Chapter 7
My little white VW Beetle zips to Beverly Hills and back in the smooth, familiar groove of old memory.
After my SUV years, I feel as close to the asphalt as an actual bug in this vehicle.
Though it took time to regain my grip, I ultimately maneuver the stick shift around with practiced exhilaration.
Sunroof wide-open, it’s bliss as I wind through LA traffic that doesn’t even annoy me.
I’m all alone, screaming to songs that are brand-new at the peak of Justin Timberlake’s artistry—with no random questions from anyone prepubescent.
There is no Mom, Mom, Mom!—nobody’s schedule but mine, which is wondrously sparse today.
No class until four. The sensation is weird, but also fantastic.
Hollow.
Electric.
Quiet.
Rebellious.
When Carrie Underwood cries in her hot new jam for Jesus to take the wheel, all I can trust is that he already has, outlandish as it may be. What other choice do I have?
Returning from the new Sprinkles Cupcakes on Little Santa Monica Boulevard, I carry my loot back to campus.
A fresh dozen. You better believe I’ll be satisfying my food cravings in this second chance of a lifetime.
More than anything, all I want to do when given a taste of freedom from adulting is precisely .
. . nothing. Nothing! I want to lie down with nowhere to be. For three weeks, give or take.
After one more quick stop at the student bookstore, I’m splayed atop a chaise lounge on the sorority rooftop deck.
Six chairs, tiny tables, umbrellas, and a stocked minifridge.
Aside from seeing this open-sky space one time during rush, never once did I spend any time up here back in college.
I’ve regretted it since. It was our slice of European vacation, with a clear shot of the downtown skyline on a cloudless day—stretching all the way to Skid Row.
The juxtaposition never smacked me with embarrassment back then, but it hits me now.
I haven’t thought in years about the times our college church group from USC would take sandwiches down to people on those streets and share some food, conversation, and prayers (only if they were up for it).
I wonder what they thought of us—if they felt grateful or resentful or both.
We meant well; that was for sure. I hope they felt love and compassion from kids who were trying.
I shake it off with a silent apology if we were ever naive or offensive, immensely thankful, regardless, for all I’ve been given.
Or what’s been taken away? Pure and simply now, I’m all alone up here. Except for my Diet Coke and new book. For exactly fifteen more minutes.
Suddenly chatter ascends from the spiral stairwell. I take in a beautiful Black girl I’ve never met, wearing a floor-length crocheted cover-up; an extremely tall white girl in a purple bikini; and then, well, well, well. What do you know: Sierra. Again, so soon? My stomach knots and rises at once.
She appears in a pink-and-white gingham two-piece and white cat-eye glasses. I try not to gasp at the bones of her hips, the definition of her sharp clavicles. She’s so thin, I almost cry out. I pull in a slow breath instead, slap on a sister’s smile. I know how to play the game. We all do.
She lowers her retro sunnies, eyeing the open seat next to me. “You following me, Newport?”
“Ha!” I was here first. “Got me!”
“Mind if we sit?” asks the striking brunette.
“Of course not,” I lie, already missing the solitude.
With a drop of their textbooks, towels, and totes, they nestle into the chairs beside me. I try not to stare but feel Sierra’s eyes baking into me.
“Are you reading Harry Potter?” she asks. “The first one?”
I steal an absent look at the cover. “Yep,” I say. “I just bought it at the bookstore.”
“For a class?” pipes up the girl in crochet. “How am I always missing the cool classes?”
“Oh, no,” I say. My son loves it. I’ve never had the time to read it, and I’ll try every chance at connecting with him. “Not for a class. Just for . . . fun! I’ve always wondered about the hype, you know?”
“They are so good,” Sierra effuses, surprising me. “Just wait until you get to book four. They get darker and darker—but better and better.”
I smile. “I’m glad you like them.” I pretend to keep reading, with a fresh bite of creamy frosting filling my mouth, but Sierra’s not done. Maybe she’s still intoxicated, brimming with questions and lacking boundaries. If I wasn’t so desperate to know her, I might find it annoying.
“Is that a cupcake?” she asks. “For breakfast?”
I mean, it’s almost noon, but sure. I nod, mouth full. “Have you tried Sprinkles Cupcakes yet?”
“The new place in Beverly Hills?” asks Purple Bikini Girl. “I hear they’re insane.”
I moan through my bite. “They are. Insane. I got a dozen. You guys want one?”
The two friends bounce over to me greedily, gratefully, grabbing one red velvet each. Sierra shakes her head. “I don’t eat that stuff,” she says, though her birdlike frame said it first.
My heart sinks. “Since when?”
She scowls. “Since never.”
But you have a bakery someday! You said you’ve always loved to bake. Our grandmas both taught us how.
Her sidekicks croon, “Sierra. Live a little.”
“Hashtag worth it,” I say, which naturally elicits more stares asking, What’s a hashtag? I hold out the chocolate peanut butter one, which I know is her favorite. “One bite?” I offer. “Tastes like a Reese’s Peanut Butter Cup. But fudgier. In cake form.”
She hesitates before taking it from me. It’s the tiniest nibble anyone’s ever dared—but she accepts it, a bite.
I wait.
“Oh wow,” she admits. “That. Is. Insane.”
I smile, feeling voracious for ways to keep knowing her, getting her, wearing her down.
“You know,” I press cautiously, “I always thought it might be fun to open a bakery. Someday.”
Her head snaps to me, but she softens almost instantly into honey butter.
“That’s so funny,” she says with a wistful smile. “I’ve always thought so too.” She scoops up her massive water bottle, taking a swig—gulp, gulp, gulp. I can’t be sure that it’s water, but I’m thrilled because I’ve seen my sign.
She’s in there.
Sweet Sierra.
By 4 p.m., two thoughts consume me.
One, I need more coffee. I’m forced to acknowledge that this habit started in college and has stayed quadruple-shot strong for two decades.
Two, I’m surviving. I’m actually doing this. And it’s not as hard as I thought it would be. Am I possibly going to be okay on this journey? What a trip, an unbelievable trip. Dizzying, yes, but not horrible. Yet, anyway.
As predicted, my leather-bound day planner has held my milky hand through the day.
Between that and the class schedule posted on my bulletin board, I’m managing.
Thriving? Not quite. But it doesn’t feel out of reach.
I feel an increasing sense of ease. Already!
Besides my need for a caffeine drip—and fumbling for life information—I feel fantastic.
Well, mostly fantastic.
Dressing myself was both easy (limited options) and hard (are you kidding me with these options?). I settled on jeans, a white racerback tank, and flip-flops, opting for basic, before that became a bad word. The goal was to blend right in, not scream, I’m really forty!
Because I was certainly forty. The waistband of the tiny-sized jeans just felt cruel, sinking way lower than sea level.
Why did it take so many years for that tide to rise in the fashion industry?
Riding my beach cruiser bicycle in sandals and low-rise jeans all day felt like an Olympic feat.
I was Simone Biles after a full meet. Where were my eleven medals?
At last, I sigh with relief in front of the theater building for my only class of the day—and what I remember as one of my favorite classes in college. Improvisation and Theater Games. Improv always filled me with that recognizable tightening in my chest at the hunch I was made to do it.
Acceptance of an offer. The ability to tell a story. Strong listening skills. Knowing when to end a scene. Being a team player. The rules rush back to me with the flow of the campus fountain where I park my bike. The sound of water, the smell of tulips, the thirst for knowledge just everywhere.
Flip-flops slapping clumsily, I take the elevator to the third floor and walk into the auditorium, already full of students.
When I spot Quinn, I practically skip to her.
I recall with fondness that this is the only class we ever took together at USC.
She needed two extra arts units, and I persuaded her to sign up with me.
I don’t know if I’ve ever been so happy to see her. “Hiiiiiii!” my voice screeches.
In her own pink tank and jean skirt, she grins back at me, black hair in a smooth, tight ponytail. Once again, I note the glint in her emerald eyes. She’s happy. Self-assured. It took me seeing her zapped of these things to appreciate her here, so much softer.
“Are we ready?” From the center of the semicircle, Francisco Fuentes snaps his fingers and gives a shake of his hips.
He’s the most fabulous, to say the least, with his dark gelled hair, loud outfits, and golden chains.
We all know him from Whispers of Fate, the soap opera du jour of our childhood.
Pushing fifty, he’s retired from acting now and teaches classes here and at UCLA.
“Ready!” we singsong.
“Today’s assignment is simple. You have two choices, and two minutes to perform with your partner.
” He clasps his hands. “Choice one, your partner is your long-lost child, now a young adult, and you’re breaking the news.
Choice two, one of you is from anywhere but here—and you’re explaining this to your cohort.
Discuss amongst yourselves until you hear my whistle! ”
I blink swiftly, flashing back.