The F List: Fame, Fortune, and Followers

by Torre, Alessandra

  My heart fell in my chest. It was her but it wasn’t. I smiled, but just her choice of seat told me everything I needed to know. She wasn’t here because of a crush or a desire to know me. She was here for a press mention, which meant that Hollywood had eaten my Cinderella and spit out this put-together blonde carbon copy.

  I moved through the tables and sat down across from her. I eyed her tits, and decided that if I made it through the lunch, I’d grant her a quick screw, then never look at her again.

  That was my thought as I sat down across from Emma Blanton. Which, looking back, was ludicrous.

  13

  #likeforlikes

  EMMA: 5,112 FOLLOWERS

  Bojan had prepped me for my lunch. Which was to say that he’d gotten high on a bag of edibles, zoned out on my couch, and watched me try on five outfits before nodding his approval. He’d also told me that guys like boobs, to smile a lot, and to check my teeth for spinach.

  “And bite your tongue,” Vidal advised, using a stiff brush on my eyebrows. “If you feel like saying anything opinionated, don’t. All we have to do is get you through one lunch, catch one photo of him smiling at you like you’re the love of his life, and we’re golden.”

  No guy had ever smiled at me as if I was the love of his life. The idea that Cash Mitchell would was ridiculous. I voiced the thought, and Vidal chuckled. “Girl, he’s made millions off of giving women hope. The man’s a born flirt. Don’t worry, this will be easy.”

  I thought of five years ago, when I’d lifted my empty cup up to hide the bottom half of my face. He’d called me beautiful, and I had ached at the compliment, fought butterflies for weeks afterward, continually refreshed his social media and practically pinned him to my vision board. Vidal was right. He was a born flirt, and I wasn’t the only woman that he’d given hope to. I had followed him and watched my account, both desperate and afraid that he would follow me back. But he hadn’t.

  It had been a line, a valiant moment where he had saved me from embarrassment. That was it. I had been the pathetic girl who had hoped it meant something.

  Now, I sat in the predetermined table, at a restaurant that charged forty-eight dollars for a hamburger, and ran through the list of topics I had memorized and researched to discuss. The door to the restaurant swung open, and I forgot all of it the moment he stepped in.

  It was painful, how effortlessly beautiful he was. The warm grin he tossed toward the hostess. The casual way he hooked his sunglasses into the neck of his T-shirt. The move of his muscular torso as he glanced around the restaurant. Every female in the restaurant noticed, and there was a subtle shift of the air in his direction. Voices hushed. Conversations stalled.

  If he noticed, you couldn’t tell. His gaze found me, and he paused, then smiled.

  It wasn’t the same smile as he’d given at the party. Maybe the last five years had changed him, or maybe it was because I was different now. Hot, according to Vidal. Even Bojan said I qualified. And I was blonde instead of brunette, with perfect white teeth instead of the traffic jam of before. I was wearing makeup and a tight minidress that was ten steps up from the t-shirt and jeans I’d worn at the party. Maybe the original smile was his pitying one, and this was the real one.

  If so, I almost wanted the pity. This felt… I shifted in the seat as he approached. Odd. More so than the other handful of dates I’d gone on since my makeover.

  Cash settled into the opposite seat without a greeting, then inched it forward until he was close to the table. “Hey.”

  “Hey. I’m Emma Blanton.” The new last name still felt awkward and fake on my lips, but we’d agreed that Ripplestine was part of my past I needed to shed for something lighter and cooler. I held out my hand and he paused then shook it. The action knocked over the sugar packets, and I let go of his hand and quickly tidied them back into place.

  “You from Los Angeles, Emma?” He settled back in his seat and glanced toward the waitress.

  “Yeah. Hyde Park.” I pulled at the hem of my skirt, smoothing it down along my thighs.

  “And you’re not sick of this town yet?” His gaze came back to me, and they were the same dark blue from the party. His team—he had a team—had agreed on this date with the stipulation that we donate eight thousand dollars to an autism camp in the valley, so he couldn’t be that different. Still, I couldn’t match him with the party. These jaded eyes with the kind ones. His almost accusatory tone with the gentle one.

  I forced a smile. “I like it here.” What would a naturally beautiful California girl say? One from his world? “Everyone is so nice.”

  He chuckled, and I hoped the photographer caught the sexy gesture. “Everyone is so nice,” he repeated. “Okay.”

  I pushed the tip of my tongue up against the sharp edge of my front teeth and swallowed the urge to snap at his condescending tone. He thought he knew what the real world was like? People had been nice to him since the day he was born.

  “So,” I managed, my breezy tone intact. “What was it like, having Jocelyn Mitchell as a mom?”

  That bored him. He sighed and rested his elbows on the table, cupping one hand over the other. “It was great. She’s great. You’ve seen the show, I’m sure. You know.” He lifted his hand, catching the attention of our waitress and any thoughts of us reigniting our non-existent spark dissolved.

  A blue-haired girl with the Frenchy’s pinstriped top stopped beside us, her smile big. “Hey.”

  “Hey. Can I get the grilled cheese? And a Heineken.”

  “Absolutely!” She glanced at me.

  “The chicken Ceaser wrap and a Diet Pepsi.”

  She scribbled the items on a pad and bounced off. And right then, the lunch fell apart.

  “I was at the table right behind them, and I was trying to get a picture of him without him seeing me. But the point is, I was close. Close enough to hear her ask him about the Ranch. And Cash asked if they could talk about something else. And she said that he pretended like his brother didn’t exist. Like… Emma just said that. Straight out. I mean, we’ve all thought it, but you don’t just call someone out like that. And Cash totally clammed up at that point. I stopped breathing, waiting to hear what he would say. But he didn’t say anything. He just sat there for a few minutes while she kept pushing and pushing and going on and on about Wesley—and then he stood up and walked out. He left before his food even came.”

  Marjorie Adams, UCLA student

  “He didn’t just walk out. He leaned over and said something to her, right before he did. I don’t know what it was, but Emma didn’t like it. And he left before she could say anything back. But the funniest thing was, she stayed right there. Best seat in the restaurant and she sucked it up for another thirty minutes. The waitress brought their food, and she ate both of them. His beer. His grilled cheese. Her wrap. I offered to clear it, but she glared at me like she was going to stab me with her fork. It was like she hadn’t eaten in a week.”

  Ben Barnett, Frenchy’s busboy

  15

  #rulebreaker

  EMMA

  “I don’t understand.” Vidal perched in the driver’s seat of his Mercedes and gripped the steering wheel with both hands. “I had three things you weren’t supposed to talk about. Politics. His movies. And….” He looked at me as if it was a quiz.

  “Wesley,” I supplied.

  “Right.” He eased up to a stop sign and peered left. “And four minutes in—FOUR minutes—you asked about Wesley.”

  “Well, I actually asked about the Ranch,” I said tartly, pulling out the row of bobby pins that were pinching my scalp.

  “The Ranch that Wesley is at.”

  “It was a valid question,” I continued. “Why are they hiding him away there? It’s like they want to pretend he doesn’t exist. Cash has a gigantic house. There’d be plenty of room for him there.”

  “It’s not any of your business,” Vidal said clearly, enunciating each word as if he was suddenly respectful of people’s personal space. The man ha
d examined my bikini line yesterday. Personal boundaries and nosing around in people’s business were why he had a job.

  Vidal glanced toward the backseat. “Tell me you at least got a good picture.”

  “Oh, I got lots of good pictures.” The hired pap hunched over his camera and tabbed through the photos. “Great pictures, actually. Just not sure they fit the story you were trying to tell.”

  “He had us make a donation to the Ranch,” I argued. “He’s the one who brought it into this. I gave them eight grand, I have the right to ask why he’s keeping his brother there.”

  “You realize that everyone loves him, right?” Vidal skidded to a stop, and a poodle in a tutu passed, the leash delicately held by a woman who should have stepped away from plastic surgery a long time ago. “No one is going to side with you on this. Cornering Cash Mitchell to drill him about his disabled brother is not going to win you any fans.”

  He was right. It didn’t win me any fans. In fact, for a good eighteen minutes, on the top fold of TMZ—I was the new wicked witch of Los Angeles. I still have the glossy printout, the headline in bold 18 pt font.

  Hollywood Nobody Lectures Cash Mitchell on Date

  It was a horrible article, one that painted me out to be a desperate Cash-clinger, one who had cooed across the table at him, then viciously attacked his personal virtues and integrity. It was complete with four photos that showed me snarling, Cash wincing, Cash glowering, and the moment he had stood up and leaned over, delivering the line that was still taunting me.

  We were, of course, responsible for the article, one that included my name fourteen times. The copy had been agonized over for countless edits before it went to Vidal’s TMZ contact. And during those first eighteen minutes, before my story was replaced by something else, my social media accounts exploded.

  It didn’t win me any fans, but it did get me something better. Followers. Twenty-one thousand new followers in eighteen minutes.

  Later we laughed that the headline that called me out as a Nobody was the first thing that made me a Somebody. That date, even though it had been a disaster for my and Cash’s relationship, had been precisely what I needed. Vidal had known it, even as he had banged a manicured hand against the Mercedes’ steering wheel and ranted on about personal privilege. I had known it, even as my cheeks had burned while I ate Cash’s grilled cheese scorned and alone.

  Some women were made to be loved. I was made to be hated.

  16

  #offline

  EMMA: 28,992 FOLLOWERS

  My first visit to the Outlier Ranch was plagued with ill intent. I walked in the facility hoping to decimate my opinion (and pathetic crush) of Cash. I handed my donation to an adult woman with Halloween-colored braces and insisted on a tour of the property. I took my time, dragging my leather flats across bleach-white tile as I mentally picked apart the private suites, food, and the staff. I peered critically at a bored teenager who could use a haircut and winced at a screaming child who was completely ignored by a nearby employee. I searched every face, hoping for a glimpse of one who looked like Cash, and struck out. And I decided, somewhere between the nature trail and the medical center—that they had Wesley Mitchell locked away. Probably gave him thirty minutes of sunshine each day and kept him doped up on meds the rest of the time.

  “It’s so nice to see your interest in the Outlier Ranch,” my guide beamed as she held her badge against a sensor and unlocked the door. “We love visitors. Do you have any relatives with disabilities?”

  “No.” I avoided touching the door as I stepped through. “Just worked with a lot.”

  The joke went over her head. “Oh, that’s marvelous to hear. You should consider becoming a volunteer.”

  She halted and peered at me with a fair amount of expectation.

  My initial and immediate recoil of the idea was stalled by my growing curiosity of Wesley Mitchell’s condition. I fingered the visitor’s lanyard that hung around my neck. “What does a volunteer do?”

  She resumed walking, her pace slower as she began listing the duties. “Visiting with the residents. Changing linens. Supervising group activities. Clean-up of common areas.” She lifted her bird-like shoulders in a shrug. “It’s not the most glamorous thing in the world, but it can be gratifying. There’s so much joy in these walls.”

  Oh yeah. The place was positively brimming with it. Still, I warmed to the idea. “I could do that. Maybe one day a week?”

  She gave a warm smile. “Whatever works with your schedule.”

  By the time I pulled out of the tree-lined drive, I had a visitor’s badge with my photo on it and my first three shifts scheduled. I’d planned just to come a few times. A month of volunteering at most. Just enough to understand why Cash was hiding his brother and what that real story was.

  But then, on my fourth day at the Ranch, I met Wesley. And after that, a part of me changed.

  * * *

  The last public picture of Wesley Mitchell was taken when he was seven, by a paparazzi hidden outside of The Ivy. The photo had been snapped as Wesley was getting in the car, his attention on the balloon string tied around his wrist, only half of his face visible to the camera. That profile showed enough — the unmistakable facial trademarks of Down’s syndrome. My heart had twisted a little at the way Jocelyn Mitchell’s hand had been outstretched before his face in an attempt to block it from the camera.

  The boy who sat at the table was ten years older but painfully similar to his seven-year-old self. The same slightly hunched shoulders. Low-set ears. Almond-shaped eyes. His attention was on a small television. As I watched, he absentmindedly picked at the hem of his sleeve.

  “Wesley?” Miranda, my volunteer coordinator, tapped on his shoulder. “Wesley, this is Miss Emma. She’s going to be working with you today.”

  The teenager sighed, then picked up the television remote and pointed it toward the screen, jabbing at the button until it turned off. He set the remote down on the table and swiveled in his seat, giving me a look of exasperation. “It is not a good day for me to work.”

  I laughed before I could catch myself, then clamped a hand over my mouth when Miranda shot me a horrified look. Laughing at the residents, without a doubt, was a no-no. “I don’t like to work either,” I quickened to say. “What do you say we both play hooky from work today?”

  Miranda tutted under her breath, but Wesley’s smile widened. “Play hooky—“ he said haltingly, then gave a strong nod. “Sounds good to me.”

  I grinned back at him. “We’re good,” I assured Miranda, who would probably pen my termination papers as soon as she left us. “I’ll use the walkie if I have any questions.”

  It took a few minutes of convincing, but Miranda finally left. Wesley stared at me expectantly. I glanced around the room, which was filled with round activity tables and reading and television nooks. “What were you watching?”

  “SpongeBob.” His chin jutted out. “It’s not a kid show.”

  I raised my hands in surrender. “Oh, I know. I watch SpongeBob too.”

  “You lie.” He crossed his arms over his chest.

  “Nope.” I took the seat next to him and scooted it up closer to the table as my competitive juices started to flow. “Go ahead, quiz me on something about the show.”

  He watched me warily. “Who is SpongeBob’s best f-friend?”

  “Patrick Star,” I said promptly. “Easy. Give me something harder.”

  His eyes slid to the television screen then back at me. He tucked his chin into his chest and thought for a long moment. “Who likes root beer?”

  I didn’t understand the question at first. His speech coated the vowels thickly, and I asked him to repeat himself. He gave a frustrated sigh and repeated the question, heavily enunciating the words.

  It was a hard question, and it was my turn to study the table and think. He let out a giggle, and I looked up quickly to catch his hand over his mouth, eyes lit with amusement. The answer came to me but I frowned, playing it out
longer. His legs danced under the table.

  “It was that episode…” I said carefully, torn between displaying my SpongeBob knowledge and ruining his fun. “The one where Plankton is trying to steal the secret formula…” That description could easily match forty percent of the show’s episodes, but his face still fell slightly.

  “Gosh,” I said, pressing my palms to my forehead. “This is hard.”

  “Just give up,” he instructed. “It’s too hard.”

  “But then you won’t believe that I watch the show.”

  He reached out and patted my shoulder. “It’s okay. I believe you.”

  I dropped my hands and let out a relieved sigh. “Thank you.”

  He picked up the remote and pressed a button, bringing the television to life. “We’ll watch,” he suggested. I nodded in approval and watched as a beach scene unfolded. I’d seen the episode before and smiled as a lobster ran through the crowds, a rescue raft in hand.

  After a few minutes, Wesley moved his seat closer to me. I smiled at him and returned my attention to the television. We spent the next two hours, like that, side by side, watching SpongeBob. He knew almost every word, sang along with the songs, and laughed at the top of his lungs at the obvious jokes, though he missed some of the more adult ones.

  It was the most fun I had that week.

  17

  #sponsoredad

  EMMA

  The brands, Vidal taught me, were the key. The three F’s (fame, fortune, and followers) only worked if you had the fortune to create the life interesting enough to grow the other two legs of the table. And the money came from the brands. When we were lucky, they helped with exposure too.