The Lion's Den(3)

“I had dinner at Cove last night and stopped by the bar after, but I didn’t see you,” Wendy says.

“I took the night off so I could pack,” I fib. A casting director I’ve auditioned for numerous times yet never quite booked through was having a party there, and I didn’t want her to see me bartending. But Wendy got me the job (for which I am grateful), so I can’t tell her that. It’s not that I’m embarrassed to be a bartender per se. It’s just that after a year of being able to pay all my bills acting, I feel…Okay, maybe I’m a little embarrassed that things haven’t turned out quite the way I imagined. I’ve hit a slump, as it were. A speed bump. That’s all it’s going to be, because things are going to be different when I get back from this trip, I swear it.

Wendy opens her liftgate, revealing a completely stuffed trunk. “Overpack much?” I tease.

“The big one’s for clothes, the medium for shoes and bags, and the small for hair products,” Wendy says, indicating a matching set of maroon luggage. “You know me and my weave.”

“I was gonna say, it’s looking especially gorgeous today,” I laugh.

She gently sweeps her hair over one shoulder with a smile. “Thanks, it’s fresh for the trip.”

“I swear I had a regular-size bag until Wendy got involved,” Claire says as the three of us lift her gargantuan suitcase onto the pavement.

“Sounds familiar.” I give her a meaningful smile.

A chauffeured black Suburban rolls up as we’re unloading Wendy’s trio of bags, and Summer’s mom, Rhonda, her sister, Brittani, and another girl I don’t recognize spill out, juggling coffee cups, cell phones, hats, and purses.

Here we go.

“Had to stop at the outlet stores on our way into town,” Rhonda announces with a flourish. As if to punctuate her declaration, a shopping bag tumbles out of the car before the driver can catch it, spilling three boxes of shoes onto the pavement. “Wouldn’t wanna be underdressed in the South of France!”

Brittani gives her mom a high five, and they make spirit fingers like cheerleaders.

Besides a few extra pounds and some unfortunate cosmetic tweaks that have left her looking persistently surprised and curiously puffy, Rhonda hasn’t changed much in the ten years since I last saw her: blond-streaked hair piled on top of her head, makeup just a little too done, leopard-print top stretched taut across her ample chest.

I haven’t laid eyes on Brittani in as long, either, and I’m immediately surprised that despite their different fathers she’s grown up to look exactly like her sister—leggy, blond, and beautiful, with enviable cheekbones and a perfect bow of a mouth. Only, where Summer is always dressed as though she’s just come from brunch on the Upper East Side, Brittani looks like she’s headed to spring break in Cancun. She’s wearing a tight pink T-shirt with WHAT HAPPENS IN VEGAS…spelled out in rhinestones over cutoff jean shorts, and her hair is brassy from peroxide. Which is to say she’s clearly inherited her mother’s sense of style.

“Girls’ trip!” Brittani whoops as she gallops over.

I flash a bright smile. “Brittani! Rhonda! So good to see you guys!”

“Listen to you! ‘You guys’! You can say ‘y’all’ with us. We all know you’re from the South!” Brittani exclaims, putting on a Southern drawl. She hip-checks me, sending me stumbling into a Porsche.

I regain my balance, managing a good-natured, “Wow, you look great. I think you were twelve the last time I saw you.”

“Well, I’m twenty-two now! Whooooo!” Spirit fingers again. “Are you still trying to be an actress?”

I smother my irritation. Brittani can’t possibly mean to be as condescending as she sounds, can she? “I’m still acting, yeah,” I say, forcing a smile.

“What have you been in?” she asks.

A logical question, which shouldn’t bother me nearly as much as it does. There’s no good way to answer, and though I know intellectually that I’m still building my career, it only ever makes me feel like a failure. None of the movies I’ve done are big enough that she would have heard of them, and the parts on television are small enough she wouldn’t remember me. So instead I say the one thing that I’m actually proudest of, which will be the least interesting to her and hopefully shut her up. “I’m nominated for a Webby Award for a web series I did,” I say. “It’s called Junk, and it’s about—”

Aaand I was right. She doesn’t even let me finish before beckoning to her friend. “Come meet Summer’s sidekick!”

A week on a boat with Brittani. Didn’t fully consider that when I accepted this invitation.

Her friend has long dark hair streaked with purple and is dressed more like she’s going to Ozzfest than the Riviera. A black jean miniskirt rides low on her hips, held in place by a heavy studded belt that matches her black-and-silver spiked platform heels, and her limbs are laced with ink. She’s not wearing a bra under her slinky black tank top, but she doesn’t need anything to hold her sizable boobs in place. They’re high profile.

As she saunters over, I can see she’s quite beautiful, with smooth, tan skin and delicate features, and there’s something exotic and rebellious about her. But most remarkable are her startling violet contacts.