American Girls by Alison Umminger Page B

a yacht with their butler, trying to find their parents, who have been lost at sea. And somehow they’ve brought friends along. It might have been the single stupidest show in the history of television. I’ll bet even six-year-olds across America have turned their televisions off in disgust.
    â€œHow is that show even on television?” I said. “And how did you meet this guy?”
    â€œAt a movie,” she said. “And he knows the show is terrible. He’s working on his own pilot. The show pays really well. He’s actually quite funny.”
    This is where I can never really trust Delia. Because she would talk about Roger’s student film, saying, “It’s actually quite deep,” when the only thing deep about Roger was his voice.
    â€œWell his show isn’t.”
    â€œBe polite,” she said.
    My sister made a sharp right into the garage of a cardboard box of a four-story condo building that took up the entire city block. After she parked, Delia grabbed the box of doughnuts, checked her makeup one more time in the car mirror, and directed me to walk at a clip toward the elevator. “And remember, if he asks about last week, there was no Roger. Got it?”
    â€œAnd I’m the family asshole?”
    â€œNo one’s an asshole, Anna.”
    We rode the elevator to the fourth floor and walked to the last apartment on the left, 427. The door was cracked and a television was on extra loud in the living room, running classic movies. Marilyn Monroe in her fat phase was leaning over some crazy-looking sailor and fogging up his glasses. And not watching TV, but leaning over the breakfast bar eating an extra-large bowl of Cap’n Crunch, was Dex, who looked less like an LA writer than any boyfriend my sister had ever had.
    â€œBoo,” my sister said, handing him the box of doughnuts.
    â€œI missed you,” he said, and slapped my sister’s ass like they were in a relationship where she was capable of being fun. She moved his hand around her waist.
    â€œThis is my sister, Anna.”
    â€œCool,” he said, nodding his head. “How’s it going, Anna?”
    I shrugged my shoulders like I had never met a boy before, like I was an unsocialized troll straight from Middle-Earth. Dex was about eight million times better-looking that most of the men my sister dated. He had a close-cropped ’do, almost bald with just a shadow of hair, and he was tall. Taller than Delia in her stiletto boots, so I’d say six foot two, easy, and slim but muscular. He had one of those superhero square jaws, and light brown eyes, and when he smiled the left side of his face dimpled. His teeth were spaced a little bit apart in front, and he wore a “Too Many Rich Crackers” T-shirt, with a box of faux Ritz crackers on it. I could totally, totally, totally understand why Chips Ahoy! was not a factor in the dating decision. He could have written in crayons, and I would have been like, “Go, Delia!”
    â€œSo you’re a writer?” I finally said.
    â€œI am,” he said. “I just got back from Hungary, helping a friend with a documentary he’s doing on the local music scene. Flying back into LA, it’s a different earth.”
    My sister leaned over his kitchen counter, running her fingers over the tops of the doughnuts.
    â€œYou know you want one,” Dex said in a voice that was probably reserved for when little sisters were out of the room. “Do it.”
    â€œPoison.” She closed the top. “I can’t even look at it.”
    Dex mouthed She lies at me and I whispered, “I know.” If he only knew the half of it.
    â€œThey’re starting the summer season of Chips this week , and Dex said you’ll be fine on the set, better than watching me do my herpes audition.” Delia smiled her most commercial, plastic smile and made a Wheel of Fortune swipe over her mouth and lady parts. “Herpes.