No Ordinary Life (5 page)

9

M
olly is ready. We're in nearly the exact spot where it all started, the Third Street Promenade, half a block from where Molly and the big man had their famous throwdown.

The sun has yet to rise, and though it's the middle of June, it's cold as winter, the air brittle, patent gusts from the ocean piercing my clothes and turning my skin blue.

I sit on a bench with Molly asleep in my arms. The big man, whose name is Leroy, sits beside us—six and a half feet of gentle, sweet teddy bear. He keeps thanking Molly and me for getting him this gig, and I keep telling him we had nothing to do with it, but no matter what I say, he won't be convinced. Like a dog rescued from the pound, he hangs around us like a loyal mutt whose life has been spared.

In front of us, the crew dresses the set, dozens of people bustling around, hanging lights, positioning props, cleaning windows, readying the street for the big dance number. The promenade is taped off for the entire block, security guards posted at either end. It's both thrilling and stressful. We have until nine to get the shots we need, then the promenade will be reopened.

The crew has been here since two this morning preparing, and nervous energy buzzes in the air. At least a hundred people mill around—grips, sound technicians, cameramen, dancers, choreographers, directors, producers, ad people, editors. It's mind-boggling the amount of money, talent, and effort that goes into making a single thirty-second commercial. The Gap is going to need to sell a lot of overalls to pay for all this.

Though the sun has yet to rise, the set is noon bright, illuminated by a thousand lights shining on the hundred-foot strip of promenade, and you would never know it's actually a sunless, chilly morning. I pull the beach towel I grabbed from the van tighter around Molly as I shudder away my own chills.

Molly has her part down, and I'm proud to the point of bursting. The days leading up to this have been both long and hard. Yesterday and the day before, we needed to be up at five to begin our workday at six, and we didn't return home until after nine.

Officially we only worked four hours plus a half hour for lunch, which is the maximum allowed for a four-year-old. The rest of our day was logged as “dance lessons,” which were offsite and therefore didn't count as “work.”

I asked Monique Braxton if I should be concerned about the rules being bent, and she encouraged me to be flexible, so that's what I've been. But I understand why the rules are in place—four-year-olds aren't built for endurance, and the long days have taken their toll.

The first day Molly was fine, adrenaline kept her awake. The second she faded in the afternoon, falling asleep in my arms during the breaks. And today she's pooped. I could barely get her out of bed this morning, and she's been out since her makeup and hair were finished an hour ago.

The commercial is a direct knockoff of the YouTube video. Molly and Leroy are the stars, and the dance starts off with Leroy dancing to “Johnny B. Goode,” then he and Molly get into a throwdown that evolves into an awesome routine with a dozen professional dancers around them.

From where I sit, I can see the yellow awning of Namaka. The manager fired me when I told him I needed a few days off, and I've never been so relieved to lose a job in my life. The next job I get won't have cumin or curry or little men with big teeth who leer at me.

The only sour note of the experience is that Emily missed her soccer playoff. She was supposed to play the evening of our first day of rehearsals, and I was certain I'd be home in time to take her, but that was before I realized how flexible we needed to be.

I shudder at the memory of our conversation.

I'm sorry you missed the game
, I said, as I sat on the bed beside her and smoothed her hair. She had been crying, her eyes red.
You'll make it to the next one.

She whirled and sat up so quickly that she sent me stumbling off the mattress.
There won't be a next one
, she screamed, her hate lancing me.
It was a playoff game, and we lost. You don't even listen to me.

I opened my mouth to defend myself, but she was right. I had no idea that game was the last one if they lost. She might have told me, but the moment she starts talking soccer, my brain numbs over, detouring to all the other more important things I need to think about.

The AD, assistant director, walks toward us, and I tense. She's a sweet woman unless you piss her off, then she'll rip your head off and display it on a stake for the rest of the cast to see, and Molly and I have learned to be very careful around her.

“It's time,” she says, and I feel her stress, her already short fuse nipped to a nub with the pressure of how important this morning is.

Leroy feels it too and shifts to sit up straighter.

“Love Bug,” I coo, “time to wake up.”

Molly snorts once then resumes snoring.

I jostle her and rub her shoulder. “Come on, Bugabaloo, ups-a-daisy.”

Molly flops over, her carefully made-up face swiping across my sweatshirt and leaving a peach smudge.

Makeup is not going to be happy. Neither is Molly. Molly despises primping in general—hates taking a bath, hates having her hair brushed—and she has not enjoyed the makeup and hair portion of this experience. Like a dog at the groomers, she moans and groans each time she's forced into the chair.

The AD's shoulders hitch, and I feel her instant impatience. Her fists clench and the vein on the side of her head pulses—Mount Fuji about to blow. Her mouth opens…

Leroy stands and slides between us and the woman. He lifts Molly from my arms, and she slumps against him, her head collapsing on his massive shoulder. “Hey, Lil' Jive,” he whispers in her ear, “it's time to dance.”

Molly nods her head against him then wiggles to get down.

Showtime.

10

I
t's been two weeks since we finished the commercial, and life has never been better. The kids are off for summer break, and I've almost repaired things with Emily. I signed her up for a costly club soccer team that she desperately wanted to be a part of, and that has kept her busy and happy four mornings a week.

Rather than immediately looking for another job, I decided to take a couple of weeks off, and every day has been spent at the beach, except for the days we spent taking care of all the things we've put off taking care of for a year—doctor and dentist appointments, shoe shopping, clothes shopping, and best of all…present shopping.

Today is Emily's twelfth birthday, and I'm so excited I can barely contain myself.

The celebration began this morning at Emily's soccer game. First off, Emily was amazing. Competitive sports are not my thing, my shyness prohibiting such a spectacle, but Emily thrives in that arena. A natural leader, she led her team in a charge of victory, scoring two of the three goals and assisting in the other.

I brought my special pumpkin cream cheese cupcakes for after the game, and her team sang “Happy Birthday.” Several of the girls pronounced the cupcakes the best they ever had, and I blushed with pride. I do make darn good pumpkin cream cheese cupcakes. And for the first time in a long time, I felt like a good mom.

Now we're in the van and on our way to the next surprise of the day.

“Mom, you turned the wrong way,” Tom says.

“We're not going home,” I answer, nearly squealing with excitement.

“We're not?”

“Whewre we going?”

“You'll see.”

“Can I give Emiwly my pwresent now?” Molly asks. It's the sixth time she's asked since we woke.

“Yes,” I say. “Now's the perfect time.”

“It's fwrom me and Mom but mostwly me,” Molly says proudly, pulling a wrapped box from the side of her car seat. “I got it 'cause I danced wreal good on the commewrciawl.”

It's true. As a thank-you present to Molly for doing such a great job, the project manager gave Molly an iPhone—a ridiculous gift for a four-year-old but thoughtful just the same.

Emily couldn't care less who the gift is mostly from or that it's a regift. It's as if a nugget of gold fell from heaven. Every girl on her team has a cell phone, and only a handful of those don't have an iPhone.

“Do you wlike it?” Molly asks, confused by Emily's silence.

All Emily can manage is a nod.

The mystical device transports the kids into a virtual world of apps and games and music and videos, keeping all three so occupied that none of them realize we've been driving over an hour.

When Tom finally looks up and realizes where we are, he shouts, “Yucaipa!”

Emily and Molly look up as well, then all three are clapping. I lower all the windows so the familiar smell of horses and green fills the car, and we drive the rest of the way in reverent silence, a palpable longing for our old life weighting the air.

When we pass our house, my breath catches as I realize it's been rented. A Volvo station wagon is parked in the driveway, my flower garden brown and wilting.

I swallow and blink against the sudden realization that when we return, it won't be to our home. I should have known this, understood that when you leave, things don't stay the same. But I didn't, and it strikes me as an unexpected blow. Until this moment, I viewed our time in LA as a hiccup, a jostle in our path, and that when we returned, it would be back on the course we had been on when we left. It never occurred to me that things would be permanently altered.

11

T
he four of us slept curled together like a litter of kittens on the king-size bed of Bo's guest room, our stomachs full of homemade tamales and birthday cake, our dreams full of music, friends, and stories.

Emily disappeared at dawn to go riding, and at nine, I woke long enough to scrub the marshmallow residue from Molly's cheeks then release her into the wild with Tom before collapsing back to the bed to sleep some more.

I startle awake, blink in the bright light streaming through the window, and look around frantically for the clock.

Crap!

I run for the door.

“Everyone, now,” I scream like a madwoman. “The living room. Hurry.”

I look at the clock again. Three minutes to go.
Crap, crap, crap.

“NOW!”

My screech gets Bo's attention, and he gives an ear-piercing wolf whistle while he windmills his arms, signaling everyone to come quickly. The ranch hands drop what they're doing. Emily and her two friends tether their horses and race toward me, Emily grabbing Molly's hand as she runs. Tom sprints from the barn.

He gets to me first. “What is it?” he yelps, panic in his eyes.

I don't answer, just push him forward into the house, then herd everyone else in after him, practically shoving them into the living room.

When everyone is crammed in tight, breathless and worried, looking around for the fire, I shush them and click on the television, then shush them again as I zap to channel eleven and turn up the volume.

On the screen is a commercial for Tide detergent. Everyone starts talking again.

“Quiet!” I snap, causing them to look at me in surprise but also getting them to shut up.

The commercial starts off without music, the screen white except for Leroy doing a quiet soft-shoe in the center. There's no shadow, and he looks like he's dancing on air. His funky clothes—mustard-colored, drop-crotch skinny jeans, an argyle hoodie, and green high-top sneakers—are startling against the starkness and the definition of cool.

“It's Wleewroy,” Molly squeals, not realizing this is
the
commercial,
her
commercial, which I can understand. It's so surreal that it looks nothing like the shoot.

“It's me!” she yells as she emerges from the whiteness like a spirit.

Everyone in the room gasps, then claps, then whoops and hollers—surprised, stunned, thrilled—exactly the reaction I was hoping for.

“Shush,” I bark in order to silence them again, my attention glued to the screen.

Leroy does a jig, and Molly mimics him, and our little audience bursts out in giggles.

“Well, I'll be,” Bo says, “Molly throwing down with a big fella. I hope you showed him how it's done.”

And boy did she.

The choreographer was brilliant, capitalizing on every ounce of Molly's abilities and cuteness to make her look like a dancing prodigy.

Within seconds, she and Leroy are dancing together, a syncopated routine that, though flawless, appears spontaneous, as if she and Leroy are making it up on the spot.

As they dance, the white morphs to color, the music escalates, and the other dancers appear, the street transforming into a carnival of noise, acrobatics, and hip-hop in front of the Gap store. Then the mannequins in the windows come alive, a street band joins in, and the entire troupe starts clapping, singing, dancing, and grooving in a performance as impressive as Michael Jackson's “Thriller.”

My heart nearly explodes with joy, excitement, and pride. Molly is on television, tearing it up, being her amazing, wonderful Molly self for the whole world to see.

The music and color and dancers fade, and again the scene pales to white except for Leroy and Molly. A final two-step that Molly mimics, a high-five, and the two part ways, leaving the screen empty until the Gap logo appears, and a voice-over says, “Gap. Get funky.”

The living room bursts into applause, and one of the ranch hands picks Molly up and twirls her around. “Well, I'll be,” he says. “Look at that, our Molly, a star. Tell me, when you get rich and famous, you still gonna remember the little people?”

“I am a wlittle pewrson,” Molly answers, causing everyone to crack up.

“Come on, superstar,” the woman who does the cooking for Bo says. “Let's see about you and me making those peanut butter drop cookies. Tom, you want to help?”

“I'm going fishing,” Tom says, trotting off ahead of them, entirely unaware that he just spoke in front of a dozen people, something he hasn't done since we left Yucaipa.

Emily and her friends follow him, each giving Molly a high-five as they pass. Emily drops a kiss on top of Molly's head. “Good job, Itch.”

“Super cool,” one of the girls says. “I wish I could be on a commercial. Em, you think you'll be on a commercial?”

Emily shrugs and continues leading her posse away.

I look back at the television. The Wimbledon quarterfinals are back on. I'm tempted to scan every channel searching for the commercial so I can see it again. I could watch it over and over. I think I could watch it a thousand times and not grow tired of it.

Unfortunately the premiere was the only time and channel Monique Braxton was given, so I have no idea when it will be on again.

“Well, well,” Bo says, taking the remote from my hand and turning off the television.

“Amazing, don't you think?” I say, my smile so wide that my cheeks hurt.

“Sure is,” Bo says, setting the remote out of my reach, sensing my desire to turn it back on. “Take a walk?”

I force myself to leave the temptation and follow him outside. We head toward the creek. There's a pregnant mare Bo is keeping an eye on, and she likes to graze down by the water. As we walk, I tell him about the YouTube video and Monique Braxton and how the whole wonderful adventure came about.

He's quiet, nods several times, and offers a few “uh-huhs” but not much more. And by the time we reach the water, his lack of enthusiasm is pissing me off. After all,
Molly
was in a commercial. She was
the star
of a commercial. She made
a lot of money
to be in a commercial. He should be more excited. This is damn exciting.

The mare stands fat and happy in the shade of an oak tree. Bo takes a seat on a stump nearby, and I lean against a fallen trunk across from him.

“Can you believe it?” I say, my smile exaggerated to ignite his enthusiasm.

“Careful, Faye,” he says, refusing to get on board. “Hollywood have a way of sneaking up on people, of making them think they won the lottery, when all they really won is a whole lot of grief.”

“We did win the lottery. You should have been there. It was amazing.”

“I have been there. I was there for a lot of years.”

“Yeah, well you weren't there with us. Molly was incredible…”

“They made her appear incredible,” he corrects. “The choreographer, the director, the editor, the makeup artist, the hairstylist, the lights…”

“No.
She
was incredible.”

He shakes his head at the ground, and I feel heat rising in my cheeks. “You don't know, you weren't there. Making that commercial was the greatest thing I've ever done…”

“Making a commercial to sell overalls is the greatest thing you've ever done?” he challenges.

“Yes,” I shoot back. “Making a commercial, a national commercial.”

Bo frowns.

“Fine. It's not like I discovered a cure for cancer, but it was hard work, and I had a ton of responsibility, and I was good at it, and so was Molly. Frown all you want, but it was a hell of a lot more important than waiting tables, and a hell of a lot more profitable. I made more money in those three days than I would have made working three months at the diner…”

“You mean Molly made more.”

I huff through my nose. “Yes, Molly made more. But she liked it.”

“I'm sure she did. It's damn exciting being treated like a star, all the hoopla and the attention. What four-year-old wouldn't like that? All I'm saying is that you need to be careful. It's a tough business.”

“And the horse business is better?”

He shrugs. “There shit in every business, but at least here, the shit is right in front of you. You can walk around it or shovel it out of the way. The thing about Hollywood is, they're all actors, every one of them, from the producers down to the accountants, and you have no idea you about to step into a big pile of steaming cow dung until it's too late.”

The analogy softens my irritation and makes me smile, but Bo doesn't smile back. He looks me square in the eye as serious as I've ever seen him. “Faye, I'm telling you how it is. Molly's special. You don't see it because you're her mom, but she is, and other people, they gonna see that commercial and they gonna realize it as well, and they gonna want a piece of her.”

“It's just a commercial.”

“So this is where it ends? You gonna say no when fame comes knocking?”

“Fame's not going to come knocking, but I'll tell you this, if someone wants Molly to do another commercial, you can bet your sweet bejeebers I'm going to say yes. Did you see that commercial?”

He shakes his head like I've given the wrong answer. “Tell me this, Faye, would you let Molly smoke?”

“Of course not.”

“Why?”

I roll my eyes. “You know why.”

“Because it's dangerous. Because it might kill her prematurely. Well, acting's no different, probably worse. Them contracts should come with a surgeon general's warning telling parents that child stardom has been proven to cause misery and early death.”

I roll my eyes again.

“Roll your eyes all you want, but I'm telling you how it is. Acting pays well, but it don't pay well enough for forever.”