by Alex McElroy
He texted: Were you writing something? I saw the dots.
I turned off my phone.
* * *
Roger and I shared dinner again—sushi. He flirted with me how a lion tamer might flirt with a lion. I couldn’t tell if he wanted me or merely wanted to use me, and I refrained from flirting back, though I knew if I put in even the teensiest effort he would end up in my bed.
I didn’t want him in my bed. I wanted Peter—half out of desire, half out of guilt.
“María tells me you’re making great progress with the commercial,” he said.
“She’s a very generous person.”
“It sounds like the ad will be ready for the gala on Friday.”
My face went blank, quizzical. It was the first I’d heard of the gala.
“In celebration of Saturday’s launch. Don’t worry. These events aren’t really for us. They’re for the investors. To see their contributions put to good use.” He took a drink, dabbed his mouth with a napkin. “We’d love you to address the audience.”
“I’m already doing so much,” I said.
“We’re paying you generously for your work.”
“I don’t have time to write a speech.”
“We have freelancers for that. Writers who used to write for the president.”
“Which president?”
“One of the good ones, I assure you.”
My mind drifted to the image of me triumphant before an ocean of tuxedos and gowns. Hands were slapping together to cheer my perfectly delivered speech.
“And your friend will be there,” he said.
“Dyson?” I asked.
“No cult leaders on the guest list—that I know of,” he said with a laugh. “I meant Cassandra. Cassandra Hanson.”
Her name made me cringe. I heard myself refusing her pity all those weeks ago in the woods. But here I was: a hypocrite. Worse: a fraud.
“I can’t wait to see her,” I said.
thirty-four
MY DAM SCORE had been calculated. I gawked at the green-screen phone in my hand, trying to appear terrified and remorseful in the face of my ruined future.
“Cut!” said the director.
Roger opened the car door for me, clapping. “Touch my arm, Sasha,” he said. “Goose bumps from shoulder to wrist. You have such a command of a camera.”
I thanked him emptily. The filming drained everything from me.
“Don’t think I’ve forgotten about your health.” He draped a hand over his heart. “I’ve scheduled you an appointment with our finest holistic clinician. Emotional. Physical. Spiritual. Lynda takes care of everything.”
“That would be great,” I mumbled. But when the time came to leave my apartment for the session, I shut the curtains and napped until dinner.
* * *
I’m having a very hard time, Dyson texted. I get lonely at night. I’m scared. The men have been… doing things. They’re unhappy. They’re angry.
What things? I texted in a moment of weakness. I was angry at him, yes, but I missed him—even though I wished I didn’t. We shared too much history.
I thought you’d never respond!
* * *
“That’s it!” said Roger from the set. “That’s exactly it! I’ve never been so moved in my life.”
I crumpled over the phone in the back of the car, my eyes ready to empty. To make myself cry, I’d thought about Peter. Monster and killer, I’d thought. You never loved him. You were using him. You never even knew him.
María helped me out of the car. Together, we walked off the set.
“You’re an icon,” said Roger. “We knew you could do it. We never once doubted you.”
“Are you okay?” asked María.
I nodded, but I wasn’t. Roger gave me a stiff-armed hug that felt like being bundled by a pair of steel beams. He treated me as if my pain were contagious.
* * *
At five thirty, on Friday, someone pounded on my door. The week of filming and polite formalities with DAM employees had left me scooped out, crisp as a cracker, and it took me a while to answer. The woman who had been knocking shoved a dry-cleaned black strapless gown into my arms. “The gala begins at seven in the ballroom. I recommend you practice your speech.” She handed over a black padded clipboard with thick white paper glued to the surface.
“Where’s the ballroom?” I asked.
She was already too far away to hear me.
I swallowed a pair of caffeine pills to revive myself. I showered, then requested a stylist, who put my hair in a mermaid wave she assured me could withstand a hurricane. Afterward, she called for a colleague to apply my makeup. Together, they zipped me into the gown, which was so tight that it made me feel like a bullet.
Outside the ballroom, a line of hundreds of strangers in gowns stretched out from the entrance. Ushers checked IDs against the guest list. A lanky blond man in a red tuxedo fought with the ushers. “Roger invited me personally!” he shouted. The usher tapped the list, shook his head. The guest took a swing at the usher. Security swarmed. They dragged him handcuffed into an unmarked blue door down the hall.
The guests gasped. They clutched at their hearts. María palmed the small of my back. She leaned to my ear: “He’s an actor. Roger hired him to create a sense of exclusivity.”
Inside the ballroom, staffs of colored light beamed out from the ceiling, zigging drunkenly over the floor. A hologram of Kendrick Lamar performed for a crowd of aging white men who had been dressed in designer T-shirts and flat-brimmed caps. Weed lollipops poked out of their mouths. They nodded insecurely, clapped vigorously, stomped their feet without singing along. I’d stepped into a rave for and by people who hated raves. On the far side of the room, clustered in front of the stage, were waist-high dinner tables, no chairs. “Standing tables reduce the musculoskeletal damage of sitting,” María told me. Everywhere, investors posed for photos with B-list celebrities. The celebrities included daytime talk show hosts, the stars of TV dramas, game show prodigies, failed presidential candidates, child actors, the generically and talentless hot. María and I passed a long blue tent with a neon tablet hovering over the entrance. The Mistake Tent read the tablet.
“I never thought anyone would go for it,” said María. “Confessing the worst thing you’ve ever done in your life. On camera. But Roger was right. Who wouldn’t want to confess?”
“What are the videos used for?” I asked.
“If you have to ask…,” she said with a chuckle. When I didn’t laugh, she added: “We should join Roger.” He stood onstage nodding and glad-handing with Ben Affleck and Jay-Z and, María informed me, Samantha Power.
“I’ll be up in a second,” I told her. I drifted over to The Mistake Tent, curious about the type of people it attracted. Sy Cunningham and Claire Lance waited near the front of the line, gesturing patiently, sipping drinks from stubby cups. The sight of them made my legs quiver. My worst memories had climbed out of my skull. I spun around to look for María but heard a familiar voice calling my name.
“My god, Sasha! Get over here now.” Cassandra towered over me in red stiletto heels and a silk, sleeveless gown the color of an aging rose petal. She lowered her hands to my shoulders, kissed both cheeks. “How long has it been since we’ve seen each other?”
“You didn’t tell me you’d be here,” I said, trying to sound friendly.
She took my hands in hers. “You’re shaking. You must be freezing.”
“I haven’t eaten all day.”
“Tsk, tsk. Roger promised me he’d take care of you. I told him to take care of you.”
Her words plucked me bare. “It’s nearly seven. I should go find my seat.” I doubted I would survive catching up with her.
“These things never start on time,” she said. “Never one worth attending, at least.” There was Cassandra’s knowing charm, her sense of ownership over all things.
And here I was: shaping myself to accommodate her. “Can’t start without me,” I said. “I�
��m giving the keynote.”
“Oh, my god! That’s amazing.” She shouldered my shoulder. “I am so proud of you. I always knew you’d make it this far. I always believed in you.”
“You did,” I said. Though I meant it to sound like: You did?
“You must tell me, Sasha. I’ve been so curious about your thing. That thing you’re doing—changing the world, the universe. I’ve been so intrigued since you told me about it.” It was impossible to tell where her curiosity ended and her condescension began.
“It’s still very much in development,” I told her. “I’m here for a brief spell before I return to the real work. Back to what I love doing.”
“I love that you love what you’re doing.” She let out a toothy, beaming laugh, like headlights in the night. “I’m in the middle of something, as well—sworn to secrecy on it. But I’ll be so excited to share it with you. Soon we’ll have to collaborate. Like the old days.”
“Would you really want that?”
“You’re so adorable,” she said. She snapped for Sy Cunningham’s attention. “Sy! Come talk to Sasha and me.”
Sy Cunningham stepped out of line and held out his hand for a shake. “Sy Cunningham,” he said. He’d had his mole removed since I’d last seen him, but the surgeon had botched the procedure. A pale red circle the size of a nickel balanced on Sy’s lip. He hovered his hand over his mouth to hide it. “I host the podcast Sylence. Have you heard it?”
“Don’t say anything, Sash. It’s a setup.”
Sash, I thought.
“So,” he said. “Have you… heard it?” He laughed to himself.
“Sy only has one joke and he unloads it on every new person he meets. It’s funny in a not funny at all kind of way.”
“We’ve met before,” I said.
“I’m positive we haven’t,” he said. “I would’ve remembered someone of your—” He coughed. “Reputation.”
Cassandra shook her head. “Leave it to Sy Cunningham: always the most indiscreet man in the room. Always says what everyone knows not to say.”
“I didn’t mean anything by it,” he said.
“You should be ashamed of yourself,” Cassandra said.
I was impressed by Cassandra, grateful to have her back on my side.
“Don’t think people won’t be hearing about this. Don’t think I won’t tell everyone.” She eyed him forcefully. He quivered dramatically. They cracked open in laughter and hugged. I tried to laugh, too. They looked at me like I’d discovered them kissing. Sy stepped into the tent.
“Oh, Sasha, I’ve missed you,” Cassandra said.
It felt good to shadow Cassandra again, to reside inside her confidence. I let myself imagine lengthy dinners together whenever she visited California, vacationing with her on various Mediterranean islands—the life she had once made me envision.
Guests were beginning to shuffle to their spots. They slipped the ushers business cards and folded fifties in last-ditch efforts to earn seats among more powerful and beautiful donors.
Cassandra said, “What you’re doing for DAM is so generous. I don’t know if Roger told you, but he had the most difficult time finding someone to take the position. He reached out to everyone. Literally everyone. Twice. When I heard he was so desperate, your name immediately popped in my head.”
“Oh,” I said.
“I never thought you’d take it. Never. And I mean that with the utmost admiration. I assumed you’d have something better than this—especially when you told me about that world changer. Which is to say I admire you for accepting a job that most people might find demeaning. Because DAM is so important. They’re taking real risks. I completely understand why no one would work with them. I turned them down for those same reasons. But you: you’re above that noise.” She pressed her finger against my sternum. “That’s what I love about you. You always surprise me.”
I felt small, squashable, listening to her speak at me.
“It’s hilarious. Not funny ha-ha, funny huh.” She shrugged playfully. “If you asked me last year to predict how our lives would turn out, I never would’ve guessed this. Not in a hundred billion years. That’s life for you. Un-Pre-Dic-Table. The only way to find out what happens is to live it. Imagine me saying this three months ago: Sasha Marist: spokeswoman for DAM.”
Every ounce of blood inside me leaked free. I was nothing but skin, bones, my body as wrinkled and flat as a discarded pillowcase. “You know my last name,” I said.
“What did I say?”
“Marist,” I said.
“Isn’t that it?”
Her condescension enraged me. I no longer felt small; I felt used and derided, feelings I’d felt throughout our friendship—though it was never a friendship. “We worked together for three years,” I said. “You know my name.”
“I’m sorry I misremembered your name,” she said. “Remind me: What is it?”
“I’m not going to tell you.”
“How childish, Sasha. We don’t deserve help if we’re unwilling to help.”
“I’m not going to tell you,” I said. “I want you to say it.”
“Clearly, Sasha, the stress of everything is getting to you. And I understand. I really do.”
“I know that you know it.”
“Of course I don’t understand personally. It’s nothing I’ve gone through. But I sympathize with you and your plight. That’s why I’m so happy you’re working for Roger. This is such a perfect fit for you. You’ll thrive outside of the spotlight. The pressure buckles you when you’re at the center. I say that without any judgment. The center isn’t for everyone. Life in the center is hard. I’m barely surviving. I am so happy you found a place where you can be valued for the journey you’re on.”
“You’re nothing without your little thimble of fame,” I said. “I pity you.”
Ladies and Gentlemen, please take your places came over the loudspeaker.
Cassandra kissed my cheeks. “I love you,” she said, then leaned to my ear and whispered, “Remember: Your future is riding on this. This time, don’t fuck it up.”
María waved from the tables onstage. Cassandra’s comments had put me in a morose trance. I followed the movements of her hand as if dragged by a tractor beam.
Roger, María, and I stood at a table left of the podium, with Roger closest to it and María between us. On the other side stood Jeff Bezos, Elon Musk, and a former president (a bad one). They opened the ceremony with timbered speeches praising Roger’s “revolutionary technology.” I gazed into my clutch, refreshing my phone, hoping to find a message from Dyson—for any distraction from this evening.
Roger stepped to the podium. He opened by thanking his guests. He thanked donors. He thanked his employees, name by name, even the ticket takers at the DAM movie theater. “When I started DAM,” he said, “my goal was to create a safer online community. A place where my friends and family and, knock on wood, children would never have to fear the threat of online harassment. And with your help, we’ve created that place. A place that’s not only safe for people like me and our employees, but safe for people like you. Safe for people like Sasha Marcus, a visionary influencer whose career was tragically cut short by a slip of the thumb.”
Behind him, an enormous screen descended from the ceiling. The lights were respectfully dimmed. A montage tracking Lucas Devry’s death played over a somber piano melody.
“But DAM can help us prevent such tragedies,” Roger said.
The commercial premiered. My fifty-foot hands typed a response to Lucas Devry. I brought one hand to my face, quietly trying to hide. Applause cascaded through the room. The guests marveled at the alternate world promised by DAM. In that world, I wasn’t onstage. I stood among them applauding some other pariah demolished by public humiliation.
Roger said, “A toast to Sasha.” Everyone lifted their glasses. “Sasha has brought honor, grace, courage, and dignity to DAM. DAM was created because people like Sasha deserve to save themselves from themselves.
They deserve what you deserve: Preventative Atonement.”
I stood—and the applause intensified. María clutched my hand, shook her head no. It wasn’t yet time for me to deliver my speech. But I was angry at Roger for casting me in such a demeaning role. I felt humiliated, upset with myself for agreeing to come here. I would have been better off at The Atmosphere. At least there I had some agency. There, I was Sasha. A leader of sorts. Here, I was a prop in DAM’s ad campaign. I was Sasha Marist—at once special and interchangeable—merely a mannequin in a display window.
I joined Roger at the podium.
“Here she is to say a few words.” Roger gestured for the crowd to keep clapping.
The applause eventually diminished.
I said, “There’s something very important you should know: Roger hates you. Every one of you. He thinks you’re dullards and cowards, all you demented investors, you failed celebrities, the C-list influencers who live off the self-doubt of your clients. You mean nothing to Roger.”
He lunged for the microphone: “Let’s give it up for Sasha!”
I tugged the microphone back.
He stepped away to avoid a confrontation.
“I don’t blame him for hating you,” I said. “Because I hate you, too. I hate that you’re funding a way to insulate yourselves from your worst instincts. You’re not saving yourselves. You’re avoiding yourselves. And I’m happy Roger made me the spokeswoman for DAM. Because if I’m here, then I’m not out there with you, hated by someone like me and by everyone who works for the company you think will protect you. I’m here to tell you, though, that nothing will ever protect you.”
Their applause grew even louder, more manic and charged. The only thing these donors liked more than being praised was being held accountable. These were people who never spoke without checking their privilege. They loved me for telling them they deserved to feel guilty.
“I have been to a place where people are committed to changing the world. I have seen men saved from their worst instincts by the beauty of nature and companionship. I have seen genuine expressions of love made by people who couldn’t care less about profit. I have seen men sacrifice their lives to protect a cause they believe in. I have seen the childless parent the orphaned. I have seen the repressed reveal their innermost selves to strangers. I have seen men become better men: patient and caring and whole. I watched myself mature into a better woman, wiser, more forgiving and honest. Where did this happen?” Nobody released a breath. I floated inside their anticipation like an astronaut. “Not anywhere close to here. It happened on an abandoned campsite in rural New Jersey. The Atmosphere. A place far too good for any of you.”