Friends with Benefits by Melody Mayer Page A

reminded her of a guy named Joaquín who’d lived down the street from her in Fresno, back before she’d come to Los Angeles. Joaquín made good money working at a female impersonators’ club. He was
trolo
—homosexual—not exactly accepted in macho Latino culture. Joaquín had gotten his ass kicked on a regular basis, and one day he just disappeared. No one knew what had happened to him.
    The more Esme looked at Chantal, the surer she was that Chantal was a drag queen. Esme only hoped that Los Angeles was a more tolerant environment than the Fresno
barrio
had been.
    â€œEsme?” Weston tugged at Esme’s sleeve.
    â€œSí?”
    â€œ
Es
boy or girl?” Easton asked.
    Esme bit back her smile. The little girl was already edging toward Spanglish.
    â€œ
Yo
pienso,
a boy
y
a girl,” Weston answered her sister.
    â€œChantal?” Pandora reappeared at the door with the other kids from the lobby in tow. “Now you’ve got all your models?”
    Chantal threw her arms open wide. “Sugarplums!” She pointed a lethally long French-manicured fingernail toward the new arrivals. “You’re Houston and Austin and Dallas, right?”
    God. To be named after cities in Texas. How humiliating. Well, at least none of them was named Waco.
    The triplets nodded nervously as Chantal minced over to a sound system and pressed a button; strange, nasal music filled the air. “Japanese music,” Chantal expounded, “to go with Emily’s theme for tomorrow’s show.”
    She eyed Esme. “You’re beautiful, sweetheart. You should be in the show with the little Spanish children and hold their hands on the catwalk? I can arrange it.”
    â€œNo!” Esme declared, horrified at the thought. She hated attention. It came from being the daughter of illegal immigrants. Her father was actually on the run from the law, though the law wasn’t chasing him very far. Esme herself had gotten in over her head in some gang stuff back in Fresno—it had all ended tragically. No. No extra attention. “I mean, I’m sure the girls will be fine on their own. I’ll explain everything to them in Spanish. And I can be backstage for them.”
    â€œWonderful, sweetheart! I’ll be backstage too. You’re an angel!” Chantal threw her arms open wide as if she was about to embrace the entire planet. “All right, my stars, it’s showtime!”

11
    Serenity and Kiley were coloring. It was ironic. Platinum’s daughter had every toy and electronic item any kid could ever want, but her favorite thing to do was to unearth her box of sixty-four different shades of Crayolas, sprawl on the floor, and color in a Barbie coloring book. About the coloring book, she’d sworn Kiley to secrecy.
    The room itself was a thing of beauty. Like the rest of Platinum’s mansion, it was all white. Serenity had a plasma television, an enormous DVD collection hidden behind a recessed wall unit, and a computer setup worthy of NASA mission control. Everything was perfectly organized and perfectly clean. Not because Serenity ever lifted a finger, but because a battalion of maids whisked through three or four times a day.
    On their own, Serenity and Sid were pigs. Sid regularly deposited food, spilled milk shakes, and crusty underwear under his bed. Serenity thought nothing of emptying her closet onto the floor in search of a favored shirt or skirt. On her ninth birthday in Wisconsin, Kiley had been handed a list of chores that were a given if she was to expect a modest allowance—bring in the morning newspaper, recycle the old one, clean her room, take out the garbage, mow the lawn in the summer, and clear the snow in the winter. In contrast, she doubted that Platinum’s children could spell the word “chore.”
    Serenity finished coloring Barbie’s nails pale pink. “How was your date with doodyhead last