Playground (6 page)

I’ve become popular overnight. I’ve switched from coke-

bottle-thick glasses to contact lenses as new friends surround

me. I sport a new perm and parachute pants with lots of zippers.

I’ve adopted the Izod signature look and wear colored tuna clips

in my hair. Aviator Ray-Bans have become my trademark. All my

friends want to come with me to the Mansion but their parents

won’t let them. Their parents give them the same reasons my

mother gave me.

“They’re close-minded and don’t have a clue. They don’t even

know Hef.” I defend him as if he were my own father. Sometimes I

sneak a friend or two up there, but they have to promise not to say

anything to their parents.

Slumber parties with my girlfriends at school have become re-

ally huge. After being MIA for a while, I tell them I will definitely

be at Amber’s sleepover that Friday night.

Come Friday, four of us lie around upstairs in Amber’s room

surrounded by junk food and Queen, Michael Jackson, and Bee

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

Gees records. The conversation shifts from boys in our grade to

the Mansion in a matter of seconds.

“Why does your father take you up there so much?” asks Sonya,

flipping her permed hair.

“Do you think your dad sleeps with all those Playmates?”

Michelle blurts out in a snotty tone.

My face turns bright red.

“I don’t know, but Hef has a huge game room with three pin-

ball machines, a jukebox, a pool table, and foosball!”

Everyone is silenced, clearly impressed.

Later that night, I glance around Amber’s bedroom at my

friends, who are fast asleep. The television is on downstairs, so I

make my way there, sneaking a peek at Amber’s mother and father

in the den.

“I feel sorry for that girl. Sweet kid. Too bad her father’s such a

wacko,” her mother says.

“Her father lives at the Mansion. I mean who in their right

mind brings an eleven-year-old up there?” Amber’s father asks,

shaking his head. “She’s going to be one fucked-up girl when she’s

older,” he affirms.

I am stung, unable to move. It’s at this moment that I realize

how different my life is from that of all my friends. A part of me

can see it clearly, though another part of me knows I will forget

this by dawn.

Sixth grade bores me. There is no way it can compete with the

magical kingdom filling my head—that perfect place, free of rules

and monotony. I fidget in my seat until we are finally let go. I don’t

want to go home to my mother, to her cold stares and lists of

chores.

I walk next door to my father’s office, which is on the twenty-

second floor of the Century City Medical Building. The reception

room is packed with fitness freaks obsessed with losing weight.

You never know which celebrity is going to pop his head through

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Playground

the door. The countertops are lined with greeting cards and head-

shots from only the most famous.

Buzzed through by reception, I reach Dad’s office and stop to

stare at a life-size portrait of a little girl in a light blue bathing suit.

She stands beside a large tree, holding a gardenia in her small hands.

Her blue eyes look sad. I stare at the girl, completely captivated.

I don’t let myself see that she resembles me. The gardenia she

holds is the same flower my father sends me for special occasions:

birthdays, Easter, Valentine’s Day. Like this girl, I am caught, for-

ever a child, suspended in a frame of his design. I only recognize

that the picture saddens me. Like living in his love, seeing this like-

ness chokes me to the point where I cannot breathe.

Dad hurries in.

“Hi, honey. Good to see you.”

His phone buzzes as he searches for something in his office.

“Where did it go?” he asks himself, shuffling things around.

“Ah,” he sighs, picking up a wrapped gift with a pretty pink

bow. “I got a little something for you.”

Dad hands me a white box.

“Hef ’s on line two,” his secretary screams over the intercom.

“Open it,” Dad mouths, excited, as he picks up the phone.

I tear open the wrapping paper to find a new Wilson tennis

racket!

“I’ll be right there,” Dad says into the receiver before hanging up.

“Wow. Thanks, Dad. I love it!”

He is pleased by my reaction. “I have to go to the Mansion. Do

you want to come along for the ride?”

“Sure.” I shrug.

Twenty minutes later, we arrive at the iron gates.

Dad hops out of the car and carries his medical bag inside. A

butler greets us at the door as Dad hurries upstairs while I make a

mad dash for the game room. I cut through the tree-lined pathway,

wondering if anyone has beaten my highest score.

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

After hours of Space Invaders and Andy Gibb on repeat, I head

back into the house and enter the Med Room, a breakfast nook

with a glass table, chairs, and a stone fountain gurgling in the cor-

ner. It’s bright and comfortable. When I enter, I find an older man

sitting with a young girl. I sit down at the end of the table.

“You’re Doc’s daughter, right?” the man asks.

He gives me the creeps.

“Right.” I smirk back, hoping he will recognize my disinterest

and leave me alone.

“Have you met my daughter, Sofia?” he asks.

“No.” I move to shake the shy girl’s hand. She seems a few years

older than me. I grab a pad of paper and doodle, pretending not

to notice how affectionate they seem. I try to inch my chair away

from them, but it doesn’t help. I’m incredibly uncomfortable, al-

though I’m not quite sure why.

Dad comes down the main staircase and joins us in the Med

Room a few minutes later. He shakes hands with the guy and says

hello to the girl. He sits down beside me, ordering a sandwich and

a bowl of soup from a butler.

“How was everything?” I ask.

“Fine. Routine,” Dad answers discreetly, as always.

I peer over stunned by what I see next. The “shy” girl stands up

and kisses her father good-bye. Their mouths are slightly open as

they kiss softly on the lips.

After she leaves, I whisper, “That’s his
daughter,
” into my father’s

ear, horrified. “Did you see how they kissed?”

Dad nods nonchalantly. “That’s what people do when they love

each other.” His eyes peer right through me. My body goes numb.

He does not comprehend where he ends and I begin. I try to think

of something to say, but I cannot. I look away from him quickly,

knowing I saw something gross.

Soon, I care less and less about roller-skating rinks, spin the bot-

tle, or boys my own age, all of which seem elementary to me. My fa-

ther, without being conscious of it, causes a tug-of-war between the

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Playground

kid I am and the adult he wants me to be. He wants me to tag along

as his partner in crime and is threatened by anyone with the power

to divert my attention or love.

“Why do you need to sleep at other kids’ houses when you have

everything you need at my house? It doesn’t make any sense,” he

repeats over and over.

“That’s what we do. We have sleepovers,” I try to explain, but

he doesn’t get it.

His love and devotion are intoxicating. We become so attached

that leaving each other seems as final as death. Before long, I start

to second-guess why I’d want to sleep anywhere else or even be

with anyone else.

We’re at our usual corner booth at Hamburger Hamlet in Century

City, eating burgers, shakes, and fries.

“The Village People are performing at the Mansion,” my father

mentions, nonchalantly, between bites.

I drop the fries that were headed to my mouth. Ketchup splat-

ters all over my white Esprit shorts. I don’t notice.

“Are you serious? They’re my favorite group!” I scream franti-

cally.

“I would invite you,” he eyeballs me, “but it’s a pajama party for

adults and I certainly don’t want your mother yelling at me again.”

“You always want me to go with you everywhere, and now

you’re saying I can’t?”

“Hey, I’m okay with it; it’s your mother who has the problem,”

he reiterates smoothly.

I switch gears, instantly understanding the complex dynamic

at hand.

“It’s probably because she’s jealous,” I say, knowing it’s what he

wants to hear.

“I hate to say it, but I think you’re right,” he smiles.

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

I envision myself jumping up and down onstage with the Vil-

lage People:
Let’s hear it for “Y.M.C.A.”!

“You know she acts like she cares about you, but she doesn’t

care about anyone but herself,” he says about my mother.

“Oh, I know,” I say, while trying to figure out what I’ll wear to

the event.

“Well, I suppose what Mom doesn’t know won’t hurt her,” he

says.

We exchange smiles.

Another image of me onstage with the Village People flashes

through my brain. Dancing with them, flailing my arms in the air,

motioning the letters to “Y.M.C.A.”

“So, it’s settled then,” says Dad.

From under the table, he pulls out an autographed album of

the Village People with my name on it.

“Wow! Thanks, Dad. I can’t believe you got it signed and

everything!”

We hug, having, once again, successfully tiptoed through the

land mines of our relationship.

The day of the concert, the commotion on the front lawn is

enough to drive anyone wild—balloons, colorful umbrellas, a

popcorn trolley, and endless pretty girls in bikinis. A roller disco

party is under way as I spy on everyone, watching Vanna White

and Dorothy Stratten from the bushes above the tennis court.

After a while, I retreat into the game room, grab a few gum-

balls, play a quick game of Frogger, and then head into the bath-

room. Next to the sink is a small, weird-looking cigarette, which

has a strong odor. I light a match, stick it between my lips, inhale,

and start to cough incessantly. I quickly twist open the window,

worried that someone will smell the smoke.

I know I have done something wrong as I look into the mirror

and see my guilty reflection. My eyes find their way down to my feet.

The marble is miles from the bottom of my soles. I reach for the

door handle but it won’t open. I twist and turn the knob, unsure of

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Playground

which way will free me from this bathroom that has now become

a looming cellar. Panic sets in and I’m scared I will never get out. I

blink my eyes a few times and try to focus. It feels like forever since

I’ve been in here. I yank on the handle, turning the lock back and

forth with all my might. It finally unlocks and I step out, exasper-

ated, wiping sweat off my forehead. In my mind, I can picture the

main house, but somehow it seems so far away. I give up on the idea

of finding my way there and fall backward onto the couch in the

game room, feeling a rush of fresh air in my lungs with considerable

relief. I grab handfuls of M&M’s from bowls on the coffee table, ig-

noring other bowls filled with white pills. I collapse back onto the

couch, melting into the soft leather seats and feel myself slowly be-

gin to drift away.

That night I’m in my usual secret spot above the banister, spy-

ing on guests in pajamas and lingerie as they mingle down below.

Everyone looks past me. There are lots of people rushing around,

constantly moving, dancing, and posing. Everyone sparkles. Along

the perimeter of the room, Playmates and guests pose like Grecian

statues in bugle-beaded, jeweled gowns with avant-garde paisley

and spiraling designs swirling over mile-high shoulder pads.

A couple makes out in the corner. Two pretty girls dressed as

bunnies hold hands and kiss.

The lights go down and a spotlight brightens the stage as the

Village People step up, one by one, looking just like the major rock

stars they are. Everyone cheers as
“Y.M.C.A.”
kicks off the night. I

dance alone, upstairs, shifting my hands to make the letters. Wild

energy courses through the colorful party and part of me wishes I