12
“I’M STANDING ON Tom Cruise,” Robinson yelled. “Take my picture!”
“You’re on his star, Scalawag,” I said. But I snapped the photo anyway: dark-eyed Robinson, handsome as any movie star, dressed like a hipster lumberjack. Even in Southern California, he couldn’t give up the flannel.
We were fresh off the Cal-Am racetrack, still hopped up on the experience. Hollywood was a hop, skip, and a jump up the 110 from Torrance, so that’s where we went next.
Of course we had to go straight to the Walk of Fame. While Robinson ogled the street performers (buskers, hustlers, and dudes dressed like Iron Man and Captain Jack Sparrow), I dashed around taking photos of the names I knew and loved: Marilyn Monroe, Audrey Hepburn, James Dean … and, okay, Drew Barrymore and Jennifer Aniston, because it’s 2013, people, and not all good movies are in black and white.
“This place is nuts,” Robinson said, hopping over to Snow White’s star. “Look, now I’m on top of a fairy tale.”
“‘I used to be Snow White, but I drifted,’” I said. Then I cocked a hip and gave my best sultry wink—like Mae West, whose line I’d just stolen.
Then I turned, and together we walked up Highland Avenue, toward the golden Hollywood Hills and the giant, iconic white sign. Our destination: the Hollywood Hotel. Robinson didn’t know it, though, because I wanted to keep surprising him. The delight on his face—the way his eyes went wide when he was taken aback—I wanted to keep seeing that for as long as I possibly could.
The fact that we would be alone together in a hotel room had nothing to do with my decision.
(Quit laughing!)
When Robinson saw me striding up to the reservation desk, he said, “Do we have enough money for this?”
I wasn’t sure if we did, but it didn’t matter. “My back can’t take another night in the car, and I am not camping out with those shirtless dudes I saw in the park.” (If I couldn’t tell him the truth, didn’t that seem like a good enough reason?)
“I thought that guy with the python looked nice,” Robinson joked. “But hey, I’m down with creature comforts. Are we gonna get room service?”
I shook my head. “Nice try,” I said. “Spendthrift. Profligate.”
“I totally don’t know what those words mean,” Robinson said, “but I’m not the one who booked us the expensive hotel room.”
We rode the mirrored elevator to the fifteenth floor in silence. We didn’t meet each other’s eyes, either in person or in our reflections. Did Robinson feel shy, the way I suddenly did? I didn’t know, because I couldn’t look at him.
A minute later, we opened a door onto a spacious cream-colored room, with a giant flat-screen TV, floor-to-ceiling windows, a little seating area, and one giant boat of a bed.
I felt my breath catch in my throat. Robinson and I had slept in a tent, as close together as spoons. And this bed was so stupidly huge that we could be on either side of it and not touch at all. And yet—it felt way more intimate.
I went to the sink to wash the racetrack grit from my face. In the mirror was a girl I hardly recognized. For one thing, she desperately needed a shower. For another, she looked … well, wild was the word that came to mind. Certainly she did not resemble a straight arrow or a do-gooder, which were the kinds of nouns I was used to.
I met her pale blue eyes and smiled faintly at her. Who are you? What do you want? I mouthed. But she only offered me that strange smirk.
When I came out of the bathroom, Robinson was already in bed, though it was barely after eight. He was wearing an ancient Bob Dylan T-shirt and pressing buttons on the remote. The TV was on but muted.
“Axi Moore,” he said, smiling at me, the blue light from the screen flickering on his handsome face.
“Robinson,” I said, barely above a whisper.
“What do you want to do now?” he asked.
I almost cracked up. That was the question to end all questions, wasn’t it?
For a moment I stood there, caught between the hallway and the bed, between fear and desire. On the one hand, I wanted to sink into Robinson. Reach my fingers into his hair. Feel his lips on my neck. Hold his smooth skin close against mine.
But then I thought of the dream I’d had among the redwoods—how something could be both perfect and terrifying, both mountain and abyss. What was the right thing to do?
“Hey, look,” Robinson said suddenly, his voice brightening. “It’s Puss in Boots.”
Just like that, the tension in the air snapped. We loved that movie, even though it’s for kids. Robinson insisted—I think seriously—that it was Antonio Banderas’s best role.
So the fuzzy orange cat with the big boots and the Spanish accent banished my questions and doubts until another day. I crawled under the covers next to Robinson. The sheets were silky white and smelled like bleach. I took a deep breath, and I scooted right up against his side. Then I tipped my head onto his shoulder.
Robinson seemed to stiffen. I froze, too. My heart sank in my chest, and my eyes closed in shame. Had I read the situation so wrong? I told myself I would count to five and then pull away to the far side of the giant bed.
But then I felt Robinson’s body shift. He curved toward me. And he leaned down and kissed the top of my head. Under the covers, his hand found mine. Our fingers intertwined.
That’s enough, I thought. That’s all I need.
For now.