Playground (23 page)

“I don’t know,” I say defensively.

“You don’t know? How could you not know?”

“I don’t know, maybe she’s bi. Who cares?”

“Since when are you into hanging out with bisexual girls? And

more importantly, what is she doing hanging out with you?”

Savannah slams down her drink as if she’s the older one.

“Whatever,” I say, wishing this conversation were over.

I can see in my sister’s eyes that Kendall sickens her. Her disgust

pushes me further into secrecy. I am convinced she and Mother will

never understand my strong connection toward Kendall, so I push

them even further away.

“You are definitely Dad’s daughter and I am definitely Mom’s,”

Savannah snickers in a disapproving tone.

“He’s my father until he sends you a check, then, all of a sud-

den, he’s your father too, right?” I rebut, bleeding sarcasm.

“Actually, I want nothing to do with him.” She shakes her head

like she wants nothing to do with me either.

“In front of him you’re like, ‘Oh, Daddy, I love you so much,’

but then you run back to Mom and tell her how much you hate

him. How classic,” I mumble.

“At least I don’t check out girls with my own father!” she says.

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“Of course not, because deep down you wish you were one of

those Playmates just waiting to be discovered.”

“Okay, attitude, I’m leaving.” Savannah gathers her things.

“Maybe you should get your boobs done. Maybe then Dad will

notice you more,” I say, lighting a cigarette as Savannah takes off in

a huff, her silky blond hair blowing in the breeze.

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Fourteen

As summer rolls on, Kendall’s phone calls grow less frequent.

Mine are no longer put through or go unreturned as panic sets in

that she is letting me go the same way my mother did. Hayden

hasn’t called since he departed for Naples. I feel utterly alone. I’ve

alienated myself from my mother and sister. My friends at school

don’t understand. I turn to the one person who I know will be

there for me: My father.

By this time, Dad’s gone through a whole slew of women:

Michelle Johnson, who was seventeen at the time (not that age

matters), Victoria Principal, Kimberly Hilton, Shelley Fabares,

Kelly LeBrock, Deidre Hall, and Debra Adair (to name a few).

When he’s in-between girlfriends, it is easy for me to slide back

into my role as his running-mate. Dad may not know how to be

J E N N I F E R S A G I N O R

there emotionally in the traditional sense, but he is always there

for me by inviting me along with him wherever he goes. I follow

him to pool parties, nightclubs, strip clubs, even out on dates. The

distractions help keep my mind far from thoughts of Hayden and

Kendall.

Soon Mansion parties aren’t enough. Nightclubs, pool parties,

and high-class party girls are common occurrences. The need for

new thrills and more adventure becomes essential. I crave daily

doses of chaos. My desire for stimulation intensifies and spending

time with people whose lives revolve around drama becomes the

quickest fix. It’s an addictive lifestyle. When we cannot find the

drama, we create it out of anything and nothing. It’s a vicious cir-

cle, as I inevitably begin to believe the reality I’ve created.

One afternoon Dad greets me with a surprise.

“Go pack an overnight bag and meet me downstairs in ten

minutes,” he says joyfully, and I can tell he’s sober by the clarity in

his voice and the sharpness in his eyes. I relax momentarily be-

cause he’s in a good mood.

“Where are we going?”

“I’m not telling.”

“What’s it for?”

“It’s a treat just for us. A little daytime excursion like we used

to do,” he giggles, and I too become giddy. But mostly I am happy

that he and I will be alone.

“Now go pack your bag.” He smiles as I race into my room and

quickly fill my Le Coq Sportif duffel bag.

Minutes later, I run downstairs to find a black stretch limou-

sine waiting for us in the driveway. Dad helps me into the limo and

we head off on our adventure.

“You look the best I’ve ever seen,” he says sweetly, and I can’t

help but wonder if the bad times are behind us.

The driver pulls onto the tarmac at the airport, where a private

jet awaits our arrival. A pilot greets us and takes our bags.

“Welcome, Sir, Jennifer,” the pilot says.

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Playground

“Where are we going?” I ask again, as we walk up the stairs into

the private plane.

“It’s a surprise,” Dad gloats. The plush plane has cream leather

chairs, a stocked bar, stereo, large television and VCR. Dad and I

chill in the comfy seats as we fasten our seat belts.

“Sit back, relax, and enjoy your trip to New York City,” the pi-

lot announces over the PA system.

I turn to Dad, thrilled.

“No way!”

“Way,” he responds calmly.

“What’s the occasion?”

“No occasion. It’s father and daughter day.”

After a few minutes I ask, “So, why are we really going?”

“A high-profile prima-donna couple needs to lose twenty

pounds in a week,” he says, giving a shrug. “Junkies on a binge

waiting to be squeezed in to see the bicoastal celebrity weight-loss

doctor.”

“Anything for those miracle diets,” I say.

“I go to all lengths to please,” he sighs.

The rest of the flight is relaxing as we reminisce about old

times and enjoy the comforts of traveling in a private plane.

That evening, we skip the theater and instead hop from one

club to the next finding nonstop distractions. We do a few loops

at a party in SoHo, check out the scene at the Vault, find the sexiest

woman in the room, add her to our entourage, and jump to the next

hot spot. We’re on a party binge, a mission with the attention span

of twenty minutes at each stop. Our search for the next best female

is always on our minds.

It’

a.m.

s 4:00

by the time we return to our suite with a few girls

straggling behind. We sit in the living room as Dad entertains us

with tales of the Hollywood heroes he’s friends with, and you can

tell the girls are impressed by the mesmerized look in their eyes. I

yawn because I’ve heard it all before.

I kiss him good night, head to our bedroom, and crash. Before

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I doze off, I question whether anyone finds it odd that we’re shar-

ing a bed.

We return home the next day and Dad and I hit an array of pool

parties in the Hollywood Hills. Dad’s new friends he met out club-

bing, Don Michaels and Eric Jacobs, middle-aged talent agents

with dark complexions, dark shades, and huge cocaine habits, host

elaborate daytime events sponsored by modeling agencies I’ve

never heard of. Hundreds of underage disco-style girls fill Don

Michaels’ backyard. Human League wails through the speakers.

Buffet tables display spreads of various meat, pasta, fish, salads,

fruit salads, and gourmet desserts. The outdoor bars are stocked

with Tab, Cactus Coolers, and every kind of liquor imaginable.

Caterers serve rounds of champagne and caviar. Guests mingle in

the Jacuzzi. Underage hotties in summer dresses stand around pos-

ing as guys in suits hunt their prey.

Dad and I check out the rooms inside. There are different col-

ored cushions against every wall. The lighting varies from red to

blue to light shades of orange. Stunning models in tiny Esprit tight

skirts with glazed eyes lie around on cushions. Mounds of coke are

piled high on tables while glass jars are filled to the limit with

white tabs.

“Where did these girls come from?” I ask Dad as we wander.

“They live here,” he explains.

“Why do they live here?”

“Why wouldn’t they?” He gestures to the luxurious surroundings.

Dad introduces himself to a young model who strolls by while

I veer off, venturing down a long hallway with mirrors on both

sides. I hear the Motels’ “Only the Lonely” coming from an ob-

scurely lit room down the hall. I poke my head through the door

and find five young girls sitting on the floor, shooting heroin un-

derneath their toenails. I stare at them for half a second, not sure if

they see me or even care.

I make eye contact with one. She looks as lost as I feel. I quickly

turn and walk outside seriously in need of fresh air and a cigarette.

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Playground

The sunlight blinds me. I can barely keep my eyes open as I help

myself to a wine cooler. An older actor in his fifties introduces

himself to me.

“Nick Randall. How ya doing?”

“Fine,” I answer aloofly, because I no longer have the energy to

be completely superficial.

“How do you know Don?” the guy asks.

“My father’s friends with him.”

“Oh, yeah, who’s your father?”

“You probably know him as Doc.”

“Sure, everyone knows Doc.” The guy smiles while drooling

over the underage hotties. “These girls must be cashing in on some

serious allowances. Their payroll alone must cost a fortune. I don’t

know where Eric and Don find them.”

“I heard they advertise in
Teen Beat,
” I say, my words drenched

in sarcasm.

“No shit?” The guy lights up, excited, and walks away.

I spot Dad surrounded by a group of girls my age. He smiles

and waves me over. I pass, sitting down on a swing. I close my eyes

for a second and see Kendall’s face. She is telling me she loves me.

The thought of her hits me like a quick knife in the heart. When

my eyes open, the image is gone.

As if life wasn’t full of enough complications, some of the girls

from Don Michaels’ move into Dad’s house. Our halls are sud-

denly filled with porn stars and strippers. I never know which one

I will bump into in the morning. Dad explains that they have

nowhere else to go. These girls are notorious for spending every

summer in Beverly Hills. They never once pay for food, rent, or

entertainment. Each summer, they choose a new man to bankroll

their lavish spending. Most of them met my father, their latest

mark, at a Hollywood party in the Hills.

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J E N N I F E R S A G I N O R

Carmela and I roll our eyes and make fun of the dolled-up

hookers that seem to move in every week. One night, hearing them

stumble in drunk, I open my bedroom door as one of the girls

passes by me.

“Hey, cutie,” she purrs, running her fingers over my belly button.

I instantly begin to feel nauseated and shut my door.

The next morning, I’m sitting at the breakfast table eating ce-

real before school. I recognize the girl who passed by my room the

night before as she breezes nonchalantly into the kitchen. She is

dressed in my father’s infamous Snow White and the Seven

Dwarves Doc T-shirt. She opens the refrigerator door and grabs

the mocha mix as if she owns the place. Her hands shake as she

pours herself a cup of the coffee that Carmela brewed hours ear-

lier. Her skinny legs and big perky tits are shoved into my face as

she reaches over me to grab the sugar. Disregarding my presence,

she takes her coffee and dashes back upstairs.

Dad’s kitchen countertops now feature blue and white hand-

made candy jars labeled Uppers, Downers, and Quaaludes.

Carmela grabs handfuls from each container and concocts her fa-

mous party mix by tossing in M&M’s and Jelly Bellies for color.

It’s a hot summer day, so outside, girls in string bikinis with

hopes of becoming Playmate of the Year lounge around Dad’s pool

showing off their new boob jobs and nipple sizes.

“Welcome to Los Angeles. We’re going to baptize you—you

have to lose twenty pounds,” my father tells a new girl approach-

ing him.

“I’m on a monthly plan with my plastic surgeon,” she says.

“So why don’t you get your fat ass over here?” he asks frankly as

she swiftly moves her chair beside him. “Wait, let me see your ID

first,” he says.

She grabs a fake ID out of her wallet and shows it to my father,

whose eyes pop out. “You have a fake ID that says you’re eighteen?”

He looks at her closer. “Do I know you?”

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