Six

Sienna had made Anani Miss’s blog again. And by “made the blog,” I meant she was in the background of someone else’s photo. This time, it was A-list actor Luke Cruz. She had her own version of photo bombing down to an art form. She stood close enough that she couldn’t be cropped out and never looked directly at the camera, instead wearing the same oh-so-serious “I don’t see you even though you’re standing two feet in front of me loudly screaming my name like a bad porn actress” expression Luke wore himself. They almost looked like a couple.

“This is going on my wall,” she said, hitting the print button.

We were in her living room, the shades fully raised in an effort to catch the late morning sun. She handed me the laptop and scurried to the printer, running past a wall with a collection of similarly themed photos. I had dubbed it “Sienna’s Wall of (Background) Fame.”

Anani Miss was our all-time favorite gossip blog, so I clicked the back button to see what other celebs she was skewering and found Omari’s face staring at me. He had a Trader Joe’s bag in his hand and was walking with some bottle-blonde white chick who had a bigger booty than I did. I didn’t recognize her. I did recognize his shirt, the result of a joint shopping trip after he’d gotten to the age where there was no excuse not to own a shirt with buttons.

Omari was all pretty boy, though he’d kill me for describing him like that. It’s hard to be called anything else when you have dimples and eyelashes so long I’d once been tempted to rip them off to give to my eyelash lady for my next appointment. He also had curly hair but kept it close to the scalp so no one would find out.

“OMG,” Sienna said, sneaking up on me.

“What?”

“OMG! That’s his nickname on Anani. He’s officially big-time.”

In Anani’s world, being bestowed a nickname was the equivalent of winning an Oscar. I willed myself not to be impressed. “OMG, though?”

“His initials. Omari Michael Grant. I should call him. OMG, it’s OMG!!! He’d curse me out so bad.”

“You should call him,” I said. “And then you can ask about the cell phone video.” So I wouldn’t have to.

Sienna was already shaking her head no. “No and thank you. You got in a silly little argument. Big whoop. Call the boy.”

I sighed. Then finally decided to come clean. I patted the couch next to me. “Sit.”

There must have been something in my voice, because she sat immediately. No questions asked. I launched into my tale, sharing every single sordid detail about what had happened in the backseat of the Black Hole, even yanking up my dress to show her the exact spot where thumb had made contact with skin. The entire thing took five very long, very painful minutes. I was mentally exhausted by the time I was done. So I sat there, waiting for Sienna to say something. Hoping she’d finally understand.

It took her a beat but she finally spoke. “Girl, are you serious? He hit on you.”

I nodded.

“And you panicked,” she said.

I nodded again.

Her face was even more somber when she spoke again. “You know what this means, right?”

Once again, I nodded. It meant I could never talk to him again.

“It means you guys are finally at the end of Act Two!”

She broke out in the biggest you-know-what-eating grin I’d ever seen. If she smiled any wider, I could have made out the coffee she’d drunk for breakfast. I was not amused.

In screenplay speak, the end of Act Two is the main character’s lowest point. In action films, the star’s been captured. In romantic comedies, the couple has had a big fight. In horror movies, all her friends are dead and she’s been stripped down to just a bra and panties. Sienna had already been convinced that Omari and I were destined to walk hand-in-hand into the sunset while the credits started to roll. Nothing I said could convince her otherwise, even apparently Thumb-gate. “You need to call him,” she said.

And with that, she went to hang up her celeb photo and I went back to the bloset, where I didn’t call him. Instead, I got on my tablet and googled “Tricks to trigger memory.” A ton of hits came up. All of them were for how to remember things in the future. That would be fine and dandy for the next hit-and-run I witnessed but was not helping me now. I typed “How to remember something you forgot.”

The first hit was a video link about self-hypnosis. My first thought was, I’m not that desperate. My second thought was, Well, yes, I actually am. I clicked the link. It promised Brother Mo would be my guide to help trigger my memory. It suggested I find a comfortable place and “let the Brother do his thing.” What in Blaxploitation heck …

Against my better judgment, I hit play, immediately pausing the video to let it load. The last thing I needed was to be in the throes of hypnosis and have to buffer. I nestled in bed next to my tablet and prayed this would work. I hit play again.

“Welcome.” Brother Mo spoke over a slow, mesmerizing beat. It was so spoken word that I resisted the urge to snap my applause. Though he had gone all-out with the music, he’d skimped on the visuals. I was expecting squiggly lines moving hypnotically like a belly dancer, or at least something that required a warning it might cause seizures. The screen was just black. Boo. I was also hoping he’d at least give me a “You are getting very, very sleepy.” Instead, he said, “Are you comfortable and relaxed with your mind open to this experience?”

He paused just long enough that I wondered if I should answer him. I compromised and nodded. “Good,” Brother Mo finally said. “It’s important you clear the brain. Repeat after me, slowly, surely, ‘I am open, I am ready, I am free.’ Repeat now. ‘I am open. I am ready.
I am free.’ I can’t hear you.”

I felt stupid, but since that was nothing new, I repeated it. “I am open. I am ready. I am free.”

“Continue with this mantra as you concentrate on your breathing. In. Out. Up. Down. Feel me next to you. Feel me inside you.”

Why was this reminding me of bad phone sex with my ex? Nevertheless, I was mantra-ing my butt off when my cell rang. I jerked up like I’d been hit by lightning. Brother Mo would have to wait.

It was Daddy. I knew something was wrong when he didn’t go through his usual spiel about how pretty I looked. “Hey baby girl, have you talked to your mama?”

I hadn’t. Mainly because I’d been avoiding her. He didn’t need to know that, though. “Not today,” I said. “You on lunch break?”

His doctor had forbid him from doing anything strenuous, so he’d picked up a job working as a cashier at the drugstore around the corner from the house. It paid nowhere near what he’d made working for the city. But he had too much pride not to do something, even if it was just for minimum wage.

“Sure am. Your mama told me the bank called while I was at work.”

Fudge. My father and I had a strict “Don’t tell, seriously don’t tell” policy when it came to sharing things with my mother. It was especially true for the foreclosure situation. There was more of a chance of aliens coming from space and both Will Smith and Tom Cruise not being able to save mankind than her handling that piece of information well. Although at this point, I was more than ready for someone or something to come take me away. Another galaxy seemed like the perfect place, too. “She didn’t say what they wanted?” I asked.

“Sure didn’t. All she said was that the bank called.”

“She probably doesn’t know, Daddy.” I tried to sound reassuring. “Mama isn’t one to play it cool.”

He didn’t respond, so I continued. “Everything’s going to be fine. Mama won’t know a thing. I told you I have a plan. I just need a few more days.”

I could hear him sigh through the phone. “I never shoulda gotten you involved. This is my problem. Not yours. I don’t want you to worry about it anymore. Okay, baby girl? I’ll handle it.”

“Not a problem, Daddy.”

Then I hung up and immediately decided to call Omari.

The fact that the number wasn’t even in my phone was a testament to the state of our relationship. I’d been forced to downgrade to one of those pay-by-the-month no-contract deals right after our argument. Luckily, he’d kept the same 706 number from Augusta since he’d moved out here. It was one of the few numbers I knew by heart.

Of course, I didn’t have the slightest idea what to say. I figured texting would be easier, but I was still hesitant. I wasn’t scared of what to write as much as I was scared of his reaction. It felt abrupt to send a “Hey, what’s up? I need something from you,” text, especially after I hadn’t heard from him.

You wouldn’t believe the number of “Hey, girl! Just wanted to catch up even though we haven’t spoken in five years” messages I got the day after my first Chubby’s commercial aired. Everyone who’d ignored me in high school now claimed to be a close friend. It was like I was retroactively popular. Omari and I would joke about how pathetic it was.

Then there were the Hand-Outs, strangers who wanted to be your best friend only because they had their hands out, looking for you to help their come-up. Read their script. Invest in their business opportunity. Hook them up with your agent. LA had more Hand-Outs than plastic surgeons. It was one of the few things I didn’t miss about my brush with fame. I didn’t want Omari to think I wanted something from him just because he was famous. That was not the case. I wanted something from him because I was broke.

I decided to go the simple route. Hey, stranger, I texted. I put my phone down and, of course, went to the bathroom. As I washed my hands, I could hear the phone vibrating on the desk. A million thoughts raced through my head as I walked back into my room, and they all boiled down to one thing: What would he say? I read his response. Who’s this?

Was he being funny? I responded, Very funny, even though it wasn’t. His response was instantaneous. I’m not playing. Who is this?

He was serious. Had he deleted my number? When? Right after our argument? Because he was that mad? Because we hadn’t spoken? I decided to play it light. OMG!!! Someone’s come a long way since Guys and Dolls.

I waited for a response. And waited. And waited. After an hour of pretending not to stare at my phone, I wrote again. It’s Day.

He didn’t respond to that one either, which pissed me off. Omari knew I hated being ignored. It was one thing to be mad at someone. It was another thing to be just plain rude. I sent another text, Glad to see success has made you an a-hole! Then I decided that wasn’t enough and dialed his number.

Despite the fame and despite the argument, we went back to high school. I had enough on him to anonymously sell a story to the National Enquirer. The phone rang four times before the voicemail picked up. “Hi, you reached Charlotte. Sorry I couldn’t answer your call right now.”

Oops. I double-checked the number. It was Omari’s. Key word being was. I needed to talk to him, but how? He’d never been good at checking his email, even before he was super busy being hot and rich and famous. And I didn’t have time to waste. I immediately put on my shoes and grabbed my purse. If I wanted to talk to him, I’d have to do it in person. Sigh.

Omari brought three things with him when he moved to Georgia from Brooklyn our junior year: a New York accent, a sneaker addiction, and a hatred of driving. Even in LA, he stuck close to home when it came to his favorite places, and home had been a studio off Pico a few blocks west of Fairfax.

That area is three miles from Hollywood, but it might as well be in the South Bay. It’s filled with large two-story duplexes and single-family homes occupied by people with jobs they got through interviews, not auditions. You can do breakfast at CJ’s, which holds the title for the best—and possibly only—soul food/Mexican spot in SoCal. For lunch, you can get garlic chicken at Versailles, a Cuban spot on the corner of La Cienega. It’s so no-frills they don’t take reservations. You wait in line outside until a table opens up. The area doesn’t even have a single Starbucks. If you want coffee, you have Paper or Plastik, where you’re actually allowed to use words like small and large.

I hit them all to no avail. Omari wasn’t at any of them. It took me all afternoon—if you accounted for both lunch and dinner breaks. I even went by his apartment building, but a quick glance at the directory told me he’d moved. Depressed as all get-out, I hit Sienna up on text to see what she was up to. Of course, she was shopping.

I got in my car, took La Brea up to Melrose, and parked on a side street right next to a sign that warned me I only had two hours to park there unless I had a permit. Sienna was at a shoe store a couple of blocks away. As I walked to meet her, I passed by Platinum Motor­sports.

It was the only auto mechanic shop on the street. Melrose was known more for fashion than auto mechanics. But even though it seemed weird to put an auto detailing place there, in reality, it made sense. Platinum was basically fashion for your car.

It was well after seven and the place was pretty deserted. I went inside and was greeted by a six-foot-five behemoth. He was black, had to weigh at least three hundred pounds, and looked like he’d make a great pillow. He smiled when he saw me. “Welcome to Platinum. I’m Jay.”

“You’re just the person I needed to see, Jay.” I pushed my boobs out slightly. If you bought them, you might as well use them.

I may have been setting the women’s movement back fifty years, but I needed every distraction I could get for the tale I planned to weave. He nodded, so I continued. “Can you believe this idiot hit my car and didn’t bother to stop?”

“That’s horrible.”

“Isn’t it? I ran after him, but hello, I was in five-inch heels, no way I could catch him. And so he got away. But he did have, like, this rose etched in his window tint, and I know you guys do that, soooo, I thought maybe you could help me out and like maybe look up what cars you did that for?”

I smiled wide and waited to see if he bought it. After a brief pause, he spoke. “So you think your man is cheating on you with some chick with roses etched in her windows?”

What a chauvinist … said the girl who’d just tried to trade her boobs for information. If he wanted to believe that, it was fine by me. “That obvious, huh?” I asked.

“You know I could get in trouble for giving out clients’ information.” My smile tightened. What a waste of a boob job. “Lucky for you, they don’t pay me enough to give a crap,” he continued. “What kind of car was it?”

Good question. I decided to use the fact he thought I was a dumb girl to my advantage. “There are different brands?” Then I giggled. I hated myself for it.

He grabbed a pen and scribbled down a number. “Do some more spying, find out what kind of car it is, and call me when you have it.”

Blurg. I was never going to remember anything about the car that hit Haley. My parents’ house was about to be seized by the bank. And Omari had truly moved on with his life while I shared a bedroom with about fifty pairs of shoes. Nice pairs of shoes, but still. I said goodbye, took the number, and moped all the way to the shoe store.

When I got there, Sienna was admiring herself in one of the store’s full-length mirrors. She was wearing the red pants from Clothes Encounters. She’d finally bought them during the disaster that was our last trip there. They were paired with a black ribbed fitted tank top. “Aren’t they gorgeous?” she asked.

They were a pair of red suede platform stiletto booties. “They’re gorgeous,” I said, but my heart wasn’t in it.

Sienna picked up on it immediately. “Okay what’s wrong? You’re obviously depressed, because shoes always cheer you up.”

So true. She handed her credit card to the sales girl. Much like a five-year-old going school shopping, Sienna loved wearing her shoe purchases out the store.

“I spent all afternoon looking for freaking Omari,” I told her. “I hit all his spots on Pico, and I couldn’t find him anywhere.”

“Of course, you didn’t find him,” she said. “You’re looking in the wrong places.”

“He practically lived in Paper or Plastik.”

“That was before his show. He’s gone Hollywood.”

I couldn’t see Omari pretending to be shocked to be caught by the paparazzi while shopping on Robertson Boulevard. “No way.”

“He wouldn’t be the first,” she said.

She was right. Four years ago, I couldn’t see myself pretending to be shocked by the paparazzi while shopping on Robertson either, but I had. My bank account balance proved it.

“You need to go above Wilshire if you want to see him.” Sienna grabbed her cell phone from her purse and tapped the screen a few times. “Let me look up his Twitter. If I don’t find anything there, I’ll check Instagram.”

Omari having a Twitter page was proof enough she might be right. He’d refused all my efforts to get him to sign up. I peered over her shoulder. He had almost 300,000 followers. Not bad for six weeks’ work. His Twitter feed was mostly retweets of fans who just couldn’t wait for LAPD 90036 to come on!!!!! He did occasionally tweet himself. Sienna read his most recent entry out loud. “Excited for Man in Danger 2: Man in More Danger premiere tonight.”

That was all the confirmation I needed that Sienna was right. Omari really had gone Hollywood if he was attending premieres for movies he wasn’t even in. The only reason people did that was to get their red carpet pictures on blogs and in magazines. Blurg.

Sienna left the Twitter app and hit another button. There was a beep. “Siri, what time does the Man in Danger 2 premiere start tonight?”

There was another beep and then Siri’s mechanical voice. “I found some information that may help you.”

It did. The premiere was at the ArcLight, with the red carpet happening from 7:30 to 8:30. I glanced at the phone’s clock. It was 8:02.

“Let’s go,” Sienna said. “We have a movie to catch.”