something by it. She supposed it was her age. At fourteen, you weren’t a kid anymore. Not these days, and not by a long shot. Not in L.A. Not here in 2002. It was taking a while for her parents to come up to speed, but even they knew it was so. In their own ways they were getting used to the idea, like Neanderthals warily watching the first Cro-Magnons coming whistling over the rise.
At the end where she was sitting, by the fountain opposite the Barnes and Noble, the Promenade was prettyempty by this time in the evening. A few people came and went from the bookstore, and you could see others through the two-story plate glass window: leafing intently through magazines and books, geeking out over computer specs or scouring for magic spells in screen-writing manuals. Her family had gone on a two-week vacation to London, England, the year before, and she’d been baffled at the indigenous bookstores. They were utterly weird. They just had, like, books. No cafe, no magazines, no washrooms even. Just rows and rows of books. People picked them up, bought them, then went away again. Her mom had seemed to believe this was cool in some way, but Sarah thought it was one of the few things she’d seen about England that really sucked. Eventually they’d found a big new Borders, and she’d fallen upon it, discovering The Manics at one of the listening posts. British bands were cool. The Manics were especially cool. London was cool in general. That was that.
She sat, head nodding in approval as the singer loudly proclaimed himself a “damned dog,” and watched down the Promenade. Down the other end of the three-block pedestrianized zone was mainly restaurants. Her father had dropped her off twenty minutes before, and would be coming to pick her up at nine sharp—a once-monthly occurrence. She was supposed to be meeting her friend Sian at the Broadway Deli. They were ladies who dined. The supper club had been the brainchild of Sian’s mom, who was adapting to her daughter’s adolescence by throwing open all the doors she could find, for fear that leaving the wrong one closed might ruin their special relationship. Sarah’s mother had gone along with it pretty easily: partly because everyone tended to go along with Monica Williams, but also because Zoë Becker was sufficiently in contact with her younger self to realize how much she’d have liked to have done the same at her age. Sarah’s father had occasional right of veto, however, and for a long, bad momentshe thought he was going to exercise it. A few months prior there had been a spate of gang-related killings, part of the seasonal undertow of corporate restructuring in the crack industry. But eventually, after proposing and reaching agreement on a battery of precautionary measures—including dropping and picking her up at closely defined times and places, demonstration of a fully-charged cellular battery, and a recitation of the key common sense means of avoiding the chaotic intrusion of the fates—he’d agreed. It was now part of the social calendar.
Problem was, when they’d pulled up this evening, Sian hadn’t been standing on the corner. Michael Becker craned his neck, peering up and down the street.
“So where is the legendary Ms. Williams?” he muttered, fingers drumming on the wheel. Something was bitched with the series he was developing on the Warner lot, and he was big-time stressed: heavy calm spiked with jumpiness. Sarah wasn’t sure exactly what the problem was, but knew her father’s credo that there were an infinite number of ways for things to go wrong in The Business, and only one way of them going right. She had seen proposals and drafts for the show’s pilot episode, and he’d even picked her brains over a few things, gauging her reaction as part of the potential target audience. Actually, and to her slight surprise, Sarah had thought the series sounded pretty cool. Better than Buffy or Angel , in fact. She privately thought Buffy herself was
At the end where she was sitting, by the fountain opposite the Barnes and Noble, the Promenade was prettyempty by this time in the evening. A few people came and went from the bookstore, and you could see others through the two-story plate glass window: leafing intently through magazines and books, geeking out over computer specs or scouring for magic spells in screen-writing manuals. Her family had gone on a two-week vacation to London, England, the year before, and she’d been baffled at the indigenous bookstores. They were utterly weird. They just had, like, books. No cafe, no magazines, no washrooms even. Just rows and rows of books. People picked them up, bought them, then went away again. Her mom had seemed to believe this was cool in some way, but Sarah thought it was one of the few things she’d seen about England that really sucked. Eventually they’d found a big new Borders, and she’d fallen upon it, discovering The Manics at one of the listening posts. British bands were cool. The Manics were especially cool. London was cool in general. That was that.
She sat, head nodding in approval as the singer loudly proclaimed himself a “damned dog,” and watched down the Promenade. Down the other end of the three-block pedestrianized zone was mainly restaurants. Her father had dropped her off twenty minutes before, and would be coming to pick her up at nine sharp—a once-monthly occurrence. She was supposed to be meeting her friend Sian at the Broadway Deli. They were ladies who dined. The supper club had been the brainchild of Sian’s mom, who was adapting to her daughter’s adolescence by throwing open all the doors she could find, for fear that leaving the wrong one closed might ruin their special relationship. Sarah’s mother had gone along with it pretty easily: partly because everyone tended to go along with Monica Williams, but also because Zoë Becker was sufficiently in contact with her younger self to realize how much she’d have liked to have done the same at her age. Sarah’s father had occasional right of veto, however, and for a long, bad momentshe thought he was going to exercise it. A few months prior there had been a spate of gang-related killings, part of the seasonal undertow of corporate restructuring in the crack industry. But eventually, after proposing and reaching agreement on a battery of precautionary measures—including dropping and picking her up at closely defined times and places, demonstration of a fully-charged cellular battery, and a recitation of the key common sense means of avoiding the chaotic intrusion of the fates—he’d agreed. It was now part of the social calendar.
Problem was, when they’d pulled up this evening, Sian hadn’t been standing on the corner. Michael Becker craned his neck, peering up and down the street.
“So where is the legendary Ms. Williams?” he muttered, fingers drumming on the wheel. Something was bitched with the series he was developing on the Warner lot, and he was big-time stressed: heavy calm spiked with jumpiness. Sarah wasn’t sure exactly what the problem was, but knew her father’s credo that there were an infinite number of ways for things to go wrong in The Business, and only one way of them going right. She had seen proposals and drafts for the show’s pilot episode, and he’d even picked her brains over a few things, gauging her reaction as part of the potential target audience. Actually, and to her slight surprise, Sarah had thought the series sounded pretty cool. Better than Buffy or Angel , in fact. She privately thought Buffy herself was
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