Cherry Money Baby (21 page)

Maxwell chuckled. “Who’s your friend?”

“This is Vi.”

Vi looked shell-shocked. “I . . . like the way you talk.”

“You should visit Liverpool. We all talk this way.”

“Well,” said Cherry. “See you in there.”

Maxwell frowned. “Don’t wait in line — come in with us.”

“We’re cool. This is more of a girls’ night out.” She looked to Vi for confirmation. “Right?”

“You don’t have to join us,” Maxwell said. “Just let us get you in the door.”

Cherry felt a pinch in her side.

“The line sucks,” hissed Vi, not taking her eyes from Maxwell. She happened to be right. The line extended all the way to Mel’s.

“Fine,” said Cherry, addressing Maxwell. “Thanks.”

“Our pleasure.” He gestured for them to lead the way.

Bernie let them through without trouble. Past the “velvet rope” (really a chintzy plastic chain), the club was dark and close, like an undersea cave. Colored lights swam across the walls. It was smaller than Cherry expected: a few booths, a long bar with illuminated bottles, and a crammed dance floor. A DJ pressed one earphone to his head and nodded to the beat.

“You are released,” Maxwell said. “See you on set!”

Cherry watched him go with a twinge, feeling a little abandoned on the top step and more than a little watched. Everyone had turned to look when Maxwell Silver entered, and now they were staring at the girls he’d left at the door.

“Okay, that was pretty much the coolest thing that’s ever happened,” Vi said, breathless. “You think they’ll let us drink, since we came in with Max?”

“Now he’s
Max
?”

“Whatever, hater. You know you want him.”

“I never said that. I mean, I don’t. Want him.” Cherry took Vi’s hand. “Come on, let’s dance.”

They found a space and started to move to the music. It was mostly girls dancing. The few boys remained still as fire poles while their dates slithered around them. Vi watched Maxwell’s table over Cherry’s shoulder, making her sexy pouty face, the one that made her look like a duck. Cherry tried to focus on the beat. It was the new track by FemBrat, but the DJ had ruined it, speeding it up. It was supposed to be a sad song; now it just sounded hysterical. Fem was halfway through the second verse, Cherry’s favorite, about
“tell her you’ve found somebody new,”
when Vi put her arm around her waist and rode her knee up between Cherry’s legs.

Cherry recoiled.

“What are you doing?”

“Dancing,” said Vi.

“Molesting, more like.”

“Come on, don’t be weird.” Her eyes were over Cherry’s shoulder again. She draped her arms around her friend’s neck. Cherry removed them.

“Would you relax? Guys like it when girls dance like this,” Vi said.

“If you were a guy, I’d kick you in the balls.”

“Whatever. He’s not watching us, anyway.” She dropped back and straightened her skirt. “I need to pee.”

They cut through the crowd and waited in line for the ladies’ room, then waited in line again to check their makeup at the vanity. Cherry liked the way she looked. The other girls were gaudy, a child’s drawing, colored outside the lines. Compared to them, Cherry looked refined, adult. Sophisticated.

“You’re starting to look like her,” said Vi.

“Who?”

“Ardelia.”

“That’s stupid. We don’t look anything like each other.”

Vi studied Cherry’s reflection. “I don’t know. It’s, like, how you’re standing or something. It’s weird.” She let it drop, reapplying her lipstick. “So, Maxwell seems cool.”

The girl next to Cherry reapplied her eyeliner, pretending not to listen.

“Ignore him,” said Cherry.

“Don’t you like him?”

“No, I do. I mean, I don’t
like
him like him. He’s nice. It’s just, he’s also kind of a sleaze? You know how he and Ardelia were a thing?”

“Hello, I’m the one who
told
you about that.”

“Yeah, well, I think he slept with her friend. The bitchy one. Spanner.”

“While they were still together?”

“No, but . . .”

Vi shrugged. “Seems okay to me.”

“So, you’d be fine with me hooking up with Neil?”

“That’s different.”

“How?”

“Neil’s not a movie star.”

They returned to the dance floor, and Cherry let the full wattage of her ire radiate at Vi’s back. She’d forgotten about Single Vi, who was even more flirtatious and petty than Attached Vi. At Mel’s they could just be friends, but at the club they were competitors, even if Cherry wasn’t trying to
win
anything.
She
wasn’t competing. But she hated the way Vi just
assumed
Maxwell would be checking
her
out and not Cherry. Vi so wasn’t his type. If anyone was —

Cherry dropped back into a corner and texted Lucas.

Clubbing w. Vi. Huge disaster. Wish I was with u.

She waited a beat, hoping for the friendly buzz and glow of a return text, then remembered that Lucas turned his phone off at work.

Vi emerged from the crowd, grinning and flush.

“Come on. Maxwell’s waving us over.”

“Vi, no —!”

Her wrist in Vi’s robo grip, Cherry was yanked across the floor to Maxwell’s booth. He was tucked into the leather half-moon with his dates on either side. As Vi toddled over, he gently pushed one of them out and gestured for the girls to slide in.

“Have a drink with us.”

“No —”

“Yes!” said Vi. “We’d love that, thanks.”

Maxwell leaned in so only Cherry could hear. “
Please
save me from these two. I swear they’ve got one brain between them, and they left it in the car.”

Maxwell’s dates were staring blankly in the same direction. Cherry laughed.

“Fine. One drink. One.”

Cherry slid in beside the other girls, Vi next, with Maxwell at the end. This made a speedy escape impossible. She felt claustrophobic. Maxwell’s dates bobbed to the music. The nearest looked familiar.

“Are you an actress?” said Cherry. The girl smiled. Her breath was spearminty.

“Kendra!” she shouted over the music.

“Cherry.”

Kendra pointed to her friend. “Kendra!”

“You’re both Kendra?”

Kendra nodded.

“Can you say anything other than
Kendra
?”

“What?”

“Never mind.”

Vi was leaning on Maxwell, using the noise as an excuse to bring her face close to his. “I’m a big fan.”

“Then you must really blow,” said Maxwell.

Vi squinted, then shoved his arm. “You’re teasing me.”

“I never tease.”

“He’s a scoundrel,” said Cherry. “Don’t trust him.”

“Scoundrel,” said Vi in a British accent. “He’s a scoundrel,
dahling.
”

Maxwell raised a finger, and a waitress appeared with a bottle and a tray of glasses.

“You know we’re underage,” Cherry said.

“Not in London,” said Maxwell. “The drinking age is eighteen —”

“We’re seventeen,” Cherry put in.

“And that’s why there’s less bingeing back home,” Maxwell finished.

“That is so
cultural,
” said Vi.

Cherry rolled her eyes. Trapped between Ditzy and Desperate.

She sampled her drink, remembering how much she’d enjoyed Alan’s wine at Ascot, and how it made her feel happy, dopey, sleepy — the best three dwarves. Whatever it was that Maxwell had ordered shot down her throat like molten lead.

Cherry wheezed.
“Ay, caramba.”

“Grappa,” said Maxwell. “The peasants’ drink.”

“Drink what?” said Vi.

“My dad drinks this,” said the other Kendra.

Vi pounded her glass and poured another.

“Easy,” said Cherry.

“She’s right,” said Maxwell. “This is a man’s drink.”

He leaned in as he said it, setting his glass on the table beside Vi’s so their rims were just kissing. He placed his hand on Vi’s knee, her best friend’s knee, his smile in Cherry’s face like something obscene. The grappa flash-boiled in her stomach. A movie star in a small town with four girls at his table.

And she was one of them.

“What does
that
mean?”

“Hmm?” Vi had whispered something in Maxwell’s ear, and he’d lost the thread. He blinked. “What does what mean?”

“What does that mean?” Cherry repeated. “
Man’s
drink?”

“I just mean it’s strong.”

“So men’s drinks are strong and women’s aren’t?”

Vi slouched into the booth.
“Here we go.”

“Chemically, men have a higher tolerance for alcohol,” said Maxwell. “It’s science.”

“It’s bullshit,” said Cherry. “Next you’re gonna say men are better at sports.”

Maxwell zipped his lip and threw away the key. “Well, I mean . . . they
are,
though.”

“Uh-oh,” said Vi.

“Oh,
really
?” said Cherry. “So, you think, scientifically speaking, that
you
are a better athlete than
me
?”

Maxwell shifted, looking sheepish. “I can see I’ve kicked the hornet’s nest.”

“So, you’re not saying that?”

“I’m not saying . . . What I’m saying is . . . Well, yes. I’m reasonably certain I could best you in any athletic arena.”

“How about a push-up contest?” said Cherry.

Maxwell tried to laugh. “Wait. You’re serious?”

“Yep.”

“Here?”

“Parking lot,” said Cherry. “Unless you’re afraid to get your ass whupped by a girl.”

“Excuse me, sweetheart. There is
no
question I would win.” He stated this as an obvious if somewhat lamentable fact of life.

“Then let’s go,” said Cherry.

People at the nearby booths were starting to pay attention. It was clear from Cherry’s body language that a conflict had arisen, and the gawkers leaned in.

“This is exciting,” said one of the Kendras, and hiccuped.

“Well . . .” said Maxwell, glancing at his audience. “A gentleman never competes with a lady when it comes to physical prowess. It wouldn’t be sporting.”

“So, you’re chicken?”

“That’s not what I —”

“It’s okay,” said Cherry, patting his shoulder. “You’re chicken. It’s not a big deal.”

Lightning forked in Maxwell’s eyes. “Lady, you’re on.”

The lot beside Shabooms was a flurry, the crowd circling, camera phones flashing, the
clitter-clatter
of texting thumbs. Maxwell stripped off his jacket. He winked at Vi.

“Ready to be impressed?”

Vi wrinkled her nose. The grappa had done its work. “You’re going to lose.”

In the center of the ring, Cherry hopped, stretched her arms, cracked her neck. This wasn’t just for personal pride. This was for Female Honor. This was for Womankind.

Maxwell gestured to the asphalt. “Shall we?”

Cherry pointed at the sky. “Count ’er off, Vi.”

“On your marks! Get set! Go!”

Cherry dropped to the ground and executed three perfect reps before Maxwell had completed his first. Soon they were in sync, the crowd counting along,
“Sixteen! Seventeen! Eighteen!”
Maxwell puffed, face reddening. Cherry was expressionless, eyes closed, in a state of Zen flow.

“Thirty-three!” the crowd shouted, drawing out the words as the combatants’ pace slowed. “Thirty-fouuuur!”

Maxwell tried showing off, going up on one arm, clapping his hands at the zenith, but Cherry couldn’t be baited. He glanced her way, the fear starting to show in his eyes, until at last, with a wet cough, Maxwell collapsed, turning onto his back, blinking, gasping.

“We have a winner!” Vi held Cherry’s fist in the air like a prizefighter’s. The crowd was hysterical. Maxwell, on his feet at last, held out a hand. Cherry looked at it warily.

“I know when I’ve been bested.”

They shook. “Don’t feel too bad. You never had a chance.”

Maxwell’s smile strained. He turned to Vi and the Kendras. “What do you say to a victory lap in the limo? There’s room enough for five.”

The Kendras squealed. Vi raised her eyebrows at Cherry. “What do you think?”

Aglow with the pride of victory, Cherry shrugged. “Fuck it.”

“Excellent,” said Maxwell.

He offered his elbow, but just as Cherry moved to accept it he pivoted oh-so-slightly, and it was Vi who walked arm and arm with him to the limo.

Cherry followed behind.

She had been in a limo once. Junior prom. Vi’s mom had sprung for a rental, with cigarette burns in the carpet and the stink of stale beer. The interior of Maxwell’s stretch was like a mini-nightclub, LEDs along the floor and an illuminated bar that glittered and rang. An opaque window hid the driver, who could be contacted by pressing an intercom switch. Despite the spacious interior, the passengers were pressed in on each other, legs interweaving in the well between the long leather seats. Cherry sat between the Kendras on one side; Vi sat with Maxwell on the other.

“I just got out of a relationship,” Vi said.

“My boyfriend thinks I’m studying for the SATs,” said one of the Kendras. This seemed directed at Cherry, so she nodded. “What about Lucas?”

“Sorry?” said Cherry.

“How’s Lucas? Your boyfriend?”

It hit her: the Kendras were students at Aubrey Public. Her year. She hadn’t recognized them in their fancy clothes. She’d assumed they were older.