No Ordinary Life (4 page)

7

W
e've been in LA a month and have settled into a routine, not miserable but a good measure shy of content, a sustainable existence that borders on normal.

My mom and I barely see each other, which is perhaps the reason the precarious peace exists. My four shifts at Namaka keep me out until after the rest of the house is asleep, and my mom works the other three days, two as a volunteer at the local library and the third at
Star Gazer
, a weekly tabloid devoted to stalking celebrities, snapping photos of them, then making up stories to go along with those photos.

Prior to her retirement, my mom had been a middle school English teacher. Now she uses her writing skills and her obsession with the famous to write an astrology column on celebrities, divining their futures from the position of the sun and the moon, the exact moment of their birth, and their current location on the globe. It's all very scientific hogwash, but the readers love it, and her column is one of the most popular in the magazine.

School ends in a week, and I'm stressed about the summer routine, or rather lack of routine. Since we moved here, my mom has homeschooled Tom, sparing him from starting in a new school, so he and Molly have been home, but blessedly Emily's been gone five days a week, sparing us all from her spite.

Emily hates her new school, hates LA, and hates me. And I hate to admit it, but I'm glad she's not around on the days I'm home so I don't have to deal with it. The only saving grace is the soccer team she joined. Other than that, she's miserable and miserable to be around, and when school ends, she's going to be like a caged elephant with a stubbed toe.

I'm surprised when I walk into the condo after my shift to find my mom still awake. I look at the clock. 10:15.

“What are you doing up?” I ask, my tongue thick from exhaustion and boredom. The new rhythm of my life—working, cooking, cleaning, doing laundry—is like elevator music, droning on endlessly without enough differentiation to tell one day from the next.

My mom springs from the couch, her face lit up in a way that scares me. It's the same look she had on her face when I was eleven and she announced we were going on a celebrity cruise where we would mingle with the famous. A total disaster. Even my mom didn't recognize the has-beens that were billed as the stars on the cruise, and my dad and I spent the vacation leaning over the railing green with seasickness.

“You're not going to believe what happened today,” she says.

“You won the lottery.”

“Better.”

“Better than winning the lottery? Tom got up in front of Congress and gave a speech on the injustice of banning peanut butter from school lunches.”

“Better.”

Nothing could be better than that. “What?” I say, tired of the game.

She holds out a business card. “Look who came by the condo today.”

Monique Braxton, Braxton Talent Agency
, a Wilshire Boulevard address, a phone number, a website, an email, a Facebook page, a Twitter account.

I shrug.

“Don't you know who that is?
Monique Braxton.
She's like the biggest talent agent on the planet. She reps anyone who's anyone. Not adults, only kids, but if you're a someone under eighteen, you're a Monique Braxton kid.” My mom is so excited that the words spit and sputter like machine-gun fire.

“So?”

“So, look at this.”

Grabbing me by the wrist, she pulls me to her laptop on the kitchen table and wiggles the mouse to wake it. The screen opens to a YouTube page. She clicks the play button and the video starts…a video of Molly!

I watch in disbelief. The video is from our day on the promenade. It starts abruptly, the big man strumming the beginning riff of “Johnny B. Goode,” his body bobbing with the beat. Behind him, off to the side, Molly does little he-man squats in sync with the big man's big he-man squats. It's very funny to watch.

The big man does a hip thrust and a leg kick, and Molly follows with a hilarious mini–hip thrust and leg kick that causes a burst of giggles from the audience. The big man looks confused by the reaction and repeats the move. Molly mimics him again, and again the audience cracks up, then the big man whirls, spots his miniature impersonator, wiggles his finger for her to come toward him, and that's when the throwdown begins.

The video is three minutes and fifty-two seconds long and ends with Molly knocking knuckles with the drummer. In the final seconds I see us—Emily, Tom, and me standing in the background, matching grins on our faces.

“So, the thing is,” my mom says, “this video's gone viral. Look at the number of hits.”

I blink at the number, certain it can't be right. 7,867,672.

“Did you hear me?” my mom nearly screeches.

“Huh?”

“The Gap wants Molly for a commercial.”

“What?”

“The Gap, you know, the clothes store.”

“Yeah, what about them?”

“They want Molly to be in one of their commercials. They hired Monique Braxton to track Molly down, and Monique Braxton did. Not some assistant but her. Monique Braxton, in the flesh. Here. In
my
condo.”

She's so giddy that I can almost imagine her as the little girl she must have been, a little like Molly but with a penchant for the stars. I bet she was one of those girls who collected princess paraphernalia and, when she outgrew that, plastered her wall with movie posters—her passion carried into adulthood, a fascination with the famous that borders on obsessive.

My mom can tell you more about most stars than she can about me. She knows how old they are, where they were born, who they've dated, what movies they've starred in, what tragedies have befallen them, the addictions they have, who they're related to, who supposedly likes them and who loathes them. She subscribes to every tabloid in print, has sat in at least a hundred studio audiences, and regularly signs up for Hollywood tours that drive past celebrities' houses.

“And she absolutely loved Molly,” she says. “Of course what's not to love? Did you see that video?”

I glance at Molly snoring on the pull-out couch.

“Can you believe it? Molly. Our Molly.”

“How'd she find us?” I ask.

“A private investigator. He asked around on the promenade, and one of the managers at one of the restaurants remembered you and pulled out your application. Simple as that.”

Simple as that.
My skin prickles, and my stomach knots—millions of strangers watching Molly, private investigators asking around about us, famous talent agents showing up uninvited on our doorstep—it feels like a punch to the solar plexus, a strange mixture of exhilaration and horror, a sickly stew of pride and violation.

“So all you need to do is call her tomorrow to set up an appointment.”

My head shakes, causing my mom to squint and say in a much slower voice, “What do you mean, no?”

“Molly's not…We're not…I'm…We're just normal people. We're not…” I gesture to the frozen image of Molly on the screen. “That.”

My mom's face literally changes color, transforming from pale peach to so crimson I feel the heat radiating from her skin. Then she blows, “Jesus criminy Christ, Faye. Bad enough you haven't an ounce of gumption to go out and do something with your life, but now this amazing opportunity literally lands in your lap, and you're just going to let it slip right through your fingers. You're just like your father. A pot of gold could have dropped from the sky with his name on it, and he'd have walked around it, complaining it was raining gold when what we really needed was a bit of rain.”

8

I
assumed the whole Monique Braxton incident was over.

I was wrong.

“Your appointment is at ten,” my mom says, as if our conversation two nights ago didn't happen, and as if I'm still fourteen and she's reminding me about an orthodontist appointment. “The card is on the table. Molly needs to go with you. I've made arrangements for Mrs. Owen to watch Tom while you're gone.” Without waiting for my response, she walks out the door.

I storm toward the table, determined to rip Monique Braxton's card into a million little pieces and sprinkle them on my mom's bed.

“How do I wlook?” Molly says before I get there. She stands in the bathroom door, fully dressed, her hair pulled into two sloppy pigtails. “Gwrandma says it's bettewr if I weawr my haiwr up so I wlook pwrofessionawl.”

I suppress a snicker. “You look very professional.”

Sitting at one of the kitchen chairs, I pat my lap for her to climb aboard.

Heavy and solid, like a sack of potatoes she molds against me. I kiss her temple and breathe her in. The slightest trace of baby remains—pink flesh and Johnson's baby shampoo. I hope she never stops using that shampoo, though I know she will. Already Tom and Emily have switched to using my Suave, still sweet but not as soft.

“Love Bug, you want to do this? Act in a commercial?”

She tilts her head. “Ms. Bwraxton says she wants me to dance.”

“Oh, she did, did she? What else did Ms. Braxton say?”

“She asked if I wlike dancing, and when I towld hewr I did, she asked if I wanted to get paid to dance, and that's when I wreawlly said yes.”

I smile because I know Molly is thinking about chocolate ice cream.

“Well, then,” I say, lifting her off my lap and standing, “I guess we'd better go see Ms. Braxton about getting you a job.”

The offices of Braxton Talent Agency are sprawled across the top floor of a modern glass and steel building on the corner of Wilshire and Western. Before we left the condo, I Googled Monique Braxton and was duly impressed. She's exactly as my mom said, a mega-mogul showbiz giant who represents hundreds of famous child stars.

Molly and I wait in the lobby for the elevator. Standing beside us is a beefy man with no hair on his head and lots of hair everywhere else. Tufts of it sprout from his collar, his cuffs, and his ears. He wears a tool belt and a mechanic's shirt with a patch on the pocket that says Hector.

“Headin' up to the Braxton Agency?” he asks, sizing up Molly. “She's a cute one all right.”

I give a polite smile.

“Pimpin' out the pooty, that's the way to do it. Wish my kids had an ounce of cutes. You bet I'd be cashin' in on that action. Get me a big old house, a nice car, maybe a yacht, definitely a Harley.”

I say nothing, wishing for the elevator to hurry up.

“Ridin' on easy street. Do me some of that. You should hear the kids that come in here, whinin' and complainin' 'cause they're tired or 'cause the burger they needed to eat for some commercial was cold. If they was my kids, let me tell you, I'd tell them to stop their damn snivelin' and suck it up, to eat the damn burger, imaginin' it's lettuce, green lettuce, the kind a cabbage that pays for a Mercedes and a house with a big-ass Jacuzzi and season seats to the Lakers.”

Finally the elevator dings and the doors open. We wait for it to unload, and Hector steps on and politely holds it open.

“We'll take the next one,” I say, gripping Molly's hand tighter than necessary.

“We'wre not going up?” Molly asks when the door closes.

“Yes, baby, we're going up. We're just going to wait for the next one.”

Ding. The next elevator arrives, and Molly pulls me on board.

“Which button?” she asks, clearly excited by so many bright white prospects.

“Twenty.”

“That's the top one,” she squeals.

We fly upward so quickly that I'm certain we're going to shoot right through the ceiling and be launched into the sky like in
Charlie and the Chocolate Factory
. But remarkably, at the twentieth floor, we glide smoothly to a stop, and the doors swoosh open to reveal a gleaming reception area with a gleaming young receptionist.

“Hello, may I help you?” the woman singsongs.

Molly beats me to the response. “We'wre hewre to see Ms. Bwraxton. She wants me to dance in a commewrcial. My name is Mowlly Mawrtin.”

“Well, aren't you the cutest? I'll let Ms. Braxton know you're here.”

She skips off, and Molly and I take a seat on the white suede sofa, both of us sitting on the edge, certain our very proximity will soil it. Surrounding us are dozens of posters for television shows and movies, past and present, all featuring megastar kids, so many that it's hard to believe one agency is responsible for so much success.

“Hey, it's Caleb,” Molly says, pointing to a poster for the hit show
The Foster Band
, our favorite show on television.

Caleb is a boy around Emily's age, and both Molly and Emily have mad crushes on him. His larger-than-life face mischievously grins at us, his hands held out in a shrug. And I agree with my girls, he's very cute.

The receptionist reappears. “Ms. Braxton will see you now.”

We follow her down a corridor lined with glass-walled offices filled with important-looking people who look like they just stepped out of a Hugo Boss or Anne Klein catalog, depending on whether they are men or women, and as we pass, each head lifts, sizing us up like we are sushi on a conveyor belt being judged for delectability and consumption.

The receptionist raps lightly on a mahogany door at the end of the hall then opens it to reveal a large office with a sweeping view of the city.

Monique Braxton stands from behind a marble topped desk, and I'm so taken by surprise that my nerves run out of me. Funny how the internet can distort things. She's tiny, not a midget but certainly a head shorter than normal. Looking at her photos on the web, I thought she was tall, a formidable woman of substance, but seeing her now, it's as though she's been run through a Shrinky Dinks machine. She's six inches shorter than me and only a foot taller than Molly.

Despite her diminutive size, she's attractive—brown hair cropped precisely at her chin, almond eyes, skin stretched unnaturally smooth over high cheekbones, and an aerobicized body, thin everywhere except a slight bulge at her tummy.

“Mrs. Martin, it's nice to meet you.” She extends a French-manicured hand. “And Molly, nice to see you again.”

“Faye,” I correct as Molly says, “Do you stiwll want me to dance in youwr commewrcial?”

“A gold mine,” Monique Braxton mumbles under her breath as her eyes roam over Molly, drinking in her adorableness. Then she smiles wide, showing a set of perfect veneers, and says, “Absolutely. But right now do you mind having a few photos taken?” She looks at me. “With your permission of course. Just a few headshots.”

I nod, then as if planned, the door opens and a gorgeous man enters. Six feet tall, day-old beard, chiseled body, ringless left hand.

“Miss Molly and Miss Molly's mom, I presume,” he says with no shortage of flair, reaffirming the fact that all gorgeous men over the age of thirty are either married or gay.

When Molly and the photographer are gone, Monique Braxton and I get down to business. It's not a negotiation, nor is she asking whether we want to do this. It is assumed, by the fact that we are here, that we are on board. Which I suppose we are. Now that it is actually happening, it is very exciting.

After explaining her role as an agent and that she gets ten percent of what Molly earns, she says, “The Gap wants her. It's national and has the potential to run like crazy. They'll offer five, but we'll get ten.”

“Excuse me,” I say, interrupting. “Ten what?”

“Ten thousand for the shoot. It's top end for a noncelebrity, but I'll argue Molly's worth it because of the video. They won't blink. They'll be glad I'm not hijacking them for more. I could, but it's best to keep it friendly. Should pan out to fifty-plus over the year…”

She's still talking, but I'm not listening.
Fifty-plus, fifty thousand dollars or more for a commercial? One commercial?

That's a lot of chocolate ice cream. My heart and brain pulse in equal measure as I attempt to calculate what that kind of money could do for our family. Therapy for Tom blazes in the forefront. Pay off our enormous debt. Repair the van's cracked head.

“Are you married?” Monique Braxton says, breaking my distraction.

“Huh?”

“Married? Do you have a husband?”

It's a simple question.

I nod, a simple answer. She smiles approvingly, and I reflect the grin back, the answer and my expression suggesting a loving partnership of stability and parenting and conjuring up images of white picket fences, family barbeques, and weekend trips to the zoo.

“How long?”

“Eleven…I mean, twelve years.”

She nods, impressed, and I wonder how many trips she's taken down the aisle. There's no evidence of a family—no ring, family portrait, or clay-coiled mug proclaiming World's Greatest Mom. Her desk is stacked with papers, manila folders, a laptop, and a lipstick-stained Starbucks cup.

“Will he be involved?” she asks.

“Who?”

Her head tilts slightly, and her finely teased brow puckers. “Your husband.”

“No. Only me.” A more accurate summary of my twelve-year union to Sean.

“That's fine. It's better that way. Too many hands in the cookie jar complicates things.”

Her words are sharp and concise like the rest of her. Her clothes, her hair, her office—all of it direct and tidy. Monique Braxton is a woman in control of her life, the kind of woman I would like to be though know I never will. Like a beagle being envious of a fox, I can try, but at the end of the day, only one of us is going to end up dinner for the mountain lions, and chances are it's not going to be the fox.

On the wall behind Monique are her claims to fame, over a hundred framed eight-by-ten black-and-white headshots of the children she's discovered and turned into household names, everyone from the megahit band Colorwand to Lloyd Stevens, the actor who plays the adorable Axel on the hit series
The Hamptons
.

My eyes catch on a portrait toward the bottom left, a boy in a striped shirt, his dark bangs draped across slashed eyebrows and smoldering eyes. I stare at his lips, remembering how I used to fantasize about kissing them when I was eleven. Brian Raffo, my first crush. He played Mike Sloan in the movie
The Inside Job
—the tough, street-smart kid who gave a lawyer a dollar to defend him against the police who were trying to bully him into testifying against the mob.

For years, I kept that same photo pasted inside my closet door, until the day Brian got busted for drugs. When I heard the news, I took the picture down and threw it away. It pissed me off, like what he had done was personal. Which in a way it was, four years is a long time to love someone when you're only fifteen.

“I miss him,” Monique Braxton says, following my stare to look with me at Brian's immortalized eleven-year-old image. “He was one of my first clients.” Her voice cracks with emotion, and suddenly I remember he's dead. Dead a long time. I don't remember how long, but long enough that I read about it in the newspaper instead of online. I remember there were two photos beneath the headline, one of him from the movie and the other, a recent one of him as an adult.

Monique Braxton pulls her shoulders back to recompose her flawless veneer, but she does a poor job of it, a glassiness remains in her eyes that wasn't there before, and I know I was right; Monique Braxton doesn't have children of her own. Behind her are her children, a hundred of them, and she cares about them as much as any mother does.

I glance again at the picture of Brian and realize with a shudder that my tastes didn't change much from when I was a girl to when I was a young woman. Sean looks a lot like Brian, same intense eyes and wiseass smirk. He ended up being a disappointment as well, and I wonder if I was predestined to be attracted to great-looking, sweet-talking losers who lie.