Playground (25 page)

I had to sleep with him.”

“That sucks.”

“I told him today I didn’t want to do it, and he said, ‘I’m gonna

charge you twelve hundred in rent.’ I told him I didn’t have twelve

hundred, so he said, ‘I need you to work for me.’ He wants me to

work twelve-hour shifts four days in a row. He said I have to strip

and dance around with other women, and somebody’s going to

tape us.”

“For what?”

“His own collection, I guess. Some people collect stamps; he

collects girls doing stupid things on tape. I hear he’s got thousands

of videos in his collection. He’s a power junkie. We don’t have a

choice.”

“So, why do you stay with him?” I ask.

“Because I want to be an actress, a superstar.” The girl lifts her

hands in the air.

I can’t help but feel sorry for her, knowing she will probably

never get anywhere.

“Well, good luck.”

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As I leave the restroom, I see my father standing by the table. I

take deep breaths and tell myself I’m going to be fine, the coke has

leveled me out a little. Dad seems restless and he tells me we’re

leaving. We say our good-byes. Most of the women stay with Su-

fian while the rejects leave with Eric and David.

On the way out, I see Sufian slip David some cash with a wink.

“Good work,” Sufian says to him. “Let’s do it again tomorrow.

Next time more blondes. I’m tired of brunettes.”

Dad and I hop into the Cadillac and we cruise down Sunset

Boulevard checking out strip joints. Thank God my buzz is start-

ing to wear off. We discuss Cheetahs and the Tropicana, and then

end up at Crazy Girls. The doorman lets us right in.

The host escorts Dad and me to a VIP booth where a few girls

are waiting for us. Dad ignores them as he scans the joint looking

for fresh pieces of meat.

He motions for me to check out a brunette at another booth.

“Go get her name. Tell her I can make her a Playmate,” he boasts.

“You already have more distractions than you know what to do

with.”

“Yes, but the unavailable ones are always the most intriguing,”

he says and we both nod.

I slip out of the booth and make my way over to the brunette,

waiting until her date gets up to make my move.

“Sorry to bother you, but my father wants to buy you a drink,”

I say, wondering if she’s bi.

She blushes, but only slightly. She’s obviously heard this before.

“What are you, his pimp?” she asks with her eyebrows poised.

“Something like that,” I tell her, now wanting to flirt with her

myself.

“Actually, I’m here with someone,” she says.

In the corner of my eye, I see my father, who’s signaling for me

to get her digits. She is clearly uninterested, so I decide to change

my strategy.

“I totally understand. I hate it when guys hassle me. The truth

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is my dad is really shy ever since he and my mother divorced. I had

to drag him out. You looked so nice, I just thought that since he’s a

producer, you’d be perfect for his next film . . . but I don’t want to

bother you.” I back up and she softens.

I hand her the small Playboy Mansion West notepad I carry in

my back pocket.

“It’s no bother.” She jumps toward me as her eyes light up.

I return to Dad’s table and slip him the notepad with her

number.

“She’s with someone,” I say.

“I’m in love already,” he says, grinning.

“She’s too old for you. She’s at least twenty-three.”

“I’ll make an exception,” Dad cackles.

I order another drink and then slip into the bathroom, dipping

into my supply of coke. I hold my left nostril, snort out of my right;

my eyes water, I wipe my nose; I switch nostrils, grab my backup

bullet, refill, and again sniff hard. Fuck Hayden. Fuck Kendall. I

don’t need anyone.

Later that night, I’m in my bedroom when I stumble for the

phone and dial the Mansion, asking for Kendall. They tell me she’s

unavailable. I decide to call Hayden. I don’t know why I call him,

but hearing the sound of his voice makes me angrier with each

spoken word. The simple fact that he hasn’t called me back makes

me more furious than actually speaking to him.

“Hi, it’s Hayden . . . leave me a message.”

By the time I hear the beep I’m in full attack mode. When it

picks up I start screaming, “What is it you’ve been doing that you

can’t pick up the phone and call me, you fucking asshole! You’re

a real asshole, you know that? If you didn’t know, I’m here to tell

you! You’re an asshole!” I scream, realizing I sound like a real psy-

cho, which makes me even angrier.

“Fuck you!” I fume, slamming the phone down, missing the

cradle.

I call and hang up at least a hundred more times in the next hour.

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I’m riding in Dad’s Rolls when Eva’s, a new Hollywood bar on the

bottom level of the Beverly Center, comes into view. A bouncer

with a headset stands behind a velvet-roped-off entrance with a

line around the parking lot. Pure attitude. Everyone’s in black. My

father ushers me out of the car.

“Tell the doorman you’re with me,” he says. I get out, closing

the car door, forgetting to let his date out of the backseat. I push

past the paparazzi and make my way to the front.

“No one gets in unless I know you. There is no list,” the bouncer

calls out. “I’ll need for you to step back,” he repeats sternly.

“But, I’m . . .”

“The back of the line starts over there.” He points as bar divas

in black vinyl breeze past me. I approach the bouncer.

“My father . . .”

“I’ll need for you to step back!” His voice crushes mine as Dad

walks up with his young blonde in a tight dress and heels trailing

behind. The bouncer is suddenly all smiles.

“Right this way, sir.” The bouncer unclasps the velvet rope and

lets us in. I glare at him.

“What is wrong with you people?” I bark, passing the bouncer

as we enter the new club.

Plastic surgery junkies are everywhere. It’s a fashion flashback

of feathers, beads, and fringe. They’re models, celebrities, and

Playmates, all sporting the size-two lollipop look. I recognize

many of them from my father’s office. The place is flooded with

Mansion regulars.

Hef and Kendall and his other girls of the moment make a grand

entrance and everyone rushes over. Kendall and I make eye contact,

and she immediately looks away. Fuck her. Why am I attracted to

people who are bad for me? There is a huge pit in my throat as I

hold back the tears that well up inside. I hold them back as I watch

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her and Hef walk gracefully past me in the spotlight. She and the

new Playmates who follow behind her act as if I do not exist.

Three hours later, I’m drunk and miserable. I hate everyone.

I sit at the bar alone, shooting evil, deadly glares at everyone until

Judd Nelson sits down next to me. He notices me staring at my

father’s date.

“How old do you think she is?” I ask.

“Twelve, thirteen tops,” he answers, smiling.

“One more boob job on that one and she’ll need a face-lift just

to swallow.”

We clink glasses. My father waves.

“I better hide before he and Romper Room make their way

over,” I tell Judd, ducking.

After a while, I say my good-byes and catch a ride home with

Playmates Charlie and Morgan. I sit in the backseat of Morgan’s

Beemer and stare out the window the entire drive home. I find my-

self wondering what the girls from school are doing tonight. What

happened to watching Luke and Laura and
Friday Night Videos
? I

feel so old. Mental note: remind myself tomorrow that I’m only a

junior.

A Beverly Hills High School vs. Westlake tennis tournament is un-

der way. As the home team we’re stoned and blasting Blondie from

our ghetto blaster. I slam my tennis racket against the net because

some former child movie star with fake tits and pumped-up lips

slams the ball down the line and I miss it. Speed demon.

My mother shows up outside the courts and demands to speak

to me. I try to sort through my thoughts, but everything seems so

surreal that I cannot speak properly. Plus, I’m stoned and on the

verge of a cocaine-induced heart attack.

We discuss everything but what is really going on. We never talk

about my appearance, my weight, my hooded eyes, the sluggish,

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

grunge style I’ve suddenly adopted. The changes in me over the past

few months have been so profound that neither one of us has the

courage to acknowledge them out loud.

“You seem a little restless. Is your father still giving you Xanax

to help you study?” Mom asks, obviously annoyed. My mother’s

frustration is so extreme it transcends into hostile insult.

“Yes. And it’s not helping.”

“Maybe if you cut down on the medication you’d have more

energy,” she says with a tone that insinuates that she’s pissed he’s

prescribing pills—but she’d never confront him to his face.

By now she knows he won’t listen and half of her has given up

on me too.

“Some of the parents say you’re still doing drugs,” Mom pre-

sumes with conviction, a look of disappointment in her eyes. “I’ve

heard you stay out late, drink, and God knows what hour you get

home.”

“I’m sure your sources really know what I’m doing.” I sip my

Jolt cola and watch happy, normal kids with knapsacks walk by.

“If you’re not going to tell me anything, then I’m forced to find

out through other means. I am your mother. I do have your wel-

fare in mind even when we’re not living under the same roof.”

I shift in my white Fila tennis skirt, uncomfortable in my own

skin. I want to tell her how much I miss her, how much I need her,

how much I hate her, how cruel she is, and how screwed up I am

without her. She’s telling me she cares, but it’s difficult for me to

trust her. Too much has happened. Fear and paranoia have taken

root and twisted themselves around any hope I might have had

about being open and honest with my mother.

“I had a conversation with your math teacher, who says you

haven’t been to class in weeks. You may not want to abide by my

rules, and there’s not a lot I can do about that, but there is some-

thing I can do about your not going to school.”

I can see in my mother’s eyes that she thinks I’m a drug addict.

I can almost hear her and my sister cracking jokes about the lavish

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lifestyle I supposedly chose over them. I wish I could tell them, ex-

plain to them, that luxury comes at a dreadful cost, and that the

edges of a gold card can be very sharp.

“You know, Jennifer, you make it very difficult to have a rela-

tionship with you,” she says. There is nothing but ice and pain be-

tween us.

After a few seconds I find my voice.

“Stop making me feel like I’m the one who’s crazy. If a client

came to you, you would be empathetic. But for some reason, you

can’t be that with me.”

“You act like I owe you something. You chose to move out,

remember?”

“No. I don’t remember. I don’t remember anything,” I say, un-