have to. My mother will kill me if I’m not home for dinner.”
“Me too,” Liz confesses. “We eat at seven-thirty.”
“You guys are not bailing? That is so lame. Just chill, have
another drink. Call your parents, and tell them you’re going to be
late.”
I motion to the waiter to bring us another round.
“All right, one more.” Hunter sits back down.
“I wish I didn’t have to go home,” Amber sighs.
“You’re so lucky your parents don’t care about dinner,” Sonya
says enviously. If only she knew how dark and lonely my life has
become.
I chug the last few sips of my cocktail as new ones arrive.
We stumble out of Bistro Garden seeing double of everything.
We hug each other, blow air kisses, and say our good-byes for the
night.
Later that night, Carmela serves me dinner. I sit alone in the
living room, remembering dinner at my mother’s house and Sa-
vannah kicking me under the table while she giggled.
“Have dinner with me,” I say softly. “I’m not even hungry.”
“I have so much work to do before I leave. You know how your
father wants everything just right,” Carmela insists.
My tutor arrives an hour later and Carmela carries a plate of
beautifully garnished desserts into the den for us to nibble on. The
tutor works on my homework until I get bored watching her, and
I head upstairs to make a few phone calls. When my work is
88
Playground
completed, my tutor leaves and my father’s house becomes very
quiet. I hate the silence.
I take a second look at the note my father leaves me every day
in the upstairs hallway.
“I’m at the Mansion,” it reads. “Come up if you want.”
Gin night, Monopoly, movie night, fight night, Sunday
backgammon, or any other night, I know where to find him.
Maybe if Dad and Hef were lovers I would understand why he de-
votes so much time to him.
I can’t sit still. My ADD is in high gear and my anxiety shakes
me from my daiquiri coma. I’m wired, scattered. I debate watching
TV, reading, writing, and taking a walk. I organize and reorganize
candles, picture frames, and magazines.
I flip through the pages of my algebra book. Anything to keep
me occupied in this huge and lonely house. Bored, I slip off my
chair, walk back into the hallway, and stare at Dad’s note. Since
high school, I’ve kept my Mansion visits to weekends only. Mom
always said, “No parties on a school night.” But she’s not around to
tell me what to do anymore.
Ten minutes later, I stroll into Hef ’s foyer dressed sloppily in
Sergio Valente jeans, checked Vans, and a pink Camp Beverly Hills
T-shirt. The guys are in the library playing Monopoly while a
group of Playmates with size-zero waistlines lounge in the med
room, picking at pineapple salads.
Everyone turns to examine me as I kiss my favorites, hugging
others left and right. Tobey, a super-cool, down-to-earth actress
with straight blond hair, blue eyes, and a sweet Southern accent,
grabs my hand.
“Hey, girl; good to see you,” Tobey says warmly.
I hug Austin, an outgoing brunette, who will eventually open a
nightclub.
“I saw Nicolette Sheridan at some party in the Hills last night,”
Tobey mentions.
“You just wish you were her,” Austin smirks.
89
J E N N I F E R S A G I N O R
“You’re right. She always dates the hottest guys.”
Morgan, a genuinely nice makeup artist and photographer,
plops down next to us.
“I saw Charlie Sheen at the Roxy. Weren’t you dating him?”
Morgan asks.
“We’ve fucked, but we’re not dating,” Tobey answers.
Her voice trails off as Dolph Lundgren and Grace Jones walk
down the staircase and into the foyer. Grace looks amazing in Azze-
dine Alaïa black body-conscious Lycra pants and Charles Jennifer
pumps with wraparound leather wings winding up her ankles. Her
chunky gold Egyptian-style necklace looks like it could stop bullets.
Kendall, Hef ’s nineteen-year-old girlfriend, pops up behind
them, licking her lips
“Me too,” Liz confesses. “We eat at seven-thirty.”
“You guys are not bailing? That is so lame. Just chill, have
another drink. Call your parents, and tell them you’re going to be
late.”
I motion to the waiter to bring us another round.
“All right, one more.” Hunter sits back down.
“I wish I didn’t have to go home,” Amber sighs.
“You’re so lucky your parents don’t care about dinner,” Sonya
says enviously. If only she knew how dark and lonely my life has
become.
I chug the last few sips of my cocktail as new ones arrive.
We stumble out of Bistro Garden seeing double of everything.
We hug each other, blow air kisses, and say our good-byes for the
night.
Later that night, Carmela serves me dinner. I sit alone in the
living room, remembering dinner at my mother’s house and Sa-
vannah kicking me under the table while she giggled.
“Have dinner with me,” I say softly. “I’m not even hungry.”
“I have so much work to do before I leave. You know how your
father wants everything just right,” Carmela insists.
My tutor arrives an hour later and Carmela carries a plate of
beautifully garnished desserts into the den for us to nibble on. The
tutor works on my homework until I get bored watching her, and
I head upstairs to make a few phone calls. When my work is
88
Playground
completed, my tutor leaves and my father’s house becomes very
quiet. I hate the silence.
I take a second look at the note my father leaves me every day
in the upstairs hallway.
“I’m at the Mansion,” it reads. “Come up if you want.”
Gin night, Monopoly, movie night, fight night, Sunday
backgammon, or any other night, I know where to find him.
Maybe if Dad and Hef were lovers I would understand why he de-
votes so much time to him.
I can’t sit still. My ADD is in high gear and my anxiety shakes
me from my daiquiri coma. I’m wired, scattered. I debate watching
TV, reading, writing, and taking a walk. I organize and reorganize
candles, picture frames, and magazines.
I flip through the pages of my algebra book. Anything to keep
me occupied in this huge and lonely house. Bored, I slip off my
chair, walk back into the hallway, and stare at Dad’s note. Since
high school, I’ve kept my Mansion visits to weekends only. Mom
always said, “No parties on a school night.” But she’s not around to
tell me what to do anymore.
Ten minutes later, I stroll into Hef ’s foyer dressed sloppily in
Sergio Valente jeans, checked Vans, and a pink Camp Beverly Hills
T-shirt. The guys are in the library playing Monopoly while a
group of Playmates with size-zero waistlines lounge in the med
room, picking at pineapple salads.
Everyone turns to examine me as I kiss my favorites, hugging
others left and right. Tobey, a super-cool, down-to-earth actress
with straight blond hair, blue eyes, and a sweet Southern accent,
grabs my hand.
“Hey, girl; good to see you,” Tobey says warmly.
I hug Austin, an outgoing brunette, who will eventually open a
nightclub.
“I saw Nicolette Sheridan at some party in the Hills last night,”
Tobey mentions.
“You just wish you were her,” Austin smirks.
89
J E N N I F E R S A G I N O R
“You’re right. She always dates the hottest guys.”
Morgan, a genuinely nice makeup artist and photographer,
plops down next to us.
“I saw Charlie Sheen at the Roxy. Weren’t you dating him?”
Morgan asks.
“We’ve fucked, but we’re not dating,” Tobey answers.
Her voice trails off as Dolph Lundgren and Grace Jones walk
down the staircase and into the foyer. Grace looks amazing in Azze-
dine Alaïa black body-conscious Lycra pants and Charles Jennifer
pumps with wraparound leather wings winding up her ankles. Her
chunky gold Egyptian-style necklace looks like it could stop bullets.
Kendall, Hef ’s nineteen-year-old girlfriend, pops up behind
them, licking her lips
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