Chapter Three: Bel-Air Crest

 

Tim Cunningham’s house is a mansion in Bel-Air Crest, a community hidden behind a guarded gate that exists, presumably, to keep the regular Bel-Air riff raff out. It’s a testament to opulence, as homes that include both a tennis court and a full size indoor basketball court tend to be. It’s also allegedly next door to Chris Paul’s house, but I’m pretty sure that rumor is unsubstantiated.

 

I am purposely late to Tim’s party for reasons I can’t explain, and I pause for a second outside his front door as a wave of unease washes over me. I stare at a door I’ve seen a hundred times between birthday parties and movie nights and family get togethers, and I try to figure out why exactly I don’t want to be here. Being unable to come up with a concrete, satisfactory explanation, I take a steadying breath and let myself in.

 

The entryway is exactly how I remember it. Gaudy yet somehow tasteful at the same time, with hardwood floors and vaulted ceilings, and lined with fancy looking bottles of whiskey and scotch that are probably worth more than some cars. I move into the living room and am greeted with a boisterous welcome from the congregation. On first glance it’s like this party is sponsored by Grey Goose and Calvin Klein.

 

Tim saunters over to greet me. He’s handsome in a kind of unorthodox way. He’s tall, but lanky, and his hair is long and slicked back. He has a kind of mousey facial structure, with eyes that dart quickly in every direction like he’s waiting to get jumped in Bel-Air. He launches into a story of his Dad playing golf with Christopher Nolan and workshopping movie ideas. He tells me to expect something like Interstellar combined with Jurassic Park “but on crack” some time around 2021. I pretend to be impressed by this news.

 

Sabrina from my senior year English class hands me a mixed drink that’s way too strong. She says it will help me relax, that this house is too fun and this party’s too fun to not be relaxed. I ask what it is. She says it’s vodka, lemonade, and Xanax. I ask if she’s kidding. She smiles at me. I take another sip.

​

I approach Chris and Mark and say hello. Within seconds of talking to them it’s very obvious that they’re both coked out. They’re both talking at about a hundred miles an hour, and they keep saying things that they think sound impressive, like Mark’s job at Goldman Sachs or Luke’s new beach house in Malibu. Chris explains that it’s not as big as their beach house, but you can see Catalina on a clear morning from this one. I take another sip of my drink.

 

Caroline glides over, kisses all of us on the cheek, and glides away.

 

“Fuck, she’s hot,” Chris sighs as he watches her take a shot of vodka with a guy I’m pretty sure I used to play Little League baseball with.

 

“You don’t think she looks different?” I ask, “Like, I don’t know, unhealthy?”

 

“Hey, skinny is skinny,” Mark extolls. “Coke thin works just fine with me. Shows she like to party. Shows she’s a bad girl now,” he winks at me.

 

I step outside to get some air.

 

The backyard is warmly light with those tiny lights on strings whose names I can’t remember. This drink is starting to get to me. I walk to the edge and gaze out at the Hollywood Hills. The traffic looks awful I turn back around. There’s a huge pool about a hundred yards to my left, and a fire pit to the right that’s unoccupied except for Luke who’s rolling a joint. I sit down next to him. He lights the joint and asks if I want a hit. I take a drag. We make small talk about the party, about Berkeley and Michigan and how ridiculous it was for him to spike a bottle of Don Julio onto Hollywood Boulevard. There’s a lull in the conversation. After about twenty seconds of silence he speaks.

 

“You know nobody’s asked me about my grandfather,” he says, staring off at the hills.  “Not one person has asked how I’m doing. All anyone wants to talk about is the Malibu house.”

 

“I’m sorry to hear that, man.”

 

He takes another hit of the joint.

 

“You want to know what the kicker is?”

 

“What’s the kicker?”

 

“I fucking hate Malibu.”

 

I try to wrap my head around that.

 

“Who hates Malibu?”

 

“People who hate being isolated, I guess. It’s lonely out there.”

 

I absorb that comment with another hit of the joint.

 

“I guess it is kinda lonely,” I finally say. “And the parking sucks.”

 

Luke starts to laugh.

 

“The parking fucking blows,” he says between chuckles.

 

I’m laughing now too. I don’t know if it’s the weed or the drink or the parking in Malibu, but for the first time since my plane touched down I’m actually happy. We finish the joint and go inside. Chris and Mark are adamantly arguing with two of Caroline’s friends over something presumably political. I walk around the corner and open the door to the bathroom. Sabrina is in there with two guys I remember from our high school basketball team. There are three lines of coke cut on one of their phones the first of which Sabrina is bent over to take.

 

“Um, occupi-oh! Hey, Zach!” She sniffs her line. “Want some?”

 

I laugh.

 

“Uh, I think I’m ok. You guys have fun though,” I grin as one of the basketball guys glares at me.

 

I jog upstairs to use one of the bathrooms on the second floor. I walk down the hall, turn right, and stop outside the door. I’m 90% sure this is the bathroom, but my memory is faded. I turn around and look at the door behind me. I walk back down the hall, turn around, and try my walk again. I chuckle to myself as I imagine how ridiculous I would probably look to a sober observer. I try the door to my right.

 

I quickly realize this is not the bathroom. It’s Tim’s room, and he and Caroline are lying on his bed. He’s wearing a pair of plaid boxers and she’s wearing the Victoria’s Secret bra and panty set she made me go with her to the mall to buy in our senior year of high school. In front of them is a framed picture of Tim and his family from Easter the year before. It’s covered with white residue.

 

“Oh shit. What are you doing up here?” He jerks up, startled.

 

“Um, I was trying to find the bathroom,” I mumble, looking at the ground

 

“Well this isn’t fucking it.” He snaps. He looks down at Caroline who seems very unperturbed by my presence.

 

“Tim was just telling me about this wonderful movie his Dad is going to do with Christopher

Nolan. He says I’d be perfect for it. Isn’t that wonderful, Zach?”

 

I wonder how close she thinks we are.

 

“Yeah, that’s great. That’ll definitely work out,” I mutter as I exit the room.

 

Tim quickly comes running out after me.

 

“Look, man, I’m sorry. We’re not, like, seeing each other or anything. Shit just happened, you know? I’m not trying to be a dick or anything.”

 

I finish the rest of my drink.

 

“It’s fine, dude. Seriously. It’s whatever.”

 

He seems truthfully apologetic.

 

“I mean, if you want, you can go in there,” he whispers, running his hands through his hair. “It can be like, your turn, or whatever.”

 

“My turn?”

 

“Yeah. Or whatever. I don’t know, I’m sure she’d be down. Even if she’s not all you have to do is tell her your Dad works in Hollywood. That’s what Tommy and Kevin are doing with Sabrina anyway,” he says with a sheepish smile.

 

I think of the girl with green eyes disappearing onto Hollywood Boulevard.

 

“I’m good, man. Thanks for the offer,” I slur, trying not to look at him.

 

I stumble down the stairs and into the living room. Mark offers me a Pacifico which I accept.

 

“Have you seen Luke?” he asks.

 

“I saw him outside like twenty minutes ago,” I respond, trying to get the image of Caroline and Tim doing lines in their underwear out of my head.

 

“Yeah Chris and I just checked out there and he’s not there. He’s been acting kinda weird lately don’t you think?”

 

“Maybe it’s because his grandfather’s dying,” I snipe irritatedly.

 

“Yeah, maybe,” Mark says, taking a sip of his beer. “I don’t know, man. He’s so hard to read sometimes.”

 

I finish my Pacifico and see Sabrina emerge from the bathroom with the boys. I grab another beer as Caroline comes downstairs followed by Tim. Everything is starting to get blurry. I need to go home. But I stay and finish my beer. Chris starts a conversation wondering how much of an asset money really is. As if on cue, Luke appears, holding a half empty bottle of Goose.

 

“Where the fuck have you been?” Chris asks.

 

“I don’t know. Walking I guess,” he slurs gesturing his arms around. “Just around Bel Air, you know?”

 

“Ok. Well, actually, it’s good you’re here now. How much of an asset is money, exactly,” I ask with a smirk.

 

“I don’t know. It’s cool I guess,” Luke shrugs.

 

“I mean I’m just saying with money you can get pretty much everything you want or need right? So what more is there, really? Like what more is there to get?” Chris asks.

 

Luke shrugs.

 

“Fuck me, Luke,” Chris sighs, frustrated. “What else is there for you to have?”

 

Luke shrugs again.

 

Midnight comes and everyone shouts happy new year and kisses friends on the cheek. I should really go home. Caroline stumbles over to me crying hysterically. Apparently Tommy had called her a whore or a slut or something equally hurtful and sex-related. I tell her that Tommy’s failing out of USC, and she shouldn’t listen to people like him. She says she wants me to go home with her.

 

“Your solution to being called a slut is to go home with a guy?” I ask.

 

“Not any guy. You. Please.” she chokes out.

 

“What about Tim?”

 

“Fuck Tim. He’s an asshole. I need a friend tonight.”

 

“Are you sure you’re looking for a friend?”

 

“Do you want this or not?”

 

“I do,” I pause, “I really do. I think about high school and being with you and actually being happy and that’s all I want. I miss that,” I say with as much emotion as a person one beer away from blacking out can muster.

 

“You can have that.”

 

“Can I?”

 

“For a night, at least.”

 

“But you’re different. You’re not you anymore.”

 

“I’m enough of me.”