seven

MOLLY FELT LIKE she was in the middle of that “stark naked at a pep rally” nightmare, minus the advantage of being able to burst into tears or run away screaming. Or wake up. Or blink.

The light from the hundreds of flashbulbs seared her skin, and there were so many loud, frantic voices that Brick’s patio sounded like a stock exchange floor. Obviously, her father hadn’t just stopped with Hey! It looked like Brick had invited every magazine, newspaper, blogger, and possibly anyone with a Twitter account to this party.

Disembodied hands propelled her onto a small swatch of red carpet, which had been tossed in front of a backdrop printed with the logos for Absolut Vodka, Williams-Sonoma Home, and, weirdly, the Greater Los Angeles Chamber of Commerce. Cameras clicked everywhere. Molly had no idea that hundreds of shutters could be so loud. She whirled around frantically, trying to find any sign of Brooke, but her sister had vanished.

This is so intense. I don’t know if I can do this alone.

Molly focused on Brooke’s advice. But she couldn’t cross her legs because they were shaking too much to move, and maintaining a crabby expression just made her feel rude. The heat from the flashbulbs was as potent as her rising panic, which made her sweaty, cold, and clammy all at the same time. She felt herself swoon.

“Mayday! She’s going down!”

Out of nowhere, Brick appeared and grabbed Molly’s arm.

“Let me be your life raft in the sea of humanity, precious girl,” he intoned. “Also, what a turnout! So many reporters from so many magazines! Someone must have let them all in the back way.” He winked at her and whispered, “Trip Kendall thinks he can own my story? Not so!”

He handed her a leaflet. It was all about the many glories of being a tourist in Los Angeles, called, “L.A. Story: Starring You!”

“Just hang on to that for a few photos,” he said. “Makes the sponsor happy, and I’d rather you had that than a vodka tonic.”

Brick steered her toward a tight cluster of suits with slicked-back hair who were yelling his name; the cameras followed, snapping candid after endless candid. Strangers took turns shaking her hand. Occasionally, Molly heard herself answering softball questions about her likes and dislikes; she tried bringing up Laurel, but most of the reporters seemed to find that too depressing and changed the subject. Mainly, she just listened to Brick natter brightly, and she calmed down as she finally realized this story wasn’t really about her at all.

After about an hour of empty smiling, her cheeks began to burn. Brooke may have had a point with that tip about looking cranky.

“Cover your mouth with your hands and pretend to cough,” Brick murmured. “Then while your face is hidden, wiggle your mouth to relax the jaw muscles. No one will know what you’re doing and your cheeks won’t hurt so much.”

“Thanks,” Molly whispered.

“You’re doing great,” he said, giving her right shoulder a supportive pat. “I’m going to find that girl from In Touch— once she gets a load of your dimple, she’ll have to retract that ridiculous story about me getting one surgically created in Mexico. You go have some fun.”

“That’s okay, I—”

“I mean it, Molly. I told the press to back off unless I’m with you, because all this yada yada can get exhausting. So go relax.” Then Brick brightened. “Remind me to tell you about the time Kiefer Sutherland and I were on a junket in Prague and he fell asleep during an interview with the Herald Tribune. It was hilarious.”

He smiled wide. Molly couldn’t help but return it. She was beginning to understand how her mother ended up embroiled with Brick. He was charming when you had his full attention.

But while Brick thought he was doing Molly a favor by releasing her into the wild, she felt lost without him shepherding her from place to place. And Brooke was still nowhere to be found. Molly hadn’t realized until now how much she’d been relying on her sister to get her through this. Sure, Brooke tended to suck up all the oxygen in the vicinity, but she was also the only person Molly knew. Where could she have gone?

Two tiny girls in shiny formal shorts scampered past her and stopped five feet away, looking back with their hands over their mouths.

“I heard she was an illegal alien,” the first one giggled.

The second chortled, “Her bangs are illegal.”

Are they talking about me?

Molly slowly looked around and saw she was at the center of a radioactive halo ringed by countless pairs of eyes openly staring right at her. Doubtless her future classmates, they all seemed to prefer to point and stare rather than come talk to her.

“And that dress! Where does she think she is? The Oregon Trail?”

“She must have left her bonnet with her oxen.”

Molly suspected she was blushing. She cracked a smile and wiggled her fingers, as if to say, Hey, I see you, and I’m not toxic, but all she heard were more snorts.

“Look, she’s not even talking to anyone.”

“What a snob. Just because she’s Brick Berlin’s kid doesn’t mean she’s so great.”

Molly felt herself melt under their judgment. Nobody was making an effort to lower the volume, so every insult, every half-baked rumor—a dude to her left actually just said he heard she was Brick’s child bride—made it to her ears. And everywhere she moved, they seemed to follow. The grapevine was growing up around her and squeezing her to a pulp.

Frantically, she scanned the crowd again for any sign of Brooke. Nothing. Molly was all alone.

She suddenly wished she’d gone to more swim-team parties with Danny. Most of his teammates had a tendency to morph into obnoxious meatheads when they were drinking, and she’d never liked waking up the next day feeling like her brain had gone through a blender. But the consequence of being such a homebody was that Molly, unlike Danny, was lousy at small talk. He could approach anyone and make conversation; Molly tended to hang back and watch. But if she did that here, everyone would be watching her watch them, and…

“Here’s your drink, ma’am. Sorry for the wait. The ice makers broke,” a waiter said, grabbing a vivid pink martini off a tray full of clanking glasses. He pressed it into her hand and then wriggled off through the crowd.

The teen masses started to whisper, delighted.

“Wait, I didn’t order this,” Molly called after him, but he didn’t hear her. At a loss, Molly tried to follow him, pressing onward as the crowd of students parted, until suddenly she was swallowed by a crush of socializing adults who either didn’t care who she was or had already forgotten. The waiter was nowhere to be found, but on the plus side, Molly felt deliciously invisible.

She looked down at the drink in her hand. It resembled the cocktails the JCMHS cheerleaders had made at their New Year’s bash, when Danny had ended up dancing on the roof of someone’s car, inadvertently causing a grand’s worth of damage. They’d fought the next day about why he always seemed to go from zero to hammered in fifteen minutes. Molly was no stranger to alcohol, having sipped it a handful of times herself; she just didn’t like it much, and Danny couldn’t quite relate to that.

“It takes the edge off. It’s relaxing,” he’d defended himself. “Why do you think I was voted Most Friendly? Everybody loves Weekend Danny.”

Retroactively, Molly felt bad about being such a nag. Finally, she got what he meant. She had never felt more tense in her life.

What the hell? she thought, and took a swig.

Plopping down on the stone bench in her father’s rose garden, Brooke chewed on her lip, silently thanking God for creating flavored glosses that staved off stress eating.

On the one hand, this party sucked. Some new flunky of Brick’s had shoved her out of the way before she’d so much as snuck into the background of a photograph; nobody had even batted an eyelash at Molly’s bathroom-wallpaper dress; the Blahniks hadn’t broken her sister’s ankle; and Molly either hadn’t remembered or had chosen to ignore Brooke’s tip about standing with her legs crossed above the knee at all times. So much for making her look incontinent.

But Molly was at least acting like someone who had walked out to present an Oscar and then suddenly realized people could see her nipples. She kept wiping her palms over and over on the pockets of that heinous pinafore, her eyes were unnaturally wide, and as best Brooke could tell, the only complete sentence Molly had uttered all night was that her favorite actress was Jennifer Garner. Who said stuff like that, anyway? Jennifer Garner was a brunette.

That much, at least, was what Brooke had hoped for when she’d shoved Molly out onto the patio unaccompanied—but she couldn’t fully enjoy the awkwardness because nobody else seemed to notice. It was as if they were hypnotized, like that brief period in first grade when Brooke had been so in love with Freddie Prinze Jr. that she never noticed what a terrible actor he was.

“There you are.”

Brooke turned to face Arugula, who had appeared with Jennifer Parker by her side.

“How did you know I’d be back here?”

“Duh. It’s the bench where your dad introduced you to Jake Gyllenhaal,” Jennifer replied. “You always come here when you’re bummed out.”

Brooke held her head aloft. “I am not bummed out. In fact, everything is going according to plan.”

“Interesting. From where I sit, it looks like you’re cowering behind a bush,” Arugula said.

“I have Molly under control,” Brooke insisted. “She’s a nervous wreck. But everyone’s so busy drooling over her that I haven’t gotten any face time with the press.”

“Well, then get out there.” Arugula tsked. “Show a little backbone instead of sulking in the shrubbery like a vagrant.”

Jennifer gasped, but Brooke saw the truth in this. “You’re right. I know you’re right.”

She closed her eyes, inhaled hard, and repeated her new mantra: “I must be Zen. I must be dazzling. And I must not use the word bumpkin.”

“Much better,” Ari said.

Brooke smoothed her dress and shook back her hair. “How do I look?”

“Like third runner-up in the West Hollywood Miss She-Male America pageant,” came a familiar voice from the mouth of the rose garden. “Too bad—I thought your shoulders made you a shoo-in for at least second place.”

Shelby Kendall slithered into view, looking irritatingly great in the Marchesa that Brooke had made Molly reject.

“I just overheard Tom Hanks’s kid saying that Molly looks like a young Jennifer Aniston,” Shelby continued, twirling a lock of black hair around her finger and touching it thoughtfully to her heart-shaped mouth. “Isn’t that a delicious coincidence, since you’re kind of an old Lisa Kudrow?”

“Excuse us—Brooke is supposed to rendezvous with a Hey! reporter right now,” Arugula said, grabbing Brooke’s arm and hauling her away before any further sniping commenced.

“I didn’t know you had an interview set up,” whispered Jennifer, trotting along behind them obediently.

“She doesn’t,” Arugula hissed. “But why should that stop her? What do we always say? WWBWD—What Would Blair Waldorf Do?”

“Make it about herself,” Brooke said.

“Exactly,” affirmed Arugula. “So get out there. Be the story. You look resplendent.”

Brooke knew that much was true, once she realized it was a compliment. The green dress she’d bought at Inferno looked even better than it had in the store, and when she paired it with her gold peep-toes, she looked like Diane Kruger, which trumped Aniston any day of the week.

The three girls drifted toward the locus of the paparazzi hubbub as if they were only crossing its path by accident, but Brooke had drawn a solid bead on her father. She could see the light gleaming off his hair. As she approached, she realized happily that Molly was nowhere to be found. Brick held court alone.

“Why would I take her in now? Why wouldn’t I?” he was saying. “DNA is thicker than water. Nothing should come between me and my daughter.”

Arugula grimaced. “Nobody that beefy should rhyme,” she muttered.

“Great, Brick, thanks,” the reporter said, snapping her fingers to signal that the camera crew could cut. “That’ll be perfect for the website. Where’s the kid again?”

“She’s off mingling,” Brick said. “When you love something as I cherish her, you set it free.”

“Please intervene before I regurgitate my Slim-Fast,” urged Arugula, shoving Brooke in the direction of her father.

“Ow, you’re hurting—uh, I mean, hi, Daddy!” Brooke recovered in time to shoot her father a blinding, toothy grin.

“Sunshine! You look fantastic!” Brick said, giving her a hug. “Am I the luckiest dad on earth to have two such gorgeous daughters, or what?”

The assemblage of female reporters tittered adoringly. If this were a rock concert, at least one bra would be dangling from Brick’s ear by now.

Still, staring up at her dad’s elated face as he gently tugged on her curls, Brooke felt warm. He was all hers and he looked delighted. It was exactly what she’d pictured when she—

“Oh, Mark, hold up a sec. We need to talk to the Weinsteins about this Key West thing,” Brick said, flagging down a gangly guy and disappearing with him into the crowd. This left Brooke surrounded by press girls who were all murmuring into their digital recorders and acting like the story had just left along with her father. Her skin turned cold.

“Um, Brooke?”

Brooke turned to see a small, plain woman holding up a notebook.

“I’m Ginevra McElroy,” she began, tucking muddy blonde hair behind her ear. “I work at Hey! Well, technically, I’m an intern, but you know, hopefully there’s an opportunity for upward mobility, because—”

“What can I do for you, Ginevra?” Brooke asked, ninety percent sugar and ten percent edge. She knew enough to take any and all comers, but if she had to listen to this mouse ramble about her journalistic aspirations, she’d bleed from the ears.

“Well, I asked if I could talk to you for this story,” Ginevra said.

Clearly, this piteous creature was smarter than she looked.

“Of course.” Brooke beamed. “Well, I’ll be president of Colby-Randall’s prestigious Drama Club this fall, and because I’m an actress and I have such a passion for the craft, I’ve got all kinds of ideas for—”

“Because, you know, this story is just so interesting,” Ginevra continued, as if she hadn’t heard Brooke speaking at all. “Tell me what you like best about her.”

Brooke’s face tightened, like she was suddenly caught in a very small wind tunnel.

“What I like best… about Molly?” she asked.

“Yes. What is the most wonderful thing you’ve learned about her?”

The fact that I can murder her in her sleep tonight and get away with it because Brick is never home.

“We… well, we have very different interests,” Brooke hedged. “So she can learn from watching me fulfill my destiny as the heir to the Berlin family acting legacy, and I can learn about… chickens… from hearing about her favorite, um, hayrides, and stuff.”

“Diversity is so important!” Ginevra chirped. “Would you say that you are upset, though? Now that you have to share your father with her? Do you feel obsolete?”

The force of Brooke’s shock flipped a switch in her brain. The one that controlled her behavior in public.

“You don’t know me very well if you think that I would ever feel threatened by someone who once rode a cow topless through the streets of her hometown,” she heard herself say.

“Wow,” Ginevra said, a slow smile spreading across her face. “So Molly is a bit of a bad girl?”

“Just when there’s gin involved,” Brooke said. “But that’s really only, like, sixty percent of the time.” She beamed. “Off the record, of course.”

“Of course,” Ginevra breathed, pulling out a business card. “Brooke, I have to run, but you have been so helpful. And you look fabulous.”

“Thank you, Ginevra, and if you ever need anything—anything—just let me know,” Brooke said, squeezing the girl’s shoulder before they both walked away.

Well played, she congratulated herself. Brooke hadn’t counted on a media ally, but far be it from her to look a gift intern in the mouth. Brick’s irritating enthusiasm meant she couldn’t go after Molly directly, but it certainly didn’t preclude Brooke from finding other ways to remind her half sister exactly whose kingdom this was. If that rube wanted to run with the big girls, she’d have to learn to keep up with them.

Molly tipped back the bottle of Stella Artois and drained the last few drops into her mouth. She tossed her bottle at a garbage can. It bounced off the rim and landed in the grass. Nobody noticed, because she’d hidden herself behind an unused corner settee underneath a string of lights that had burned out.

“I just missed the trash at point-blank range,” she told Charmaine.

“Oh, man, you are going to be so sorry tomorrow,” her friend said through the phone.

“I am fine!” Molly announced. “Liquor before beer, in the clear. Besides, I deserve a little fun.”

“Then go have some. The People Twitter says Ashton Kutcher is there. Hang up the phone.”

Charmaine was right. Hiding was stupid. And the grass was itchy. Molly hated being itchy. She popped up from behind the couch and her gaze fell on a buffet table several yards away that was still very well stocked.

“Food!” Molly squawked. “Do you want anything?”

“Yeah, I’m not there, dumbass. Seriously, if you don’t hang up and go take a picture with Demi and Ashton, I will post something on the Internet that says you have a third hand growing out of your back.”

Molly poked at her phone and then dropped it into her dress’s pocket. In addition to being right, Charmaine was bossy. But those mini hot dogs looked awfully good.

It took forever to get to the buffet tables. Putting one foot in front of the other seemed both way more fun and much harder than normal. By the time Molly reached the finger food, two things were clear: She was hammered out of her tree, and… she forgot the other thing.

Molly slammed her hand down next to a tray of taquitos and glared at them as though they had just tried to cop a feel. How had this happened? The first martini had, as Danny was fond of saying, taken the edge off, but when it was gone Molly still felt like she needed something to do with her hands. All the other kids her age seemed to be drinking; hence the first beer, which dulled the remainder of her shrieking nerve endings. The second had been because she’d texted Danny and told him what was happening, and his response was, “Awesome, let’s have a beer together.” The fourth had been… wait, she’d skipped three; what was three?

Dammit. She was going to hate herself in the morning. Charmaine had been right about that, too.

“What did you just say about Charmin?” a girl asked.

“… I am out loud?” Molly asked.

The girl peered at Molly through a curtain of black hair, then broke into a slow smile. “Try the mini quiches,” she said. “They’re excellent on a drunk stomach.”

“I’m not drunk,” Molly insisted, standing up as straight as she could and trying to sound polite. “I’m Molly.”

“Of course you are,” the girl said, floating away on a purple cloud, which Molly realized was a very familiar-looking cocktail dress. “We’ll meet again, Molly.”

Molly tried to concoct a charming, friendly response to this while the girl was still within earshot, but her fuzzy brain didn’t seem to be working right. Scooping up a handful of snacks, Molly wobbled back to her safe place and crash-landed on the grass. She shoveled several mini quiches into her mouth. After about the fifth one, her stomach started to complain, but her mouth didn’t listen. She emptied her plate.

Dragging her knees into her chest, Molly leaned her head against the back frame of the couch and closed her eyes. So much for her social debut. She was wearing a dress better suited to a quilting bee, she’d let everyone point and stare her into submission, and she’d been too scared and nervous to go up to anyone and introduce herself—which is why she’d spent half the night on the phone to Indiana. And now she was wasted. And queasy. And grass-stained.

Molly felt lost and frustrated, as if she’d followed the exact directions she’d been given but still ended up in the wrong place. Her own skin had never seemed so uncomfortable. She didn’t even notice the tear running down her cheek until it made a salty splash on her upper lip.

Minutes later—or hours, or seconds; Molly had no idea which—she thought she heard a girl’s voice. By the time she willed a bleary eye open, though, there was no one there. Then she heard a rustling noise.

“Daddy, she’s passed out,” Brooke’s voice all but shouted. “I can’t believe she did this to you. How humiliating.”

Molly rocketed to her feet, then instantly regretted it as her knees buckled. Brick caught her.

“Brookie, be quiet,” he said firmly. “Molly, let’s get you upstairs. We’ll talk about this tomorrow.”

Molly found the ground with her feet, then rubbed her eyes to see if that made the scene less blurry. It didn’t work.

“Sounds rad, man,” Molly joked feebly. But the instant the words came out, she realized how blasé and sloshed she sounded. “Oops. I didn’t mean… that was dumb… this is all so… I wish I had… I want to rewind,” she heard herself slur next as she wiped a fresh river of tears from her eyes.

Brick looked astonished. Molly suddenly felt hysteria bubbling up in her throat, imagining what she must look like to him, all smudged makeup and a runny nose and breath that smelled like a brewery on a night that she was supposed to make a good impression. She had a history of laughing at inappropriate moments, like at her mother’s funeral when the priest got to “ashes to ashes, dust to dust,” because Laurel used to say that when she cleaned house. Tonight, as then, her nerves—this time abetted by the booze—won out. She broke into a guffaw and sagged against Brick. The trees overhead were spinning like slot-machine wheels through her vision. A face appeared among them. Molly peered up at it and smiled.

“G’night, Mom,” she slurred. “See you in the morning.”

After that, darkness.