13
OVER BREAKFAST THE next morning, Robinson told me he had something to confess.
We were in Starbucks, eating microwaved Artisan Breakfast Sandwiches, which, FYI, have nothing artisanal about them. At the table next to us, a Stormtrooper and an unconvincing Michael Jackson sipped Venti dark roasts before taking up their posts along the Walk of Fame.
“Spill it,” I said. I felt a slight fluttering beneath my rib cage. He’s going to say he’s sorry, that he should have kissed me last night.
“I want to see where Bruce Willis lives.” Robinson looked up at me from underneath his bangs, his expression only slightly sheepish.
I felt like knocking my head against the table. Why did I keep expecting some profound declaration from him? Sometimes he made me wonder if the human adolescent male was a completely different species from the human adolescent female. (Different as in significantly less evolved.)
But this was his trip as much as mine, and I wanted to be a good sport. So after breakfast, we flagged down the nearest open-top tour van. The guide promised it would give us an incredible look at the stars’ jaw-dropping homes, and a secret window onto their enviable lives.
I thought it might make me feel like a Peeping Tom, but Robinson had no such worries.
“If you don’t want strangers staring at you, don’t get famous,” he said.
“I guess I should cancel my American Idol audition, then.” I began to sing “I Will Always Love You”—a tough song for a good singer, and a devastating one for someone like me.
Robinson yelped and covered his ears.
Since we’d bought tickets for the Deluxe Route, we took our time on the tour, getting off one van, wandering around, and then hopping back on the next. We drove along the shopping districts of Melrose and Rodeo Drive; we passed beneath the towering palms of the Sunset Strip; we saw the La Brea Tar Pits and the Petersen Automotive Museum (which included a Hot Wheels Hall of Fame I never thought I’d pull Robinson away from).
It was late in the afternoon when we finally wound our way up into the hills.
“We’re getting close, Axi,” Robinson said, grinning. “Good ol’ Bruce is going to invite us in to dinner.”
“Sure,” I said snidely. “Then we’ll have dessert at Jennifer Aniston’s house.”
Robinson looked hurt. “Sarcasm doesn’t become you, GG.” But then his irrepressible smile shone again. “I bet Jen makes a wicked crème brûlée. She probably makes nice coffee, too, which is cool, because I like coffee with fancy desserts.” He sounded utterly, completely sincere.
Crazy as it was, I loved this about Robinson: how he was capable of believing in something he didn’t actually believe in. Does that make sense? He knew what he wanted to be true, what he felt should be true, and for a certain amount of time, by the power of his will (or his humor, or his stupid, boyish hope), it was true.
Believing in believing. Robinson was exceptional at that.
“On the left you will see the house formerly owned by Arnold Schwarzenegger,” the tour guide called, interrupting my thoughts about Robinson and, no doubt, Robinson’s thoughts about dessert.
Robinson leaned in close to me and whispered Arnold’s most famous line: “‘I’ll be back.’”
“‘Come with me if you want to live,’” I hissed—an Arnold quote from Terminator 2.
“Wait, I’ve got one—” He slapped his forehead, unable to recall it.
“‘Hasta la vista, baby’?” I asked, smiling smugly.
“Gaah, it was on the tip of my tongue!” Robinson reached out and tickled me in the ribs, which made me squeal.
The tour guide kept talking, but we’d stopped listening. We drove through lush green neighborhoods, peering past iron gates and elaborate landscaping to catch glimpses of enormous mansions. The air smelled like roses … and money.
The driver slowed down around a particularly steep curve and then stopped to let a group of cyclists pass.
I grabbed Robinson’s hand. “Let’s split.”
He turned to me, uncomprehending.
“Over the side,” I whispered. And because he still didn’t seem to get it, I showed him. I swung a leg over the edge of the open-top van and dropped down to the street.
If the other passengers noticed, they didn’t say anything. A second later, Robinson landed beside me, looking utterly baffled. The van started up again and pulled away.
“So what’s the brilliant plan now, Axi?” Robinson’s hands were on his hips. “We don’t know where Bruce Willis lives, and we’re probably ten miles from our hotel.”
I only smiled. “Follow me,” I said. And I led him toward what I’d seen: a FOR SALE sign and a gate left open.
“Oh, duuuude,” Robinson whispered, sounding suddenly like a K-Falls cretin. “Really?”
I looked up and down the street. Except for a lone gardener, whose back was to us, it was utterly deserted. We crept up the driveway, then alongside the vacant house to the back gardens. Whoever had lived in this ornate Mediterranean (estimated asking price: a cool five to ten mil) was gone, but the pool was still full, its water glassy and aquamarine blue.
The sun was on its way down and the sky was the color of persimmons. Robinson turned to me. “GG …,” he began.
I threw my arms out and spun around. “If this hasn’t proven to you I’m not a GG anymore,” I asked, “what will?”
Robinson didn’t say anything, but I already had an idea.
In one fluid motion, I stripped down to my underwear, tossed my clothes in a heap, and dove into the pool. I swam all the way to the bottom before rocketing back up in a cascade of glittering water droplets.
“Come in if you dare,” I called to Robinson. “Scalawag.”
He hesitated for a moment, but Robinson could never back down from a challenge. He took off his shirt, revealing his broad, pale chest, his flat stomach, and the low V of muscle there. I’d never seen that much of his skin before, and the ivory smoothness of it was startling.
Seeing him on the lip of the pool, naked now but for his boxers, I thought of Michelangelo’s David. Not because Robinson had a perfect David-like body (though it was very nice) but because he had that combination of power and vulnerability that Michelangelo had given his sculpture. See, Michelangelo didn’t show David triumphant, the way every other sculptor did. He showed David before he fought Goliath—when David believed he was doomed and went into battle anyway.
Robinson reached up to plug his nose, and he no longer looked remotely like a Renaissance hero. “Cannonball,” he yelled on the way down. He came up spluttering. “Oh my God, it’s cold!”
I laughed. “You mean invigorating,” I said. “Revitalizing.”
Robinson rolled his eyes at me. “Nerd. I can still call you word nerd, can’t I?” Then he swam toward me, smiling, and he put his hands on my shoulders. Suddenly I was sure he was going to kiss me. He was so close, and his fingers were on my skin, and there was nothing—nothing—but water between us (and some flimsy, soaking-wet clothes).
He moved forward another step, and then he stopped. He opened his mouth like he was going to say something. But then he vanished under the water. The next thing I knew, he was picking me up and tossing me backward into the deep end, and I was squealing, gasping, laughing, and he was saying, “Shhh, shhh, we don’t want the cops to come.”
We swam as evening fell and distant lights from the inhabited houses flickered on through the trees. I looked over at Robinson, who was floating on his back in the shallow end, and I wondered what it would be like to live in one of these castles.
I’d have everything money could buy, but it wouldn’t be the same as having everything I wanted. Not even close.