All Night Long (2 page)

“I'm Mrs. Kwan, principal of Bel Air High, and I want to welcome all of you incoming seniors to our school. We offer a special welcome to a few new students, as well as to the student buddies who will be showing you around today.”

Kiley turned and glanced up the high bleachers at the three girls who had dissed them earlier. They were about ten rows up. One was talking on her Razr, another was busily applying numerous coats of lip gloss, and the third was flirting with a cute guy next to her. Esme followed Kiley's gaze and looked too.

“Watch, they'll end up being our escorts,” Esme whispered.

“I hope not.”

“That's the way this shit works.” Esme rolled her eyes and both girls looked back toward the gym floor, where Mrs. Kwan cleared her throat.

“I'd like to remind the entire student body to refer to me as Mrs. Kwan, not Ms. Kwan. It's a family tradition. Thank you.

“Are we ready for Evan Pace, incoming president of the senior class, to say a few words?”

The assembled students applauded politely as a tall guy in a royal blue varsity jacket strode to the mike. He had buzz-cut brown hair and a winning smile, and reminded Kiley way too much of Justin Timberlake. A few girls whistled from the back of the gym, and Evan smiled and waved confidently. Then he said all the usual welcoming things before he added a special announcement.

“So you guys who are new need to know about the kickoff senior-year event that's a tradition here at BAHS.” He flashed his patented winning smile again. “It's not an official school event, so I'd better not tell you about the Up All Night party.”

Around the gym, those in the know laughed, even Mrs. Kwan.

“Be sure to ask your escort about it. It's what being a senior is all about.”

“Thank you, Evan,” the principal said, quickly taking the microphone again. She introduced a dozen teachers, talked about various classes and clubs, then asked all the new students to take their blue and white name tags from their welcome packets and put them on.

“Your escort will find you. She or he will take you on a quick tour, introduce you to some people, answer your questions, and welcome you to our school. And of course, the door to my office is always open.”

“Except when it's closed!” a voice boomed out from the top of the bleachers.

“Thank you, Chaz. Glad to see you made it through the
summer,” Mrs. Kwan fired back through the laughter and titters. Meanwhile, the students took this exchange as a signal that the main affair had ended, and rose noisily. Kiley fished out her name tag and found that it was nearly the size of her hand. Well, it wouldn't be hard for her escort to find her. She'd be the one looking like a total geek.

KILEY MCCANN LA CROSSE, WISCONSIN

Great. Why couldn't they just write on it: CHEESEHEAD LOSER.

Still, she peeled off the plastic backing and stuck the tag to her T-shirt. Lydia put on her own name tag, chortling about her hometown of Amazonia like it was a badge of honor. As for Esme, she didn't don hers at all.

“Name tag?” Kiley asked.

Esme frowned. “It says I'm from Echo Park. Everyone will decide I'm a gangbanger. If they haven't decided that already.”

Kiley knew the neighborhood Esme was from very well. She'd even lived there briefly when things had gone south at Platinum's house. That was when Platinum's sister and brother-in-law had come from San Diego to be the legal guardians of the kids while Platinum was awaiting trial.

Echo Park was heavily Latino, heavily poor, and known for its gangs. It was fifteen miles and several million light-years from Bel Air.

“Maybe they'll be scared of you,” Lydia pointed out. “That could work. Fear is a great motivator.”

Kiley peered at Lydia to see if she was serious. Apparently, she was.

Suddenly, a gorgeous girl stepped between her and Lydia. She had stick-straight, glossy chestnut hair, huge blue eyes, and dimples. Her outfit looked like it had been designed especially for her: maroon pants so tight that they left little to the imagination, and a white silk tank top that did the same. Beside her were two friends, equally as close to perfection as anyone could be in real life. The amazing thing was, they weren't even the three girls who'd been so snotty. They were just their spiritual clones.

“Oh, fabulous, you're mine!” girl number one squealed at Lydia. “I'm Staci.”

Staci's two friends introduced themselves as Amber and Zona—Amber of the dark eyes and strawberry blond razor-cut bob, Zona as blond as Lydia—with a noticeable lack of enthusiasm.

“So, you guys are friends, right?” Staci asked, brushing her hair with meticulously manicured fingers. The baby blue python purse she carried on her arm had the entwined
C
's logo that marked it as a Chanel bag, and was nearly as big as she was.

“How did you know?” Kiley asked.

Zona smiled. “We went through all the forms for the new seniors. You know how it asked, ‘Who do you know in the senior class at BAHS?’ You guys all put down each other.”

“We thought it would be fun for us to take you around,” Staci concluded. “Since we're best friends. Come on, follow us.”

The six of them headed out of the gym and down a plush carpeted hallway that led to the center of the school. The ceiling was high, and shiny clean posters were posted on various parts of the walls. The school was shaped like the letter
X
, Staci explained, with an indoor/outdoor central area and four wings
extending from there. There were three stories, and the organization was simple: administration, arts, library, and gym on the bottom; humanities on the second floor; sciences on the top.

The tour was heady. The school was gorgeous. Everything looked new and expensive and airbrushed. There was even a full-fledged oceanography laboratory that made Kiley's heart skip a beat.

“How
do
you guys know each other?” Zona asked. She was skittering along in heels so high that her legs, in skinny jeans, looked twig-like.

“It's so fabulous, we're all nannies,” Lydia gushed, before Kiley could even think about stopping her. “I work for my aunt and take care of my niece and nephew, Esme works for Steven and Diane Goldhagen—you know, the producer?—and Kiley works for Platinum. Or at least she did until Platinum got arrested and went into rehab.”

If it was possible for a Latina girl to pale, Kiley figured that was exactly what Esme was doing. She was a very private person, unlikely to blurt out her personal business to anyone, much less to these three girls. Lydia, on the other hand, seemed to have no verbal censor at all.

They made their way back to the central rotunda, which featured a glass-fronted office with white and blue leather couches that looked as though they had never been sat on. Next to that, in the outdoor garden area, were several round tables, each with eight seats, surrounded by a riot of exotic flowers.

Staci raked her hair off her face and squinted at Esme. “You guys are going to this school because you, like,
work
in Bel Air?”

Esme looked the girl up and down with her best Echo Park sneer. “You got a problem with that,
chica
?”

Staci was not intimidated.

“No,
chica
,” she shot back with a sneer. “I do have a problem with your outfit, because it's, like, tacky. But if that's how you want to present yourself—”

“Y'all listen up,” Lydia interrupted. “We're getting off on the wrong foot.” She pointed at Staci. “You dress how you want— love your outfit, by the way—and Esme will dress how she wants. Dissing a girl you don't even know—
that's
tacky.”

“She's right,” Zona agreed. “Besides, maybe that's how girls dress in Echo Park.”

“So, what's this Up All Night thing that Evan talked about?” Kiley asked. It seemed a propitious moment to change the subject.

“Evan,” Staci repeated, and sighed as if saying the name of her favorite food, then wagged a playful finger at Lydia. “He is
so
hot. Watch out. He always tries to bag the hottest new girl.”

“That's such an interesting expression, ‘to bag,’ ” Lydia mused. “Where I come from, it usually refers to a wild boar.”

Staci's eyes went wide. “You really lived in the Amazon?”

“In a mud hut. Of course, before that, I was richer than Paris Hilton. Much. My parents turned into do-gooders and pretty much ruined my life.”

“Oh my God, you are so cool,” Zona breathed. The three girls exchanged knowing glances.

“Too true,” Lydia agreed. “So are my friends.” She smiled at Kiley and Esme. Kiley had no idea how Esme was taking this now. Probably not well, judging from her perma-scowl.

“Okay, so listen, you have to come with us to Up All Night,” Staci gushed to Lydia. “It's an all-night party at a private beach in Malibu. Seniors only. But before we hit the beach we go party.
We'll take my dad's car and his chauffeur so we can get wasted and we won't have to drive.”

Lydia nodded. “Sounds fun. As long as all six of us can go.”

“Um …” Staci looped some glossy hair behind one ear, revealing giant diamond hoop earrings, which Kiley was pretty sure were real. “I'll have to get back to you on that. Come on, we'll show you the theater. I get the lead in all the school plays.”

They headed through a portal with the helpful signage TO
THE
THEATER.

“What a bitch,” Esme told Kiley, making no effort at all to lower her voice.

“I heard that!” Staci sang out. She was walking with Lydia in front of them.

“You want to get out of here?” Kiley whispered to Esme.

“Desperately. Hey, Lydia? Catch a ride with them!” Esme called, then tugged Kiley's arm. “Come on. Let's go.”

Instead of leaving, though, they just stood and watched as Lydia and the three seniors walked together down the hall.

Esme Castaneda

If only the
cholos
could see her now.

In the weeks since Esme had freehanded a tattoo of a Ferris wheel on Jonathan Goldhagen's right bicep, word of her talent with a needle and ink had spread like a firestorm. She'd already been hired by Beverly Baylor, star of the indie film
Montgomery
(Jonathan was acting in that film; it was in its last days of shooting, and the wrap party was scheduled for the cowboy bar Deep South this coming Monday night), to do a tattoo of her rodeo-star lover at an hourly rate that had left Esme breathless. Her father and mother didn't earn that much money together in a
week
.

Beverly, it turned out, had a big mouth. Now all Esme had to do was sit back and enjoy the heat of her own celebrity. That was what she kept telling herself. One part of her— okay, a
big
part of her—was thrilled to have all these rich people shelling
out
mucho dinero
for her tattoos. Another part of her wanted to tell them all to go to hell.

She knew she was exotic—a girl from Echo Park who didn't use stencils when she went to work with her needle and ink. The whole exotic thing was amusing. She'd recently heard that Los Angeles had a larger Latino population than white population. Not that you'd know it from the circles in which people like Jonathan and Beverly operated, where, generally speaking, the only Latinos they came in contact with were wearing a uniform or carrying hedge shears.

It was the day after the orientation, which had been so disheartening. Well, what the hell. It was just school. She'd endured it for years in Echo Park, she could endure it for one year at Bel Air High. At least most of the students would show up for class, she figured. Today, Esme was at the Brentwood Hills Country Club, wearing a red polka-dot bikini with side ties that she'd found in a seventy-five-percent-off bin at a boutique on Melrose because the stitching was ragged under the bust. Esme had easily hidden the frayed stitching with some red thread and her father's hot glue gun.

Her legs were freshly shaved and she brushed her fingers over her dark skin. She rolled onto her back and bent one knee, relaxing on a chaise under the warm afternoon sun. She'd met up at the club with Lydia so that they could soak up some rays by the adult pool while Martina, Easton, and Weston were at the main clubhouse for makeovers.

It was hard for Esme to believe that makeovers for children could be part of the country club's children's programming. When she was a girl, makeovers meant getting into her mother's limited supplies of cosmetics and going to town with one of her
lipsticks. But that absurd world was now where she lived, where professional makeup artists made house calls and carried around briefcases full of dollars, euros, and dinars, depending on what currency their clients wanted to use. Absurd. Like those girls at the orientation session for school. They were quintessentially absurd. Esme didn't want to care that they'd dissed her and Kiley. But she did care. More than she wanted to admit.

She and Lydia had ordered lunch from the luxurious clubhouse restaurant—lobster salad, pâté with fresh-baked French bread, a huge fruit salad, and two bottles of Perrier. Lydia kept trying to talk to Esme about her strategy for winning back her boyfriend, Billy, who had recently dumped her—not without reason, Esme thought. But the conversation sputtered because tattoo customers— or at least, potential tattoo customers—kept interrupting.