14
WE WERE LUCKY that night. Not only did we get away with trespassing, we got a ride home. The gardener from across the street had seen us emerge, wet and shivering, from the gate, and offered to drive us back to town.
“Estás invadiendo,” he said, smiling. “¿Si?”
Robinson nodded. “Si,” he said. “Somos traviesos.” He turned to me. “That means ‘we’re naughty.’”
I was pressed up against his side in the front seat of the truck, trying to find the warmth of him through our damp layers of clothes. “See? You totally can’t call me GG anymore,” I said sleepily.
“Maybe BG,” he suggested. “For Bad Girl.”
My eyelids were so heavy, and then they were closing. “Or MB. Mixed Bag …,” I murmured.
And honestly, that was the last thing I remember. I must have fallen asleep in the truck, and Robinson must have carried me up to the room and laid me down on our shared bed. Maybe he fluffed up the pillows for me, and maybe he even kissed me. But if he did, I’ll never know.
I woke several hours later to find him staring at me.
“Before we leave, we should actually see a star,” he said. “Not just a pink symbol on a sidewalk, or the house where one lives.”
I burrowed under the covers. “Why can’t we just turn on the TV? There’re plenty of them there.”
“We need to see one in real life,” he insisted.
But this isn’t real life, the old Axi Moore insisted. This is a crazy adventure. And as great as it is, it can’t last.
Of course, as both the old and the new Axi well knew, real life didn’t necessarily last, either.
I peeked my head out from the blankets, then ducked it back under again. Robinson was at the end of the bed, and he suddenly yanked the covers off me. I tried to grab them, but he was too strong. “Did you bring a nice dress?” he asked, raising one dark eyebrow at me.
I scoffed. “Runaways tend not to pack formal wear.”
“Well, put on whatever you’ve got, because we’re hitting the red carpet.”
I assumed Robinson was pulling my leg, but I rose and took a quick shower, then put on the Forever 21 wrap dress I’d packed just in case. I put on a little mascara, too, and a dab of lipstick.
His eyes lit up when he saw me emerge from the bathroom. “You clean up good, Axi Moore,” he said. Robinson did, too. In a slightly rumpled oxford and a clean pair of jeans, he looked like an ad for Levi’s 501s.
He led me down the hall and out to the street, where we hopped into a cab. “Now it’s my turn to surprise you,” he said. And then he held his hand over my eyes until we pulled up in front of the Hammer Museum. “Ta-da!” he said.
Ahead of us snaked a long line of black limos. There was red carpet laid over the sidewalk, and a bunch of people milling around, and a giant banner that said CHILDREN’S HOSPITAL LOS ANGELES anniversary gala.
I saw the word hospital and my stomach suddenly felt like it was full of stones. “What is this?” I asked.
“A benefit,” Robinson said brightly. “A party. Major star power, because as you can imagine, no one in Hollywood wants to be accused of not helping sick kids.” He climbed from the cab and held out his hand. “Come on, let’s go inside.”
“You are a sick kid, Robinson,” I said. “Mentally, I mean. They don’t just let randoms crash the red carpet.”
“But we’re not randoms, as you so ungenerously characterize us. We are Axi and Robinson, the G-rated Bonnie and Clyde.” He lifted me into the sunshine and smiled his dazzling smile. “If we don’t belong here, who does?”
What could I do but laugh? “I think stealing a Harley ought to at least earn us a PG,” I said.
“I’m in complete agreement,” Robinson said. Then he held up a finger, signaling me to wait. “As the kids say, BRB.”
He walked up to the nearest gatekeeper, a middle-aged woman dressed all in black. I watched as men in suits and women in jewel-colored cocktail dresses filed past her through the doors. The gatekeeper was trying to ignore Robinson, but I knew she wouldn’t last. When Robinson turned on the charm ray, few could withstand it.
Sure enough, a moment later, she nodded and beckoned me over. As I approached, she looked at me with … concern, or maybe even pity. I shivered under her gaze. What exactly had Robinson told her? “You two go in over there,” she whispered, and pointed toward a side entrance.
And then we were inside, and there were famous people everywhere. I saw Matt Damon talking to Mark Wahlberg by a potted fern, and Tina Fey posing in front of a giant stand of paparazzi. Camera flashes popped like fireworks, and in a matter of seconds, I was no longer worrying about what Robinson had said to the gatekeeper. All around us were bona fide superstars, talking and laughing and guzzling free drinks, just like regular people.
“I’m seeing a lot of excellent facial work,” Robinson noted. Somehow he’d gotten his hands on a flute of champagne.
“‘I love Los Angeles. I love Hollywood. They’re beautiful. Everybody’s plastic, but I love plastic,’” I said.
“Huh?”
“Andy Warhol said that.”
Robinson held out his arm, and I tucked my hand in the crook of it, as if we were on our way to prom. He leaned in close, and I could feel his breath in my hair. “I told you we’d get in, didn’t I?”
“And you were right,” I said.
“Which makes you …?” He waited, an expectant smile teasing the corner of his mouth.
I sighed. “Wrong.”
He laughed and pulled me close. “Axi admits fallibility,” he said. “I’m going to treasure this moment forever.”
My cheek pressed against his shirt, I smiled up at him. I would, too, I thought, but for a wholly different reason. Just days earlier we were in Klamath Falls, and now we were on the red carpet. What couldn’t we do, as long as we were together?