No Ordinary Life (24 page)

53

T
here's a red carpet! An actual strip of four-foot-wide plush red walkway leads from the limousine to the entrance of the Park Plaza Hotel.

And paparazzi!

A virtual ocean of press crowds the runway, the throng kept at bay by a wedge of bodyguards that stand like tuxedo-clad pillars parting the sea to protect the passage to the promised land.

It's all very exciting.

Cameras flash, and reporters shout out, “Molly, look this way.” “Over here.” “Give us a smile.”

A woman with a clipboard beside the entrance asks my mom, Tom, Emily, and me to step to the side so the press can get some shots of Molly alone. She looks absolutely darling, her smile radiant as she waves and twirls and curtsies for the crowd.

My mom grasps my hand and gives it a squeeze.

What a moment. I hold her hand tight to keep myself from jumping up and down with the sheer joy of it.

We are ushered into the grand ballroom, and my breath catches. It's the most glamorous room I've ever seen—marble columns, crystal chandeliers, painted cornices, a stage with a twelve-piece band playing jazz.

Centerpieces the size of cars stuffed with white roses adorn fifty black-clothed tables, and hundreds of stunning people in gorgeous gowns and tuxedos sit and mingle around them.

By the time we reach our table, I'm breathless—my eyes, ears, and nose working triple time to take it all in, my brain buzzing with disbelief that we are a part of it.

Our table is near the front, and already seated there are Miles, his two sisters, and his dad. Since her meltdown at the farm, Rhonda has vanished, and Miles's dad has taken over as Miles's manager.

Tonight he looks uncomfortable, a pinched expression of endurance on his face like he already can't wait for the night to end.

My mom sits beside him and his disposition lightens. I blush as she introduces herself with a slight bow so her assets are well presented, a gesture not lost on Miles's dad, whose eyes obediently follow her lead before self-consciously snapping back to her face.

I look around for Griff and spot him standing beside a table one row over speaking with Helen. No date. Surprise and relief wash over me. Which is very selfish. Griff treats me like his kid sister, calls me Squid, and teases me every chance he gets about kissing Chris, making it very clear that he's not romantically interested in me in the least. The problem is, the clearer he makes his disinterest, the more attractive he becomes.

Feeling my stare, he looks my way and gives his signature Elmer Fudd grin, which I ricochet back at the exact moment the band stops playing and the room grows dark, and my heart leaps in my chest as my feet leap toward my chair. Everyone around me hurries into their seats as well, chairs scraping against the floor as they maneuver for a clear view of the massive screen that has descended in front of the stage.

My pulse pounds in time with the seconds ticking down, then the room begins a unified, thunderous countdown. “Ten, nine, eight, seven, six, five, four, three, two, one.” Showtime.

So quiet you can hear a pin drop, a commercial for the season premiere of
Deathfinder
finishes, then the opening credits for
The Foster Band
roll, and the crowd bursts into a short ovation before quickly quieting again, then the “previously on
The Foster Band
” segment finishes and the show begins.

The first half of the episode doesn't involve Molly, and my pulse settles as I relax into spectator mode. The show is so different from the performances that created it that I almost forget it's a product of the work we did. The music and sound effects combined with the camera angles are completely transformative. And the editors did an amazing job, each scene pieced together for maximum impact. I understand now why we did so many takes, why each line was said six times, ten times, a hundred times. The final version is the best of all those tries spliced together into seamless perfection.

Molly appears and my heart explodes with pride and awe. She's so much larger than life, so much grander than the little girl sitting beside me bouncing her legs and slurping her Sprite. The scene is the one of her and Miles arriving with their dad at Mr. Foster's office and the dad collapsing of a heart attack.

Beside me, my mom dabs her eyes with a napkin when Molly starts to cry. I look around and several other women are dabbing their eyes as well.
Way to go, Molly!

The final scene is of Molly and Miles being driven away from the hospital with Mr. and Mrs. Foster watching. Molly looks through the car window and lifts her hand in a final good-bye, and a fraction of a second later, the car is T-boned by the ambulance, jettisoning it onto the sidewalk as the audience is thrown back in their seats by a wall of noise and blinding light.

I knew it was coming, and I still nearly jumped out of my chair. The scene, which was dramatic when shot, is now mind-blowing—the special effects and sound editing amplifying it to epic proportions.

Mr. Foster runs toward the car as Mrs. Foster screams at him to stop. Molly cries out, and the show ends. Then the audience is on their feet applauding, and I stand with them, my heart bursting with pride.

54

T
here is a champagne fountain for the adults and a chocolate fountain for everyone. Dinner is filet mignon or sea bass, and the bar is open.

Work hard, party harder seems to be the motto, and before the band finishes its first set, people are dancing on tables and letting loose. Tom and Miles are in a corner playing a game with bottle caps, and to my chagrin but not surprise, Emily has reunited with Caleb, the two giggling beside the caviar bar. Molly is on the dance floor and being passed around like a hot potato, twirling and bopping and sashaying her way into everyone's hearts.

My mom and Helen have struck up a conversation, and I know this will be remembered as one of the greatest moments of my mom's life, the night she hung out with the great Helen Harlow at the Park Plaza Hotel.

Funny how quickly the stardust has left my own eyes. Only two months ago, I too was awed by these people. Now they are mere humans, some exceptionally talented, but with flaws and problems like everyone else.

My dress, which I thought was so glamorous, pales in comparison to the glitter of the bedazzled designer gowns and bling sparkling around me. Diamonds, rubies, and sapphires, not the costume variety, adorn the necks and wrists and ears of most of the women and some of the men.

I wander, fascinated by the spectacle and catching glimpses of conversations. Most of the discussions are about wealth or vanity, what bargains are to be had, what investments will triple or quadruple fortunes, what new surgeries are all the rage—procedures to extend youth, the ultimate commodity in Hollywood.

The chocolate fountain is four tiers of decadence cascading to pool into a three-foot-wide bittersweet pond at its base. A woman dressed in a white uniform stands behind it with a rag in her hand to keep it clean. She is my age, perhaps a little older, a gold band on her left ring finger. I wonder if she has kids. Judging by the darkness beneath her eyes, I think she does.

I rake a strawberry through the sweet waterfall and take a bite. The chocolate is dark and smooth, the kind imported from an exotic faraway place like Belgium or Ethiopia or Venezuela. I stare at the gallons flowing like brown silk and wonder what will happen to the chocolate that isn't used.

“Dance?”

My face lights up when I turn to see Griff extending his hand. Taking his outstretched palm, I try to disguise the jolt that ignites on contact then my disappointment when his expression doesn't change at all, no reaction whatsoever to me, my touch, my dress. I might as well be his mother, his sister, or an aunt with a wart on her chin.

“You clean up well,” I say, fishing for a compliment.

“Thank you,” he answers, not taking the bait.

I don't let it go. “You didn't compliment my dress.” Releasing his hand, I pirouette in a circle and chirp, “I feel pretty, oh so pretty,” imitating Maria from
West Side Story
.

“Nice,” he says, with the enthusiasm of a bailiff announcing a docket number.

“It's silk.”

“And it's blue,” he says.

I squint up at him, my nose flaring. “Yes, it's silk and it's blue. And. I. Look. Pretty. Why can't you give a girl a compliment?”

“Is that what you're looking for? How about my costume?” He spins around. “Do I look pretty?”

“No. You look like a high school shot-putter who was held back sixteen times and who is finally getting to go to his high school prom.”

He laughs, a deep chuckle that causes his body to quake with delight. Then he takes my hand again and leads me to the dance floor.

The band is playing Madonna's “Like a Virgin,” and around us people are either swing dancing, hip hopping, or grinding depending on their generation. Griff does none of these things, his beefy arms flailing wildly as he flounders around like a beached octopus, endangering anyone within a ten-foot radius. He whips me around, a goofy grin on his face, his movements having no correlation whatsoever to the music. One of his cameramen gives him grief, and Griff shoulder checks him halfway across the dance floor.

When the song ends, I am laughing hysterically and breathless.

“Evening,” Chris says, stepping up beside us and looking very dapper in a tieless, all-black tuxedo. “My goodness, Faye, you are a sight to behold, a pure vision in blue.”

Griff stands silent watching us, a smile still on his face.

“And you look dashing as well,” I answer, feeling slightly preposterous with all the silly pretense. And I realize that, rather than return Chris's flattery, what I really want to do is make a joke about it like, “Who died?” or “Yes, Godfather, I took care of it,” then kneel down and kiss his ring.

“May I cut in?” Chris asks with a slight bow to Griff, nearly making me laugh while at the same time horrifying me. I
really
don't want to dance with Chris. It's bad enough that everyone knows I tongue wrestled him at the farm; the last thing I want to do is add fuel to the fire.

Griff looks at me, sees my frozen expression, and says, “Nope, this one's mine. Go find your own piece of finery.” Then he twirls me away and dips me nearly to the ground.

“You probably shouldn't have done that,” I say.

He whips me back up so our faces are inches apart. “Probably not, but you looked like you'd rather eat a jar of live spiders than dance with him.”

“It was that obvious?”

“Good thing Molly and Tom didn't inherit their acting genes from you.”

He spins me from his arms, and we resume our flouncing.

When the song ends and the band begins to play Marvin Gaye's “Let's Get It On,” the mood changes, and there's an awkward second between us until Griff takes my hand and leads me off the floor to the bar.

“What do you mean I don't know how to dance?” he says in mock defense. “You just don't recognize great style when you see it.”

My laugh is cut short when I see one of the set designers pointing me out to a security guard near the door. Griff notices as well and stands with me.

“Ma'am,” the guard says when he reaches us, “are you Emily Martin's mom?”

My blood turns cold as my head nods.

“You need to come with me. There's been an incident.”

55

A
golf cart! You took a golf cart that didn't belong to you?”

My vision is red, the hotel security office and the people in it tinted crimson as Emily stands in front of me, eyes on the ground.

“Answer me,” I screech, painfully aware that the hotel security director, Caleb, and Griff are standing only a few feet away.

Emily looks up through her mascara-coated eyelashes, then her eyes slide to Caleb and she does the most awful thing—she giggles.

My muscles clench, the heat of my anger scorching, and for the first time in my life, I feel the impulse to hit my child, a physical urge nearly impossible to contain. And when Emily titters again, my hand begins to rise. Then Griff is between us, his hands pinning my arms to my side.

“Thousands of dollars,” I yell, craning my neck to see around him. “Do you get that? You crashed a golf cart into a car, and it's going to cost thousands of dollars to fix. That's what you think is funny?”

“I'll pay for it,” Caleb volunteers, and I actually lunge at him, Griff holding me back.

“You little shit,” I scream. “You spoiled little shit.”

Emily looks at him lovingly as if he is offering his right kidney, a chivalrous declaration of devotion. The kid's worth a hundred million dollars. He's throwing pennies at her, not laying down on a sword.

“Faye,” Griff says, his voice a whisper close to my ear, “you need to calm down. They're drunk. Wait until they're sober and deal with it then.”

I rear back like I've been struck, break away from him, and lift Emily's chin so she's forced to look at me. Her eyes are glassy, her breath coated with the sour stench of alcohol.

She laughs again like I have no power at all, and this time Griff doesn't get there in time, my hand stinging from where it slashed her across her rouged cheek and painted lips.

I stare at my hand in disbelief, my repentance instant. “Em, I'm sorry.”

“It didn't hurt,” she says, her insolent glare igniting my desire to strike her again.

I take hold of my right wrist with my left hand to quell the impulse, take a deep breath, and say, “Em, let's go. Of all the days to pull a stunt like this, you chose today, the day that was supposed to be Molly's day.”

“Every day is Molly's day,” she snaps back.

I match her stare, furious that she is trying to turn this around.

My mom appears in the doorway. “I'll take her home.”

“No, Mom, you stay.”

She steps forward and touches my cheek, a gesture so unexpected and gentle that it nearly unglues me. “Tonight is your night as much as it is Molly's, and I've already had the time of my life. Let me take her.”

Something in my mom's words reaches Emily, the slightest shadow of remorse crossing her face, and for that reason, with incredible gratitude, I nod.

When they're gone, I give the security director my contact information, then Griff and I turn to leave. We're halfway to the door when I realize Caleb's still in the room.

“Caleb, where's your mom?” I ask.

Shrug.

My voice softens. “Would you like me to call her for you?”

“I tried,” the security director says. “No answer.”

Crap. Crap, crap, crap.

I walk back into the room, wrap my arm around Caleb's shoulders, and say, “Come on. Let's get you something to eat, then we'll find you a ride home.”