** All That Glitters **

“You’re doing what?”
She was lying on her back, her head hanging over the edge of her best friend’s bed – legs crossed and resting vertically against the wall, blue and white RHS cheer socks bouncing to the beat of The Cure.
Lady sat cross legged on the floor against the mattress, hugging a gold throw pillow against her chest.
“I got called in for a shoot. It’s on Friday… in LA…”
She fingered the hem of her polyester skirt, pulled the top of her uniform down and rolled over onto her stomach – chin rested on hands folded beneath her.
“Ask your parents yet?”
“Yeah. They said no way – I’m not old enough. And school…”
After thirteen years, she already knew that’d be their answer. The question was just a formality – a way of asking without really asking. Same way she already knew what would come next.
“You think it’s serious.”
Not a question. Lady nodded, smoothed her hand across the gold fabric.
“And you really want to do it.”
Lady shifted – said nothing.
“Ok,” she said adamantly, “I’ll go with you. Friday’s gonna suck anyway – we’ve got a sub in English.” Squeezed her eyes shut and massaged her temples. “We’ll tell your mom we’re going to Rocky Horror or something – figure it out later.”

And that’s how it works with friends when you’re sixteen. Not always easy, but the dynamic is simple.
*     *    *
Two days later she shuffled across the street, the morning dew tickling her bare ankles and inviting remnants of her friend’s front lawn onto her worn converse. Tapped out shave and a hair cut on the security door. Waited.
The driveway was empty – both parents having left over an hour ago. She shifted the weight of her backpack as a shadow appeared behind the lace curtains. A series of banging and twisting ruptured the early silence – she flinched in anticipation of the last deadbolt that always stuck. Staccato brass squealed in protest, raising goose bumps up and down her arms. Lady pounded against the weathered wooden door from the inside and pulled, the sound of popping wood indicating surrender. And then it was open.
“I’m freaking out,” Lady announced, hands draped in submission at her sides, “you have to do this…”
She frowned, remained on the doorstep. Drew in a deep breath –
“Well TOP OF THE MORNING to you too, Sunshine!!!” she gestured a wild, half hearted salute and stifled a smirk, clicking her heels together.
Lady issued an ice blue death stare and grabbed hold of the strap of her backpack, yanked her inside.
“No. Seriously – you HAVE to help me. I need underwear.”
She steadied herself inside the entryway – stared at her friend.
“Underwear?”
“YES! UNDERWEAR. For the shoot – I need three different sets and I can’t figure out which on-“ her voice trailed off as Lady disappeared down the hall, her hands growing visibly audible as her voice became muffled.
She dropped her backpack to the floor and tucked a strand of hair behind her ear – glanced at a series of photographs displayed in mismatched frames that started at one end of the long hallway and ended in temporary suspense three quarters of the way down. The Shrine O’ Lady, she had dubbed it long ago. Every year Lady’s parents added to it – school pictures, dance pictures, glamour shots – they were all there in sequence. She used to laugh about it, start at one end in the ready position and launch herself full speed toward the other, claiming the ability to view the growth process of her best friend at warp speed. Like watching a Sea Monkey.
She wondered if they could have known it, then – if maybe they had some sort of internal variation of the sort of aging technology children’s services uses in the pursuit of milk carton kids ten years after their disappearance. Stared at 1989, second grade – Lady’s hair the color of wheat, her missing front tooth, eyes blue behind those round, pink wire framed glasses with the multi-colored specks…. Did they see it even then?
“-ave one that’s blue and it’s my favorite,” Lady was yelling, “but I also really like this lighter blue set but I don’t want to show up with two blues so then I was looking at this bei-“
She poked her head into her friend’s room and gasped –
“Dear God child what ARE you doing?”
The notoriously spotless carpet was covered. The midnight blue comforter was nowhere to be found. Lady’s desk had disappeared. Everything, it seemed, had been eaten alive by underwear.
Lady stood in front of her dresser, her hands searching frantically from one drawer to the next.
“Hey. You, there… with the underwear… just-say-NO…” she held her hands in front of her in mock protest as Lady swirled around to face her, lace thongs dangling from both hands –
“Pick one.” She said sternly.
“Look, kid – you’re seventeen. I am NOT picking out your underwear. And where the fuck did all of this come from?”
“Please! I can’t decide and I HAVE to have THREE for the shoot, and we have to LEAVE like RIGHT NOW!” Lady’s face was panicked.
She shoved a pile of bra’s aside and slumped onto the bed.
“Okay wait. I’m confused – since when do you have to bring your own underwear to a photo shoot?”
Lady didn’t budge. Said nothing.</div>
“I mean – I’m not saying I’m an expert or anything – but don’t they usually like… have a wardrobe specifically FOR the shoot? And doesn’t that wardrobe typically include shit that’ll make it so that people WON’T… see your underwear?”

Her friend blinked – dropped the garments back into the drawer and whirled back to face her.
“You’re right – I’ll go with the black set, and the navy blue, an-“
“Lady. Stop for a second… what the hell is this for, anyway? Where did you find these people?”
Lady busied herself, tossing supplies into her backpack and sorting through make-up.
“It’s a private photographer,” she shrugged, “ I’ve seen his work – they emailed me samples – he’s totally legit and one of LA’s most prestigious artists. He specializes in highlighting the presence of exotic imagery that occurs naturally in the female for-“
She shook her head, calling forth the universal powers of etch-a-sketch. It didn’t work.
“Okay what are you, like – Billy Mays or something? You sound like you’re reading a brochure.”
Lady zipped the backpack and, whirling around to face her, moved her hands to her hips defiantly.
“He’s legit. I promise – I’m just nervous.”
She chewed her fingernails and glanced around the room. Rocky Horror’s not gonna explain this mess.… Glanced at her friend and inhaled. Stood.
“Okay,” she said, pointed, “grab that light blue one and this white set, too. Aaaannnd… that purple thing. You might change your mind once you get there, you never know.” She glanced around the room, sighed.
“And don’t forget your headshots.”
*     *    *
Lady’s hands were tight on the steering wheel of her mother’s hand me down Honda Accord. They’d named her Fonda back when they were kids – Fonda the Honda, with her lovely golden… fiberglass. There was a hole in the center of the wheel where the horn used to be, a casualty from an after school special in which Willis had reached in through the window to honk at Doug and pressed too hard. The air conditioning had quit working last summer and the seats smelled like old tobacco and coconut tanning oil. They never used to. Her fingers drummed along with the music on her blue jeans as she relished in the perks of being a passenger, the other hand dancing in the wind outside her window. They said nothing as Lady steered them along I-10 toward Venice Beach – just sang along to Bowie and the occasional Rolling Stones as they headed west at seventy-five miles an hour toward the sun.
She shifted in her seat to get a closer look at a road sign – turned the music down.
“Hang on a second…,” she paused, turned around to glance behind her, “did you say Muscle Beach Venice… or Muscle Beach Santa Monica?” she asked, staring down a bright green freeway sign overhead.
“Ummm… Venice? The new one. That’s Venice right?”
“Yeah… the new one that’s older than we are…” she said sarcastically.
 “Whatever,” Lady scanned the freeway ahead, her face a mixture of confidence and second-guessing, “it’s the one where they do the body building… not the gymnastics….”
She reached up to tuck a strand of hair behind her ear – sat back in her seat. “Okay. That’s Venice. So… not this exit, but the next one – get off and go left. We’ve got to get to the 405.”
A few notorious glam covers, a handful of commercials and classic rock songs, one dripping power ballad and Bohemian Rhapsody later, Lady steered Fonda the Golden Honda into the parking lot of a Venice Beach hotel, stopping just short of an early twenties valet smoking a cigarette.
“Wow. It’s… bigger than I thought it would be,” breathed Lady.
She nodded in agreement and chewed her lip – cocked her head to the side and leaned forward in her seat, ducking low to peer at the uppermost floor of the hotel through the windshield.
Lady did a double take and then quickly followed suit. Stared in awe.
“So… what floor is it on?”
Lady reached for her notes, her loopy cursive encased in floral doodles written in hot pink on a piece of wide-ruled paper.
“It’s room 606.”
She leaned back into her seat.
“Alright then. Let’s park the Fonda and go find Mr. DeMille.”
“Ha! You’re so clever…” Lady teased, pulling past the valet and into an open space.
“Well,” she sighed, stepping out of the car and reaching for her backpack, “I thought I was funny.”
She shrugged at her reflection and turned around to find her friend already half way across the street – shielded her eyes against the sun reflecting off the glitter in the asphalt.
*     *    *
Inside the lobby, the floor was white. The walls were white. The ceiling, white. A white sofa was set at a diagonal in the corner by the elevators, accompanied by three matching lounge chairs. She shuffled in beside her friend as they made their way to the front desk, her black converse making squeaking sounds that echoed among the pristine marble.
Words were exchanged, though she couldn’t be bothered to listen. A pair of stilettos carried an already tall woman toward the adjacent veranda, her evenly tanned legs moving swiftly despite the constraints of a dangerously short mini skirt. Even she wore white.
<div style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;”>Lady spoke with her hands. The words “Lolita” and “photography” and “two o’clock” bounced around the desk.
She watched the woman disappear down a set of white stairs and make her way toward a pool bustling with cameras and bodies through a sliding glass window.
“Hey…”
She blinked.
Lady was facing her, her backpack hanging over one shoulder.
“Sorry," she breathed, "you ready?”
“Yep. Ready.”
“Sooo…,” she glanced around the room, “I guess I’ll wait down here.”
“Okay.”
Lady nodded but stayed put.
“Hey…” she smirked, punching her friend’s shoulder lightly, “you’re like… A Model.”
Lady smiled, let out a breath.
“Well, I’m about to be…" bounced up and down on her toes – "Alright. I’ll see you,” and, with her back straight and her shoulders tight, she turned around and made her way to the elevator.
The lobby was lifeless.
She chewed her lip and glanced around the empty space – shifted her backpack. Her glance returned to the veranda and her converse took her there. The pool was larger than she had thought with at least three times as many bodies. And cameras. They were everywhere. Gorgeous women stood around in skimpy bikinis. Lighting umbrellas were set up in various positions. A handful of faces ran circles around the pool wearing ear pieces and carrying clipboards and bottled water. The LA sun bounced golden rays off the skin of three women dressed like jungle cats as they posed together on faux rocks – a man with electric hair snapping photo after photo on his stomach, knees, back, head…
“Sports Illustrated.”
She jumped – her body turned iced cold as if she’d been caught snooping.
He laughed. His teeth were incredibly straight. Incredibly white.
“Sorry. I kinda snuck up behind you,” he pointed – “they’re shooting for the summer Sports Illustrated.”
She caught herself staring and forced her eyes back toward the pool.
“Oh.”
She felt his eyes.
“You from LA?”
“No.” She watched as a young man adjusted one of the models’ breasts inside her top from behind.
“Visiting?”
“No.” A woman approached the couple and stuffed a silicon half-boob where the man’s hand had been.
“Oh.”
He broke his gaze.
“Well,” she said, turning to face him, “…. thank you.” Walked away.
The sofa looked stiff and she wondered if it had ever been sat on. If anybody was even allowed to. She snuck a peek at her hands and quickly wiped them against her leg. Brushed a few pieces of dog hair from her t-shirt. Checked the reception desk for any signs of a sniper. The woman sat clicking away on a computer. She hesitated before muttering an inaudible fuck it and dropped her backpack onto the lounge table, thought better of it, and then moved it to the floor.
The sofa was even stiffer than it looked. She tried leaning back – didn’t help. Crossing her legs – made it worse. Gave up and slouched. She watched the desk out of the corner of her eye – waited. Nothing. After a few minutes, she reached for her backpack and pulled out Vonnegut. Disappeared.
*     *    *
The sound of the elevator pulled her away from the war and she glanced up. The lobby had turned into a muted gold, signifying the impending setting of the Los Angeles sun. She stretched against the stiffness and stifled a yawn, blinked herself back in time and strained to focus. The doors opened and Lady emerged.
She smiled.
“Duuuudde,” she called out, tucking the book inside her bag, “He gets fucking gangrene. In his feet. And they get all rot-“
Something in her approach caught her off-guard.
“Hey,” she says wearily, “how did it go?”
Lady stood before her, shoulders sagging – her face tight and filled with anguish.
“Why are you wet?”
She frowned – Lady stared at the floor.
“Huh?”
“Your hair… why is your hair wet?”
“I’ll tell you outside. Let’s just go.”
“Nooo…,” she urged, “tell me now.”
The lobby was empty. Lady hesitated before slumping into a lounge chair. She searched her face for an answer – waited.
“Well?”
“It was weird.”
“Weird? Weird how?”
“Well… there were two other girls. And at first it was okay – they did our hair and everything and the room was really nice and the guy’s name was Tim and he was cool…”
Lady stopped – glanced around the lobby, her eyes pulled toward the reception desk.
“Let’s go out by the beach,” she pleaded, staring at the woman sitting there.
She chewed her lip and glanced around the lobby. Decided she liked it better when it was white, anyway. Nodded.
<div style="margin: 0in 0in10pt;”>“Okay…”
*     *    *
Her jeans were wet against her shins as she leaned back on one elbow in the sand – shielded her eyes against the last of the sun’s rays and watched her friend standing ankle deep in salt water, staring out into the ocean.
They hadn’t said a word as they walked side by side across the street. Nor as they made their way along the beach and kicked off their shoes to get their toes wet. Lady hadn’t looked at her either.
“Hey!” she called out. Waited, “come over here.”
Lady took a seat next to her and they watched the waves eat up the shore.
She tucked her hair behind her ear, sighed.
“Soooo…” she prompted.
“Soooo,” Lady answered, “it just got weird. I mean – we took a few pictures and then changed and took a few more. Mostly on the coffee table or like, on the bed or whatever. It was uncomfortable at first, but he showed us a few and they looked really nice. The colors were artistic and everything and – I don’t know. But then he wanted to do some in the bathroom and in the shower and all and –“
Lady stopped. Laid back in the sand and watched the sky.
“ – and that started off kind of okay. But then he wanted us to get totally undressed and –“
She sat up, crossed her legs Indian style and looked at her friend. Lady closed her eyes – balled her fists and laid them delicately upon her stomach.
“You didn’t, did you?”
Lady shook her head.
“No. I told him no. The other girls didn’t say anything but I could tell they were kinda uncomfortable. He got mad though. I mean – he got like, really pissed. Told me I had to. It was kinda scary.”
They were quiet. She chewed her nails and glanced at her friend.
“Did he have you sign anything? Or – did he even ask for your ID or your head shots or whatever?”
Lady tensed.
“No. But he stopped yelling when I told him I was seventeen.”
They stopped talking and watched the water. Lady picked up a handful of sand and let it pour through her fingers.
She cleared her throat – shrugged.
“Well. You’re a minor. You didn’t sign anything. He’d be fucked if he used the pictures for anything so….”
Lady stood, brushed the sand from her dress.
“Yeah. Hopefully,” she hugged herself, “sooo not what was supposed to happen.”
She faked a laugh. Laid flat on her back and closed her eyes.
“I fucking hate LA.”
Lady groaned – kicked sand on her feet.
“So. What now?” She sounded tired. “I don’t want to stay here. It’s too early to go home.”
Her voice cracked.
She stood up and reached for her friend – hugged her close. They stood like that until Lady faked a laugh and wiped her eyes dry with the back of her wrists.
“Santa Monica?”
Lady sniffed. “Huh?”
“You wanna go to Nuart… see Rocky Horror again?”
Lady shrugged. “We could…”
She picked up her backpack and slumped, reluctant.
“Ok. Fine…” she closed her eyes, tensed – “If we go…. I’ll let you tell ‘em I’m a virgin.”
Lady’s eyes flickered and her body straightened.
“You’ll get up on stage?! Like – in front of everyone… with a V and do the dance and everything?”
Her jaw tightened and she pulled air in through her teeth, shaking her head.
“Oh dear God. Yeah. Fuck it.”
Lady squealed and clapped her hands.
“Oh you’re SO going to be sacrificed tonight…”
“Yeah. And you’re gonna owe me big time.”
Lady laughed – “So worth it.”
Not easy but, yes – it was that simple.
And as they made their way back to Fonda, she couldn’t help but notice that the years had started to turn the gold more into copper, and how the glitter seemed to have disappeared from the pavement since the sun went down. Wondered what other kinds of secretes were kept hidden here.

*     *     *