American Girls Read Free Page A

in a clover field, okay? A thank-you would be in order.”
    â€œI’m sorry,” I said.
    Delia stopped walking and stared me down, like the old days.
    â€œAnd thank you. Thaaaaannnnnnk youuuuuuuu. ”
    â€œA little sincerity never killed anyone,” she said, and then she gestured for me to hand over the bigger of my bags.
    â€œSo what are you working on?” I asked.
    â€œWere you even listening when I called last weekend? It’s an indie horror flick about zombies and the organ trade in China.”
    â€œSeriously?”
    I hadn’t checked any other luggage, so we headed straight for the parking lot. It felt like I was going on vacation.
    â€œDid you know that part of the reason they won’t get rid of the death penalty in China is the organ trade? And they don’t just execute people in prisons, they have these vans that drive around and pick people up and do away with them on the spot. So I’m supposed to be this American woman who sees a body thrown from one of the vans”—she paused in creepy horror-movie style—“only it’s not really dead yet. I think they’re trying to make a point, the director keeps talking about human rights and Amnesty International, but I think that’s to hide the fact that he can’t write dialogue. Not my problem as long as he can pay my salary,” she said. “You want to know what it’s called?”
    â€œWhat?”
    â€œ Thief of Hearts. I mean, unless your lead zombie is Internet dating, it’s too tragically idiotic, right?” She was cracking herself up.
    â€œI guess.”
    We got into a BMW convertible that was definitely not my sister’s. It had magnets on the bumper that advertised private schools, or where someone vacationed, code letters that only other super-rich people would recognize.
    â€œWhat’s the HH for?” I asked. “Heil Hitler?”
    â€œWhat are you talking about?”
    â€œThe sticker, on the bumper. And SSI? Is that Nazi too?”
    â€œHilton Head and St. Simon’s Island. Vacation spots. Lord, Anna, there are more of those on bumpers in Atlanta than here. Where do you get these things?”
    â€œI don’t know,” I said. “The Discovery Channel?”
    For the longest time she was dating Roger, a film student who would have been hard-pressed to drive a ’92 Corolla off a used-car parking lot. But now she’s “just good friends” with the producer of the Bond flick that she lost the part for, and he lets her use his car when he’s abroad. Because friends do things like that in LA, especially when one of the friends is extremely good-looking.
    â€œLet me finish about the film,” she said. “ Not that you were listening. I’m practically the lead, only I’m down a kidney or something by the end.”
    It was three hours earlier in California and the sky hadn’t started to get dark, but I felt tired. I leaned my head against the window and watched the traffic, the palm trees, the fruit stands on the sides of the streets. It was easy to be in California with my sister. She was the kind of person who people didn’t just buy drinks for—they offered her their cars, their homes, their credit cards. I knew what the week would be like if I stayed here—Pilates and yoga, a trip to the old perv who balanced her energy, a few days on the set, a manicure or a haircut, and maybe a sip of a beer when we went out with the producer when he came back, just to prove how “cool” he was. People were nice to me when I was with Delia because I was her sister. My sister would never have to steal five hundred bucks—if she so much as looked a little sad, someone was there to open his wallet.
    If only my sister were my mom. “Overrated,” she said when I told her that once. “Cora was my sister-mom, and we’re a real portrait of functionality, right?”
    I’d