Cruel Summer (4 page)

She hated that stupid slut Lala.

She hated those annoying twins.

Oh, God, was she a monster bitch for hating innocent children? It’s just that every time she looked at Gunnar and Mercedes, Vanity experienced a feeling of envy so powerful that she feared it might turn toxic. Like her, they were motherless. The twins had been born out of wedlock to her father’s former assistant, Blythe Barnhill, a flake who quickly signed away her parental rights and left Miami to tour the country with the bass player in a punk metal band called Blood and Guts.

So the empathy should be there, right? After all, her own mother, Isis St. John, had been absent from the scene for more years than Vanity wanted to remember. The ex-cover girl was in and out of rehab centers for alcohol, drugs, and eating disorders, not to mention a tabloid favorite for crashing and burning one dead-end relationship after another—the aging rock star, the volatile actor, the lesbian restauranteur. Once a supermodel, always a headline.

Still, Vanity felt no tenderness toward the twins for their shared maternal void. Maybe it was because her father looked after them with a devotion that he’d never shown his first and oldest child. It’s like Vanity woke up one morning and all the unfairness of the world had been staring her in the face. How could she walk around and pretend that everything was okay?

Sometimes all she wanted to do was steal away into the dark and carve “hypocrite” into her arm with a razor. Her father was one. But then again, she was, too. There existed a public image of Vanity St. John—fashionista, hot-bodied trendsetter, guy magnet, supremely confident smart-ass.

And then, late at night, where Vanity really lived, there existed the truer version of herself. She was lonely. Everything felt like such a struggle. A sense of worthlessness often consumed her. This notion that girls all over the country—the world even—yearned to trade places with her seemed absurd. In all honesty, Vanity would gladly swap lives with, say, an overweight girl from South Dakota, someone with two parents who were her biggest fans, someone with friends who didn’t want anything from her, someone who woke up in the morning with a sense of joy and didn’t spend the rest of the day wondering, “Who am I supposed to be?”

The iBook was up and ready. Vanity signed onto AOL, listened to the familiar “You’ve got mail!” announcement crackle through the speakers, and scrolled through the new postings. There was one from Dr. Parker confirming her next appointment. Which reminded her. The refill on her pills had expired, and she was almost out. Mimi had sent a note with an attachment. Probably a schedule of every place she was supposed to show up this week. Vanity didn’t open it. She just forwarded it straight to her Sidekick II. Why hadn’t Mimi sent the message there in the first place? Stupid bitch.

Suddenly, an instant message invaded the screen.

britgirl88: hey! what r u doing?

Ugh. It was Pippa. So the girl was still breathing after last night’s vodka bender that gave her the courage to dance on top of the bar at Mynt while every perv in the club (Max included) stared up her skirt and took bets on whether she had a Brazilian wax or just a neatly trimmed bush. Of course, Max cleaned them out.

Vanity groaned and began to type.

vanity6: just hanging out.

britgirl88: i’m SO bored! max is playing poker

all day. wanna go shopping??

vanity6: maybe later.

britgirl88: i have NO money. big shock! but i

dug up a few receipts so i can take some shit back

and start over. brilliant!!

vanity6: yes, u r quite the rocket scientist.

britgirl88: lol

Vanity’s T-Mobile device blasted to life to the ringtone of Gwen Stefani’s “Hollaback Girl.” She zapped the remote control to silence Green Day and hit the speakerphone feature, not recognizing the incoming number. “Hello?”

“Hey, hot girl. You looked good last night.” It was Jayson “J.J.” James. “I had my eye out for you inside. What happened?”

“It was too B-list, so I left,” Vanity said.

Pippa launched another IM.

britgirl88: what time do u wanna go?

“Yeah, my brother was in town and wanted to check it out,” J.J. explained. “I wanted to hit Mynt, but he swore up and down that he read it’d gone gay.” He laughed a little. “I got sick of arguing with his dumb ass.”

Vanity said nothing.

“You there?” J.J. asked.

“Yeah, I’m here.”

Pippa was getting anxious.

britgirl88: u still there??

“We should hook up later,” J.J. suggested. “I’m on my way to the gym, but I’ll be finished in a few hours. There’s a kick-ass party at the Surfcomber tonight.”

Vanity felt the sensation of brain fireworks. Thoughts of her father, Lala, the twins…and Dante…exploded in her mind. Right now the impulse to get away from them made even J.J. seem appealing. “I’m in. Call me later.” She hung up.

Pippa was officially freaking out.

britgirl88: hello???

Vanity left her to wonder and signed off AOL without answering. Then she rang her publicist to get the lowdown.

“Mimi Blair.”

“Hey, it’s Vanity. What’s going on at the Surfcomber tonight?”

“A party for Fresh Faces in Fashion,” Mimi answered automatically. “It’s on your schedule for a Hitchcock. No more than ten minutes. Show up, snap a few pictures, get the hell out. The buzz event is a CD launch party at the Ritz-Carlton for Katee K.”

Vanity made a face. Katee K was the latest Disney Channel sitcom star to poison the airwaves with pop music so bad it could kill on first listen.

“I know,” Mimi said, as if reading Vanity’s mind. “The little bitch sucks, but her song’s in the top five, she just signed a development deal with Paramount, and
everybody
wants into this party…that’s the wrong color…take it off…
take it off
…sorry, I’m trying to get a pedicure, and this woman doesn’t speak a word of English.”

“I’ll let you go,” Vanity laughed, her mind already on other things, mainly forecasting the night ahead. No doubt J.J. would have a room booked at the Surfcomber and invent some lame excuse to lure her up there. No doubt she would go willingly and be down for whatever.

It’s not like she was unaware of the male model’s game. She knew J.J. was a player and probably just using her for sex and a good photo op. And deep down, Vanity didn’t know if she was even worth more than that.

She rolled over and started to cry, eventually falling to sleep.

I
t was 1997, and Daisy Fuentes was hosting MTV’s
House of Style.
That’s when Christina Perez knew she was gay. The beautiful, Havana-born starlet made her feel funny, and Christina thought about her when she went to bed.

But now, years later, on nights like this, she thought about someone else—a real girl, not a television fantasy. Of course, at the end of the day, this crush was no different. It was
still
a fantasy. Christina would never get the chance to fulfill her secret desires—to touch the girl, to kiss her, to smell her. She knew this because ever since she could remember, the dreams she wished for the most never came true.

That’s why she found a private sanctuary in
shojo manga,
the Japanese comics that were romantic, full of angst and emotion, and all about love. Some of her favorites were
Fruits Basket, Alice 19th,
and, especially
Marmalade Boy.
That title, about a high school girl who instantly falls for her new stepbrother, was a great example of what anime fans called a “love dodecahedron,” code for a simple love triangle gone insanely complex with the introduction of additional characters and more crushes.

Sometimes Christina felt like Yuu Matsuura, the title character of
Marmalade Boy.
Like him, she had both a bitter side and a sweet side. But most people overlooked this and just regarded her as a kook. After all, she liked comics (even if they were cool
manga
books, they were still mere comics to her peers), and she dismissed Miami’s skin-baring fashion trends in favor of Dumpster chic.

Christina was bone-thin and generally cold-natured, so it was easy for her to wear chadorlike layers in the summer and not be too warm. Her one big extravagance was a pair of enormous Laura Biagiotti sunglasses that practically eclipsed her whole face. Everything else in her closet was comprised of thrift shop, garage sale, and consignment store finds.

Tonight she was clad in ripped jeans, over which she threw on a chiffon miniskirt with unfinished hem. Add her scuffed boots and the two moth-eaten cashmere sweaters she layered on top, and you had, in the immortal words of her mother, political barracuda Paulina Perez, “an unmade bed” or “a bag lady,” the latter indicating her only parent’s highest level of disapproval.

Was she really her mother’s daughter? Christina had to stop and wonder. Paulina Perez was a card-carrying friend of the radical right. She voted Republican. She fought for moral values. She was even being groomed for national office. The unofficial word was that the party would put money and muscle behind her to run for a retiring senator’s Florida seat.

The mere thought filled Christina with a chilling dread. Even now, without the pressure of an election bearing down, her mother was impossible.

I wish you wouldn’t walk around looking like a homeless girl. People will think I can’t afford to dress my own daughter…

Do you want to know why you never have any dates? Boys probably think you’re weird because you never put down those stupid comic books…

I gave in on the argument to send you to MACPA, but I’m not wasting your college savings on art school. You’re going to get a real education…

Oh, God, she could actually hear Paulina’s nagging voice right now. In fact, it was ringing inside Christina’s head in that carefully enunciated, modulated tone that betrayed no hint of Hispanic roots. This from a woman whose own mother spoke little to no English. The truth was, Paulina was on a mission to leave her past behind, to join the ranks of the haves and forget the have-nots.

Sure, Christina’s mother would play up the poor immigrant act on the campaign trail. It made for good media when she wrapped the flag around it and called herself the living embodiment of the American dream. But none of her platform issues had anything to do with the struggling poor. No way. Her mother’s one-trick pony was the moral values crusade. Why? Because it earned her the most TV coverage and generated attention from the national party.

At home, Paulina would go off on extended rants, practicing for stump speeches and impromptu microphone moments. Christina just tuned her out, either jacking up the volume on her iPod or getting lost in a
manga.
She could never figure out why the so-called moral issues that generated the most attention were always the same. If it wasn’t two men wanting to get married, then it was a stupid video game that somebody deemed too violent. Meanwhile, people were starving, losing jobs along with their retirement savings, and going without health care because they didn’t have any insurance. But hey, let’s stop the two boys from planning a wedding. Whatever.

Suddenly, Christina’s Sidekick II jingled to the ringtone of Hi Hi Puffy Ami Yumi’s
Teen Titans
theme. She smiled as a digipic of a very happy and very drunk Max Biaggi Jr. flashed on the screen. The reigning king of cool at the Miami Academy for Creative and Performing Arts. It was only recently that he’d begun engaging her as a friend and seeking her out as a social companion. It made Christina feel special and just a little bit cool herself by the association alone. “Hello?”

“What’s up, JAP?”

She rolled her eyes with amusement. He loved to tease her, calling her a Japanese American Princess on account of her
manga
obsession. “Not much. I’m just sitting here trying to decide what to have for dinner.”

“You actually
eat?
” Max asked, his tone jokingly incredulous. “All the bitches I know just throw up.”

Christina laughed.

“I’m hungry, too. Let’s grab a bite.”

“Okay,” Christina agreed, thrilled at the prospect. Granted,
manga
was her great escape, but sometimes she craved the company of people her own age, too.

“I’m putting together a game for later on,” Max went on. “Are you in?”

She hesitated.

“Come on. You’re a natural. Besides, this one’s just for fun. No major buy-in. A new buddy of mine is coming. You might think he’s hot and want to hook up.”

“I doubt it.”

“What’s wrong?” Max taunted her. “Saving yourself for an Asian boy? Maybe a Chinese acrobat will join the school in the fall. You know, somebody like that dude in
Ocean’s Eleven.
”

Christina’s insides were rocked by the immediate grip of anxiety. At times like this, she longed to tell—somebody, anybody—her secret. But deep down, she knew that Max was hardly the go-to guy for sensitive, heart-on-the-sleeve confessions. After dismissing her inner torment with a vague, “Hey, that’s hot,” he would probably blow past the serious nature of the announcement and make some boneheaded request like, “Can I watch you make out with another girl?”

“How does sushi sound?” Max asked. “We could go to Maiko. It’s pretty cheap. Pippa will probably come along, and I don’t see the point in feeding her a five-star meal if she’s not giving me any.” He laughed. “Or even if she was.”

Christina shook her head. Max was
such
a guy.

She waited at Maiko on Washington Avenue. And waited. And waited.

A familiar storm of insecure feelings began to stir. The most humiliating scenarios played tricks with Christina’s mind. She imagined Max messing with her, setting her up to hang out at this restaurant like some idiot while he and Pippa went to another place and laughed about it.

Christina felt anger bubble up as her worst fears kicked in, working overtime, reliving old middle school memories of isolation and torment—for being different, for dressing in her own style, for retreating into her own world to avoid the painful awkwardness. She ran through Max’s possible betrayal from A to Z, including what she would say the next time that she saw him. It would
not
be pretty.

All of a sudden, Max crashed through the door, laughing and pulling a barely dressed Pippa behind him.

Christina’s pissed-off mood faded so fast that she felt like a fool for getting worked up in the first place. Instantly, all was forgiven. She glanced around at the surrounding tables, some filled with clubbers loading up on soba noodle soup as stomach prep for a night ahead of heavy drinking, others graced with model types nibbling on Maiko’s famous steamed dumplings with
ponzu
sauce. Now that her table would also be occupied beyond a party of one, Christina beamed with pride. Finally, the furtive glances at the pathetic girl eating alone could stop.

Max slid into the seat opposite Christina, snapped his fingers for the waitress, and demanded several orders of kissing rolls the moment she stepped over.

Pippa plopped down next to him, her nipples jutting out like baby bullets in an impossibly snug baby tee emblazoned with
LAST NIGHT MEANT NOTHING
across the chest. She giggled. “What’s a kissing roll?”

“Crab, avocado, cucumber, and little flying-fish eggs,” Max informed her.

Pippa pulled a face. “Ew!”

Christina smiled. “It’s better not to know what’s in the sushi rolls. Just dip them in soy sauce and move on. That’s what I do.”

Pippa’s Marc Jacobs bag began to ring. She pulled out an older model Motorola, the kind with no QWERTY keyboard for easy text-messaging.

Max glanced at the ancient device and gave it a derisive snicker. “Answer the phone, Quaker girl.”

Pippa scowled at the screen, rolling her eyes. “It’s my bloody mum.” She shoved it back into her purse.

Christina tried not to think of her own mother and how furious she would be once she arrived home to find the vague “out with friends” note on the refrigerator. Any moment now Christina’s Sidekick II would start blowing up.

Max shook his head and took in the restaurant with a circular gaze, stopping to zero in on a booth packed tight with older guys and younger girls. His jaw clenched with tension at the sight. “Shoshanna!” he called out gruffly.

Christina watched a gorgeous brunette reluctantly extricate herself from the group and stomp over with no shortage of dramatics, her nubile body on display in dangerously lowwaisted white denim jeans, so tight as to be painted on. The cleavage spilling out of her top—a lilac camisole by Miguelina—was a special effect worthy of anything George Lucas could dream up at Industrial Light and Magic.

“Does Dad know you’re here?” Max grilled her without preamble.

Shoshanna huffed. “Does Dad give a shit?”

It was a rhetorical question. And clearly one Max knew the correct answer to, because he quickly moved on. “How old are those guys you’re with?”

“Old enough to rent a limousine and buy us drinks and food all night.” Shoshanna pursed her wet, glossy lips, then rolled her eyes. “Like you didn’t party when you were my age.”

Christina stole a glance at the men in question. They were obviously postcollege age, under thirty but pushing it to fit in that category. Then she found her gaze returning to Shoshanna’s breasts.

That’s when Max’s not-so-baby sister shot her a dirty look. “No, they’re not real,” she snapped.

Christina felt an instant pink rise high on her cheeks.

Pippa cackled.

Max shook his head again. “My dad bought her implants for her fifteenth birthday. How screwed-up is that?”

Very, Christina wanted to answer, but she just sat there silently.

“Screwed-up would be a botched job,” Shoshanna said, cupping her hands under the plastic surgery handiwork to showcase them further. “These are perfect.” A quick look at Christina. “I told him that I wanted Jessica Simpson’s boobs, and that’s exactly what I got.”

“Those are nice milkers, not mosquito bites like hers,” Pippa put in, pointing at Christina’s chest, which, by comparison, was so flat that she felt like a little boy.

Shoshanna burst into laughter, followed by Pippa, and, after losing a short battle to fight it off, Max, too.

Christina was mortified. Still, she smiled gamely in an effort to be a good sport.

The waitress returned with the kissing rolls, and Shoshanna snatched a piece before they hit the table, stuffing it into her mouth with a triumphant grin.

“Hey,” Max protested lightly. “I thought your perverted uncles over there were feeding you tonight.”

Shoshanna rolled her eyes. “They like the beef teriyaki. Guys in finance can be so lame.”

“So ditch those losers and eat with us,” Max suggested.

“They rented a stretch Hummer for the night. No way I’m missing that,” Shoshanna said. And then she strutted back to her booth.

Christina reached out for a sushi roll, and just as she claimed possession of it, her cellular blasted to life. Exactly as she predicted. Her mother was tracking her down. But unlike Pippa, she couldn’t simply ignore the call. Pulling that kind of stunt would risk a missing persons report and a police search. “Hi, Mom.”

“Where the hell are you?” Paulina raged.

“I’m at a restaurant with some friends,” Christina said innocently. “I left a note on—”

“You don’t just go out at night without talking to me first,” Paulina cut in angrily. “Get your ass home right now.”