“Uh, hi . . . ,” Jasmine said slowly. “I’m Jasmine, Miranda’s daughter?”
“Oh! Yes! The famous one!” The woman opened the door wider. “I’m Esperanza! Your mother hired me to keep the house! Live in!”
Live in? Jasmine thought as she shrugged off her jacket. How much did that cost?
“That’s you!” Esperanza hooted, pointing to a giant portrait in the foyer.
Jasmine felt her cheeks go pink. The painting was of her from her first year on That’s Hot! Her parents hung it in their foyer “in homage.” Jasmine found it creepy that her parents probably pointed it out to everyone who came through this house—friends, distant relations, repairmen, the massage therapist who did house calls . . .
She walked through a series of rooms nobody ever used; they were decorated in a fussy, gilded French style like this was the palace of Versailles. She found her parents sitting by the backyard pool. Her mother was reading Star and lying on the back-massager chair the pool guy had dragged out here a few months ago; she claimed it was the only thing that worked on her bad back. Jasmine’s father, Raymond, quickly stubbed out a cigarette when he saw Jasmine coming. Too late.
“Daddy, still?” Jasmine said sharply.
“It was just a drag.” Her father showed off a Nicorette patch. “See? I’m trying!”
“You know how that kills your asthma.” His asthma was why he was on permanent disability from the United States Postal Service, where, before Jasmine’s rise as Lulu, he was a mail carrier.
She waved to her grandmother, Anita, who was nestled in a cabana with Snuffie. Anita’s piercing cocoa-colored eyes glared out from a sea of wrinkles. The expression she made at seeing Jasmine was one someone usually makes when they’ve accidentally swallowed a gnat. “Hello, Abuela,” Jasmine said loudly, because her grandmother was hard of hearing. Anita sniffed and returned to stroking her dog’s head.
Her mother closed her magazine and, as Jasmine leaned down, kissed Jasmine’s cheek. Her father, after expelling a couple of nasty-sounding coughs, said it was great to see her, and did she see the new built-in grill on the deck? Jasmine peered at the shiny, state-of-the-art outdoor kitchen, suppressing a tug of dread. “Boy, you really went all out,” she mused in an even voice.
“Every home needs an outdoor kitchen,” Miranda said airily. “We used the same kitchen designer as Jennifer Aniston!”
Jasmine shifted her weight. She grew up without an outdoor kitchen, and she was fine.
Still, look at her parents! They were sitting together, in the sun! They both looked so contented and at peace! Even Grandma wasn’t cursing the universe! Oh, how Jasmine’s family had struggled when she was growing up. First, there were the are-we-going-to-have-enough-money-to-pay-the-rent arguments. Then came the health problems that sidelined her father from work. Then Anita had to move in because they couldn’t afford a nursing home anymore. Miranda juggled three jobs to make ends meet, barely seeing Jasmine and Ruby.
It was Ruby who took Jasmine to the walk-on audition for Lulu C, totally on a whim. Dance had always been something Jasmine loved—and something her parents scrimped to pay for—and when she saw the open call, she’d thought, Why not? She never thought she’d get it. In fact, when she’d walked into that room of pretty, blond, pale-skinned girls in their dance tights with their professional headshots, she’d walked right out again. But Ruby had grabbed her arm. “The character you’re reading for, Lulu? She isn’t those girls. She doesn’t come from where they come from. She’s scrappy. An outsider. But sweet. They’re not going to get it. You are.”
Jasmine had no idea where Ruby’s faith in her came from, but she went back into that casting room. And she booked the part. Even better, her brand-new agent outlined the terms of her contract—with the money she’d earn, she’d be able to help her family.
As soon as that first check came in, things began to change. Her parents’ fighting stopped. The crying ceased. Jasmine’s mom slept full nights again—she quit all three jobs. As Jasmine’s stardom grew, as she was offered movies and deals and built her social media base, she gave her family more and more—cars, new appliances, trips, a new house. She loved providing for them. She loved seeing them happy and stress-free. But the problem was that she wasn’t just giving them gifts. She was supporting them—still supporting them. Jasmine’s gentle nudges for them to save the money she gave them seemed to fall on deaf ears. They kept buying outdoor kitchens and hiring live-in housekeepers. Her father had recently leased a Range Rover. Where was it going to end? And the worst part was that the money that supported them was money Jasmine made from her merchandise deals based on the Lulu C brand. So did that mean she had to remain demure, silly, rainbow-bright Lulu C forever to keep her family afloat?
“You have some explaining to do.”
Jasmine turned. Ruby was marching through the sliding glass door, past the brand-new outdoor kitchen—the plastic on the appliances hadn’t even been removed yet—and straight to Jasmine. Following her were Jasmine’s hair and makeup people and Kim, Jasmine’s agent.
“H-how did you know I was here?” Jasmine asked, cowering a little.
“I called Mom, and she said she saw your car pull up. Of course, this was after I called all over LA looking for you because you decided to turn off your GPS and ignore my texts. Why is that, do you think?” Ruby’s eyes blazed. “Perhaps because you did something last night? What am I even looking at here?”
“What did you do?” Miranda rose to her feet with remarkable agility for someone with back problems. Ruby thrust her phone in their mother’s face. On the screen was the image of Jasmine kissing the person in the mask. Miranda frowned. Cocked her head. “Were you at a costume party, baby?”
“Yes, please explain this.” Ruby’s tone was condescending. “You were supposed to be home drinking smoothies. I called Kreation Juice and told them there would be content from you last night. They were expecting it. Instead, they get these pictures of you out and about doing God knows what!”
“But your face is so pretty!” Miranda looked confused. “Why would you cover it with a mask?”
“And those clothes.” Kim stepped forward. “I’ve received calls from the Lemonade execs asking what’s going on. You sort of look like . . . a spider woman.”
“A dominatrix,” Ruby clarified.
“No I don’t!” Jasmine cried. “I had on leather pants and a black top, that’s hardly a dominatrix! Have you ever been to New York? It’s what everyone wears!”
Jasmine’s mother pouted. “You look much prettier in colors, baby. Lots of colors.”
Jasmine shut her eyes before the volcano in her head erupted. “It was just this party. Everyone had to wear masks. No one knew who anyone was. It sounded fun.”
“Was it sponsored by anyone?” Ruby asked. “Did a website invite you? An influencer?”
“It had nothing to do with social. That’s why I wanted to go.”
Everyone’s eyes were on her. It was clear no one understood what had just come out of her mouth. She touched the edge of the ivy plant that spiraled around the chaises. She remembered paying the landscaping bill for when these plants were put in. It was over twenty thousand dollars.