“You’re shitting me.”
“No. For example, Jack’s mother makes him sell the cow because she doesn’t provide milk anymore. Are we talking about the cow or the mother? Aha. Then he buys some magic testicular beans, plants them in the fertile ground, and then overnight…” I rose a hand from my groin to the sky.
She laughed. “That is such crap.”
“That was my first reaction, too. But Bettelheim goes on to make a good point. There have been thousands of fairy tales written over the course of history, but only a handful have survived to become classics. How did that happen? It wasn’t good marketing. There was never a GrimmCo pushing these things. They were simply the stories that stuck in the minds of kids. They grew up and passed them on to their own kids. Lather, rinse, repeat. Why do you think that happens?”
Miranda rolled her eyes. “Because on a deeper human level, sex and violence sell.”
“We didn’t create the need. We’re just filling it.”
“Whatever happened to a need for the truth?”
“Yeah, right. Out of the millions of people who love Big Macs, how many would want a list of all the industrial-strength chemicals that go into one? How many of them would jump at the chance to see their favorite burger get put together by some hygienically challenged teenager who probably fondled himself in the restroom without—”
“All right. All right!” She held up her hands, repulsed. “Bastard.”
“See, that’s the problem. You’re like a media fry cook. You can’t enjoy your own product because you see all the shit that goes into it.”
“Well, you’re the one who puts it there!”
“And you’re the one who serves it.”
“Tell me, Scott. Was any of this conversation designed to cheer me up?”
“I don’t think so. No.”
She laughed again, then took a long sip of her cocktail. “You know, you think you’re such a bad-ass.”
“I don’t think I’m a bad-ass at all. I actually think I’m quite a good-ass.”
“Well, you’re an ass. Let’s just leave it at that.”
Good enough. At the moment I was just ass-tired. The whole Keoki operation had taken a lot out of me, and not because of Deb’s little tongue-lashing. I was impervious to the scorn of others, but when it came to the media, I was a smitten little boy. If you asked anyone in the world to personify American culture, they’d probably describe the stereotypical supermodeclass="underline" moody, shallow, vacuous, easy to make fun of, but shamefully hot. Face it, everybody wanted her attention. She didn’t have to respect us, she just had to let us touch her. Personally, I didn’t even care if she knew my name. I was a grand-scale Cyrano. I wooed her through others. But today I had sent her one hell of a note. I was dying to know what she thought of it.
At the stroke of five, I got my answer.
The most frustrating part of my job was that I had absolute control over every part of the story except the outcome. I thought my timing would be brilliant. I figured February 1 was a perfect day for mass nudity. And it would have been, if it weren’t for a fifteen-year-old girl named Annabelle Shane. She trumped me. The goddamn kid had an even better trick than mine.
________________
This morning, as I led my army of coeds toward the beaches of Kaikua’ana, young Annabelle decided that today would be the last day of her life. She’d been thinking about death for a couple of weeks, we assume, but was waiting for February sweeps to begin. Like me, she knew her TV business. Like me, she had a carefully planned agenda.
She was a wee little slip of a girl. Stick-thin, short, and surprisingly pale for a Tiger Woods-like crossbreed (Dad was black, Mom was Thai). But Annabelle knew she was pretty. She had sharp features, great skin, and her mother’s exotic eyes. She wasn’t happy with her chest, but whatever nature had cheated her of, science would provide. Annabelle had often told her friends that she was getting augmented as soon as she turned eighteen. After that, men would be her lapdogs. They’d conquer France if she asked them to.
Today, she’d chosen to make herself sexy. Her mother’s mascara, that hot little spaghetti-strap number. She took an extra hour to style her short, raven hair. That was it. She was primed and ready.
For the first time ever, she walked to school, trekking a mile and a half through Hollywood in high heels. No doubt she was feeling it by the time she got to Melrose Avenue High School, a sprawling three story complex just east of Fairfax. By then it was already 12:15. Miranda’s plane was just touching down on the Keoki airstrip when little Miss Shane primped herself up one last time and entered the crowded cafeteria. With an “odd intensity” (quoth witnesses), she joined her friends at their usual table. Hey, where have you been? Are you okay? Why you all dressed up?
Annabelle smiled awkwardly and then retrieved a Sony camcorder. It was her father’s toy. Ever since those digital video numbers hit the market, the old-school VHS-C cameras had plummeted in price and size. This one was $299 at Circuit City and small enough to fit in a teenager’s crowded book bag. Annabelle placed the camera in Gina’s hands. What is this, Anna? What are you doing?
“Just film me.”
Those were Annabelle’s last words. She kissed Gina on the forehead, took her book bag, and crossed to where the basketball crowd sat. The Raiders were oft-discussed figures at school, and not just for their winning record. When the prying ears of adults were far out of range, the players went by a different name. This had been the student body’s best-kept secret until today.
I can’t even begin to imagine the thoughts in Annabelle’s head as she pulled out a Glock 17 9mm pistol, a product I had personally helped position into action films and video games. The gun was her father’s other toy. His only weapon. She didn’t hesitate in firing it at the Melrose Raiders, otherwise known as the Bitch Fiends.
A Glock 17 is a powerful handgun, the weapon of choice for a number of law-enforcement agencies because of its ease of use and accuracy. In the hands of a hundred-pound neophyte shooter, however, it’s not the most precise instrument. Her first shot went through the cafeteria window, puncturing a dumpster. The second bullet missed Bryan Edison, the strapping co-captain of the basketball team, by a matter of inches before embedding itself into brick. The third round hit his teammate Gary Halperin in the right collarbone, shattering it. All three shots happened within three seconds. The Glock 17 is also known for its super-light trigger.
From that moment on, accounts vary widely. Some students say Annabelle was icy calm in the chaos she caused. Others say she was crying and screaming. The only fact was that she kept shooting. At Bryan Edison. In retrospect, there’s no doubt that Bryan knew exactly what her mission was. While half the students ducked under tables, Bryan fled with the rest. And Annabelle followed.
Expanded in 1992, the Melrose High cafeteria accommodated more than six hundred students. It was twenty times the size of the school’s basketball court. In the thirty seconds it took Bryan to make it to the doors, Annabelle fired twelve more rounds. Four of them hit walls. Seven hit bystanders. The final shot nailed Brian in the back of the head just as he reached the exit. He died before he hit the ground.
The Glock 17 is so named because its standard clip holds seventeen bullets. Annabelle brought no backup ammo, and was obviously saving the last shot for herself. It pierced her troubled mind, into her left temple and out through the right.
In the end, there were five dead students, including Bryan Edison and Annabelle. Four others were rushed to Cedars-Sinai with moderate to critical wounds. Out of all casualties, three were eventually confirmed as Bitch Fiends. The others had never even spoken to Annabelle. They only had the misfortune of standing near Bryan Edison.