Miss Adventure Page 8

  I can’t believe I got another forehead bruise, just as my head-butt bruise was almost gone. Luckily, though, when I passed out at the airport and landed on my face, I hit a parking curb with my forehead, thus saving my nose and teeth from getting broken. Plus, I didn’t die, which is really good. Now I have this really hot guy to drive me home.

  And it’s weird, but it makes me feel all superior—to whom I have no idea—to have such a completely non-sexual relationship with such a sex god. As though I’m above it all or something. True, our platonic association has more to do with his finding me repulsive, but I so don’t care. It’s been months since my release from the hospital, and I finally have someone in my life.

  “Mad Dog,” I sigh, sinking back into the seat, engulfed in a cloud of contentment.

  “What?” he asks, nudging into a different lane.

  “My favorite A-Team character, by far, is Mad Dog Murdoch. And by the way…” I take a deep breath. “Thanks. For taking me to the hospital and now this. You’re a pretty cool guy.”

  “I’m glad you think so,” he says, pulling onto the exit ramp. "Because I’m spending the night.”

  * * * * *

  He’s in my pajamas, no less. Lucky for him I buy men’s pajamas, just so I’m extra comfy. Now he’s just as snug as can be, showered and cozy, wearing a pair of dark plaid pajama pants and a T-shirt.

  Not that he has any intention of sleeping, though.

  Hardly.

  He won’t let me sleep either. And since it’s already been established that the whole sex thing is a non-issue, he’s stuck playing Lord of the Rings Trivial Pursuit with me. It’s the fourth board game we’ve played so far tonight. Serves him right. Though, I must say, for someone who didn’t seem too excited to play, he’s doing awfully well.

  At ten to midnight, he wins the game.

  “Bastard.”

  “Wow,” he says, stretching his legs along my shabby-chic couch and nearly pushing me off. “A chicken and a sore loser. You didn’t get picked for too many teams when you were a kid, did you?”

  “Hey,” I warn, cleaning up the game pieces.

  “Just calling a spade a spade.”

  “Right. Like you’re a defender of truth. No way you only saw the movies once.”

  “I have. But I’ve read the books more than that.”

  I slump back on the couch, giving Jack a dirty look. His shins are pressing against my back, making my slouch a very uncomfortable one. I just keep glaring at him. “I can’t believe I forgot. You never do things you suck at.”

  He bends his knees, pulling his legs out from behind me. “I never said ‘never.’”

  I shift so my back rests against the arm of the couch, making it so we’re facing each other from our opposite ends. “So once upon a time you sucked at something?”

  “’Course,” he answers. “I wasn’t born doing everything right or knowing what I was good at.”

  “So what did you do so badly?”

  He doesn’t answer.

  “C’mon. I’ve humiliated myself lots in front of you.”

  “Yeah, well, I’ve chosen a different path.” He sits up and folds the board into the box. “I’ve learned what things in life I want to avoid, and what things I want to pursue.” He puts the top back on the game box and looks at me with a blow-off kind of shrug.

  “What’s that supposed to mean? That I haven’t learned anything because I still manage to end up looking like a fool sometimes?”

  He folds his hands, his elbows on his knees, and looks at me. “I don’t know, Lisa. You tell me.”

  What a smug little cretin. “Maybe I just think some things are worth risking, even if I'm not sure and not perfect.”

  He blinks at me, reminding me of Morris the Cat. “Maybe I won’t tell you about my life because it has nothing to do with our deal.”

  And we’re not friends.

  He doesn’t say it, but I can hear it echo in the silence.

  Then, like the slap of a tide that you can’t beat to shore, the disillusionment and mortification wash over me. I realize that until this second, I was thinking that we had some kind of connection beyond the deal. Not a boy-girl connection. Not even friends, really. But still, a bond. Like the bond that develops between Nicholas Cage and Shirley MacLaine in Guarding Tess. Not exactly friends, but not exactly anything else, either. Like a Mulder-Scully rapport.

  But no. I was wrong.

  “Of course you don’t have to tell me anything,” I decide to concede with a smile. “I entered into this arrangement free and clear. Your exposing yourself to me to make me feel better was never part of the deal.”

  “No, it wasn’t.”

  Jeez, I already agreed with him. You'd think he'd just shut up and leave me alone. “In any case,” I say with matter-of-fact clarity, “no one should ever be hounded into turning themselves inside out. Everyone should get to keep to themselves whatever they want. Except criminals.” I look right into his eyes. “I’m sorry.”

  Jack looks at the floor, then back at me. “Look, Lisa,” he finally says, taking hold of my foot. “I know it’s been rough. What the Media did to you…”

  “It hasn’t been rough,” I say, then do a bark of laughter-type throat noise. “I got six million dollars. Everyone should have it so rough.”

  “That doesn’t replace what the Media stole from you, or what you lost.” Jack’s voice is too soft and too nice, especially considering what he really thinks of me.

  I remember the things people said about me in the magazines. Some of those people were supposed to love me, but they humiliated me anyway. I can’t help but wonder if Jack read the articles. If he remembers.

  Binge…barely fit into a size fourteen…bull-sized her meal…almost choked on the cheeseburger in her mouth….was so happy when Keith finally proposed this Christmas…Always had low self-esteem, poor thing, ever since she wet the bed at a friend’s house in fifth grade after watching C.H.U.D. ….An incredible girlfriend, I don’t care what size she is….She was always jealous of my being skinnier, which is sad between sisters. She could be a decent size, too, if she just stopped eating.…I heard this loud creak. I thought she’d farted…When you eat like that, how can you expect to float down the aisle on a cloud?....The combination of big body size and low self-esteem is a tragedy of a modern, over-eating America.…She kept trying to compare herself to Marilyn Monroe...

  I’d been in a coma, unable to comment, unable to defend myself. Unable to explain how scary C.H.U.D. was or how I wasn’t always comparing myself to Marilyn Monroe. And I don’t do it anymore now that I’m no longer blonde. It’s just that she was a size 12 like I was, or at least that’s what she tells Clark Gable in The Misfits.

  “Jack,” I pull my knees in toward my chest, snatching my foot back. “I don’t want to get personal, either. Can we stop talking now?”

  He doesn’t answer. Good.

  But his silence is so condescending.

  “Why are you so sure I need therapy,” I demand, “but you don’t?”

  “Why am I here?” he asks instead of answering me. “You were in the hospital today, but I’m the only one with you. You didn’t call anyone. Don’t you think that’s a little weird?”

  “I thought this was all supposed to be a big secret!” Damn, talking that loudly really makes my head hurt.

  “From the staff at Into the Wild,” he reminds me.

  “If you didn’t want to drive me home or stay the night, then you shouldn’t have done it. I never asked you for any of this.”

  “I’m responsible, Lisa. Do you think I’m just going to walk away and not take care of you?”

  Take care of me?

  “You were testing my gear when this happened,” he goes on. “The truth is, I should have been better prepared for something like this. I will be next time.”

  Oh. It’s all just business and gear and liability for his guinea pig.

  “Why do you care who I do or don’t call, anyway?” I ask. �
�Psychoanalyzing me wasn’t part of the deal, either.”

  He shrugs. “I thought maybe you were bugging me about my secrets because you really just wanted to talk about yours.”

  “Secrets?” I squawk. “Like I have any left!”

  He just looks at me.

  “Is it so hard to believe,” I ask, “that I was asking about you because I actually want to know about you?”

  He looks at me as if it is hard to believe, but I’m so tired that his skepticism sits just fine with me.

  “It’s midnight,” I say, stretching out. “Can I go to sleep?” I shut my eyes.

  “I’m going to wake you every hour.”

  “Whatever.”

  CHAPTER 9

  Armory Street in the heart of Los Angeles makes me squint from the glare of the September sun bouncing off faded concrete. There are no trees, except for a line of impossibly tall palms lining the side of the road. The park across the street and down the hill hogs all the nearby shade with its few clusters of scraggly sycamores. I get out of my new blue hybrid, beeping it locked. I have to keep Dalton safe. Sugar lasted only a few months before I sacrificed her on the altar of stupidity. I pat Dalton’s roof, silently promising to be more vigilant.

  My hand still on Dalton, I look up at what appears to be a six story white apartment building. I scan the parking lot and minimal lawn before I see the sign flanking the back door of the ground floor. HEYA: Helping Everyone Young Achieve.

  Deep breath.

  This is the place. I’ve arrived.

  I look down at myself. Jeans, ironed green button-down worn open over a crisp white T. Casual, but clean. Confident, but down to earth. Boy, did my wardrobe raise some eyebrows in class today. Some people looked at me quizzically, as if wondering who I was, and then their eyes would grow huge as they figured it out. Jack even paused in stride to give me a once-over on his way past my seat. Whatever. Like I have time to play dress up. I have something much more important to do today.

  I take in another big gulp of air and straighten the cuffs of my shirt. Was green the right choice? I’m pretty sure it doesn’t have any gang affiliations. Plus it sets off the fading purple and yellow forehead bruise, which I’m hoping will make me look tough enough to work in the ‘hood. My stomach roils. Man. What good is six million dollars if you still feel all the icky old feelings? Seriously, nervousness at a job interview? Millionaire-status should at least take care of that.

  I grit my teeth, try to feel six million dollars strong, and approach the building where HEYA has its headquarters. Well, not headquarters, really, since there are no other quarters. Just the one rec center, and they need me. Not my money, not my fame. They need me, Lisa Flyte. I just keep telling myself that as I walk in.

  But other voices in my head are louder. My father declaring that I don’t do anything with my life. Keith telling me he can do better. Maggot-Face braying that nobody cares about me now that I’m awake. Mom’s bedside condemnation is loudest of all. You’re still you.

  But I am going to change. I am. Starting now. I close my eyes and pray that nobody here saw the 10-page color spread in the February issue of People.

  “Help you?” a voice asks.

  My eyes fly open in time to see a young man taking a seat behind the reception desk in the bright lobby. His jeans and T-shirt give me confidence about my own wardrobe, but the Capri pants and jewelry on the young woman standing near the desk freak me out. I stare and swallow like Anna Paquin winning her Oscar. “I’m…I’m Lisa Flyte.”

  They stare back at me, then burst out laughing.

  “Oh, my God,” the woman says. “You’re never going to believe this!”

  “I told you,” the young man says to her.

  When the young woman catches her breath, she manages to speak. “I thought you were gonna be that Lisa Flyte person from the magazine! The one whose car got crushed by Burger Barn?” More laughter. “I’m sorry. I guess it’s a more common name than I thought.”

  She doesn’t recognize me with my size eight body. I’m even a size six when I wear Gap jeans. And my short brown hair with coppery highlights looks nothing like the Vanna White look I was sporting last winter. Plus I’m awake and not drooling.

  “Well,” I offer, “there were two Engelbert Humperdincks.” They both stare at me, obviously never having heard of either. Come on. The second Engelbert guest-starred on The Love Boat and kissed Julie! “And there’re two actresses named Vanessa Williams,” I add.

  Their eyes light up.

  “Right,” the young man says, nodding.

  “I’m Guadalupe,” the young woman says. “Lupe. We spoke on the phone. And this is Julius.”

  I smile and nod at both of them.

  Guadalupe smiles back. “Let’s go back to Mr. Bennet’s office.”

  I follow in her wake, even more nervous than I was a minute ago. Did I just lie to the prospective employers for whom I want to work so badly? I think I did. I know I did.

  Not technically, of course. I never said, “I am not the Lisa Flyte who was crushed by Burger Barn.”

  But still. It was enough of a lie that when it’s discovered, and of course it will be discovered because I am a terrible liar, I will leave HEYA covered in inky ignominy.

  But I can’t leave. I love HEYA already. Its cinderblock walls painted in primary colors pulse with vibrant goodness. They really do. I can feel my bones absorbing it.

  Surrounding me on these walls is incredible artwork—paintings, photographs and collages made by students of all ages, according to the nifty little placards under each one. Everyone gets his or her very own placard! No one’s ever given me my very own placard.

  Off to each side of me as we wind through the corridors are rooms where I can see and hear kids playing ping pong, goofing off, studying with older volunteers, or reading.

  I know I’m in a place where things matter. Where people matter.

  We arrive at a small office maybe ten by ten. A large, balding black man in a white shirt and yellow tie sits behind a desk. He looks both doleful and sardonic with a long mustache that curves down to his jowls.

  Guadalupe looks to him, then back to me. “Mr. Bennet, Lisa Flyte. Lisa Flyte, Mr. Bennet.”

  Introductions complete, she ducks her head as she scurries to lean against the window sill with two young men, both of whom wear jeans. When she notices the looks they all pin her with, she just smiles and shrugs.

  Mr. Bennet stands, extending his hand to me. “Ms. Flyte, I’m Mr. Bennet. Lupe, I mean Guadalupe, you’ve met. She’s in charge of Academic Programs. Edgar…” the young Alpha male with his eyebrows slammed together nods. “…oversees Recreational Programs. And Jimmy is in charge of our Outreach Programs.”

  “Hey.” The last guy sends me a disarming smile.

  I smile back, but bite my bottom lip. Both young men are compact and ruthlessly in shape. I suck in my stomach. Mr. Bennet motions to a chair, and I take a seat. When I do, my eyes fall to the magazine on his desk.

  A tattered copy of February’s issue of People. I cannot help but stare. I think my mouth drops open. I mean, it’s so unfair. I wish like crazy that I had embarrassing pictures of Guadalupe, Edgar, Jimmy, and Mr. Bennet to even out the playing field.

  “I apologize,” Mr. Bennet says, glancing down at the magazine. “Guadalupe got us all thinking that you might be THE Lisa Flyte, come here to save us all.” He chuckles, the regret echoing through.

  They just wanted my money.

  “I am.” I lift my chin and feel Wolverine-like titanium squaring my shoulders. “Here to save you, that is.”

  I feel a sense of moxie whip through me like a minty arctic wind. “I know you’re in financial trouble, and an influx of a couple million dollars is NOT what you need.”

  They stop heh-hehing.

  I think I’ve offended them, so I plow on, before anyone can yell at me. “I’ve read your history. You got a swarm of celebrity donations three years ago when your dot com backer went belly up,
and now you’re in trouble again. You need to generate, maintain, and manage a working budget. I can help. I’ve been working in financial offices for over a decade, so I know a thing or two about how to manage money.” Okay, so I had only one management position in my early twenties, and I hated it. Since then, I’ve learned from watching those above me screw up. But the HEYA folks don’t need to be bothered with such sordid details. That’s why I worded my résumé so carefully. “Plus, I’m currently earning my MBA at USC.”

  “Yeah, but do you know what it takes to run a center like this?” demands Edgar.

  “I know what it takes to survive.”

  Oh, my God. Did I just whip back the perfect response? Suddenly I think of Jack and wonder if his courage has rubbed off on me just a tiny bit.

  Mr. Bennet’s raised eyebrows tell me he’s somewhat impressed with my gusto. Or maybe he just thinks I’m nuts. “I’ve read the résumé you faxed over this morning, Ms. Flyte, and I can see you have financial experience. But did Guadalupe explain on the phone that we can’t pay anywhere near what you used to get? This job is only fifteen hours a week, at twelve dollars an hour.”

  I blink. I’m about to lose my dream job because I made too much money at my middle-of-the-road jobs that had me living paycheck to paycheck as I tried to make rent in West Los Angeles? I'm not here to save them with a check so they're writing me off?

  “This isn’t about the paycheck,” I say vehemently, fabricating as I go. “I’ve saved and invested enough over the years to pay for school and rent, so all I really need is enough for food and gas and insurance and stuff like that.”

  “Ms. Flyte,” Mr. Bennet begins. “Your enthusiasm is impressive…”

  “It’s for real,” I insist, trying to stave off the rejection I can feel brewing.

  “Is it?” Edgar takes a step forward. “Or is this just some business school project? Do you even understand that this is our life?”

  I grab the magazine off the desk and hold it up in front of me. “This is my life.”

  They all stare.

  “I’m Lisa Flyte. The Lisa Flyte. This is me.”