Flavor of the Month (20 page)

Goddamn you, Grandma. How could you? I was a good girl. How could you have withheld this money? How could you not have loved me, not even a little?

Mary Jane’s eyes fell to a bubble in the faded wallpaper over the sink. She reached out and felt a bulge and, now with purpose, took a knife and cut out the square. She peeled back the paper and exposed sheets of the kind of plastic found in photo albums. Through the shiny surface, Mary Jane saw the certificates. Bearer bonds. Old ones. She counted them. Eleven thousand dollars’ worth of bearer bonds!

She tore the house apart. It took her hours. The backs of pictures, the lining of upholstery, the floorboards, the rest of the preserves. In the freezer she found almost four thousand dollars frozen in an ice block. In the bathroom there was $760 in an old—a very old—Modess box. As she tore and smashed and cried, as she searched every inch of the filthy, nasty little shack she’d been forced to grow up in, she sobbed.

That night, Mary Jane picked up the bundle of cash and bonds, over sixty-seven thousand dollars’ worth, and started upstairs to her room. Her step was slowed by exhaustion from the search, from the anger, and from the tears. As she passed the thermostat at the foot of the stairs, she looked at the setting: sixty-five degrees, the highest her grandmother ever allowed it to be set. With a snap she pushed up the setting to seventy-five, and continued upstairs with her bundle, knowing that now, at least, she would be warm.

In twenty-five years of covering the Hollywood waterfront, I—Laura Richie—have learned one thing for sure: There are faces that the camera loves, personalities that come alive, project, expand under attention. It isn’t simply a question of looks, although being photogenic helps. But it’s much more than that, much rarer than that: Sophia Loren had it, Gina Lollobrigida did not. Gary Cooper had it, Gregory Peck did not. Burt Reynolds had it, Tom Selleck does not
.

You can’t learn it, or practice it. It’s just there, like your breath. People want to watch you. You have an intrinsically riveting persona that plays on screen. How? Why? Nobody knows
.

And it isn’t acting. There are some great actors who didn’t have it. Back in the thirties, the Schencks and Goldwyns and Warners called it “star quality. “It’s as good a term as any. And believe me, dear Reader, it’s as rare as, and more valuable than, a black diamond
.

Lila pulled her old Mustang convertible into the parking space behind the low gray building in West Hollywood. She jumped out and, throwing her bag over her shoulder, walked quickly to the side entrance and up the flight of stairs, her red hair flowing in the breeze behind her. She could tell from the chattering voices that the door to the classroom was still open. I’m on time, she thought. Lila hated to be late for acting class. George Getz took perverse pleasure in singling out late arrivals and haranguing them about their responsibility to the “company,” as he called his pretty little collection of wannabes. Not that he could ever succeed in making Lila feel uncomfortable. On the contrary. George was usually so busy fawning over the daughter of Theresa O’Donnell that Lila felt like she might lose her lunch.

She looked around the cavernous, windowless room, at the gray-tweed carpeting that went halfway up three walls. Several stacks of putty-gray folding chairs were piled to one side. Next to them were mounds of soft cushions. One wall was entirely mirrored. Lila walked past a knot of young women who greeted her by name as she sailed by. Just like Westlake. She was still the popular girl, and it was still because she didn’t give a shit. She didn’t look in their direction, but gave a general hello as she opened the door to the ladies’ room. Inside, she pulled a brush through her silky red hair to get out the tangles caused by the wind lashing around her as she drove her convertible with the top down. Well, Ken’s convertible, actually. Aunt Robbie had talked Ken into lending it to her. She actually hated the Ford, and the maroon color clashed with her hair, but beggars couldn’t be choosy, so they said.

The door opened behind her and, in the mirror, she could see one of the young blonde women rush in. Bandie something, Lila thought, and turned her attention back to her own hair. She was friendly; they were all friendly, because once they had watched her mother and Candy and Skinny. Now they felt they knew her, and that maybe the famous Theresa O’Donnell would help them. Yeah, like she could help herself! Or her own flesh and blood!

“Oh, hi, Lila,” Bandie cooed as she dropped her bag on the table in front of the mirror and began to rifle through it. “Guess what,” she said. Not waiting for Lila’s reply, she continued, “I got a commercial. A
national
commercial!” Bandie applied the melon-colored lipstick she’d finally found. “I can’t believe it,” Bandie said. “There were sixteen callbacks, and
I
got it.”

“Congratulations,” Lila said. Even though money was a problem for her, she’d
never
do a commercial. Yet she knew that for one of her classmates to get a commercial was a big coup. The income from a national ad could go a long way toward easing the financial strain brought on by acting classes, elocution lessons, singing lessons, and dance classes. Not to mention clothes, cars, personal grooming, personal trainers, orthodontists, hair coloring, colonics, and a touch of the surgeon’s knife from time to time. But Bandie, like so many of the others, actually considered commercials real acting jobs. For most, Lila knew, it would be the closest thing to performing before the public that they would ever get. Lila shuddered.
She’d
never sell floor wax or douches on TV.

Lila remembered when her mother was asked to endorse some crap—a detergent or something—on television, with Candy and Skinny. Theresa had gone apeshit. “Stars don’t do laundry
or
TV commercials,” she had screamed at Ara Sagarian, her agent. Lila had heard many of Mother’s definitions of stars through the years, and filed all of them away. The Puppet Mistress was a manipulating bitch, a drunk, a pain in the ass, and a total nutcake, but she
had
been a star. And that is what Lila wanted to be, a
star
, someone who never carries cash; always arrives by limousine; never opens a door; doesn’t smoke in public; never refuses a request for an autograph; remembers everyone’s name; never wears a gown publicly more than once; addresses her directors as “Mister,” encourages others to address her as “Miss”; does not socialize with the technical crew; never makes her own reservations; shakes hands in greeting instead of kissing; calls her
producers
by their first names; has a secretary; never drives her own car unless it’s a fun one; has favorite charities; attends other stars’ performances; knows how to turn a man down without rejecting him; arrives late and leaves early; sits in the best seat at a party and waits for
them
to come to
her;
does not serve herself from a buffet table; knows how to read a contract; and is never offstage.

And that is what she aimed to be: a bigger star than her mother. So no fucking commercials.

She turned to Bandie. “What’s the product?” Lila asked pleasantly, like she cared.

“A premium bathroom tissue,” Bandie said with a look of triumph.

Deliver me, Lila thought. “Congratulations,” she said politely, and put her brush back in her bag.

“I called Mr. Getz immediately. He’s
so
proud of me.”

Great. Their acting coach was proud his student was selling ass-wipe. Lila sighed. Robbie had
sworn
that Getz had connections, and Lila had to start someplace. She went back out into the open room and dropped down onto one of the cushions. She looked around at the other participants and was struck once again by the number of beautiful men and women in the room. It was an L.A. cliché. They were a plague, these perfect-looking mannequins. Here assembled in one room was the handsomest boy from Debbins, South Dakota; Lake Winesha, Wisconsin; Portland Bay, Oregon; Charleston, West Virginia; Cudahy, Iowa; Woodbridge, Massachusetts; and Shreveport, Louisiana; as well as the most beautiful girl from Shadley, Mississippi; Goochland, Virginia; Barre, Vermont; Standish, Rhode Island; Black Springs, Ohio; and Enid, Oklahoma. Their looks had made them special, had been a passport out of the backwaters they’d crawled away from, but here in Hollywood even the best looks only guaranteed a waitressing job, a parking-valet job, a blow job. Lila shook her head.

A door opened at the end of the room and a paunchy man in his fifties entered, his long, gray hair pulled back into a pony tail. There was some hesitant clapping from a few of the recent enrollees, then silence as George Getz plopped heavily down on a cushion one of the students had brought for him. The semicircle re-formed around him. Only Lila didn’t move. Lila studied George as he sat cross-legged, poring over some notes. His paunch rested on his legs; his white, scrawny legs were like matchsticks extending out of his khaki safari shorts; black leather sandals shod his feet. He was wearing a faded, white “Save the Whales” T-shirt, which stretched across a distended stomach. His rimless glasses were thick, so his small eyes appeared open in amazement all the time.

Well, it was Aunt Robbie who had suggested George Getz. Robbie’s opinion about acting teachers was well known. He felt that either you could act or you couldn’t. If you couldn’t, no one could teach you how; if you could, all you needed was someone to show you a few of the tricks to develop your craft, and George, he felt, was at least capable of
that
. Plus, he was still plugged in to a few of the older producers and directors.

Now George looked up, calling the class to order by letting his eyes drift over the faces in the room. Lila could feel the tension in the stillness. Everyone was here to learn from this man, but they all knew that there was a high price to pay, besides the tuition. George rarely praised anyone’s efforts, and took great delight in humiliating the youngsters’ least competent attempts.

“Everyone, spread out on the floor…get rid of the cushions…make sure you have a large space around you…This is going to be a group effort. Bring your focus within, close your eyes, do your breathing exercises.” The class responded to his instruction, the only sound the hypnotic breathing of the group. Personally, Lila thought it was a load of crap. “Now sit up, keeping the eyes closed. Bring your legs to your chest, hugging them. Breathe. Breathe. Now, focus. I want you to convince me that you are vanilla ice cream melting in the sun. I want you to
be
vanilla ice cream melting in the sun. Forget about time. I will tell you when to stop. Begin.”

Lila slowed her breathing. What an absolute pile of dog shit! Lila supposed that good acting came from the ability to visualize and then represent an intense inner experience of a character, but ice cream? Anyway, she wasn’t planning to be an actress. She was planning to be a star.

The silence was broken by George’s voice. “Corey,” he said, “continue with the exercise, but don’t open your eyes. Class, open your eyes and look at Corey.”

Lila did, then sighed. She knew what was coming, and resented the ridiculous interruption just to satisfy George’s egotistical rants.

“What do you see, class? Keep studying Corey. Do you see vanilla ice cream melting in the sun? NO!” he suddenly shouted. The class jumped. “He looks like a mound of mashed potatoes. And mashed potatoes don’t melt, do they, Corey?”

Corey opened his eyes and gave George an apologetic smile; then his face colored as he saw the entire class looking at him.

“So that, boys and girls, is an example of how it’s
not
done.” George looked around. The others looked away, but Lila boldly returned his stare. “Ah, Lila, would you come up to the front? I want
you
to demonstrate how you did it. Watch
her
,” George said, and stepped back.

Lila had become used to being singled out by George in this way. But what the hell was this ice-cream-cone dreck? Instinctively, Lila knew how to center attention on herself. She pushed conscious thought from her mind, and slipped easily into the mood. As a sop to George, she relaxed, first her neck, then her shoulders, then her arms. All eyes were riveted on her. And she could keep them there by force of will. Moments passed; then she became aware of George’s voice breaking the silence. “
That’s
vanilla ice cream melting in the sun,” he said, turning to the class, then turned to her once again. “Lila, have you worked on Portia’s soliloquy yet?”

“Of course, George.” It had been their assignment last week.

“Then do it for us now, if you will, Lila. I have need of some
real
acting today.” George leaned back against the wall and closed his eyes. Lila’s classmates shifted their positions to get comfortable, as if another body angle could make their envy stop hurting.

Lila rose, ran the first couple of lines in her head, and then flipped the internal switch on, the switch that made her a magnet for the eyes. She hadn’t understood much of the monologue, but Robbie had coached her, and the direction was etched into her brain. She had performed the scene for Ken, and he’d loved it. Now, without hesitation, Lila became a Shakespearean heroine, the strange words and their melody welling up out of her. She was a good mimic and remembered where Robbie had dipped his voice and caught his breath. But it was her energy that mattered. She turned it on, a lantern of glowing energy. For a moment, she noticed the faces of some of the people in the audience. They were mouthing her lines, eyes turned up to her in envy and adoration. In that instant, Lila loved them all, these desperate, sad, pretty, lost little people, and poured out that love in every word and gesture. She wanted to give them a piece of herself, to give them something they did not have, could not have, would never have, so she reached across the open space and drew them into her heart. She spoke the words not to the group, but to each individual. Admiration was good, but only when she was safely up onstage.

When at last the final lines came, the room was silent. Then, as she came out of character, they burst into applause and shouts. Lila smiled dryly, bowed deeply once, then returned to her seat, avoiding the eyes of her classmates. The good feeling ended. She felt almost empty—no, dead—inside. Bandie, sitting beside her, reached over and patted Lila’s hand in congratulations. Lila snatched back her hand and touched her throat to hold back the disgust that bubbled up in her mouth like bile. Contempt popped up goose bumps on her forearms.