Good Rich People(32)

Demi’s back is rigid. Her fingers stay buried in her pockets. Her head swivels left and right. I picture a fast car barreling down the road, unable to stop in time, plowing her body into one of the stone walls that screen the better homes, popping, smashing her bones to powder in places so she becomes a mangled version of herself: half a face, no hands, a crooked spine, a missing shoe, shuffling down the same path. I would win then. I would win and I wouldn’t even have to lift a finger. I wish there was a God who worked like that. Effort makes victory bittersweet. I want to win by not even trying.

An engine roars from above or below. Her head snaps up. She scrambles, first to the left and then to the right. We balance at the edge of a cliff as an SUV steams past.

It vanishes through a hairpin turn and she shivers, steps back onto the road. “Why do you walk here?” Her voice has a fearful snap. “Do you want to get killed?”

“I’ve never been hit,” I say like it’s obvious. “I’ve never even come close.”

“No.” She shivers again. “Of course not.”

The hill is steep and we walk fast. Our breath puffs in tandem. Soon we are looking out over Los Angeles: the mirrored hills across the valley, the bulging blackish eye of the observatory, the messy stacks downtown. I stop to look at the view but Demi only glances at it, then looks quickly away, like she betrayed herself.

“Left here.” I indicate. The walk is easier now. We catch our breath but don’t speak. We are locked in this heavy silence, so this whole exercise feels like torture. I scrape my mind for something to say. “You make more money than Graham.” I don’t know why I say that.

She laughs like she has just landed back here beside me. “How much does Graham make?” Her throaty voice is teasing, playful.

Even if this conversation is inappropriate, even though Graham would be angry, I feel a dark thrill in telling her, in what seems an exceptional betrayal, “Three thirty.”

“A year?” she blurts then. “Sorry. Duh. My brain.” She brushes her head.

“He has family money, too, from Margo. Margo has more money than God. Or the devil.”

“Do you like her?”

“Are you kidding? I don’t like anyone who has more money than me.”

She bursts out laughing. I feel dizzy with it, that childhood feeling: Someone laughed at my joke! Someone likes me! It reminds me of Elvira. She used to have the most wicked sense of humor. We would laugh and laugh for hours out on her porch. Laughter made us feel like we owned the world. Laughter made us feel like we won. Until Graham came down from above. And she stopped laughing.

We are walking side by side now, moving from the left to the right side of the street, whatever side seems safer. A vista opens up to the west, across Beverly Hills and Santa Monica, all the way to the jewel blue ocean. To our right, the reservoir looms.

She stops in her tracks. She is so jumpy, it’s making me uneasy.

“Have you been here before?” I ask.

“Once.”

“Most people don’t know about it. It’s really beautiful! I’m convinced it’s the most beautiful place in LA—correction, the only beautiful place.”

She laughs again but it’s thinner, fades faster. “I should probably—”

“No,” I say. “Just let me show you one thing. It’ll take five minutes. Ten.” Five to ten.

She acquiesces. We continue walking until we reach the trailhead. The lake appears, a tranquil sea in the cradle of the hills surrounded by a tall chain-link fence.

She scowls at it. “How very LA to keep such a beautiful place behind a fence so no one can use it,” she observes. “This city is like a game and the locations are all levels. And no matter how high you get, there’s always a place you can’t access.” Her words echo my own thoughts. It’s dangerous to relate to anyone, let alone your target. To imagine a world where we could be friends, just friends, like Elvira and I were before the game got in the way.

“That’s so funny; I think of things as games, too.”

She shrugs. “Life is a game.”

I go along with it. “What’s the prize?”

“. . . Playing.” Her tone is dark but she smiles after, like she regrets or relishes it. “Just getting to play.”

I’m not sure if I agree with her, but I think I understand what she means. You get what you want and the game is not over. It’s never enough. You just get to keep playing.

I think of our game and I shiver. It won’t end with this one. Deep down, I know that, but I have to believe it will. I have to convince myself that I can end it. Today. Now.

“I think I like you,” I say, and I mean it in that moment. But I have a game to win, and the quicker I can get it done, the sooner my turn can be over. “And now I have a surprise.” I tap my nose, smile.

She stops in her tracks. “What is it?”

“Access.”





LYLA



We walk along the asphalt road that follows the perimeter of the lake. We pass no fewer than three signs warning against trespassing, with a number to call at the bottom. Beyond the fence, reeds twitch; tall trees curve, malformed by nature, twisted by their will to survive. We don’t see a single person. We are the last two people left in LA.