The Leftover Club (2 page)

But
Bryan did a lot to keep his amazing light hidden under a bushel, and only I knew how much dear Bryan was hiding.

I took his hand in mine. “We’ll make it as long as we have each other.” He gave me a grateful smile and leaned in to kiss me on my cheek, which one of the approaching jocks found hilarious.

“Oh, look. The fag finally found his hag.”

I glared at
the name-caller. “Fuck you.”

“Not in your wildest dreams,
lardass,” he shot back, and his other friends considered this a genius comeback. They sauntered victoriously over to Dylan’s group just in time for the bus to idle up to the curb.

Bryan
draped his arm around me as we fell into line, inching like ants into the overcrowded bus. Fortunately we found a spot together. Nothing quite matched the stress of trying to find a seat that wasn’t next to the cliquish preppies, jocks or even the metal heads. I might occasionally luck out and find a seat next to a fellow geek, dork or nerd. I even settled for seats next to burnouts, because even though they reeked of weed, they generally never noticed I was there. I still found myself spilling over the sides of the seat, just so I wouldn’t crowd them with my extra weight, which never made for a comfortable ride to school.

With
Bryan I had a seat buddy I could cozy up to, provided we could find an empty one we could share. It was one of the main reasons I, too, was counting down the days for him to get his car. Nothing added insult to the injury of high school more than riding the bus.

Bryan
and I huddled close, poring over our schedules, to see which classes we would share. We were on the same lunch, which was great, but we only had English and Drama together. That meant I would be facing most of my classes – including the dreaded co-ed P.E. – without my safety person.

It was daunting to say the least.

Equally daunting was the campus of Hermosa Vista High. The large, mission-styled buildings were sprawled over five city blocks, which meant I could probably expect to lose at least a pound or two racing from one side of campus to the other to make my classes on time.

I wasn’t a sporty person by any means, but I could make a hundred-yard dash in the blink of an eye if it meant I didn’t have to walk into class a second after the bell rang. Some folks were made to be the center of attention. I wasn’t one of them.

We all filed out of the bus, and many of us headed toward the cafeteria for a quick breakfast before school started. The newbies were easy to spot as we worked our way through the crowd. They were the ones who stared around wide-eyed, trying to acclimate to their new environment.

One such student approached us. She was tall and skinny, with glasses so wide it made her look like a
praying mantis. Her hair was collected in one long braid down her back, and she wore clothes that looked like they came from the vintage bin at the local Goodwill. “Do you guys know where the cafeteria is?”

Bryan
nodded. “We’re on our way there now. Come on, we’ll show you.”

She offered him a grateful smile. “I’m Olive. I’m new here, but I guess you could tell.”

“I’m Bryan, and that’s Roni. We’re new here, too, so it’s cool.”

We entered the cafeteria as many students were filing out. There was st
ill some runny oatmeal to be had, flopped onto our plates by sullen cafeteria workers as we inched along down the food line. We paid for our meager breakfasts and found a table next to the windows facing over the courtyard in the middle of the school campus.

“So where are you from?”
Bryan asked Olive as he stabbed some of the lifeless fruit from his bowl.

“Oregon,” she answered with a wry smile. “My folks decided to work for a year with a tribe in Africa, so I had the choice of going with them or staying with some relatives down here.”

“You should have picked Africa,” Bryan quipped. “It’d be safer.”

She laughed. “It doesn’t look that bad,” she said as she gazed out over the line of students passing by the window. Dylan Fenn was one of them, and I recognized that look immediately. “Who’s that?”

Bryan snickered. “Ask Roni. She lives with him.”

Her eyes widened as she looked at me. “Is that your brother?”

I shook my head. “No relation,” I grumbled.

“Just living in sin,”
Bryan teased.

“Stop it,” I shushed. I turned to Olive. “Our moms share a house.” Her eyes opened even wider, so I had to further explain. “
And no, nothing like that. Just sharing expenses.”

She laughed. “I don’t think I could handle living under the same roof as someone like him. The temptation would be too great.”

“It’s only temptation if he’s interested,” I answered. “And he’s not. So it’s no big deal.”

She nodded. “Anyone want my sausage?” She made a face. “I’m a vegetarian.”

“I’ll take it,” I offered. I was suddenly starving.

A group of preppy girls stopped by our table. “Hey,
Roni,” the prettiest one said. “Wow, I totally love that top. It’s super cute.”

“Um.
Thanks?”

“
I’m having a back to school party this weekend. You should totally come.”

I glanced at this stranger I did not know from Eve. “I should?”

She nodded before she handed me a slip of paper with all her pertinent information. “And do me a big favor. Be sure to invite Dylan.”

“Ah,” I said as I slipped the paper into my notebook.
“Sure thing. What was your name?”

“Tiffany,” she answered.

“Of course,” I replied under my breath. I watched as the happy trio went to share a fruit cup between them.

“Pathetic,”
Bryan announced once they were out of earshot.

“What was that?” Olive wanted to know.

“The Meat Seekers,” he answered easily. “The girls that cozy up to other girls just to get at one of their guy friends.”

“And they want Dylan,” Olive deduced.

“Who doesn’t?” Bryan chirped before he took a big bite out of his banana.

“I don’t know why they even bother with me,” I muttered. “Girls who look lik
e Tiffany will generally get their chance sooner or later.”

“
Like 98-percent of the girls in this school,” Bryan added.

“And the other two percent?”
Olive wanted to know.

“We’re the leftovers,” he answered. “Meant to curdle and mold at the back of the fridge while we all wait for our chance to be chosen.”

“We?” Olive asked.

He put a finger to his lips, indicating the major secrets we were sharing with her. She nodded. She was a vegetarian from Oregon and her parents were clearly hippies. Nothing short of a stampede
for fur coats at the local Neiman Marcus would have offended her easygoing sensibilities.

This was the kind of girl who ate wheat germ and still listened to Joan Baez
.

She
went with it, just like he trusted she would. Bryan was getting really good at weeding out those he could trust, and he knew instantly she was a kindred spirit. This, of course, made Olive an instant best friend before breakfast was over.

Bryan
and I had an exclusive club, but Olive Young was now solidly a part of it.

It was the best thing that happened to the three of us on our first day at Hermosa Vista High.

August 27, 2007

“Meghan!” I hollered, but it was no match for the music blasting from the other side of the door. I balanced the hamper of clothes on my hip as I juggled with my ringing cell phone. It was only seven in the morning, but already the boss was calling with a litany of chores for me to do before I reached the office.

Being the
assistant of a Hollywood agent was not exactly the glamorous career of my dreams, but it paid the bills. I had to remind myself of this when I was picking up dry cleaning or sorting out Skittles by color.

“Meghan!” I called again with another knock on the door. It was an hour drive from Torrance to Burbank on a good morning, and I didn’t have time to pull my daughter from her 12-hour coma in time for the first day of school.

I tried the knob, but it was locked. So I pounded harder. Finally the door was wrenched back and my fifteen-year-old daughter glared at me from under a mop of tussled black hair. “What is your malfunction, Mom? Geez!”

“Today is the first day of school,” I reminded.

“Duh!” she shot back. “I’m not a child. I can get myself ready for school, you know.”

I glanced over her rumpled
shortie pajamas and mussed hair. “No, I do not know,” I snapped. “Do we really have to dig out all the letters and emails I got from your teachers last year for failing to make your first and second classes?”

“Whatever,” she grumbled before she turned away from the door. I glanced in her room, which looked like a set from a disaster movie. She waded through the clothes
that littered her floor, both dirty and clean, as she made her way to the closet to dig out a suitable outfit for the first day of school. There was no thoughtful deliberation, she just grabbed a top and a pair of jeans, determined to make them look cute instead of the other way around.

My lanky daughter was able to make that kind of choice. She was tall for her age, towering over my 5’
7 frame. She had long ebony hair that obeyed her every command. She could wear it curly or straight, it didn’t matter. She looked like she stepped off a magazine no matter what she did.

I envied her prowess.

She was also slender, like her father. She had the necessary curves in all the right places, but as a natural athlete she was more focused on being toned than being thin. She had loved to run almost by the time she mastered walking, so her years of training made her lean and coltish.

Our differences were so stark,
I often wondered if she’d been switched at birth.

She made being feminine and pretty look so effortless,
I felt like I should give up on the whole woman thing, pick out a moo moo and get some curlers for my hair and just be done with it.

I was just a mom, and if you asked Meghan, not a particularly good one.
But she was fifteen, and contractually bound to hate everything I said or did just out of principle. “Do you need a ride?” I asked as I picked up the discarded laundry closest to the door. I didn’t necessarily have time to make good on my offer, but was at a loss these days on how to connect with my daughter.

And it was always worse after she returned from spending the summer with her dad.

“Erin is picking me up,” she dismissed without even looking at me.

I sighed as I watched her approach. “I guess I’ll see you tonight.”

She shrugged. “Maybe.” In fifteen-speak, that meant I’d be lucky to see her before curfew. Despite her surly behavior, she generally wasn’t disobedient. She got good grades, she made it to class on time more often than not, and she had managed to get to the grand ol’ age of 15 without getting pregnant or arrested.

In my book
that counted as a win.

“Want me to pick something up on my way home? How do you feel about Thai?”

“We’ll probably go for pizza after school,” she said.

I nodded. “Do you need money or anything?”

“Dad gave me plenty,” she said with a direct look of pure loathing. She didn’t add that he had paid for her clothes and was going to buy her a car and a million other things I had to scrimp and save to satisfy her insatiable appetite for more. She always seemed to want what she didn’t have. And when she got it, she just wanted more. I had never quite instilled in her an attitude of gratitude, to be blessed for those things she did have.

Perhaps
it was a lesson I needed to learn myself. I spent most of my time divvying up my income between several savings accounts to ensure that the next time things went bad I was better prepared for it. Yet the numbers in the account were never enough, because there was just no telling what the next bad thing would be.

Sometimes I thought I’d never feel truly safe again.

“Is there anything else?” she added.

The strident ringtone of my phone answered her question for me. She rolled her eyes and brushed past me toward the bathroom.

It was ironic. All the nasty teen girls I had escaped from high school had been resurrected in the teen daughter I lived with and – most times – loved. My own mother had just given me that knowing look with a benevolent smile when I cried on her shoulder about it. “This, too, shall pass,” she said. “One day you’ll even be friends. Of course, that’ll probably happen around the time she becomes a mother, but, it’s something to look forward to.”

My mother.
She always had a great sense of humor.

I didn’t even bother with makeup as I pulled my hair back into a functional ponytail. Clunky black-rimmed glasses framed, or rather disguised, my face. I stepped into a comfortable pair of stretch pants and slipped an
oversized tunic over my head, and then I was out the door.

I would leave the hour-long
makeup ritual to the younger girls who had men to impress. Those days were long over for me. As a plump, near-40 divorcee, the only fish left in my sea were mutated or rotten. I had no one left to attract, and no stamina left to pretend otherwise. I had showered and my hair and face were clean. That was just going to have to be good enough. I had long ago given up polishing the turd. I was a thirty-seven-year-old single mom, which is just about as invisible as you can get in a town like L.A.

That suited me fine.

I got into my second-hand car and turned it north toward downtown, easing into the farthest lane I could legally drive all by my onesies. I hopped all over the radio dial to find something to entertain me as I inched along with all the other cars crawling toward the city, stopping when I heard the familiar sounds of the J. Geils Band, with the aptly titled, “
Love Stinks
.”

I sang along at the top of my lungs. I didn’t even care that other people could see me as I bopped along to
the 80s classic. Within my car, for two hours a day, I was a queen. I could be who I was without fear of reprisal from my daughter, from my ex, and from society in general. Other people will tell you commutes in L.A. are hell, but to me it was always a vacation. It was therapy and meditation all rolled into one. I often dreaded pulling off the 134 onto Hollywood Way as I neared my office on the edge of Burbank and Toluca Lake.

I stopped by Fed-Ex to pick up the packages waiting for my boss, likely a dozen scripts for his famous clientele. I also grabbed his coffee
and a low-fat muffin, all of which I hand-delivered to his office as he worked out on the fancy treadmill facing the picturesque window that framed the Verdugo Hills. Tony Rinaldi was predictably barking into his cell phone, which teetered precariously on the shelf in front of him. “I told you we wouldn’t even consider looking at it for less than six figures. Did you fall and hit your head on something, Sid? How could you insult me with that lowball offer?”

He spotted me slinking toward his desk, where I deposited his mail.
Tony grabbed a towel before he turned off the machine. He disconnected his call with, “Give me a buzz when you want to get serious.” He wiped the sweat from his brow as he approached. “Fucking studios. They’ll spend billions on some reboot of a stupid piece of shit from ten years ago, but won’t open up their purse strings for a Pulitzer-prize-winning author. Explain that to me.”

“I can’t,” I offered with a helpless shrug as I handed him his coffee and his muffin.

“See? And that’s what makes you too good for this industry, Roni,” he said as he rounded his desk to sit. “If I had any sense at all, I’d fire you so you don’t end up a soulless automaton like the rest of us.”

I had to suppress a smile. It was a threat he repeated at least once a week. But both of us knew that he couldn’t have functioned without me. He was the one to give me a job after my divorce nine years ago, when he was still working at one of the Big Five agencies
. Within the first two years he decided to finally branch out on his own. I was the one who helped him transition, and he rewarded me with a rather impressive salary that was smaller than when I worked at one of the Big Five, but big enough to keep me shopping around for another job. Why would I? It was comfortable. It was safe. And it allowed me to squirrel away a modest savings for the future, as well as purchase a condo and do my part to keep Meghan in the newest designer clothes.

Unlike my meager childhood, Meghan had never worn handmade hand-me-downs. Two reasons: One, I knew what kind of social death came with such a thing. Two, it was the 21
st
century. Who had time to sew?

My
solid, middle-class salary came with an undefined job description. I was a receptionist-secretary-accountant-PR agent-gopher-therapist-personal buyer-bouncer. Whatever job Tony didn’t want to or couldn’t do usually fell to me. I guess you could say I was a professional juggler, only instead of flaming swords or chainsaws I juggled the careers of key players in Hollywood.

On some days
I think I would have rather had the chainsaws.

By 2003, I
had to hire my own assistant. I gave her a nod as I headed to my office, to tackle my tasks for the day, which for the end of the month meant a whole week of accounting.

I gulped down
the caffeine and sugar that masqueraded as my coffee order while my computer switched on. Within minutes, I was immersed in a jumble of numbers I had to enter into our database, processing payments and bills. I was going cross-eyed by the time someone knocked on the door around noon. I glanced up in time to see Dylan poke his head through the door.

He was just as flawless in 2007 as he had been in 1985, or 1982, or 1979 or 1976, when I first met him. His smile was still whiter than white, his skin still unblemished, the sharp angle of his chin could still cut glass. His wavy dark hair brushed his shoulders and his dark brown eyes were endless.

And he was still my friend.

Sorta
.

“Hey,” he greeted happily. “Can you break for lunch?”

“As long as it doesn’t involve math, I can break for anything. Am I too young for a colonoscopy?”

He laughed as he entered my office. “Tell me how someone who had to cheat off my
math homework now does accounting for a major entertainment agency?”

“I never cheated,” I informed him with the proper amount of indignation.
“Not from you, anyway. You sucked just as bad as I did. Bryan, now that’s a different story.”

He plopped down on the chair facing my desk. “Ah, yes.
Bryan. I guess we’ll be seeing him again at the reunion.”

My brow furrowed. “What reunion?”

“Didn’t you get the email?” he asked.

I indicated the gargantuan stack of paperwork on my desk. “I haven’t exactly had a chance to look.”

“Spoiler warning, there’s going to be a 20-year reunion for the Fighting Jaguars of Hermosa Vista High, Class of ’88.”

I rolled my eyes. “Count me out.”

“What? Why?”

I gave him a pointed stare. “I didn’t like most of those assholes in twelfth grade. You t
hink my opinion has changed?”

“You went to the last one,” he pointed out.

I rolled my eyes again. “That’s even more reason not to go.”

“Come on,” he cajoled with a smile. “I’ll sneak you wine coolers, just like senior year. It’ll be fun.”

“I’d rather have the colonoscopy,” I muttered as I looked back at my computer screen.

He shrugged. “
Suit yourself. I’ve got nearly a year to change your mind. And don’t think I won’t,” he shot over his shoulder as he strode confidently toward the door.

I’d never tell him as much, but Dylan Fenn was the primary reason I’d never attend another reunion again.