November 2017
Community Center of Santa Monica
(Seventh Street between Santa Monica and Wilshire)
“Slow down, Porsche!” Bentley clung to the door. “One of these days you’re going to roll this car and kill us all.”
Porsche careened around the corner onto Sunset Boulevard in her sleek black Porsche—jerking to a stop at the intersection.
SCREEEEEEECH!
“I don’t know why we couldn’t have picked a closer meeting. This drive is ridiculous.” Bentley gripped her door handle. They were on their way to their usual Wednesday-afternoon appointment, and by now every photographer in town knew it.
“You know why we picked this meeting, B. Location, location, location. Besides, it’s a great route for imagery. Green trees. Big houses. Famous street. I’ll roll the window down in a sec, and it’ll be a feeding frenzy. The headlines will hit before we get to the coffee.”
“I know.” Bent sighed. “I know.” It was exhausting.
Porsche was very into imagery. It was never paparazzi or photos with her. It was only images and imagery, the way she imagined herself and how she could best project that image onto the world around her. The paps might have thought they were using her, but the joke was really on them.
Even though her engagement had yet to be announced, Porsche was on top of her game these days. She was getting (sort of) married, Maybach was playing up his poker habit for the cameras, and for now, Mercedes once again had her show. And Bentley? She was supposedly gaining a brother, not losing a sister—plus or minus a little acting out, for good measure.
That was all true.
The May (sweeps) wedding was six months out; the “Untitled Porsche Royce Wedding Special” green-light meeting with Lifespan had gone one fist short of perfectly, and full-scale preparation plans had been launched.
Whitey himself had come up to the house for two different planning dinners so far—both painful. Just because Mercedes had signed on to the wedding arc didn’t mean she had to like it or him, and she didn’t. While Bach and Bent tried to stay out of the bickering—eating their Café Gratitude acai bowls with record speed—Mercedes presided over the fledgling faux couple with more than a watchful eye. Each meal was an opportunity for a new precision strike, and they were all potentially lethal.
Like this: “You really need to wear lifts in your shoes, Whitey. Porsche cannot wear less than a three-inch heel, preferably four. Otherwise she gets a little thick around the ankles and you know what Jeff will say about that.”
And this: “I’ve brought in Jacques, here, to teach you how to take a good couple’s selfie. Your selfie game is not strong, Whitey. I mean, you don’t even have an Instagram account. You’ll have to set that up immediately, and then I’m really going to need you to practice with Jacques before we release you out into the wild.”
And this: “You’re going to need cute, loving, funny-but-not-too-funny nicknames for each other. I’ve hired writers. They’re telling me Booboo is going to make a comeback.”54
Whitey frowned. “You mean, like, babe?”
“Really? Babe?” Mercedes looked down at him over her reading glasses, which she never wore out of the house. “We’ll get back to you. Stick with Porsche for now.”
“Whatever you say, Moms.” Whitey grinned, which caused Mercedes to make a small choking sound.
For his own safety, Porsche had dragged Whitey out to the pool house (next to the gym) after that. (She had claimed those two rooms plus bath as her grown-up bedroom the day she’d turned twenty-one.) She didn’t venture back inside the main house until the next day.
But not everything about the Royce family had changed. Two months after getting their season-six pickup, the sisters found themselves in the same place doing the same thing that they had for more than a year.
Maybe Wednesday afternoons would always be this way, Bent thought—at least as long as RWTR was on the air. Even if Whitey was now in the backseat, sometimes. As he was today.
The light turned green, and Porsche floored the gas pedal. Whitey’s head knocked against the side of the car. Things were getting intense (emphasis on the tense)—even for the Royces.
SHRIEEEEEEK!
They still knew relatively little about Porsche’s mysterious future groom: he lived in Venice, on the canals near the beach, but Porsche had never been over there. He had dropped out of Santa Monica City College but seemed to have no friends from those days to speak of. He’d taken Porsche to meet everyone at the record label, but not to meet any of his clients. Porsche hadn’t said anything, but Bentley knew she was a little worried.
In private, Mercedes, of course, was beside herself. “Who is he bringing to the table? Who are his guests at the wedding? Who even is this guy, aside from the son of some rich record exec? How do you know he’s not just using you? He’s not a celebrity gold digger?”
When the conversation got that far, Porsche usually lost it. “Because that’s us, Mercedes. We’re the celebrity gold diggers, remember?”
SCREEEEEEECH!
This time, Bent’s head knocked against the window as Porsche slammed her foot on the brake and the Porsche swerved to a stop. On either side of them was a stretch of the clogged 405 freeway, but the bigger traffic jam was the one now following Porsche Royce. The car behind them, a banged-up puke-green Ford Fiesta, was wielding a telephoto lens. The dented Caddy fell into place behind it.
Bent watched in the rearview mirror. “Did you ever think about what it’s going to be like? Once you announce your engagement?”
“How big I’ll be?” Porsche smiled into the rearview mirror, at Whitey. “How big we’ll be?”
“Maybe a Bey and a half? A Double Bey?” He grinned at her. “Especially once Whiteboyz releases your new album.” They’d been going to the recording studio together for weeks now. Unfortunately, Porsche’s voice wasn’t all that much better than her mother’s or her brother’s. Mercedes’s gift for terrible vocal stylings was clearly a dominant gene.
“How big of a zoo your life will be?” Bent shook her head. “Or just how bad it’s going to be?”
“If by bad you mean incredible, yes. Absolutely.” Porsche smiled. She was actually starting to give off that weird glow, the one that belonged to brides and pregnant women, Bentley thought.55
It was creeping the whole family out.
Bent tried again. “By bad I mean bad, Porsche. The paparazzi will be hounding you constantly. As it is now, they’re already jeopardizing our safety on a regular basis. Amp up the fame and you could get yourself killed.”
“Oh, please. Name one celebrity who’s been killed in a paparazzi-induced accident.” Porsche swerved again.
SCREEEEEEECH!
“Princess Di,” Bent deadpanned.
“Dang, B,” Whitey crowed.
“Honey”—Porsche glanced over her sunglasses and into the rearview mirror—“I don’t think I’ll ever be that famous. Although, they do call us Reality TV Royalty, so I guess you never know.”
She laughed. Whitey grabbed her hand and kissed it.
Bentley had to give it to her sister. The memories of their near cancellation already seemed forgotten. Porsche Royce had gotten everything she’d wanted this far in life, and she was right on track for getting everything else. Porsche was her mother’s daughter, and for more reasons than just their matching Midnight Noir hair and terrible voices. When it came to the iron will to succeed, there was no mistaking the shared gene pool of mother and daughter, even if Bentley had escaped it.
Her sister had the Mercedes gleam in her eye. Bent wondered if the photographers were catching it.
By the time the Porsche pulled up in front of a nondescript gray building on Seventh Street in Santa Monica, the paparazzi had moved to a respectful distance.
They knew the score. Meeting days were always the same. The photogs had to stay on the far side of the parking lot no matter how many telephoto lenses they had crammed under their Windbreakers or stuffed inside their backpacks. Because today was one of the only things left in the sisters’ lives that wasn’t about the wedding.
It was true; every Wednesday afternoon, both Porsche and Bentley were spoken for. It was their day off, written into their contracts, due to some unspecified problem that had been covered lightly—very lightly—on the show.
Wednesdays were for AA.
It was unclear which one of them was the addict (in real reality, neither); all the tabloids knew was that Rolling with the Royces had done a brisk intervention episode, right after Bentley’s sixteenth birthday party (again scripted, this time with even more painful casting done at Mulholland Hall, Bentley’s and Bach’s own school)—throwing around a lot of words like supportive and holistic, and decided as a family (or production team, depending on who you asked) that Porsche and Bentley would begin attending AA meetings. Before a more serious problem actually did develop.
Hence Bentley’s fake trip to rehab, during which ratings had skyrocketed for an entire month. Porsche had started meetings with her the month after. She never could resist a spotlight, no matter the reason.
By the end of the summer, when no one had actually OD’d, the ratings went back to normal, and the girls couldn’t help but feel they’d let the family down. But they were still chip-carrying members of AA.
The paparazzi, for the most part, behaved. In the beginning, one had tried to actually make his way into the meeting posing as an addict, but Lawrence, the strikingly good-looking trans guy who ran the meetings, had found him out (and kicked him out) within the first five minutes. Lawrence was good about ferreting out the paps. He was really into privacy—in life and in his meetings, just like most AA sponsors.
And things had quickly gotten easier after that; the prying eyes had kept their distance once it became clear that the Roycers were sympathetic to the rehab story line. Blurry photos on the way in and out of the meeting were okay, at least in the eyes of the fandom; stolen spy shots from the front row were not.
Still, the Royce sisters kept going, if only for different reasons. Porsche liked to talk, and Bentley liked to listen. It didn’t hurt, either, that half the words out of Lawrence’s handsome mouth could also be read on the inspirational posters that plastered the walls of the meeting room.
Today, as they hurried to the door of the building, the paparazzi watched with more interest than usual. It was only Whitey who waved at the cameras now.
“Whitey,” Porsche warned. “Not here. Not yet.”
“What?” He sounded annoyed. This was only his second meeting, and he didn’t know the ropes that well.
“Don’t encourage them. Not until we announce our engagement,” Porsche said.
“She’s right,” Bent said, annoyed.
“Aw, I’m just messin’ around, darlin’.” Whitey pulled his fiancé and sister-in-law in for a photo, zipping open his Adidas jacket.
On his T-shirt was a hot-red Porsche, the sports car. He grinned and made the sign of the horns with either hand, next to the Royce girls’ heads.
Porsche giggled. “You’re so bad.”
Bentley glared. “Seriously?”
The paparazzi went nuts, and any Royce AA protocols were instantly suspended.
“DOES YOUR FRIEND HAVE A NAME, PORSCHE?”
“WHO’S THE NEW GUY?”
“YOU GOT A NAME, BRO?”
“Whitey! Lifespan will kill you. You know that’s not allowed,” Bent said, pulling her sister away. Pam had been very clear—until the announcement, the Royces were to say nothing about Whitey, confirm no rumors, give up no information.
As the three of them headed down into the basement of the building, the tall dark-skinned man (sporting a long-sleeve Heal the Bay T-shirt and the bone structure of a runway model) looked happy to see them. “Porsche! A vision as always! Hello, T.W. Glad you could join us again. And welcome back, B. One of these days we’re going to get your mother and brother to drop in.”
“Hilarious.” Bentley kissed his cheek. “Looking good, Lawrence.” No one was allowed to call him Larry. That was his only rule.
“What other people think of me is none of my business, B.” He smiled. Lucky for you, Bentley thought. It’s my whole life and my family’s whole business.
Now the group leader drew his arm around her, kindly. “Tell me the headlines aren’t true, B?”
“They never are, Lawrence.” She let him hug her. The last thing she needed was a lecture right now. “You know that.”
“I do. Just keep coming to meetings.”
Porsche smiled. “Hello, Lawrence.”
“Hey.” Whitey nodded, next to her. “Just letting you know. It smells like crap in here.”
“He’s right.” Porsche sniffed. “Cigarettes.” Sniff. “No, sweat.” Sniff, sniff. “Camel Lights and sweat.” She looked exasperated. “For goodness’ sake, can’t you get the smokers to stand by the back door? I can already feel my pores clogging. They’re, like, crying out all over my face.”
Lawrence sighed. “Humility isn’t thinking less of yourself, Porsche….”
“Save it.” Porsche shoved him out of the way and stalked off toward the coffee table. Whitey lingered, hands jammed in his pockets. Like he wasn’t sure what to do with himself.
Bentley looked at Lawrence sympathetically. “…It’s thinking of yourself less.56 And you might as well give up on that one, Lawrence.”
“Never.” He smiled charitably, even now. “God is your copilot. Yours, mine, and Porsche’s.”
“Actually, I’m her copilot now,” Whitey said, over his shoulder, with a wink.
Bentley rolled her eyes and patted Lawrence’s back. “Believe me. If Porsche was god’s copilot, he’d switch seats or jump.”
But there was no getting Lawrence to give up. Not even on Porsche. “We’re all here to surrender ourselves to a Higher Power.”
“Yeah, that’s not gonna fly. Porsche’s self-esteem is steel-plated and sealed in Teflon. The thing’s airtight.” Bent rapped on his head. “Like a drum, Lawrence. Tighter than Mercedes’s post-op forehead.”
Lawrence wobbled, and for a second Bent thought he was actually going to break character. But he sucked it all back in the moment the next broken-down former hippie producer stumbled up. “Brian! Are we keeping it simple?”
She’d never rattle that AA composure.
As Lawrence made it to the podium at the front of the room, Bentley followed her sister and Whitey to the very back.
He beamed. “Are you ready to get started? Because if you want what you’ve never had, you’ve got to do what you’ve never done. Am I right? Everyone? Are you with me?”
“Yes….”
“You know it….”
“We’re with you, Lawrence….”
The room mumbled and nodded. It was a stampede of mild positivity, Bentley thought. But it must have been enough, because Lawrence went with it.
He cleared his throat. “My name is Lawrence, and I’m an alcoholic.”
“Hi, Lawrence,” the room dutifully responded.
Bentley and Porsche looked at their phones in unison. Two synchronized swimmers treading water in the shallow end. Forty-four minutes and counting.
“Does anyone want to share?” As usual, Lawrence looked around the room. What happened next was less usual.
Whitey stepped up to the mic, or rather, T. Wilson White, as he introduced himself. He looked nervous. “I’m not really sure what to say. I’ve never—”
“Just say what you’re feeling, Tomas.” Lawrence was eating it up. He hadn’t had a first-timer step up to the plate in a while. “You can’t open the door to a better place if you don’t—”
“Don’t what?” Whitey frowned.
Lawrence looked distracted. “Put…put all your weight…on the handle.” He wasn’t used to being interrupted.
“What handle?” Whitey looked confused.
Lawrenced blushed. “Your handle, I mean. Your metaphorical handle.”
“Whoa, dude, come on. Let’s leave my handle out of this.”
Bent looked at Porsche, who was trying not to laugh.
“No—I—you misunderstand—” Lawrence stammered. Even their unflappable group leader was flapping in the face of Whitey.
“My handle? Like a trucker?” Whitey shook his head. “I don’t know what you’re talkin’ about, man.”
“Forget the handle. Just go on,” Lawrence said. Now he was sweating. He rubbed the sleeve of his T-shirt against his forehead. “And remember, first names only.”
Whitey nodded, clearing his throat. He looked directly across the room to where the two Royce girls were sitting. “So, like I was saying, I don’t know—I’ve never done this before, but I met someone, and it’s important to her. I mean, it’s, like, one of her things, riiight? And she’s important to me—well, I mean, she’s going to be, I think, riiight—and so, yeah. I gotta push through it. Here I am.”
Whitey’s laying it on thick today. Bent wondered why.
“You’re taking the first steps.” Lawrence nodded. “Emotionally, you’re a toddler.”
“I guess so, riiight? Seeing as I first-stepped all the way into this dump, didn’t I?” Whitey sighed. “This time around, it’s important.” He scratched his head, uncomfortably, or fake uncomfortably—it was impossible to tell. “She’s important, I mean.”
His eyes moved across the room, stopping on the last row.
“I don’t know, I tell you, she’s…” He made an exploding sound. “Blows my mind, L-Dog.”
“It’s Lawrence,” Lawrence said, staring at Whitey as if he were speaking the meaning of life. “But go on.”
“I love everything about her, to be honest. From her fancy-pants business-lady lip-gloss line down to the fact that she still keeps her childhood teddy bear next to her vanity mirror. It’s adorable.” He shook his head incredulously, unable to believe his good luck.
Bentley looked over at her sister. Porsche couldn’t take her eyes off Whitey. She was completely frozen, transfixed, deer-in-headlights–style—except this was LA, so the only things you saw in your headlights were more headlights.
Had Porsche told him about not being able to let go of Binky the Bear? She never told anybody about that. Bentley had to consider the possibility that T. Wilson White represented more than just a business deal to her sister now—and that was a very troubling realization, even to the sister who was supposed to be the Troubled One.
It was just too cruel. If Porsche was really starting to like the guy, she was doomed. Fake marriages produced by fake reality shows didn’t have the best track record, longevity-wise. Not compared to the longevity of a Shenzhen lip-gloss manufacturing plant.
And twenty million dollars was a lot of track record.
But it wasn’t just Porsche feeling it.
As Lawrence pronounced him “committed” and “authentic,” Bentley watched while her future fake brother-in-law came and took his seat next to Porsche. Bentley noticed that her sister adjusted her position so that her arm brushed up against his—and he did the same.
The way a couple sits.
It was the strangest thing, seeing them together like that. Not talking, not looking at each other, but somehow still a couple.
Though Bentley knew it was supposed to be fake, it didn’t look fake—not even here in this shabby basement of a room, the one place where there could be no cameras at all. It was…alarming.
Very.
Just then, Bentley’s phone vibrated loudly in her lap. The anonymous alcoholics around her all turned to see what the noise was about. She blushed a deep shade of red and grabbed for her purse.
“I’m so sorry,” she said, fumbling with her phone, “I thought I turned it off.”
The meeting picked up where it left off, and Bentley was able to sneak a glance down at her screen.
It was a message from Mrs. Reynolds, her high school English teacher. The subject read: YOUR REQUEST.
Her heart began to race. She had asked Mrs. Reynolds for a college recommendation letter—but that had been long before everything—before Whitey—before the show got picked up again.
Now here was the response. Bent wanted so badly to open the email right there and then, but she knew it wasn’t the time.
There’s never going to be a time. You know that. You made your call. Quit whining about it.
Delete and forget.
Lawrence’s voice floated toward her from the front of the grungy room. “Happiness is appreciating what you have, not getting what you want, people. Say it with me.” Bent pressed a button and closed her eyes, losing herself in the mumbling crowd.
Thirty minutes later, the three future in-laws stood together by the back door. Now the coffee cups were out and the cigarettes were lit, which meant freedom was at hand.
“How is this worth it? You spend a whole hour every week with these people? Most of them look like they still live with moms and pops. I mean, I love my moms, but…” Whitey shook his head over a paper cup of bitter coffee that tasted like it had been brewed in a toaster, or maybe even a toilet.
“You realize you’re the one who keeps mentioning your moms, right? Twice now?” Bent raised an eyebrow.
Whitey held up his hand in a high five. “You got me. Every boy loves his moms, am I right?”
“That’s three,” Bent said, leaving him hanging.
“Whitey, there’s something you should know.” Porsche looked over her shoulder to where their fearless leader was chatting up a (hot) hot yoga instructor. “We don’t have a drinking problem. That isn’t why we come.”
“Yeah?” Now Whitey looked interested. Porsche had yet to show him how things really worked at meetings—or more precisely, after them.
Bent studied the alleged music mogul over a paper cup of her own. “Porsche’s right. It’s time. We can trust you. Walk us out, and we’ll show you, Whitey.” She clapped her hand on his back. His shoulder blades were sharp as knives.
“If we don’t pass out from the smell first,” Porsche said, pinching her nose and making a face.
“I hear you, Sugarplum.”57 He smiled at her. “You know, you’re pretty cute when you’re crabby.”
Bent ignored both of them until she reached the door. “This is the payoff. Forty-five minutes of emo sharing, and this is what you get in return.”
With that, she pushed the back door open dramatically. On the other side was nothing but an empty parking lot.