Playground (27 page)

“Thanks, kid. You’ve done all you can do. We’ll take it from

here,” Mr. Malcolm assures me.

“But I know where she lives and everything,” I plead, eager to

help.

“We’ve got it under control.”

He slams the bedroom door in my face. I stand outside,

eavesdropping.

“It’s too late. She’s dead,” one of the guys whispers.

No one calls the police.

No one calls an ambulance.

I am terrified that nobody cares or wants to interrupt their

fantasy and be slapped back into reality. I am frightened and race

out of there without saying good-bye to my father.

I run frantically down Pacific Coast Highway until I reach a

pay phone and call Carmela to ask if she can pick me up. Sitting on

a block of cement, I see a family laughing, having a picnic on the

beach. The mother puts sunblock on her little boy as the husband

gives the mother a kiss and a cold drink from the cooler. For a mo-

ment, I forget that I just saw a young girl die right in front of me.

I’m relieved when I see Carmela’s green Pontiac.

I can barely force myself to go to school anymore. I show up late,

skip my first two classes, and walk out on my teacher when she is

talking in third period. I chill on the second-floor patio smoking

a cigarette with Liz, Hunter, Sonya, Michelle, and Amber.

“We are so worried about you, girl.” Sonya flips her black hair

and plays with the Velcro fasteners on her Keds.

181

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

“You’ve been totally MIA,” Michelle exhales.

“For real. We haven’t seen you in ages.” Amber passes the stogie

to Hunter.

“Sorry, it’s been crazy.” I tilt my shades so I can see clear blue

sky. A group of guys flick paper footballs in our direction.

“By the way, I finally took your father up on his offer and called

him for connections,” Hunter says. I instantly feel my body heat

rise ten degrees.

“You called my father?”

“Don’t you remember?” she says as a paper football breezes

past my head. “He said he knew some people in the biz, so I sent

him my head shots.”

“Did he say he wanted to meet to talk about it?” I ask suspi-

ciously, my blood boiling.

“Yeah, he said to come by his office after school tomorrow. I

think he wants to introduce me to somebody,” Hunter says inno-

cently.

I can feel my muscles twitch.

“Why don’t you just fuck him and get it over with!” I yell as a

paper football smacks me in the forehead. “I’m gonna kill some-

body!” I shriek and run toward the guys who flicked the paper

footballs in my direction.

I can tell which one did it by the look of pure terror on his face

as I approach him. The next thing I know, my knee is in his chest

and I’m choking him as hard as I can. Blood runs from his nose,

staining his blue Quicksilver T-shirt. People gather around but I

don’t see them. I refuse to let go of his neck. I knee him in the

groin several times until faraway voices seep through my head. I

feel someone yanking me off him. It’s a teacher.

“Jennifer, stop!” he shouts.

More teachers hurry over. They’re hovering over me. I don’t

know what’s going on. Where are they taking me? What happened?

Next thing I know, I’m in the principal’s office.

182

Playground

“Your behavior is unacceptable! You have a real attitude prob-

lem, young lady,” the principal exclaims, but I don’t care.

Later, my sister finds me down an isolated hallway sitting

against the wall crying with my hands curled into fists. How much

time has passed? We’re alone.

“What is wrong with you lately?” Savannah places her hand on

mine. “You’re in trouble all the time,” she says apprehensively.

“What a surprise, considering the hell I’m living in!” I declare

harshly, my hostility ever present. “And no one gives a shit.”

She stares at me, clearly shaken by my tone.

“That’s not true. Mom’s been calling you for weeks. You don’t

return any of her calls. She doesn’t know what to think anymore.”

“No one gets it. No one’s there for me.” I place my head in my

hands.

“Has Dad been there for me, Jennifer? No. He’s been off chasing

girls since I can remember and you were never far behind,” she says.

“Yeah, and look where it’s gotten me.” I feel vacant, like my in-

sides have been scooped out and all that is left is an empty hole.

“So, what are you gonna do, blame your whole life on them?”

“Whose side are you on?”

“I’m your sister. I’m not on anyone’s side. I just don’t think it’s

healthy for you to be so bitter.”

“All of a sudden I’m the fucked-up one?”

“Maybe you should try rehab.”

“Now you want to lock me up? Just leave me alone!” I cry and

bail out of there, hopping into the light blue Cadillac convertible

I borrowed from Dad. I fire up a Marlboro Light, crank up Run-

D.M.C., and speed down Moreno Drive, running the stop sign in

front of the high school. A horn blares at me.

“Fuck you!” I yell. “Fuck everybody!”

183

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

My drama rush is fading fast, so I pull out an emergency Vicodin,

call Austin, and we decide to go dancing. That night, we walk

along Santa Monica Boulevard in West Hollywood.

“Everyone’s blowing me off in the worst way,” I say.

“I know what you mean.”

“You won’t believe the shit I’ve seen over the past few months,”

I tell her.

“Like what?”

“First, I meet these transient models who live at Don Michaels’

house, and then I find out the girls have to fuck him in order to

stay there.”

“I stayed at a house like that once when I first moved here,”

Austin says casually. “The guys would wine and dine us, take us to

clubs, get us super fucked-up, and introduce us to rich old men,

who would pay them off. We were being prostituted and we didn’t

even know it!” she explains.

“Really?”

“Swear. My agent in Canada set it up for me to stay with a guy

who had a house in the Hills. When I first got there, I thought he

was just a rich man who liked to have pretty girls around. But then

one night I overheard him talking to this other model that had

been around for years. She was a little bit older. They were saying

how they both wanted to fuck this new eighteen-year-old who

wanted to get into porn. They kept saying how much they loved

the power of taking an innocent girl and corrupting her. It turned

them on. ‘Let’s get her drunk and fuck the shit out of her,’ they kept

saying. I think they slipped something into her drink because the

next morning the young girl came into my room in tears because

she had slept with them. She says they got her really drunk, video-

taped her, and took pictures. It was horrible. I felt so bad.”

“How did you get out?”

“They tossed me. I refused to sleep with the old fuck so he

kicked me out. Guys like him are everywhere in this town—lifelong

184

Playground

losers who buy self-esteem by fucking young girls they could never

get when they were younger. The trick is learning how to get ahead

without having to fuck them,” Austin says.

Neon lights flash as Rage, a predominantly gay male nightclub,

comes into view. Attention whores pose outside wearing tight

Levi’s or Calvin Klein jeans, their Moschino shirts either unbut-

toned or completely missing. We pay a few bucks and enter the sea

of sexy men. Janet Jackson’s pumping, the energy is bouncing, and

soon Austin drools after a muscular boy-toy at the bar.

Meanwhile, a girl in a miniskirt, white tank top, spiked heels,

and blond bobbed wig smiles at me from the dance floor. Our eyes

discuss whether or not we’re really flirting as she slowly makes her

way over to me, introducing herself as Skyler. We dance for hours,

and I can’t help but notice how Skyler keeps putting her hands

around my waist as she grinds behind me. But I don’t mind. I like

the attention. She asks me where I live and I tell her with my father

in Beverly Hills, but I try to stay away from details.

After a while, Austin tugs at my arm, ready to go home. Skyler

and I exchange phone numbers, mention hooking up for after-

hours, but we both end up flaking.

The next day, my father is in the middle of telling me about a chick

he’s going on a date with when the phone rings. He talks for a

minute, smiles, and hands me the cordless phone.

The voice on the other end says, “Does your father know you

dance at gay bars with girls in blond bobbed wigs?”

I stare blankly at my father.

“Who is this?” I respond aloofly.

“This is Skyler from last night.”

I lose my ability to breathe.

“Remember me? I finally put it together when your father kept

185

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

talking about his daughter Jennifer, who lives with him,” she says

in a soft tone of voice.

“Small world,” I barely get out, turning bright red.

“I have a date with your father tonight. You should come and say

hi,” she giggles. I half smile as I hand the phone back to my father.

“I’ll be there with bells on,” Dad says into the receiver.

I shake my head as he hangs up.

“How do you know her?” Dad asks, smiling.

“I met her through a friend of a friend,” I say, diverting my eyes

away from him.

“That’s unbelievable. She’s really incredible. I mean she’s nuts,

but she’s great. You should join us for dinner,” he offers, generously.

“I don’t know . . .”

“Come by. What else are you doing?”

Hours later, I’m sitting across the table from my father and Skyler

at Trader Vic’s, an upscale Polynesian restaurant in Beverly Hills.

Tonight, Skyler has long brown hair and wears a conservative

Donna Karan skirt suit and a white silk blouse. After a few Scor-

pion bowls, Skyler and I retreat into the bathroom to touch up our

makeup. We crack up laughing. Though it is an unspoken connec-

tion, it is clear we like each other.

I apply more powder. “How bizarre is this?”

Skyler coats her lips with liner. “Your father wants me to go

with him to Hef ’s New Year’s party.”

“Shine that, come to the Arena—it’s an awesome nightclub.

You’ll love it,” I tell her.

“Your father will kill me. By the way, what’s with the Uzi in the

backseat of his car?”

“He’s a little paranoid. Besides, everyone in L.A. has a gun; my