of her. Kiley knew that to have any chance, she had to reach that corner first.
She floored the SUV; Tamika did the same a split second later.
That was when disaster struck for the girl who knew better than anyone how to drive in Los Angeles, since she was from Southern California.
As Tamika braked to turn, her SUV hit a slick spot on the street and slid a bit to the left. She tried to correct the skid, but went too far. A moment later—Kiley saw the whole thing in her rearview mirror—Tamika was in a dangerous three-hundred-sixty-degree spin. She didn’t hit anything, fortunately, but did come to rest under an overhang from a mock storefront. And when she tried to get her SUV back into the race, it wouldn’t move. She was stuck. Kiley, who’d slowed to make sure Tamika was okay, saw her friend slam her arm against the side panel in frustration.
Kiley exhaled. All she had to do was finish the obstacle course. She was sad that the person she’d beaten was Tamika— why couldn’t it be that bitch Veronique?—but it meant she would survive another day, and that’s what it was all about.