Incriminated (6 page)

It always took a few seconds before the images made sense. First she'd notice the pale blue glow of the pool water, how the ripples radiated across the surface. Then she'd puzzle over the sight of two figures struggling at the near edge of the pool. They were almost directly beneath her. Instinctively she grasped that the tiniest noise would betray her. Frozen rigid, she could only grip the edge of the balcony with her small fingers and watch, breathless, as one of the figures fell into the water.

It looked like a game, but the silence made her understand that it wasn't. It was something private, something between two adults, the kind of thing from which kids were shooed away. Turning to leave, she noticed a hand emerge from the shadows and push down on the submerged figure's head. Long nails painted the prettiest peach shade she'd ever seen.

Later, wandering in despair, wet and unable to find the
bathroom, she bumped into the lady. A cold terror gripped her and she could only stare at the beautiful peach-colored nails.

“Charlie didn't see anything. Nothin'. Go 'way.”

“Lucy?”

“Pretty lady said if I go to bed now I can get my nails painted like hers. GO 'WAY!”

“Lucy!”

Lucy shuddered awake. She felt a firm hand on the curve of her shoulder, rousing her. She blinked, bleary-eyed. “Ari?”

“You were dreamin', honey. You were Charlie again.”

Lucy gave a low groan. “Oh for pity's sake.” How long would she be haunted by the memory of that night at the Hollywood party? It was almost as though her subconscious was prodding her to take action.

“You're still getting the dream, huh?” Ariana said sadly. She leaned against Lucy, easing herself onto the bed alongside her friend, stroking her hair. “The one where you see the woman with the fancy manicure drowning someone?”

“Just shadows,” Lucy said, lying. Ariana's interest in her “Charlie” memories was already kind of morbid. The last thing she wanted was to encourage it.

She sat up, still feeling groggy. What was Ariana doing up in Lucy's bedroom? Candace's bed was empty. She glanced at the clock on her nightstand. It was 9:20—way too late to go to school without a killer excuse.

Puzzled, she stared for a moment at Ariana. She'd put
on a little weight since Lucy had last seen her. It suited her. Her pale, lightly freckled face was already made up, hair already tied back in a neat, high ponytail. Ariana's hair was still her favorite pale-raspberry color; although the natural shade of mousey-brown was showing at the roots. When Ariana wasn't looking, Lucy stole a glance at her friend's arms. There didn't seem to be any new signs of needles. She seemed calm, too. Less jittery than you'd expect for someone who was going through the early days of withdrawal. Her story wasn't adding up. Maybe Ariana had another reason to visit? Something even more personal—something that she'd confess only after the two girls had reestablished their old bond of trust?

Lucy reached for her cell and called school to say she was sick. It would probably get her in trouble long-term, but she hadn't used the tactic for weeks. Sometimes the suckiness of school got ugly. When that happened, she just had to take a day off, no matter what. But at least she didn't have to petition her college president mother for every sick note, so there was that. Anyhow, there were only four days left in the school year. Even the teachers were barely hanging on at this stage.

Ariana waited until Lucy got off the phone to speak. “Why don't I fix breakfast for you. How about pancakes?”

Lucy feigned enthusiasm. “Sounds good. But you should let me cook; you're my guest.”

Ariana hugged her briefly. “You've been so nice. I could see your friends weren't too happy about letting me stay. I
feel bad, making trouble for you.”

“They're just surprised, that's all,” Lucy replied, getting out of bed. “I hadn't told anyone about you. I don't talk about my life back in Claremont, at least, no more than I have to. And they didn't know I'd been in rehab.”

Ariana followed her out of the bedroom and down the stairs. “I kind of totally ratted you out to your roomies, didn't I?”

“Yeah and by the way, thanks for that,” Lucy replied snarkily. As they arrived in the living room, she noted with approval that the futon had been folded back up into a sofa. The bed linen was gone and Ariana's suitcase was neatly tucked between the futon and the sofa.

“Omigod, Lucy. Your face!” Already in the kitchen, Ariana was sweeping toast crumbs from the countertop with her bare hands. She sniggered helplessly. “I'm sorry, but if you could have seen your facial expression, you'd understand. You looked like your mom did that time when she came to visit you in rehab and we snuck out . . . remember?”

Despite herself, Lucy found a grin working its way to her mouth. “Yeah. I remember.”

“She may be the dean or president of some snotty college or whatever, but your mom sure knows how to curse.”

“I guess I knew how to get under her skin,” Lucy admitted ruefully.

“How're you two getting along, now that you don't see her?”

Lucy opened the cupboard and found the pancake mix.
She noticed that Ariana already had eggs and oil standing by. Casually, she reached across her for an egg and broke it into the bowl, pouring in milk afterward. “We don't talk much. I mostly text her a few times every day. Just checking in, letting Mom know what I'm doing, asking about her and Dad. She replies, tells me something about her day. The main thing is, she doesn't get too nosy. It's like I'm away at college or something. It's cool.”

Ariana rinsed the cloth she'd been using to wipe down the surface, then poured two glasses of orange juice. “You think it's changed your relationship with her, being out here in LA?”

“I think, yeah, maybe. It's like, out of sight, out of mind. Which, knowing my mom, is a good thing. She's got to have so much of her life under control; if I'm part of that then it's like, I have to fall in with all those other performance measures.”

Ariana shook her head in sympathy. “That's no way to live.”

“It's just how Mom is. That's why she's so successful. I think, after a while, she didn't even want to be that way, but she just couldn't stop herself.”

Lucy whipped up the batter for about one minute, thinking about what she'd just told Ariana. They'd skirted around these types of topics during their phone calls. But it'd been a while since they'd last had a really long talk. And it was nicer to have Ariana actually in her kitchen, sharing past history.

Ariana must have picked up on this, because she gave Lucy a wry smile. “Face it, honey, you've missed me. Get over here, gimme a squeeze.”

Lucy endured yet another hug before moving over to the stove to heat up the griddle. Ariana leaned back against the countertop, juice glass in one hand, observing Lucy in her element.

“You know something, you've really grown as a person.”

Lucy scowled. “Ugh—can we ditch the rehab talk? You always gave it to me straight, Ariana. C'mon, now, I can take it.”

“You want me to call you out on something?”

“No,” Lucy replied. “I just don't want any bull. Out here, I got away from all of that. The housemates, they're my friends,
all
of them. I didn't think it would be like that. We're all so different. But you know what? It really is that way. We've been through some stuff and, yeah, okay, I only told them very recently that I was on
Jelly and Pie
. Then you showed up. Which meant that anyone in the house who hadn't already Googled me, found out about me being in rehab, too. I don't want to be defined by my past. I don't want to be that girl anymore.”

“It was sorta careless,” Ariana admitted. “I'm sorry, hon.”

“It's all out in the open now. No one seemed too freaked out about it. Candace isn't running to her mom to tell her that one of her tenants is a raging junkie. It looks like everything is okay.”

Ariana didn't speak for a moment, which surprised
Lucy a little. Instead, she took the pancake batter from Lucy's hand and poured a measure onto the hot griddle.

“Yeah,” Ariana said eventually, when three pancakes were cooking. “Your only problem now . . . is me.”

It was true—almost—but Lucy had tried to conceal it. Either Ariana was being super-sensitive, or Lucy wasn't playing the role of “hospitable friend” very well.

“You're not a problem.”

Ariana nodded without looking at Lucy. Softly she said, “Oh, yes I am. Lucy, I'm four days clean. Today makes five, if you help me get through. Tomorrow is six. It just keeps getting better from there. Meantime, you're still smoking the ol' ganja, am I right?”

Lucy flushed with resentment. “My parents threw me out because they caught me smoking. And they gave up on me. They refused to send me back to rehab. Now I'm supposed to get clean
all by mysel
f
? Hey, I'm trying. All I've done is a little weed, one time, and that was at a party.”

Ariana was immediately contrite. “I've absolutely got no right to lecture. Of the two of us, Lucy, I'm the one who started using hard drugs again.”

A little mollified, Lucy said, “Well, I did smoke weed. But like I said, it was a party.”

“Then you need to learn how to enjoy a party without being high. I bet you did, once.”

Lucy shrugged. She had a dim memory, probably from when she'd been about thirteen.

“Maybe if you threw a party here, I could be, like,
your sponsor, watch over you.”

“Oh
sure
,” said Lucy with a loud guffaw. “Someone five days clean from cocaine is offering to sponsor a party? That'll work.”

“Not the party. Just
you
. Let other people smoke. You and me and probably a few other people, we stay clean, we have a good time anyhow. You and me, we take care of each other. The way we always have.”

Lucy picked up the spatula and flipped a pancake. “Get clean, huh?”

“One hundred percent raw.”

Thoughtfully, Lucy said, “I guess I could be one of those ‘straight-edge' punks, like Ruben.”

“Who's he?”

“Guy I know,” Lucy said carelessly. “Plays the drums. Yeah,” she added after a few seconds. “A party. I guess we probably should. I mean, school's out on Friday. We've survived to the end of the school year—six months of official emancipation. That calls for a celebration.”

Ariana plucked at the top pancake on the stack and popped the fragment into her mouth. “Gotta mark the occasion.” She grinned. “Hand me the syrup. Let's start talking about how we're going to throw you your first drug-free party. And sweetie, I wanna hear more about this
Ruben
.”

The idea of a “school's out” party turned out to be popular with the housemates. They had a house meeting, where Lucy officially welcomed Ariana. John-Michael went along with the smiles and niceties even though he'd much rather be ignoring Ariana. It sucked to have a new person in the house—now more than ever. Lucy knew that he and Grace were going through difficult times. Didn't it even occur to her to respect their privacy? For the first time in memory, John-Michael found himself feeling distinctly cool toward his former rock-camp buddy.

John-Michael had planned to cook at the party, but as things got under way, he found himself squeezed out of the kitchen by the gum-cracking, loud-talking southern redhead. She'd been in the house almost a week and was already beginning to act like she was in charge.

“Sweetheart, allow me,” Ariana insisted when he tried to object. “You gotta at least let me earn my keep.”

Candace saw the whole thing and took John-Michael by the elbow, leading him upstairs to the balcony. “Take no notice of the Wicked Witch of Claremont. We need to talk.”

The balcony had been designated a “chill-out” zone, no drugs or music. Which made it, as far as John-Michael could tell, a “make-out” zone, because no one at the party was interested in engaging in deep and meaningful conversation. At least, not without some chemical aid.

John-Michael pushed his way past the couple making out on one of two rattan chairs. He vaguely recognized the girl who sat in the boy's lap. “Hey, John-Michael,” he heard the girl say, blearily, between kisses.

“Hey, hey, focus,” said Candace, grabbing his chin in her hand. “Can we talk about
me
?” She shot a final, annoyed glance at the couple.

“Or they could maybe leave?” John-Michael said pointedly.

“No more space,” the boy said as he came up for air.

“Could you please dial it down a notch?” John-Michael replied. “Seriously, I'm gonna vomit.”

Reluctantly, the couple stopped kissing. The blond guy made a show of displaying his right hand, which he proceeded to lay on the girl's left wrist.

Candace stepped past them and snuggled next to John-Michael on the sole remaining rattan chair. He wrapped a welcoming arm around her and planted a gentle kiss on her forehead. “All right, tell Johnny what's up.” For the
next few seconds, John-Michael allowed himself to enjoy the closeness.

“So listen,” Candace began. “I think I may have a crush.”

“You?” He pushed her away so that he could stare at her. “Shut the front door!”

“Mmm, John-Michael,” she murmured, grumbling. “I don't know what to do. I think he has a girlfriend.”

“Who is this
Romeo
and what has he done to you?”

She shook his arm, giving a warning growl. “Don't make fun of me! This is serious. His name's Yoandy Santiago. He's an actor on the TV show I auditioned for last week.”

John-Michael started. He sat up, facing her, their heads almost level. “Yoandy Santiago? The singer?”

Candace pouted. “He's a singer?”

“Uh—yeah! He's a Latin music artist. Reggaeton. His father is Beny Santiago, who is like a rock star in the world of salsa music.”

“How do you know all this?”

“I went through a Latin music phase back when I was staying with Felipe at his boyfriend's place in Santa Monica,” John-Michael reminded her. “They were both crazy for Beny Santiago. He's like royalty in Cuba. He can barely walk down the street in Havana without getting mobbed!”

“But his family lives here?” Candace said, suddenly anxious. If Yoandy lived in Cuba
and
was dating a movie star's sister there were just too many obstacles.

“I'm pretty sure that Beny Santiago defected to the US, like, more than ten years ago. Yoandy Santiago is gonna be on your TV show?” John-Michael shook his head, not bothering to disguise his envy. “Jeez. I hate you. He's completely gorgeous.”

“He
is
pretty hot,” agreed Candace. “But from the way he was acting, I'm gonna guess that he's straight.”

“Just because a celebrity has a girlfriend doesn't mean he's straight.”

“She's a whey-faced trollop,” she muttered sulkily. John-Michael had to stifle a grin. He loved it when Candace lapsed into Shakespearean curses. “Also, she's the sister of that British movie star from the
Macbeth
movie.”

“Latin music royalty dating Hollywood royalty? Good luck getting between all that.” John-Michael tapped his phone into life and did a Google search for Yoandy Santiago.

“Quit whining,” Candace said, “and let's watch a video of Yoandy dancing.”

She leaned close to John-Michael and they both stared intently at a YouTube video of Yoandy rhythmically flexing and grinding beside two ridiculously attractive female dancers. Somehow he managed to exude a boyish enthusiasm through the undeniably sexy routine, singing and rapping between soulful, doe-eyed gazes into the camera.

“You get to work with
him
?” John-Michael murmured longingly. “Candace, I'm not sure we can be friends anymore.”

Next to them, the couple making out had become suddenly still. “Dude . . . do you smell fried chicken?” The boy began to shift beneath the girl, sniffing the air.

Now John-Michael could smell it, too. “I guess Ariana's world-famous fried chicken is ready,” he said sullenly.

“Foooooood!” said the boy in the chair in his best caveman voice. “We gotta get some of that chicken.”

Candace spoke curtly. “Better hurry.”

After a minute the couple was gone, leaving John-Michael and Candace alone on the balcony. “I guess you don't like Ariana?” she said.

“I'm not even totally sure Lucy likes her,” John-Michael replied, deflecting the question. “I mean, if they were such amazing friends and all, why didn't Lucy mention her before?”

Candace returned John-Michael's phone to his shirt pocket and carefully stood up, moving to lean against the rail of the balcony. “Lucy forgot to mention quite a few things.”

“True,” John-Michael agreed fervently. Candace didn't even know the half of it.

“We didn't ask for a live-in housekeeper. My mom didn't authorize that. And Ariana's not paying any rent.”

“Totally.”

Candace pouted. “Does that make me sound too territorial?”

“I don't think so.”

“Do you think Paolo's into her?”

“Paolo?” John-Michael picked his words carefully, throwing a quick glance toward the pathway below the balcony, where Paolo had gathered with a few school friends. Staying on the edges of a party was odd, for Paolo. John-Michael wondered if any other housemates had noticed yet that Paolo's behavior had shifted. Whatever happened out there in Malibu Canyon, John-Michael wasn't going to spill a single bean. “Paolo has his own problems.”

“So,” Candace said, prodding his upper arm with a finger. “Ariana. Do we trust her? Should I kick her out?”

“Well, the girl
can
cook. . . .”

John-Michael was finding it tough to
officially
complain about their new houseguest. She was far from a freeloader—she cooked and cleaned for everyone. She was also super-polite whenever any of them wanted to watch TV. Yet even so, beneath the southern charm, John-Michael thought he could detect a whiff of his father's greedy ex-girlfriend.

She claimed to be newly clean of drugs, but John-Michael had been around addicts enough to know that someone with Ariana's skin tone and healthy sheen hadn't used for
months
, not seriously. There didn't seem to be another reason behind her sudden desire to move from Claremont to LA, and John-Michael wasn't sure he was buying that story.

There was more to it, something that went beyond words and actions. Like Judy Aherne, Ariana had the keen, wary look of someone up to no good. In the case of Judy and John-Michael's father, it had been easy to connect the dots and draw the outline of a gold-digging lowlife.

But what was there for Ariana, here in Venice?

Still, the fried chicken did smell pretty great.

“You wanna get some chicken?” he said reluctantly, noting how Candace was fidgeting with the rail.

“Oh man, do I!” she replied. “Let's go taste ol' Ariana's southern fried.”