The Paper Wasp

by Lauren Acampora

  My face was so hot it must have been purple. My neck itched from sweat, and my armpits were wet beneath the jersey dress.

  “There was a friend, well not a friend, but this woman I thought was my friend, this actress. You’d know who she is, but I won’t say her name.” You rolled your eyes again, holding your wineglass. I drank from my own glass, to encourage you. “Before Rafael, I was dating this other actor, and the minute she found out, she started moving in on him. Like, total seduction, movie style. It was totally uncalled-for. I mean, I wasn’t even that into him. Anyway, it was an eye-opener, how competitive and catty people in Hollywood can be.” You gestured to the waitress and pointed to the wine bottle. “Ever since then, I’ve been having a hard time trusting anyone here.”

  I already knew this story from the tabloids, of course, but hearing it from you was heavenly. Looking at your flowering cheeks, your fingers twirling your red hair, I orchestrated a fantasy in which I created a film and cast you as the star. I mentally ran through my drawings, picturing you in each world, animating it. I costumed you as a garden nymph, gathering golden apples. The waitress arrived with another bottle of cabernet and refilled your glass without asking.

  “It can be really lonely, to be honest,” you said quietly as the waitress withdrew. You leaned forward, jostling your wineglass. “Abby, I’m sorry if I seemed strange when you arrived. I just wasn’t expecting you. But I’m so glad you’re here now. I feel like myself with you. I haven’t felt like myself in a long time.”

  Your hand was on the table, and I reached for it. A tear had formed in your left eye, and I watched as it gathered into a quivering drop on your bottom lashes.

  “Would it be weird if I asked you to stay here a while?”

  I kept my right hand on yours and held the base of my wineglass down with the other.

  “Really, I hope you’ll think about it. It would be great to have a real friend again. Someone who’s not competing with me, you know? And whose kindness isn’t conditional. The truth is, I’ve been getting really down on myself lately. It’s weird, but the more attention I get, the harder it is to feel good about it. You were always such a cheerleader, Abby. You always made me feel special, like I deserved everything that happened to me.”

  I took in your words, then said solemnly, “You were my cheerleader, too.” I stared into your eyes. “No one else was.”

  “And of course it would be good for you, too, to stay here. You can get to know L.A., the way the movie business works. Maybe I can even show you around and get you some introductions. I’d love to see you get a foot in the door. You were always so talented.”

  “No, no,” I said mechanically, as my heart soared. “I can’t intrude at your house. I’ll find a hotel.”

  “It’s not intruding. I want you to stay. I really do remember those stories you made up, Abby, that I used to try to act out. After we talked at the reunion, I’ve been thinking about them a lot. Like the one about the little girl who gets lost in the supermarket, who goes up to a stranger and convinces her to take her home. Because she doesn’t want to go home to her own house. Remember? It was so twisted and great. And I remember how you had the woman’s house all detailed in your mind, what it looked like inside and what the yard was like, the rose trellis and the maze of hedges in the back and everything. I still remember it so clearly, like it actually happened.”

  I tried to respond, but nothing could get past the joy ballooning in me.

  “You helped me when we were kids. You may not realize how much. Now maybe I can help you a little.”

  There was a sound of shattering glass. The restaurant fell silent as our waitress ran to a table where an apologetic young woman stood up and backed away from the shards of a water tumbler. The waitress crouched to sweep, and the sounds of the restaurant burbled back to life. I kept watching the scene after everyone else had looked away. Then I looked at you.

  “Is the Rhizome nearby?” I asked.

  “The Rhizome? It’s just up the road, actually.” You stared at me strangely, your cheeks pink, your elbows on the table. I nodded.

  “Stay, Abby,” you said, and the look in your eyes was the one I’d seen in Vanity Fair. The pleading, the imploring. You did need me. It was true.

  The waitress appeared at our table. “I’m sorry to bother you,” she said quietly. “But do you think I might have your autograph, Elise?”

  I glared at the waitress, indignant on your behalf. But you flashed your public smile and accepted the pad and pen. The waitress watched coolly as you signed your name in slow, looping letters. When you handed the pad back to her and she slipped it into her apron pouch, I felt an illogical jealousy. Cleary, I was the privileged one. I was the one whose shoulder you leaned on as we went toward the door. I was the one who helped you descend the stairs without falling. I was the one who unlocked the Mustang after you dropped the keys on the ground, laughing, “Oh, Abby. Look at us!” And, as you melted into the passenger seat, I was the one who drove you home.

  III.

  IN YOUR guest bedroom, I tilted the blinds open to the craggy landscape, the ballistic blue sky, and felt instantly unburdened. The light was simple and abrading. How silly of me, for so many years, to have subjected myself to the stale Midwest. How silly to have never come to California. Already Michigan was a figment, a prolonged, dank dream from which I’d finally awoken. I’d left my winter coat behind, and I found myself thinking of it now, trying to recall the weight and feel of the boiled wool, the hide that I’d sloughed and abandoned. I thought of my parents coming down to the kitchen to find my note, the Impala missing from the driveway. On my phone there was already a message, which I had no desire to play back. If they hadn’t yet discovered the credit card charges, they would soon. It didn’t matter. I sat up in your bed, thrilled. My escape had been simple, ingenious. Even Shelby would have been proud.

  I slipped downstairs to the kitchen. The room was banded with sunlight, and it took a moment to see the man standing at the far counter, facing away. Dark hair curled at the back of his neck. He wore a black T-shirt with green jogging pants, and his feet were bare. I froze, like a mouse coming upon a predator. I instinctively began to back away, but the man turned and our eyes met. His face—the heavy mandible and Cupid’s bow lips—had a beauty so exaggerated it felt menacing.

  “Hello,” the deep voice said, with an accented lilt, and I made myself look up. “I’m Rafael.”

  He held his hand out, and I forced my own hand forward. He clasped it for only a second, not even really shaking it, and yet I felt the scorch on my palm. He explored my face with an amused spark in his black eyes.

  “I’m Abby.”

  “I know. Elise told me. Would you like some kombucha?” He held up a bottle of yellow liquid.

  “Uh, sure.”

  I stood stupidly as he tipped the substance from the bottle to a glass. “I make my own,” he said. “Let me know what you think.”

  I sipped, choked on the sour liquid.

  “You’re not a regular kombucha drinker?” he asked.

  “No.”

  “Oh, you’ve got to get into it. A glass every day. It will change your life.”

  He held out his glass for a toast. He kept his eyes on mine, and as our glasses touched, I had the irrational sense of performing an illicit act. When I heard your voice behind me, it was with a mix of chagrin and relief.

  “Oh, honey, I feel awful.” You glided to Rafael and pressed yourself against him. “Will you pour me some of that?”

  You were in gym shorts and a tank top. No bra. Your hair fell in twisted cables over your shoulders. You rose on your toes with the guilelessness of a child and kissed Rafael’s neck. He slid a hand candidly down the side of your body, and I felt a shower of sparks along my own skin, as if I were the one he’d touched.

  “Aw, you already met Abby.” You pouted. “I wanted to introduce you.”

  Rafael moved his hands to your shoulders and turned you away from me. “Come, let�
�s go outside and get you some fresh air,” he said. “I’ll make you all better.”

  I hesitantly followed the two of you out to the patio, and was grateful when Rafael pulled three lounge chairs into the shade of the pergola. As we settled into them, I thought of our classmates back in Michigan, driving through the snow to their jobs, children, and mortgages. I thought of Christy Peters and the crucifix at her breast. She’d be in her kindergarten classroom, dispensing crayons and Kleenex. Ted and Andrew would be at their office desks, staring at Excel documents. None of them would be seeing anything like what I was seeing right now.

  You lay back in your chair with an arm over your eyes as Rafael gave a monologue. His voice was mesmerizing in its melodic lifts and inflections as he spoke, loading praise on you, his gorgeous gift, his guiding angel. He recounted the story, ostensibly for my benefit, of the day he’d first seen you in your horn prostheses on the Vespers set, how he’d been briefly mystified, as if he’d stumbled upon a magical new being.

  “I’ll stay as long as she’ll have me,” Rafael was saying in my direction. “Like a loyal pet.”

  At this, you took your arm down from your face, hoisted yourself up in the chair, and leaned forward to kiss him. I turned my face away. The kiss was loud and long, unbearably sensual, and I wondered if I was expected to excuse myself or sit and endure it.

  At last the suction was broken, and you both stood up. Your lips were swollen red.

  “Abby,” you said brightly. “We’re going to the polo club today. Raf’s going to give me a riding lesson. But I’ll be back soon.”

  Looking up from the lounge chair, I felt like your daughter. “All right.”

  “Will you be okay here, by yourself? I won’t be long, I promise. Make yourself at home.”

  You lingered, a questioning look in your eyes. “I’ll be fine,” I assured you. “Have fun.”

  While you were gone, I slunk downstairs with bare feet. Softly, I opened drawers and cabinets, found them all empty. There was a price tag still affixed to a sideboard in the dining room, and my eyelid spasmed at the number printed there: $4,950. Back upstairs, I went into your bedroom. The same shopping bags were still on the floor, the new clothes wrapped in tissue paper. Jeans and shirts were strewn on the unmade bed. I ran a hand over the bottom sheet, leaned down, and put my nose to the pillow, hoping for the honeysuckle scent of your hair. I peeked into the walk-in closet and saw the mess of shoes, the clothing dripping from hangers. A red dress pooled on the floor. I smiled to myself. You’d never been a neat person. This closet could have belonged to a spoiled teenager.

  In the library, I took the Jung books off the shelves, one at a time. Man and His Symbols, The Archetypes and the Collective Unconscious, The Undiscovered Self. I went to the window and pretended I was you, gazing out at the thin lip of ocean on the horizon, trying to feel the quickening you might feel in your blood, the promise of the planet spread before you, every island and continent beyond that great curve.

  After that, I settled into my own quarters. I sat at the glossy black desk and pulled out my art material. The familiar feel of the pencil between my fingers, the act of drawing and coloring, eased my brain to a slower wave. I watched my hand from a remove as it outlined the garden I’d seen in a dream, with torches planted in the ground. I drew fallen torches, and flames latticing the flowers and trees. Against the background of the lustrous desk, my drawing hand was brutish, the fingernails ragged, cuticles split and overgrown. In this sleek room, I felt like a matted beast just emerged from hibernation.

  When I finished, I slid the drawing beneath the bed and climbed under the blanket. I closed my eyes and followed the shapes behind my lids until they resolved into a face and a body. Rafael. My blood thickened, pulsed through its revolution, pooled at the base of my pelvis. It was the opposite of rest, this gathering of carnal energy. I tossed over onto my stomach, breathed into the pillow.

  I didn’t know I’d slept until I was woken by your return, startled by the sound of your movements downstairs. I felt a dip of fear that you’d somehow notice my fingerprints on the furniture I’d touched in your absence. I clambered out of the bed and neatened the covers, then pulled a brush through my hair and went downstairs.

  Your face lit into a smile as I descended the tiled steps.

  “Hi,” you said. “It’s so strange to have you here, Abby. There you are, coming down the stairs like a ghost from my past.”

  “Thanks for letting me stay the night,” I said, stopping on the bottom step. “It was nice to meet Rafael.”

  “Isn’t he amazing?”

  “He surprised me. I mean, when I came downstairs this morning.”

  “Oh, yeah, he does that to me, too. I don’t expect him, and I jump out of my skin. Sometimes I forget he has a key to the house.”

  “Oh,” I said, trying to keep my voice light. “How long did you say you’ve been dating?”

  You thought for a moment. “Three months? But it feels like three years. It’s like we’re on fast-forward.”

  I nodded dumbly, holding the banister. “How was the riding lesson?”

  “Terrible. I guess it’s not the best idea to get on a horse when you’re hungover. But I love the polo club. It’s beautiful, and all the men are gorgeous. You should come sometime. Raf told me that he might start to breed ponies, to expand the family business. Who knew that polo was such a big deal? He told me that when they breed a champion mare, they actually transplant the embryo to another mare so that the champion can keep playing polo.”

  “That’s crazy,” I said.

  “They also clone ponies. They take the ovaries from a mare in the slaughterhouse and scrape her eggs out. Then they replace the nucleus of one of the eggs with a nucleus from the champion pony and get a surrogate mare to give birth to a new champion pony.”

  “Wow.”

  You looked unblinkingly at me for a long moment. “Have you thought about my invitation? To stay?”

  I tried to appear serious, as if I were considering the wisdom of the arrangement, but the smile broke through my effort. “Of course I’ll stay.”

  You gave me your smile, wide and bright as a beach blanket, and seized me in an embrace. “Oh, I’m so glad. Thank you, Abby.”

  “No, thank you.“

  “We’re going to have so much fun,” you said, pulling away. You brushed a piece of hair from my forehead. “Tomorrow I’ll show you around the city.”

  “That would be great.” A knot came to my throat, a mix of terror and joy. “And, please, Elise. You don’t ever have to worry about me.”

  Behind the wheel, you wore big black sunglasses. Alien vegetation blurred past the windows—clumped grasses and loose sprays of flowers—until you finally steered us onto a freeway ramp. All at once we were among thousands. I didn’t dare speak to you, for fear of being a distraction, but you drove expertly. You’d learned to navigate this place, your home.

  Exiting the freeway, we proceeded down a long straight thoroughfare past buildings that pulsed with reckless color and information. I’d expected a mild plasticity to the city, had thought that the legendary California light would kiss every surface with equalizing ardor, assuring those caught in its rays that they were loved and capable of seizing happiness. Instead, the sunlight lacquered a junky streetscape, a clog of cars in front of us, a clog of people on the sidewalk. Among the pedestrians I glimpsed costumed characters: a blond Batgirl, a dirty SpongeBob.

  “Here we are,” you announced. “Hollywood Boulevard. I’d stop, but it’s impossible to park. Some other time we’ll come back and see the Walk of Fame.”

  We drove through the rest of Hollywood, which was scrappy and hard, a parade of liquor stores, car washes, fast food. The people were dour faced in the flat light, holding grocery bags and waiting at bus stops. We continued along the infinite boulevard, cars linked one to the next like caterpillar segments.

  “Here we go,” you said, pointing to a green lawn with the words BEVERLY HILLS arching ove
r it.

  “This is Beverly Hills?”

  “Well, you can’t see much of it from the street.”

  Still, the place was unimpressive. Rodeo Drive was laughably short and antiseptic, a hastily constructed movie set. A few tourists stood on the sidewalk, stunned by the bright blankness. I wondered if we might stop at Gucci or Prada, but as if reading my mind, you said, “I don’t shop here.”

  Instead, we traveled along one of the interminable arteries through the city and rejoined the freeway. We surfaced in a place you called Venice. Here, there were human-scaled houses, bright flowers, bicyclists. We parked at the curb on a sleepy street, outside a stranger’s bungalow, and walked to the main boulevard. “Abbot Kinney’s my favorite place to wander around,” you said as we went into one of the trendy design shops. I suppose I’d expected you to hunch in public, to avoid notice, but you walked tall, flaunting your fame like a neon cloak. As you studiously browsed, the other shoppers glanced away, their awareness palpable. What a sustained effort it must have been for you to remain focused on the activity you were engaged in: looking at lamps, thumbing through area rugs. I was sure I’d collapse under the weight of the cloak, had it been mine to wear.

  In a vintage clothing store, you carefully sorted through the racks, holding dresses against yourself.

  “What do you think?” you asked about a blousy dress with a tiny flower print.

  “It would be beautiful on you,” I said truthfully.

  You slung it over your arm and continued through the rack. “I’ve been trying to soften my look,” you said. “So many people are trying to be edgy and hard right now. I want to be soft.” The hangers clattered as you thrust things to the side. “What about this? For you.” You held up a diaphanous black shawl with silver threading. Without speaking, you arranged it across my shoulders, and led me to the full-length mirror, where I saw myself as you must have seen me.