Most skaters didn’t even care about the checks—the cash prizes that came with third, second, and first place. It was about footage—kids and adults watched videos millions of times online, traded the most popular ones, studied them for moves. It was about infamy, admiration, a certain kind of fame.
Sure, some skaters ended up with MTV shows or their own Xbox video, but most kids simply craved the respect of their peers rather than a taste of the limelight. Choice video footage of Taj doing a half-cab off a nine-set that Deck had shot in a secret spot off Manhattan Beach had been accessed on TAP more times than the latest Tony Hawk video.
Div flubbed her aerial, and Deck fell down hard on a full-pipe loop, but Taj rolled down, feeling good, feeling the adrenaline high. Now she had to just set up for the jump—but at a sharp turn the wheels suddenly locked, tipping her head over feet down the ramp, crashing down into the concrete. There was a gasp from the crowd, and when Taj opened her eyes, she was confused as to what she was doing on the ground.
“Are you hurt? Don’t move!” a med tech advised, checking Taj’s pulse.
“I think I’m okay,” Taj said, gingerly lifting herself up. She waved to the crowd to indicate she was all right, and limped off the course. She was bleeding from both knees and her elbows, and there was a gash on the side of her head.
“Oh my god, Taj, are you okay?” Div asked, rolling over. “What happened?”
“Dude, that was one wipeout,” Deck marveled.
Taj picked up her board and checked the wheelbase. “I’m not sure—I think the wheels locked,” she said, turning it over. “Wait a minute—these aren’t my wheels.”
“Are you sure?” Deck asked.
“Yeah, look. I just got new wheels put in, and look, these are already concave. And the wheels I got were red—these are black.”
“Are you saying someone changed them?” Div asked incredulously. “Just to fuck up a competitor?”
“I don’t know,” Taj said, holding the side of her head and still feeling dizzy. But somehow she didn’t think the faulty gear was due to a skater having a Tonya Harding moment.
She went to the bathroom to clean up the wound, and opened her backpack.
Inside was a note.
YOU BROKE THE RULES. WE BREAK YOU.
THIS IS YOUR FIRST WARNING.
Fuck! Why had she brought Nick to the ritual? What had gotten into her? Now she was really in trouble.
Nick
THE ACCIDENT HAD BEEN SCARY, BUT NOT SERIOUS. He’d spent a few hours in the hospital for observation. Rosa had checked him out, since she was the emergency contact on his insurance. Still acting as substitute mom even though the family had fired her. Their former housekeeper weepily declared her innocence, and Nick assured her that he, for one, didn’t believe a word of the accusation.
When he got home that evening, he logged in to TAP to ask Eric if he could help him figure out something. Eric hadn’t been at school all week. There was a mono bug going around, and Nick had assumed his friend had caught it. But Eric wasn’t logged in all day or all night, and when Nick went to his page, he realized the last time Eric had logged in was the same night he’d sent Nick all that information about how the Werner Music conglomerate owned TAP.
That was unsettling. Eric was always online. He was obsessed with checking his e-mail and comments. Nick sent him an e-mail, telling him to get in touch as soon as he received it.
But several days went by, and whenever Nick checked, Eric’s page still wasn’t updated, and his last login time was the same. Now Nick was truly worried. Was Eric really sick? Had they gotten to Eric, too? It just wasn’t like Eric to suddenly be so hard to get a hold of. No one was picking up his cell phone, and when Nick called Eric’s house, their housekeeper told him Eric’s parents were in the Bahamas. If Eric was gone, no one would even notice.
He decided he would go visit Taj at the station. Ask her again what she knew about TAP. Besides, after what happened the other night at the ritual, he really wanted to see her again.
She opened the door to the station and the first thing he noticed was an ugly gash on her forehead and a purple bruise on the side of her cheek.
“Hola,” she said cheerfully, as if she didn’t look like she’d just survived a beating. Her eyes widened when she saw him as well.
His head was bandaged, and his arm was in a sling. He had broken capillaries around his eyes.
They stared at each other.
“Skateboard accident!”
“Car crash!”
“It looks worse than it is,” Taj assured. “How about you? Are you okay?”
Nick nodded. “Nothing serious. They thought I’d have a concussion, and the car’s a wreck, but I got lucky. Just a couple of bumps and cuts.”
“Me too.” Taj told him about the faulty gear on her skateboard, and she looked like she was about to say something more, but she didn’t. That habit of hers was getting on his nerves.
Nick frowned and told her about the black Escalade running him off the road up on Mulholland Drive. “I thought it was just some asshole driver. Trying to drive and text on a BlackBerry at the same time. But now I think it might have been deliberate. I think it was following me around, you know, after you took me to that ritual thing.”
“Be serious. Why would the ritual lead to something like this?” Taj asked, although she looked nervous.
“I don’t know, Taj, why don’t you tell me?”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Did you really have a skateboard accident? I’ve seen you on your board. I can’t imagine you falling off that thing.”
Taj blushed. “It was an accident.”
“I just don’t want to see you get hurt,” Nick said.
Taj’s face softened. “I can take care of myself.”
The tension in the room abated somewhat, and Nick decided he would drop it since Taj wasn’t being more forthcoming right then.
“So, this is where the magic happens.” He sighed.
“The Manic happens,” Taj corrected, showing him where he could sit across from her while she ran the show. “Although I have no idea why Johnny called it the Manic Hour. He played the most mellow music.”
“A sarcastic man,” Nick said, looking through the CD stacks. “What are these?” he asked, picking up what looked like an eight-track cassette tape.
“Oh, they’re PSAs—public service announcements. We’re a government-funded station, so we have to run them every half hour.”
“Funny.”
“Isn’t it? Usually what happens is kids play the anti-drug ones and then right after play ‘Stairway to Heaven’ or something. You know, that kind of thing. I’ll cue up one that Johnny always played. It’s from the wood council or some sort of agricultural government office.”
The song ended, and Taj inserted the cassette. A voice intoned, “I’d like to discuss the many benefits of using hardwood to build your family’s home. Hardwood is very easy to get! Hardwood is very easy to keep! Hardwood is your only choice!”
“I remember that. Hilarious,” Nick said, taking a seat and laughing. “I brought some drinks—want one?” he asked, holding up a carton of milk.
She accepted it with a smile, and he could tell she was pleased that he’d remembered her favorite drink.
Nick looked over Taj’s shoulder to the computer screen, and she felt a prickle on her skin as she felt his breath on her cheek. “What are you looking for?” he asked. He wondered if he should mention Eric’s disappearance. Although when you looked at it, it was absurd to think some website was behind it. Maybe Eric had gone out of the country with his parents. They did that sometimes, just took the kids away without telling the school or letting anybody know, and for the most trivial reasons, like when they’d rented Mick Jagger’s villa for the week at a cheap price.
“Nothing,” she said.
They drank for a while in silence. Once in a while Taj would let Nick listen to the music on the headphones so he co
uld hear what she was playing.
“So this is what other kids do,” Nick mused, handing them back.
“What do you mean?”
“I mean, it’s Friday night, and usually I’m like stupid drunk by this time, bumming around somewhere,” he said ruefully. “Course, probably not tonight, since I’m on so much medication.”
“Are you bored?” Taj asked, feeling a little offended.
“No, not at all,” Nick replied, rumpling his hair and leaning back on his chair so it tilted backward on an angle. “This is actually really nice. It’s fun, in a different way.”
Taj appraised him silently. “Johnny and I used to spend Friday night just like this. He’d play the songs, and I’d sit where you’re sitting right now. It was the best time of my life,” she said matter-of-factly, turning away to put a new song on the radio.
“Even before TAP? The ritual?”
Taj blushed.
“Listen—I know you’re not supposed to talk about it, but I think we should.”
“Talk about what?” Taj asked.
“What happened in the back room.”
“What happened?” Taj asked, her voice light.
“You and me … we …”
“We?”
“Hooked up, I guess.” It was strange to be the guy who wanted to talk; it was usually the other way around.
“So?”
“What do you mean, so?”
“I mean, it’s just part of the ritual. It doesn’t mean anything,” Taj said, not meeting his eyes.
“Well, I disagree, because it certainly meant something to me.”
“Really,” Taj whispered.
Nick stood behind the chair, and leaned down again so that his cheek was against hers. “Yeah. It meant a lot.”
“You’re just …”
“What?” Nick asked. He turned her toward him, and he could see she was trembling.
“Kiss me,” he said. “Here. Now. Without some stupid drink to make you feel like you can dismiss it as nothing. Without some stupid crowd and some back room and password or whatever. Kiss me.”
Taj’s eyes teared up. “I can’t.”
“You guys have been brainwashed into thinking this thing is good for you, that this thing is right. But it’s not. Love isn’t free, Taj. And it’s not about everyone. It’s about you and me. Here, right now. Kiss me.”
She turned to him, and finally it was Nick who kissed her, and he pulled her down to the floor so that the two of them rolled around behind the big desk, and he kissed her some more, and he looked into her eyes, and she nodded, and he helped her out of her T-shirt, out of her jeans, and it was just the two of them, together, with the lights on, and Johnny’s song playing in the background, on an endless loop, so that kids that evening would think Taj was on some kind of kick.
Nick kissed her and kissed her until it felt like his lips would burn from all the kisses.
And this was good. He was right. This was the way it should be. Not in the dark. Not with strangers. Just the two of them.
Together.
Resurrection
“angelheaded hipsters burning for the ancient heavenly connection …”
—ALLEN GINSBERG, “HOWL”
Taj
NOW SHE’D DONE IT. NOW IT WAS REALLY complicated. She hadn’t been looking for a boyfriend, but what could she do about it? He was just so sweet. She should have been stronger. That wasn’t the way it was supposed to go down. She was only supposed to find out how much he knew, and maybe lead him on a little. But now things were out of control.
The call had come in that morning. She had been expecting it ever since the ritual. Time to face the music.
Those new to L.A. always missed the entrance to the Chateau Marmont; the first time she and Johnny had visited, they had driven all the way past it and had to backtrack. The hotel was located on a hidden curved street off Sunset Boulevard. They’d felt like two rubes.
The hotel lobby was a study in eclectic baronial splendor, with deep walnut paneling, deep-seated antique couches, and George Nelson lamps. As she walked in, the concierge greeted her. In the months when she and Johnny had lived at the Chateau, they had gotten friendly.
“Miss Holder, I trust lunch was to Mr. Silver’s satisfaction?” The clerk beamed. “I did have the chef prepare it according to his request.”
“Johnny?”
That was totally odd.
A woman in a sports bra and leggings, holding a yapping poodle on a leash, was leaving the hotel just as she walked in.
“Hi, Taj. Glad to see you and Johnny are back.”
Back?
She walked quickly through the pool area, where several people were suntanning. They looked up at her and began to wave madly.
“Taj!”
“Johnny’s looking good!”
“Tell him we say hi!”
Taj nodded to them, feeling more confused than ever as she ducked into the tower elevator and hit the button. The two-bedroom penthouse took up the entire top floor. With a beating heart, Taj took the elevator up. The door was open, so she pushed it in.
There were voices coming from inside the room.
Johnny?
Oh my God, is Johnny really back? Her heart beat in excitement. Was Sutton telling the truth?
A figure stepped out into the hallway.
“Taj. Took you long enough to get here.” It was Sutton, in a white Chateau Marmont bathrobe. “Come on in.”
Taj followed him inside. The penthouse was a sprawling space, decorated in a modern-gothic vibe—gray velvet couches, Plexiglas lamps—with a panoramic view of Los Angeles from the ocean all the way to downtown. There were guitars and pieces of clothing strewn about, and the remnants of a large party were in evidence—empty beer and wine bottles, spills on the white rug. Taj thought she could even see a bunch of bodies passed out in the back hallways that led to the bathrooms.
Sutton led her to the outdoor patio. He pulled a crumpled cigarette pack from his back pocket and offered one to Taj.
Taj shook her head, and Sutton shrugged. He lit the crooked cigarette with a lighter from the coffee table and took a long puff.
“What’s going on? Where’s Johnny? Is he here?”
“All in good time.”
“What the fuck do you mean by that, Sutton?”
“I mean, be patient and all will be revealed.”
“Where’s Johnny?”
“God, you are a broken record.”
Taj crossed her arms and frowned.
“Hey, you want anything? Red Bull? Vodka?”
Taj shook her head.
“Looks like you got a bad cut there,” Sutton said. “Does it hurt?”
“No …”
“Pity about the wheels on your board. You should really be more careful next time,” Sutton said.
It was just as she’d thought.
“That was low, Sutton. I could really have hurt myself, you know.”
“It was just a warning.”
“For what?” she asked belligerently, although she already knew the reasons.
“You know very well he didn’t have the password, Taj. He sullied the ritual. You brought in an unTapped player. It’s against the rules. You really put me in an awkward position there. How can the back room be exclusive if just anyone can get in? I had to do something about it. A member complained.”
“I didn’t think there were any rules,” Taj said. “Isn’t that what you told us the first time? That there are no rules, no prophets, no pamphlets. It’s not a religion; there are no magicians, no preachers, no salesmen. That we can make it up as we go along.”
“Well, rules change.” Sutton smiled.
“Nick’s accident—that was you, too, wasn’t it?”
“It’s not my fault he’s a bad driver,” Sutton said, shrugging.
“Where’s Johnny? You said you’d found him. Am I going to get to see him? Is he all right? What do you want, Sutton?”
“What I’ve a
lways wanted, Taj. You.” Sutton smiled. Taj could see a row of crooked teeth, all yellow. It was the smile of the devil.
Nick
THAT MORNING, NICK NOTICED THE MAILBOX door was hanging off its hinge. Ever since Evelyn had fired Rosa, nothing was the same in the house. The new housekeeper forgot to leave weekday meals, let alone sort through the mail. He collected the letters and took them inside.
Cable bills, electric bills, unsolicited mail for his dad from enterprising film students who had found his home address, catalogs from Neiman Marcus and Barneys, a museum calendar, assorted charity invitations, voting pamphlets. Most of it junk. He sorted the mail according to family member and noticed several thick white envelopes addressed to his stepsister. An envelope from MasterCard. Another from Capital One. Another from AmEx.
They were credit card bills. But as far as Nick knew, Fish didn’t have credit cards—her mom wouldn’t allow it. Besides, who would give a thirteen-year-old a credit card? Wasn’t that against the law?
Then something else caught his eye.
A postcard, addressed to him. With a message scrawled on the back.
She’s not who you think she is. Follow the stars.
It was a postcard of the San Fernando Valley, a wide nighttime shot of a residential neighborhood lit by streetlights. There was a stamp and a postmark, and the return address was for a house in Van Nuys.
Nick decided he would have to investigate.
He drove up the 405 and took the Van Nuys Boulevard exit. It was just over the hill from Bel-Air, mere minutes away, and yet it might as well have been in the middle of north Jersey. Where Nick lived, one block down from Mulholland was the Valley, while one block up was Bel-Air. Yet the difference in bragging rights, real-estate prices, and status conferred was immeasurable. In some circles having an 818 area code was tantamount to social suicide.
The address was in one of the older developments—a succession of shabby one-level tract houses that were impossible to tell apart. Nick parked his dad’s Mercedes in the driveway.
“Yes.” The door was opened a crack.
“I …” Nick wasn’t quite sure why he was there. But before he could explain, or think of an excuse, the door opened.