Lianne
I’VE JUST HAD a manicure while drinking a cappuccino from Starbucks. Violet and her two friends took me out for nail treatments and gossip. It was like Sex and the City, but without the liquor.
Really, life could be worse.
Now we’re in the car again, heading back to the house. I’m riding shotgun because the girls treat me like visiting royalty.
“Lianne is not a show pony,” DJ had warned his sister. “Maybe she doesn’t want to hang out with your friends.”
“I kind of need a manicure,” I’d said to put him at ease. “It will be fun.”
And really, it was. The girls grilled me about Kevin Mung, his famous singer girlfriend and the Sorceress set, of course. But then they’d moved on to other topics, like what to wear to their upcoming prom.
The three of them are so comfortable with each other that it’s adorable. “We’ve known each other since kindergarten,” Vi’s friend Jenny said earlier. I never had those friendships, and it seems so nice.
“What kind of a car do you drive, Lianne?” Vi asks, bringing me out of my reverie. The topic has switched again, and I’ve failed to notice. “Wait, let me guess. A Mini Cooper.”
“What did I say about short jokes?” I complain, and they all laugh.
“I didn’t mean it like that!” Vi protests. “Fine. You drive a Hummer.”
More laughter.
“A Porsche,” Jenny guesses.
“A Mercedes E-class,” guesses the one they call Jazz.
“You are all wrong,” I tease. “Because I don’t drive.”
“Wait, ever?”
“Nope. Don’t know how. Never got around to learning,” I explain. When you’re shooting in Australia half the time and traveling with your fickle mom on three continents, driving lessons just aren’t practical.
“Wow.” A hush falls over the car, as if I’ve just revealed an important failing. Jenny pipes up eventually, “DJ could teach you. He’s a good driver.”
Now there’s an interesting idea. “I wouldn’t want to scare him.” Driving with me might not be a ton of fun.
The car makes a quick turn as Violet steers into what looks like a church parking lot. “Who needs him? Men always think they understand driving better than women. It’s ridic.” She comes to a full stop. “You can have your first lesson right now.”
“What?” What?
There’s a squeal from the backseat. “This is so cool. Princess Vindi drives on Long Island.”
I start to sweat. “We can’t, Vi. What if something goes wrong?” Just what I need is to dent my new boyfriend’s parents’ car. That ought to cement the status of our relationship.
“It won’t.” She gives my elbow a poke. “Gotta start somewhere. Everybody drives.”
This is true. And three girls are waiting to see what I’ll do. So even though my hands are starting to sweat, I get out of the car and walk around to the other side.
Vi climbs over the gearbox and plops into my seat. “Okay. Put your foot on the brake to start.”
“Which pedal is it?”
There’s a squeal of laughter from the backseat.
“The big one,” Vi says calmly. “Makes sense, right?”
It does. But my toe barely grazes it. “Um…”
Vi grins. Then she leans over my body and pushes a knob forward, and my seat begins to advance toward the steering wheel.
“Okay. That’s better.” I depress the brake as far as it will go.
“Now, use this to put the car in D for drive.” She points at the gear selector, and I do as she asks. “Great. When you let up on the brake, the car will idle forward. We’ve got some space here, so you can touch the gas, and then maybe turn right to drive toward that corner of the lot.” She points.
Seems simple enough. So I let up on the brake, and the car slowly inches forward.
“Okay, good,” Vi says encouragingly. “Now a little gas.”
I move my foot to the other pedal and we leap ahead. The sudden motion freaks me right out so I slam on the brake again, and all our bodies lurch forward. “I’m sorry,” I say quickly.
“That happens to everyone,” Vi says, pushing the hair out of her face. “Not so much heat this time, okay?”
Shit. I’ve just learned two things. 1) Driving is harder than it looks. 2) Vi is a saint. “Okay,” I promise. “Or we could just quit while we’re ahead.”
“You can do better,” she insists.
Well then. I let up on the brake again and just let the car idle for a few moments. Then I apply gentle pressure to the gas, and lo, an easy forward movement.
“Awesome,” Vi says. “Slow down just a smidgen and turn.”
I let off the gas and just touch the brake. Then I turn the wheel to the right. I’m driving! I mean—I’m still scared. The car still feels like a giant metal beast that might run away from me at any time. But I’m doing it. Just like normal people.
“Ready to turn again?” she prompts as we approach the end of the lot.
I turn the wheel and execute the turn. And things are going so well that I tap the gas again. I think I could really get the hang of this.
“Deer!” Jenny shrieks.
And she’s not lying. From the shady area at the end of the lot, a doe has stepped out on the asphalt, and I’m heading straight for her. Panicking, I jab my foot forward. But I miss the brake and clip the gas pedal instead. The car lurches forward, and the deer is just twenty feet away.
That’s when Violet grabs the wheel and turns us away from Bambi, while I search for and eventually locate the brake pedal. We come to a rapid stop, but my heart is about to explode.
“Well,” Vi says eventually. “That wasn’t supposed to happen. Sorry.”
From the backseat comes a hiccup and then a gut-bursting honk of laughter. Followed by howls.
Vi turns her big eyes on me, and I watch her lips twitch. And then she bursts out laughing, too. “Oh, God. Wouldn’t that have been awful to have to explain?” She puts her face in her hands. “Fuck. That was close.”
I’m shaking, but I feel a hysterical giggle coming on. “DJ is not going to like this story,” I say, my voice wobbling.
“We are NOT telling him,” Violet insists. “This is going to be our little secret.”
“Really? Okay.”
We switch seats again. And the last giggles don’t stop until we’re back in the Trevi family driveway.
Luckily I’m able to calm down, though, because DJ’s mom is in the kitchen of their generous colonial when we enter through the garage. “Hey Mom!” Violet calls and then marches right past.
But I can see that Mrs. Trevi is making dinner by herself. “Can I help you with that?”
She looks up from where she’s dicing an onion into perfect tiny cubes. “How are your knife skills?”
“Well…” God. “Pretty terrible. But I can wash and peel things.”
Mrs. Trevi beams. “I’m just teasing. This is actually the last step—it’s one of the toppings for chili. I don’t even need help setting the table, because I was going to let everyone eat it in front of the basketball game instead of dragging them to the table like I usually do.”
“Oh.” Last night we’d had pot roast in the dining room, and I’d been nervous about sitting down with the whole family, but it turned out to be fun. They have an easy way about them.
It’s a little weird staying in their house, though. His mom set me up in the guest room, which makes it a little easier. I don’t think I could wander out of her son’s bed in the morning without bursting into self-conscious flames. It was bad enough this afternoon when he gave me a hug and a slow kiss before I left to go out with Violet. Violet made a catcall and yelled, “Get a room!” then cracked up.
I pretty much wanted to die.
“I’m still happy to help. Maybe the cleanup, then.”
Mrs. Trevi winks. “Perfect. Because I’ll be at my book club. That’s why I’m serving dinner in the den. Actually, you could pour some drinks. Ice water for Violet and milk for DJ and Leo.”
“I can manage that,” I say, heading for the cabinet where I’d seen glasses earlier. “But cooking is something I haven’t gotten around to yet.”
“You’ve been busy,” Mrs. Trevi says lightly.
“That is true.”
“I don’t know any other nineteen-year-olds who work full time.”
“Not all year,” I protest. But I’m secretly glad to hear her say it. People think acting is just prancing around, looking important. But it’s really four AM wakeups and shoots that go until midnight because the sound guys are arguing about where to place the boom.
It’s not like I dig ditches for a living. But it’s not bonbon-eating, either.
“Where does your mother live?” she asks, scraping her onions into a serving bowl. She places it alongside another bowl of avocado chunks and another of shredded cheese.
“It depends on…” Who she’s fucking. That good girl complex I’ve got? It comes from never wanting to become my mother. “The season, I guess. She’s always said she never wants to be tied down anywhere. Lately she’s dividing her time between France and Palm Springs.”
“Huh. So where’s your home base?”
I chuckle. “Um, I have some things in storage in LA. And a PO Box. And a dorm room. I mean—there’s a room for me in Palm Springs, but I don’t think of it as home.”
When I look up, DJ’s mom is studying me with big brown eyes. I know there’s no biological relationship between her and DJ, but they have a similar gaze. “And you’re an only child?”
“Mostly. It’s complicated.”
DJ walks into the room then, smiling when he sees me. “Hey! Is my mom grilling you? That’s not cool.”
Mrs. Trevi tips her head back and laughs. “I totally was. Lianne honey, I’m sorry.”
“No!” I protest. “Don’t be.”
He walks around to stand beside me, putting an arm around my waist. “How was the salon? Were you painted and squealed over?”
“Only in all the right ways.” I lean into his side, and his clean laundry and aftershave scent is all I want out of life. I hold up my hands so he can see. “Big decision. I went with purple instead of pink.”
“Nice.” He kisses my hand. “So when are we leaving for the city? It takes about an hour to get there. Ninety minutes if the traffic is bad.”
“Let’s see…” I do the math. “We leave at seven and get there after eight or eight-thirty? Is that okay?”
“Sure.” He squeezes my shoulder. “What am I wearing to this thing?”
“Whatever you want. Seriously. There is nobody we need to impress.”
He chuckles. “Let me rephrase the question. What are you wearing to this thing?”
“Because you want to be twinsies?”
He gives me a grin. “Sure, smalls.”
“I’m wearing dark jeans and a fancyish sweater. No baseball cap. And eyes done in I-only-see-you-every-few-months-so-I’ll-make-a-little-effort.”
His mom laughs, but DJ raises an eyebrow. “What was that last part?”
“Never mind. Just wear New York casual.”
“Gotcha.”
I pat him on the back. “Now let’s pour some drinks. Your mother has a book club to get to.”
Then the three of us move around their comfortable kitchen, dishing up chili, counting spoons, and just generally being nice to each other. I could get used to visiting here.
