The Hollywood Sisters: Caught on Tape

There are girls, people in the industry, who just kind of flip through magazines and pick out guys, like, "I'm gonna date him." I could never do that. I don't think being set up works. I'm big into fate.
--KATE BOSWORTH

Scene 1
The August sunset reflects off the rims of my mom's car. Perhaps you've seen it around Beverly Hills? It's the one that's not a Lexus/Prius/Status vehicle; it's a Why Us?
Why are we driving around a thousand-year-old Nissan Maxima?
Because we can, my dad would answer. It's because of his super-mechanic skills that the car looks ancient from the outside but is all new under the hood.
Woo-freaking-hoo.
It's a strange feeling to follow my sister's exploding acting career from our little house in Anaheim to this mansion in the Hills, and then watch the gardeners roll up in a better ride. (The neighbors once left a note asking if we could park the car around back--though the handwriting looked a lot like Eva's.)
Eva and I share a look as we pass the Maxima. We are taking my dog, Petunia, for a walk.
Before you get too impressed that Eva Ortiz, sixteen-year-old breakout star of ABC's hit sitcom Two Sisters and Young Latina of the Year, still makes time for walks with her little sister, listen in on her warm, cheery conversation: "So tell me about getting your heart broken into teeny-tiny pieces, Jess. Was it a sharp, stabbing pain? Or a slow, rolling agony?"
She's one big warm fuzzy, isn't she?
Eva sweeps her long dark hair back from her face. She gets described as a sweeter-looking Jessica Alba (as in, you could leave your bf alone in the room with her), but I can't see what all the fuss is about. One day she was just, you know, Eva--taking up Mom's time driving to auditions, and taking up our bedroom with her bursting closet--and the next, she was someone that people had opinions about. Her hair, her weight, her Latina-ness--all discussed in magazines. By grown-ups. Seriously.
What if they could hear her now?
"Is there a moment in the morning when you think you're happy, then feel doubly crushed to remember you're miserable?"
I feel like doubly crushing something right now. "Who says I'm miserable?"
"Well, you thought you had a chance with Jeremy Jones--until Paige was all over him like a fake tan."
Is Eva missing the sensitivity chip?
Yep, almost entirely.
Though in this case, she's quizzing me because her character on the show is about to get dumped. E has only been on the "handing out" side of heartache, so she needs my valuable life experience to draw from. She's fully wielding her impressions notebook--part of an acting technique where she writes down the details of strong emotional states for future reference.
"C'mon, Jess, you've hardly said a word about Jeremy to me."
"That's because I'm ignoring you."
"Oh. Well, you're not very good at it."
Grrr . . .
"But seriously . . ." When Eva's mad at me, it's serious, and when I'm mad at her, it's a joke. Life as a little sister. "Talking things out can help."
"Is that what you told Mom when you said you'd walk Petunia with me?" Little P is a great dog, a black, white, and brown English bulldog. She's rocking the "small but not yappy" mojo.
"Mom thinks I'm giving you a pep talk about starting at your new school. So . . . school. Go to it."
"Wow, look out, ninth grade. I feel completely pepped now. Thanks."
E smiles. "They're lucky to have you. What's to talk about?"
Our driveway opens onto a narrow road. The houses in Beverly Hills are huge but packed close. As we make our way slowly down and around the climbing street, we see the red tops of the Spanish villas, tucked behind gates and gardens. It's dangerously steep--one misstep and we're walking on top of someone's roof.
Looking out over the view, Eva squeezes my arm. "Jess, really . . . are you okay?"
E's concern calls for a sisterly response. I stick my tongue out at her.
She holds up her hands. "Okay, okay! But I wish you'd open up a little. Mom says you don't even show her your poetry anymore."
I picked up a bad habit from my mom. No, it's not her librarian's love of organizing clothes by the Dewey decimal system ("Look, the Versace dresses are under 507 for Fashion, Italian!"). It's her habit of writing rhymes. My fingers crumple around the scrap in my pocket.

We ditched our old life
(Except for our car)
When we zoomed like the tail
On E's flying star.
I'm working through
What it's all about;
A recovering shy girl--
I watch/listen/help out.
I'm at private school soon,
All plaid skirts and pearls,
Let's hope it's not packed
Wall-to-wall with mean girls!

As we walk, Petunia rubs her back against the bumpy stucco walls. The black eyes of the not-so-hidden cameras whir her way.
There are two types of houses in my neighborhood--million-dollar mansions and piles of rubble. Weird, but true. If you're new to the neighborhood, you plunk down big bucks for a flash pad, then call in contractors to wrecking-ball the place. Then you build your dream mansion. Which you quickly sell to someone else--who comes in and wrecking-balls the place. You're not upset because you have moved on to destroying a bigger, better house.
Eva and I are the only people around. A walk-the-dog neighborhood it's not.
My thoughts are drifting, so I'm surprised when Eva jerks me and Little P off the road moments before an open-topped gold bus whips round the corner. The bus is old, bulky, and packed with tourists taking snapshots in the open air. The guide is also the driver. One hand is on the wheel, one on his microphone. Both feet seem to be standing on the gas.
The speaker blares: "Coming up on our right will be the home of Eva Ortiz, the Two Sisters star! Let's give her the Golden Tours welcome to the neighborhood!"
An air horn blasts and the tourists shout: "Golden Girl! Golden Girl!"
Yikes. Nothing says "good neighbor" like attracting a screaming, speeding bus of gawking strangers to the hood. Class-ee.
Moving to Beverly Hills means that I live in a town where Jackie Chan shares a street with Diddy and Kathy Bates. But I've never spotted a sightseeing bus around here--our road is way too windy and narrow. And the buses I've seen in other parts of town were discreet, slow-moving, and small. And not trying to kill me.
As Eva and I stare at the bus--it drives right onto our property!
It spins around the circular driveway and back out to the street--air horn blasting!
That's not right!
I scoop Petunia up and we all stumble home, choking on a thick cloud of Golden exhaust. I guess there's a reason no one walks in L.A.