Royce Rolls Read online

  Bent and Bach were on their own for a few precious minutes. Hence the fries—hence the lack of mandatory mingling—hence not being made to take a lap around the room like a Westminster beagle—and hence Bach’s current run at the poker table, playing his hand between the two cutest boys in the room without a single lecture on how gambling was bad for his CGB image.12

  But not one of those things was the reason for Bentley’s current mood. She had a better one: as of tomorrow, Rolling with the Royces was on hiatus.

  Hiatus—the few months when any television series, including theirs, wasn’t shooting—was like summer vacation, only better. Hiatus meant no budget, so no show. No show meant no cameras. No cameras meant no hassle. No hassle meant no blowouts and no flatirons and no Spanx and no ab crunches. No panic over a zit the size of Mount Olympus, or even double pinkeye from an only allegedly hygienic lash-dyeing brush. (It so happens!)

  During hiatus, as far as RWTR’s production team was concerned, it didn’t matter what you wore, what you said, what you ate, or whether or not you worked out. (So long as you still looked good, said nothing too terrible, and hadn’t gained a pound by the time you were back on camera.13 Vicious cycles were way more vicious in Hollywood.)

  Whatever.

  Pam the Producer didn’t want to have to deal with the cast during hiatus, but that was her only rule. If you crossed her, she would make certain you got the earliest call times possible for the entire next season.

  Tonight was the Royces’ last gig of the season—the annual HELP IS IN THE CARDS Children of the Angels Hospital fund-raiser, sponsored by none other than DiosGlobale, the parent company of Lifespan.

  Bent hadn’t wanted to come, but her brother and sister and mother had insisted: Mercedes for the networking, Porsche for the photo op, and Bach for the cards themselves. (Tickets-wise, Lifespan had contributed at the FLUSH level, and RWTR at the FULL HOUSE; even if the Royces themselves hadn’t given JACK, Mercedes had still managed to use their show to talk their way in. That was just how the Royces rolled.)

  Bent had caved in the end, for Bach’s sake. It was their unspoken agreement, as the two lesser Royces. They were the wingmen beneath each other’s painstakingly TryCycle-sculpted wings, usually. (Bach: “I prefer Wing-gay.”) Tonight, though, Bach didn’t need her. Not at a poker table.

  If Porsche bloomed on the red carpet, Bach came to life behind a deck of cards. As long as he had a deck in hand, his life was as perfectly fitted to him as his vintage plaid jacket or his hipster T-shirt, which was soft and faded and advertising a trendy Mexican beer he didn’t drink. (All of his James Perse T-shirts were tailored; Bach insisted on it, after reading in a magazine that Jennifer Aniston did the same thing.) It was the same outfit Bach had worn for Vanity Fair’s Young Hollywood shoot, and it worked. Girls and boys alike had crushes on Bent’s brother (including their publicist, which was probably why Bach had made the issue and Bent had not). Bach took it all in stride, the same way he did everything. The fact that he only liked boys somehow never stopped everyone else under the sun from trying, and he was fine with it.

  Fine? He’s great. Relax. It’s all good, B. Even this party.

  But after thirty seconds of trying to convince herself of that—while simultaneously avoiding eye contact with the producer’s son she’d been set up with for her “Awkward First Date” episode, as well as the alcoholic child actor who had once been cast for her “Sixth Grade Bully” episode, not to mention the whole RWTR App team—Bentley gave up.

  “Yo, bro.” She tugged on his T-shirt to get his attention. “This is boring.”

  Bach didn’t answer. He was too preoccupied with his cards, studying them like vital digits that had previously been missing from his hands.

  “Hello? Remember me? Your sister? Favorite person ever?”

  “Bach said I was his fave person ever,” said the still-struggling star of two critically acclaimed but financially insolvent big-screen YA adaptations. He sighed melodramatically.

  “Whatsup, B?” Bach said, not looking up even the slightest bit.

  Bent leaned on her brother’s shoulder. “We’re kinda supposed to have each other’s backs at these things—that’s the deal, right, B? And you’re kinda leavin’ me high and dry here, sailing away on your own little poker lifeboat and leaving me to drown.”

  “Translation: get off my floating door, Leo,” laughed the cleft-chinned son of a famous vampire-novel writer.

  “Whoa, those are two very opposite metaphors, B,” Bach quipped, still studying his cards. “Wanna pick one? Are we in subzero waters or on dry desert land? I’m just trying to follow the narrative.”

  “Boom,” said the YA heartthrob.

  “Ouch,” said the vampire son.

  Bentley twisted her brother’s ear. “Does it matter? I die a painful death either way.”

  Bach pulled his head away from her, finally looking up. “So dramatic! Come on, B, it’s not that bad. I don’t know—go sit by yourself and stare off into the distance like you’re thinking about something mysterious and important.”

  “Why?”

  “Why not? Nobody’s ever mad at a beautiful girl choosing to spend time alone in a room full of people. They just assume she’s cooler than they are, and move on.”

  “So you’re saying I’m the beautiful person in this scenario?” She pinched his side, just like Mercedes would.

  “I am if it’ll make you leave.” Bach rolled his eyes and shooed her away with a hand of cards and a tough-love smile. “Go be aloof. Somewhere else.”

  Maybe he’s right, Bent thought, scanning the room for the perfect corner escape. Maybe tonight sitting alone could be her thing. As a Royce, she always had to have a thing—something, anything to feed the tabloids for the next morning. It didn’t matter what it was, not really. A haircut. A flirty look. A script, accidentally on purpose held to show the title. One or another small clue to their imaginary life away from the cameras, even if only invented for the cameras.

  You didn’t have to shoplift a necklace or shave your head—you didn’t even need rehab or an adoption. Not yet. After a while, though, there wouldn’t be enough nipple slips in the world to stave off sliding into obscurity and nothingness. And according to Mercedes, nothing was worse than nothingness.

  Bentley eyed a marble ledge near the bar. Could work. Good lighting for important and mysterious thoughts. She made her way toward it, imagining her new favorite headline: WHY SO SERIOUS, BENT? (REALITY STAR PONDERS NATURE OF REALITY AT CHATEAU MARMONT FUND-RAISER.)

  Dream on, Bent. She sat down. She knew she’d never read that headline, because the truth was this: Bentley Royce was a smart girl with a mind of her own, but nobody, especially not the tabloids, cared about that.

  All they cared about was that she was beautiful. They cared about her creamy skin and heart-shaped face, her bronzed breasts and the bubble butt that constantly threatened to burst through her ivory-white Rag and Bone jeans. They cared about her coffin-shaped acrylic nails and the blond millennial bob (as Phillip from Hair and Makeup called it) that fell to her shoulders, tipped at the ends in a rainbow of pinks and purples and blues, inspired by the time she had used a box of markers on her all-but-abandoned Bratz doll. (At least that was what the script had said, for the “Bentley’s Rainbow Hair” episode.)

  Everyone cared about Bentley’s beauty, and to be honest, so did she. But she couldn’t shake an unsettling feeling deep inside, a sense that ultimately her looks didn’t matter as much as everyone seemed to think they did.

  Because another, less-often-spoken truth was this: anyone could be beautiful if they went to the right people and had the right stylists and the right vegan chefs and the right trainers at their beck and call, day and night. That’s what most people didn’t understand about Hollywood. Anyone could be the Royces. Mercedes had realized it, and that’s why it was the four of them who actually were the Royces, and not some other family.

  There had to be more to life than fame and good look
s, and anyone with half a brain could come to that conclusion. But knowing that didn’t stop the anxiety that came flooding every time Bentley let this thought cross her mind.

  Anxiety because the third and final truth crossing her mind at that moment was a secret one—and a painful one. It was something she had tried not to think almost as often as she’d thought it. It was something nobody knew, not even Bach.

  The truth was, Bentley wanted to find out what there was to life outside the world of Rolling with the Royces, and to find that out she dreamed of the one thing she could not ever do.

  Bentley Royce dreamed of going to college.

  She winced at even thinking the word, it was so forbidden in her family. Almost cringed, really. But she also knew it didn’t matter, because she’d never get to go, not in this lifetime and not in this version of reality—not if she stayed a prisoner to her television show and the television girl all of America expected her to be.

  Dream on.

  Bent stared past the crowded bar, out through a pair of glass French doors. The glittering city sprawled well beyond Sunset Boulevard, illuminating a bruised purple sky and a few lonely-looking palm trees on the horizon.

  She thought of her mock college application essay back at home, gathering dust under a sea of hair extensions where hopefully nobody would find it:

  Q: Discuss an accomplishment or event, formal or informal, that marked your transition from childhood to adulthood within your culture, community, or family.

  She knew her response by heart.

  A: My name is Bentley Royce. I know you already know my name, though I appreciate you pretending not to.

  It’s the little things.

  I generally don’t write about my family unless I want to read every single word I say online, but I’m going to make an exception because: college. I know, right? Why would I want to go? Why do I need to go? Seeing as I’ve already reached the pinnacle of American culture: I’m a celebrity.

  Celebrities don’t go to colleges. Sure, the “smart” ones do—Natalie Portman, Claire Danes, Hermione. Matt Damon, or maybe he was a janitor at one? Whatever. I’m not about to get into Harvard or Yale or Brown, or even be a janitor at Harvard or Yale or Brown. Let’s be serious.

  And anyways, I’m not that classy. Not Claire classy. Come on. My family is on a reality show. I mean, sure, we’re on magazine covers, and maybe my sister’s face and breasts are on everything from panty hose to lipstick—but let’s face it, none of us are about to accept an Academy Award any time soon.

  We’re famous for being famous. Untalented. Self-promoting. The kind of celebrities real celebrities raise their eyebrows at. I know that. I’m not stupid. And anyways, maybe they’re right, the eyebrows people. Not that I care.

  Look, I just want to get out of here.

  So: how did I transition from childhood to adulthood within my culture, community, or family? I’m pretty sure you know this, too, but since you asked, I’ll answer. I transitioned from childhood to adulthood within my culture, community, or family when I got my period on live television at age twelve.

  Is that classy enough for you?

  Unfortunately, as you also probably know, I was in a swimming pool. With that year’s Teen Choice Awards Breakout Star Justa Beatbox. It looked like a shark attack, and the cameras were rolling, and Mercedes—my mother—wouldn’t let them stop, even though I was furious.

  Because the footage was gold. Literally. A picture is worth a thousand words, and by words I mean dollars, and Mercedes cashes them out as quickly as you can say unauthorized In Touch cover. That’s my mama.

  Back then, I was still a pretty private kid. I didn’t even speak to anyone outside my own family until third grade.

  And then that episode aired. Suddenly, I wasn’t just famous; I was the most famous twelve-year-old in the world. Paparazzi followed me everywhere—coming out of the orthodontist with new headgear, shot with a long-range camera through the window of my bathroom when I had to pee, drinking mild sauce straight out of the packets at Taco Bell.

  Mercedes didn’t stop it. She went after it. I found out later from my sister that Mercedes used to call paparazzi and tell them where we were going and when we would be there. Go ahead and judge. Mercedes doesn’t care.

  You might think my mother is an attention whore, but if we’re being honest, she’s way past that. She’s an attention pimp. Mercedes is jealous of police sirens if they’re not headed her way. She sulks when the Jumbotron camera stays on the actual Dodgers at Dodger Stadium. Mercedes Royce is as hard as her new boobs and twice as tough. She’s every bit as sharp as her snakeskin stilettos and way more dangerous.

  So, anyway, yeah... my transition moment?

  BENTLEY GROWS UP!

  I made the cover of People magazine, huddled in my towel, red-faced and scowling.

  Mazel tov.

  I’m almost seventeen now, but I’m still the middle sister in the second most famous family on reality television (you gotta love a duckmeat Sloppy Joe!) and I’m your average, everyday Beverly Hills girl. I sleep with a Bible next to my bed. I bring my own lunch that the housekeeper has made. I drive myself to school, except when I can get my brother or my sister to take me.

  Only my car is an actual Bentley, when I can stand to drive it (Mercedes never was one for subtlety), and half the time it’s full of cameramen and chased by paparazzi.

  My lunch is sushi, extra shiso leaf, easy on the rice. (Bread? What is bread? I haven’t seen a sandwich since preschool.)

  And the Bible by my bed? Don’t be stupid; it’s not the King James. It’s the one from Production, the BENTLEY BIBLE, the rule set for the Bentley character on the show, the one based on me. The one I play in TV “reality.”

  So I don’t forget what I’m like.

  So I don’t forget my character, i.e., TV Me.

  So I remember to BE BENTLEY.

  That’s how Pam Pearson, our producer, says it to me. “I need a little more Bentley from you.” And she’s dead serious. Then my little brother, Bach, will usually kick me and hiss “Get Bent,” which sometimes makes me feel better.

  At least, it used to. I’m not so sure anymore.

  People keep telling me I’m supposed to feel lucky. I’ve had the advantage of growing up full-time, full-on Royce. That’s how Mercedes says it. Advantage. I never had to not be famous. I never had to know anything else. My mom gave us A Better Life.

  That’s what this is, in case you couldn’t tell.

  Sometimes I have to remind myself.

  Here’s what a better life gets you. A season four arc: WHY, BENTLEY, WHY? You know, the episode where the LAPD picked me up for shoplifting from Entrada Beachware? Three thousand dollars’ worth of crappy overpriced polyester knockoffs made in China and sold to losers who’d pay $500 for a jungle-print caftan.

  WHY, BENTLEY, WHY?

  Seriously. It’s a really good question, even if nobody wants to know the answer, which is this: because it was in the script. Because it’s my job. Because it’s in the Bentley Bible next to my bed. Because Porsche is the Pretty One or the Rising Star, and Bach is the Funny One or the CGB, and Mercedes is the Tough One or the Hot Mom. (Just don’t actually say the m-word.)

  And because I’m the Troubled One or the Basket Case.

  The tabloids all say I’m going to die young and have a tragic funeral. Excellent. Live fast, die young, and leave a good-looking corpse—just like the postcards at Farmers Market say. That’s me. I’m the rich kid bad girl of every mother’s nightmare—the one who stays out too late and parties too hard and recklessly endangers other people. That’s my part, anyway. At least it’s hers. BENTLEY’S.

  So why college? Maybe I want to read books without having to hide the covers behind fashion magazines. Maybe I want to learn things beyond the calorie count of a juice cleanse. (Trust me, you don’t want to know.) Maybe I don’t even want to be famous anymore. Maybe I never did. Maybe I’m tired of being Lindsay Lohan meets James Dean. (Also? They never
met.)

  Maybe you shouldn’t believe everything you read or watch.

  Maybe it isn’t real, maybe it’s just reality TV.

  Maybe all I’m saying is, when it comes to my family and my show and my life, I think it’s time to renegotiate my contract.

  I want out.

  WHY, BENTLEY, WHY?

  Why not?

  “Um, what are you doing?” Bentley looked up to see her big sister looming above her, hands on hips, parting the crowds at the Chateau Marmont bar. Porsche did not look pleased.

  So much for people leaving a beautiful girl alone to sulk in private, Bent thought. I knew that was too good to be true.

  She scowled at her big sister. “Um, I’m sitting down? Is that allowed?”

  “It’s not, and you know that. Not when the show’s on the bubble. We are this close to getting kicked off the air. When we’re anywhere other than our own home, we need to be . . .”

  “Making a scene?” Bent asked. It wasn’t really a question.

  “Basically, yes. There’s only so much I can do, Bent. You gotta help me out. Talk to people, fall down the steps, make out with the bartender, I don’t care what, just as long as it’s anything other than sitting in the corner like a sack of potatoes.”

  Bent knew her sister was serious: potatoes were the biggest insult the carb-conscious Porsche ever resorted to. “But—”

  “But we can’t afford to have any deadweight. Tonight I’ll even take the heat for Bach letting his little poker problem show. Can’t you, I don’t know, find some girl to kiss?”

  “That’s Bach’s job. Well, except for the girl part.”

  “Job? You want to talk about jobs?” Porsche shot her a withering look. “If the show gets canceled, we are over, do you understand that? Over, as in no job, no future. As in kicked to the curb. That’s what happens when the bubble pops. So get your cute little butt up, okay? Time to rally. Get it together or get out.”