L. A. Candy Read online

Scarlett saw from the map that this area was called Archimedes Plaza—named after the ancient Greek mathematician. She remembered from some book that Archimedes had invented elaborate war machines, like the “heat ray,” which supposedly reflected sunlight off a bunch of mirrors and burned enemy ships. That was kind of awesome, in Scarlett’s opinion.

  In another life, she could have imagined herself as a brilliant, bad-ass mathematician like Archimedes. But in this life…

  Scarlett glanced down at her schedule, peeking out from behind the map. She knew that her parents really, really wanted her to be pre-med. Her mother, who thought she was such a clever shrink, liked to do that “reverse psychology” crap and would say things like, “Scarlett, sweetheart, it’s probably best if you do something other than medicine, so you can have your own identity,” which loosely translated as: “Your father and I both went into medicine, so you should, too” (if you could call charging $400 an hour for telling patients not to be so hard on themselves, or vacuuming fat out of people’s stomachs because they’d been brainwashed into thinking they weren’t thin enough, “medicine”). Scarlett knew that they were secretly waiting and hoping for her to sign up for courses like neurobiology and general physiology. Well, no, thank you.

  She was perfectly happy with her English and philosophy classes. It had been hard to pick just a few from the catalog. Modern Philosophy and the Meaning of Life. Introduction to Contemporary East Asian Film and Culture. Women Writers in Europe and America. Sex Similarities and Differences: A Multidisciplinary Approach. (That would be an easy class—most men are assholes, and most women are assholes, too, except with makeup?) She had to take some freshmen intro classes though, so while she couldn’t have all these courses now, she was determined to sign up for them at some point over the next four years. Or however long she lasted at U.S.C.

  Not that she would flunk out or anything. On the contrary, she wondered if she had done the right thing, coming here. Maybe she should have aimed higher, like an Ivy? Transferring was always on option. But then she and Jane wouldn’t be able to live together. Scarlett knew that she wasn’t an easy person to be close to. Jane was the only one who’d put up with her bullshit over the years and stuck around—no, not just stuck around, but been the most loyal friend imaginable. She didn’t trust anyone else like she trusted Jane.

  Just then, a voice interrupted her.

  “Hi, there! Are you new here?”

  Scarlett glanced up. A girl flashing two rows of perfect white teeth stood in front of her. She was tall and thin, with bleached blond hair and a pair of large, spray-tanned breasts practically popping out of her maroon U.S.C. tank. (Daddy issues, Scarlett concluded. Girls like her didn’t get enough love from their daddies growing up, so they end up desperate for male attention. Girls like her would’ve fallen all over someone like Trevor Lord. Oops, was she starting to sound like Mom the shrink?) “Guilty as charged,” Scarlett said.

  “Hey, I’m Cammy! Welcome to U.S.C.!”

  “Hi, Cammy! I’m Scarlett! Thanks for the welcome!” Scarlett’s super-fake smile faded quickly, and she turned to go. Cammy would get the hint.

  “Wait! I was just wondering, Charlotte—are you planning to rush?”

  Scarlett frowned. “Scarlett. Umm, should I? I don’t think Introduction to Contemporary East Asian Film and Culture is going to fill up before I get there.”

  Cammy giggled. “Ha-ha, good one! Next week is rush week! You should totally think about joining Pi Delta! Not to bid promise or anything.”

  Pi Delta? Scarlett thought. A sorority? Seriously?

  “Pi Delt is awesome!” Cammy went on. “Rush week rocks, too! There’s Unity Day, and there’s Spirit Day, and there’s Pride Day! We totally don’t dirty rush but all the hottest girls join ours and you’re really pretty.”

  Scarlett was well versed in sororities. She had seen Animal House about twenty-nine times on cable. She had also heard the “hazing” horror stories, in which new sorority sisters—“pledges”—were allegedly subjected to humiliating and sometimes dangerous rituals.

  Cammy was going on and on about something called the “Greek Gala.”

  “I don’t think sororities are my thing, Cammy,” Scarlett interrupted her. “Didn’t I read about you guys in the papers? Don’t you make pledges stand in a cold room buck-naked, while you circle their cellulite with Magic Markers?”

  Cammy gasped. Her mouth dropped open. “That is so not true!” she exclaimed. “Those are just horrible lies spread by jealous people who want to destroy us and everything we stand for!”

  “If you say so. Thanks for inviting me, though! See you around campus!”

  Scarlett suppressed a laugh as she hoisted her backpack on her shoulders and took off in the opposite direction. “Bitch!” she heard Cammy muttering after her. Whatever.

  Scarlett turned left and headed toward what she thought might be the center of campus. As she walked, she passed racks of art posters for sale (Picasso’s The Lovers, Van Gogh’s Starry Night, and all the rest of the usual museum clichés to warm up those depressing little dorm rooms); a bronze statue of a Trojan warrior, nicknamed “Tommy Trojan,” that reminded her of the mascot for the condom ads (maybe she would fit in here); maroon and gold U.S.C. banners; handpainted signs inviting her to join the Dancing Club, the SoCalVoCals, the Turkish Students’ Association, or the Student Senate. She also passed people who were presumably her new classmates. A frightening number of them looked just like Cammy. What was the appeal, anyway? Why did they all want to be the same cookie-cutter, dyed-blond, plump-lipped, big-boobed, spray-tanned Barbie doll? Wasn’t variety supposed to be the spice of life? To be fair, not everyone looked like that. Still, the Cammy clones were definitely not hard to spot.

  Scarlett wondered once again if she had made the right choice in coming to U.S.C. Would she really fit in here?

  On the other hand, would she really fit in anywhere?

  10

  TO BE UNCOMFORTABLE

  Jane glanced around the waiting room and wondered how much longer it would be. It was so quiet, she could hear the ticking of the clock on the otherwise bare, white wall as it hit 6:45. She wondered what kinds of things they would ask her. And how long would the interview take? Also, if they were trying to make a savvy show about L.A., why would they be interested in someone like her? She knew nothing about L.A.

  She was a little troubled by the fact that the waiting room was so—ordinary. Shouldn’t a TV producer’s waiting room be chic? With lots of glass and chrome and expensive art? Like Fiona Chen’s office but louder. She leaned over to Scarlett, who was sitting next to her on one of the uncomfortable beige chairs. “His assistant said six thirty, right?” she whispered.

  “Relax. When did you start caring about punctuality? You’re like half an hour late for everything,” Scarlett reminded her.

  “I’m really nervous. I’m a little scared to go in there,” Jane admitted.

  “Hey. You’re the one who talked me into coming here. You were the one who was all excited about meeting with that guy,” Scarlett said.

  That guy. Jane reached into her pocket and fingered the business card he had given them at Les Deux. “Trevor Lord, producer, PopTV,” it read. She and Scarlett had Googled his name right when they got home that night. He hadn’t been lying. He was the Trevor Lord, TV producer, the creator of hit reality shows The Beach and American Adventure. He was kind of a big deal. Jane had read about how some of his recent shows had flopped. Was this new show going to be his comeback?

  Scarlett had insisted that Jane do a Google Image search to make sure the person they’d met wasn’t just pretending to be Trevor Lord using fake business cards from Staples. He wasn’t. Trevor Lord—the Trevor Lord—had really and truly come up to them and asked them if they were interested in being considered for his new show. It was surreal. Things like that just didn’t happen. Jane had never really loved being the center of attention, and with Scarlett as her best friend, she never had to be. But she ha
d engaged in more than a couple daydreams at work—as she took notes for Fiona, while she brainstormed Sweet Sixteen party ideas with the infamous Marley twins—imagining what it would be like to be on TV. They hadn’t agreed to call his office until Wednesday night—they did it together, when Jane got home from work—and were surprised when the girl seemed so eager to bring them in. She’d asked if they could come the next day. The thought had entered her mind that maybe she was only there because they wanted Scarlett on the show. She and Scar had, over their years of friendship, slowly become a two-for-one deal. If you wanted one of them, you usually got the other as well.

  Jane had spent her entire lunch break on the phone with Braden on Wednesday while she went back and forth about whether or not to go for the interview. She was worried about even bringing it up with him, because he was so anti-Hollywood, but in the end, he had given her lots of good advice that had helped her decide to make the call to Trevor (like pointing out that being on the show could help her learn about good clubs in L.A., which would come in handy for her life as a party planner). Honestly, she didn’t care what Scar thought of Braden (i.e., “guy-with-girlfriend on the prowl”). Attached or not attached, he was turning out to be an awesome friend.

  Jane’s parents had reacted with excitement plus a healthy dose of concern. “You’re in L.A. for less than a month and you’re going to be a TV star!” her mother had practically screamed over the phone. “Wait till I tell your sisters and your grandparents and Aunt Susan—”

  “Mom, calm down. I’m not gonna be a TV star!”

  “You’re going to be a TV star!”

  Jane laughed. “Okay, Mom, whatever you say.” She had told her parents the whole story, except she’d said they were at a restaurant not a club.

  “Honey, this is great, but what’s the catch?” her father had piped in.

  “Catch? What do you mean, catch?”

  “Do you have to sign anything? Because if you do I want to run it by my lawyer first.”

  “Dad, it’s just an interview.” Of course, she had promised she wouldn’t sign anything without consulting him because that was the only way she could get him off the phone. But as she sat in the waiting room she was happy to know her dad was looking out for her.

  A door opened, and a girl dressed in jeans and a FREE TIBET tee appeared. “Jane?”

  Jane glanced up at her.

  “They’ll see you first.”

  She rose to her feet and gave Scarlett a quick, nervous squeeze on the arm. “Wish me luck.”

  “You’ll be fine, Janie,” Scarlett assured her friend. She turned to the girl. “Who’s ‘they’? I thought we were just going to talk to Trevor.”

  “Sorry, they don’t really tell me anything,” the girl apologized.

  Jane waved to Scarlett, then followed the girl down a hallway. “Have you been working here long?” she asked, trying to distract herself from her own thoughts with polite conversation.

  “Like three weeks,” the girl said.

  “So is this, like, the main PopTV office?”

  “No, this is one of the production spaces they rent.” The girl stopped in front of another door and indicated for Jane to go in. “Right in here.”

  “Thanks!”

  Jane entered, barely noticing the door close behind her, and found herself in an almost claustrophobically small room. It had the same dingy white walls and faded blue carpet as the waiting room. The only furniture was a single gray folding chair lined up neatly against one of the walls.

  About five feet in front of the chair were a large camera on a tripod and a tall, industrial-looking light. Jane frowned at the equipment. What was it doing here? She turned to ask the girl, but she was already gone.

  Then the door opened again, and a heavyset guy bustled in carrying a small black pack of some sort. The pack had an On/Off switch and a green light on top and a long black wire that ended at a tiny round ball extended from the bottom of it.

  “Okay if I put this on you?” the guy asked Jane.

  “What is it?”

  The guy looked amused. “Microphone.”

  “Oh…I guess so. Sure.”

  “Great. Have a seat.”

  Jane sat down in the folding chair, which felt cold and hard against her bare legs. The guy handed her the wire and a piece of tape. “Run this wire down your shirt for me, okay?” he instructed. “And tape the mike to yourself, like right about here.” He pointed to his chest, just about where her two bra cups would meet.

  “Uh…okay.”

  The tiny round mike felt weird against her chest. Was it going to pick up the sound of her heart beating a million miles a minute? She was already nervous. The camera and impossibly small space weren’t helping. Relax, she told herself.

  The guy put on a headset and picked up a pack of equipment. He asked her to count to ten and began twisting knobs and flipping switches. Then the door opened again, and two men and a woman entered. One of the guys didn’t even look at her as he went over to the camera and started pushing various buttons. The other two smiled pleasantly at Jane and took their positions on either side of the camera guy. They were both carrying notebooks and pens.

  “Hi, Jane,” the woman said. She looked like she was in her mid-thirties. Her thin brown hair hung just below her shoulders. She was wearing a blue striped button-down shirt over faded jeans and wore silver framed glasses over her tired eyes. “I’m Dana, I’m one of the producers of the pilot. And this is Wendell. He’ll be helping out with casting.”

  Wendell had short, messy blond hair and wide brown eyes and was probably at least a few years younger than Dana. He wore a navy T-shirt and cords. He didn’t look like a Wendell.

  Jane raised one hand and smiled awkwardly. “Hey. It’s nice to meet you.”

  “We’re just going to ask you a few questions, if that’s okay with you,” Dana went on. The camera guy flicked a switch, and Jane squinted as a bright white glare flooded the room. “Is that light bothering your eyes?”

  “No, it’s fine,” Jane said quickly, afraid to complain about anything or ask any questions. The light felt hot on her skin.

  “Great,” Dana said. “So. You just moved to L.A. a couple of weeks ago, right? Do you work or go to school here?”

  “I have an internship with Fiona Chen,” Jane replied. “She’s an event planner. She specializes in celebrity stuff, like charity events and showers and weddings. And birthday parties.” Oh God, why was she still talking? Of course these people knew what an event planner did!

  “Loooove her work,” Wendell said, nodding.

  “Have you made any new friends in L.A.?” Dana asked.

  Braden came to mind immediately. And D, even though she had no idea what his last name was.

  “I’ve met a couple of people,” Jane hedged. “And my roommate, Scarlett, is my best friend from when we were, like, five. I’m really excited to meet more people. Everyone here seems so interesting.”

  Dana and Wendell scribbled in their notebooks. Jane shifted in her chair, trying to find a comfortable position. Her foot began to twitch. Wow…Sounding a little desperate, Jane? And “interesting”? You couldn’t come up with something more interesting than “interesting”? Way to show off that extensive vocabulary!

  The camera light was intense and bright, and it made it difficult to see Dana’s and Wendell’s faces. Jane struggled a little to read their expressions. She wished she knew what they were writing—and what they were thinking. She reached up and twisted a strand of hair around her index finger and continued to twist the same strand as Dana and Wendell fired more questions at her: Where did she grow up? What was her family like? Where did she go to high school? Did she plan on going to college? What were her career goals? Did she have a boyfriend?

  Jane answered all the questions the best she could. (Santa Barbara. My family’s awesome. Santa Barbara High. I want to work for a couple of years, get some real-life experience, then go to college. Nope, no boyfriend.) The questions wen
t on and on like that. Jane felt as though they were trying to get her life story—the SparkNotes version, anyway—and couldn’t imagine why. Her life had been pretty uneventful. That was why she’d moved to L.A., to make something happen.

  At one point, there was a brief pause as Dana and Wendell wrote in their notebooks. (What were they writing?) The light was hot, and Jane could feel herself starting to sweat.

  “Have you been going out in L.A. since you moved here?” Dana asked her.

  “A few times. I’m still trying to figure out fun places to go. Apparently you guys have commitment issues with your clubs here,” Jane said.

  They both laughed at her joke. It sounded polite.

  “You’ve noticed, huh?” Dana piped up.

  “Drink of choice?” Wendell asked cutely, as if he were quizzing her out of the back of Cosmopolitan.

  “For when you’re legal, of course,” Dana added, giving Wendell a cryptic look.

  “Of course,” Jane replied. Considering she’d met Trevor at a bar, she figured Dana’s remark was a joke or something she had to say. “I’m partial to vodka…anything.”

  “My kind of girl.” Wendell winked at her.

  Jane smiled. She liked him. He was a little chattier than Dana. She felt more comfortable talking to him. Like she was having a conversation, rather than being interviewed. “So have you met any hot guys since you’ve been here?” Wendell leaned in toward her a little.

  “Not really…I met one guy, but I think he has a girlfriend. Maybe.” Ugh, saying that out loud made Jane realize how lame it was that she hadn’t gotten up the nerve to ask Braden what the deal was with Willow. “I just broke up with my boyfriend a few months ago and I haven’t really been dating.”

  “Awww, I’m sorry.” Wendell made a little pout, then perked up. “But, you know, nothing cures heartbreak like a new cute boy,” he said in an almost singsongy voice.

  “Yeah…that or the vodka anything.” Jane shrugged.

  They laughed again—and this time it didn’t feel just polite.