by Roz Bailey
After the show started, Xavier disappeared to the bar, and I sat between Marcella and Trev. Marcella found every joke hysterically funny, and Hailey laughed along, but I was distracted. Something about Xavier’s success was bothering me, especially when I compared it to my lack of success as a hand model. It was all so unfair. Why couldn’t I get a great offer like that?
Excusing myself, I pushed away from the table. I needed some fresh air. Maybe, if I cleared my head, I could come back and have some fun again.
But Xavier snagged me on the way out. “Where you going, girl?”
“What do you care?” I said as I passed through the bar.
Outside the air wasn’t so fresh. Steamy. Superheated. With more than a hint of fragrances you don’t want to think about. I sighed as X came out the door and nudged my elbow.
“What’s up with you, Alana? If I didn’t know better, I’d think you were having some sort of existential crisis. No, wait. It’s a financial crisis, right? Well, that explains it.”
“Right,” I said sarcastically. “It’s all that simple.”
“Hey, simple as it is, people understand being broke. It’s good material.”
I spun toward him. “Don’t even think about working it into your comedy act. I’m still furious over that princess routine. How could you, X? I mean, really.”
The streetlight reflected blue on the side of his face, the overall effect smoky and ethereal. Underneath all that wickedness, X was a handsome brother. “Oh, chill, Alana. I can’t believe you still haven’t gotten over yourself. You’ve been one of my greatest sources of inspiration this summer. People love the princess routine.”
“Do they? Well, score one for you, X. Your gain, my mortification.”
“Now why do you have to take it so personally?”
“Maybe because it is personal?”
“Yeah, well, they say there’s truth and pain in good comedy.”
“Oh, now you’re saying that princess bullshit is true?”
He shook his head. “Girl, I can do no right by you. I never wanted to hurt you. You’re always so tough. Like one of those Hummers on the road.”
“You’re calling me a Hummer!” A little squeak popped into my voice, and I swallowed hard to squelch it.
“Lord,” he said, “shut me up before the woman kills me.”
There is nothing worse than a wiseass brother. “You’re comparing me to a big-ass car?”
“It’s not a car. It’s a utility vehicle. Used to be for the military. Schwarzenegger was one of the first civilians to have one in this country.”
Actually, there is one thing worse: a wiseass brother who thinks he knows everything. “Let me ask you something, X. Why did you follow me out here?”
“Now, see? You’re assuming that it’s all about you?”
I folded my arms. “The truth?”
He turned his head away. “I don’t know what it is about you, Alana, but I just can’t say no to the challenge. I mean, what does it take to get close to you? How much time? Let’s see, I’ve known you since we were kids, so that’s no good. Or is it candy and cards? Or what?”
“That’s an odd question. You make me sound heartless.”
“No, that’s not what I meant. But the thing is for me, this TV thing in LA is a big deal. And, hey, it may totally flop, but before I go, I just wanted ... I don’t know, a sense of where we stand.”
I nearly choked on that. “We?”
“You and I.” He turned toward me, so close my elbows touched his shirtsleeves. That was when he put his hands on my bare arms, and I was surprised at how soft his palms were, how gentle his touch. So unlike the vicious barbs that flew from his mouth.
I closed my eyes for a moment, trying to resist the good feelings his touch evoked, wondering if my own life would ever make sense to me again. I hated this man, and yet I wanted him to move closer, to pull me into his arms, to kiss me.
The door squealed open behind me, and Hailey sucked in a desperate breath. “It’s Trevor!” she cried. “Something’s happened.”
That night, for the first time in my life, I rode in an ambulance.
After Trevor had passed out in the men’s room and couldn’t be awakened, Kyle had dialed 911 right away. The ambulance came, and in the blur of flashing lights and a rolling bed from which Trevor’s feet dangled over the end, the paramedics established that he was still breathing, at least.
“He’s been drinking?” the female attendant asked. It seemed like a rhetorical question. “And I found this in his pocket.” Xavier handed her a prescription vial. Small, but it appeared to be empty.
“Will he be OK?” I asked.
The woman made a note on her clipboard. “They’ll probably pump his stomach. Can’t really tell you much more, except he’ll be at Columbus Hospital. Anyone riding along?”
“I am.” I tried to climb into the back, but Xavier was already in there with the other attendant.
“You can ride up front, with me,” the woman said.
I climbed into the front seat and burst into tears. Without a word, she handed me a box of tissues, then put the truck in gear and plunged into the steamy night, sirens blaring.
At the hospital, the medical team took over, leaving Xavier and me stuck together in a nasty public waiting room. If the slippery plastic chairs weren’t bad enough, there was always the clientele—arguing couples, punked-out friends of kids who’d overdosed, and the few normal people who kept their eyes averted. When X put his arm around me and pulled me close, I didn’t object. In fact, it felt good to rest my head against his shoulder. I could almost close my eyes and doze off and pretend I wasn’t here. Almost.
After a few hours of waiting, a young doctor summoned us to the desk. “Trevor overdosed on prescription painkillers,” he said, taking his time to look us in the eyes. “That, combined with alcohol. I understand he has a history with this?”
I nodded.
“We’re going to keep him for observation. He’ll probably be groggy till morning, but you can go up to his room with him if you like. Tomorrow he’ll receive a psych evaluation and we’ll take it from there.”
“But he’s going to be OK?” I asked.
The doctor paused. “No promises. Has Trevor ever tried counseling? Detox?”
“A few times,” Xavier answered.
The doctor nodded. “I would like to see him try it again, but that’s always difficult. It’s got to be his choice. He’s got to be ready.”
“He’ll get there,” Xavier said with a confidence I didn’t feel. “He will.”
When we got to Trevor’s room, a nurse was there cleaning him up with a washcloth, though he was still passed-out. She finished up, found us an extra chair, then told us to try and let Trevor sleep awhile. Not a problem, since he was snoring like a bear and X and I were feeling giddy with exhaustion.
I pulled my feet up on the chair and snuggled into a blanket. I think I dozed for a while, but then Xavier was talking to me, asking me what I remembered from our high school. Did I think Trevor was using drugs then? Had it happened after Trev’s father died? Was Xavier wrong to cover for Trev, wrong to take care of him?
“I think that might make me the evil codependent,” Xavier said. “I worry that my going out to LA set him off, but I can’t not go. I mean, for me, it’s a lifelong dream.”
My eyes still closed, I admitted that I wasn’t an expert, that we needed some professional help. “Do you think Trevor will do rehab again?”
Xavier yawned. “I hope so. He told me he’s sick of getting advice from everyone. All these people who say they love him, telling him what to do. I told him he’s lucky to have people who love him.”
“Sometimes I could just kill him,” I said. “I used to get so jealous. He’s the savior of the family, but he keeps blowing it.”
“Tell me about it.” Xavier talked about growing up on the fringes of wealth, living with a family that had it all but personally never feeling any sense of entitlement. �
�It was like, I had to get out there and do it, prove to Aunt Nessie that I was worth her investment.”
“That’s why you worked all those hours at McDonald’s?” I frowned. “And here I thought you liked those funny hats.”
“It was the Big Mac that kept bringing me back,” he teased.
We talked for hours, a sort of stream-of-conscious, sleep-deprived conversation. By morning, I was aware of the strange bond I had with X. Underneath his obnoxious attitude lurked a lightning-speed brilliance, a quick mind, and a slightly twisted sensibility I couldn’t resist.
OK, in my semiconscious state, I had to admit I found him attractive.
“Let me ask you a hypothetical question,” he said. “If you knew a guy who was headed out to LA with a big job and a fat expense account, would you hook up with him? I mean, would you find that kind of thing appealing?”
“If I had more energy, I’d smack your face. Are you asking me if I’m a whore?”
“No! No, never mind. It was just hypothetical.”
A hypothetical question that reminded me how much I loathed him when he acted like a jackass.
Besides, even if I were in love, the new Alana had to beware of hooking herself on a man. It would be too tempting to find a new provider, a replacement for my father.
When I hooked up with someone again, I wanted it to be all about love.
Well, love, and a little great sex. Great sex can only help a relationship, right?
41
Hailey
Energy in, stress out.
Good air in, bad air out.
Light air in, heavy air out.
Folded like a sprouting pretzel, I sat on the floor of our living room and tried to relax. It was the first day of my new free life.
It was also Saturday, the day the messenger usually arrived with a fat envelope full of my scripts for the next week of taping. Despite my attempts at picturing a beautiful hilltop overlooking Sedona, Arizona, the image in my mind was of our apartment door—the one with the doorbell that usually rang on Saturday mornings, the one that I kept glancing back toward, hoping that the curse of the past twenty-four hours was just a bad dream.
But no, I had to stop looking. The doorbell was not going to ring. I’d been fired. The horrible, awful truth, but still the truth.
I pushed my hands out, resisting an imaginary wall. I had to resist. Must resist ...
Oh, hell! I dropped my arms, snatched up the cell phone and called Antonio. Once again, I got his voice mail. Should I leave a message? The fourth one today?
No, I thought, clicking off. I was getting his message, loud and clear. He had dumped me. Our relationship was over.
My life was over.
I speed-dialed Rory’s number and caught him on the way to the gym. “Gotta stay buff, doll.”
“Can you meet me for lunch?” I asked desperately. “I’ll treat,” I said, before I realized that I had no way to pay for it.
“Pumped dudes like moi do not eat lunch. Especially after my weigh-in last night. If I don’t watch it, the writers will change Stone’s name to Boulder.”
“Then give me information,” I said. “Have you read your scripts yet? Does Ariel’s destiny unravel during next week’s tapings?”
“Well, I only skimmed.”
“And ... ?” I said encouragingly.
“It doesn’t look good, doll. It’s monkeypox.”
“What?”
“Apparently you got a needle stick while working on a patient who flew in from Africa. Or maybe it was Ceylon. Anyway, you’re infected with this monkeypox, which makes them put you in total isolation. I’m afraid your death is imminent.”
“No!” I bellowed. “Maybe I’m just a little dead. A mistaken identity. Wrong body in the coffin.”
“Oh, it’s you, all right. They might even bring Skip back for a big sob scene at your funeral.”
“They can’t do that! Deanna will eat it up!”
“Exactly.”
“Maybe I can go into a coma for a long time. Till Deanna goes on vacation.”
“She won’t stand for that,” he said, his voice heavy with sympathy. “Sorry, Hailey.”
“I can’t let this happen. I can beat this thing; I know I can. I will take on the pox and win. Ariel can beat this monkeypox thing.”
“Tootsie, you’re preaching to the choir.”
“I know,” I said in a small voice. “Enjoy your workout.”
He grunted. “Like that’s ever gonna happen. Later, sweets.”
I let my head drop toward the floor, pushing the air from my lungs. My character was not going to rise up from this sad demise. Ariel was dead.
And I was dead meat.
42
Alana
After a few hours of restless sleep, I staggered out to the living room to find Hailey face-down on the couch, her chin propped on a pillow. She was watching an old movie with Kate Hepburn as ingenue. Beside her was a mug of something that resembled watered-down charcoal.
“I tried to make coffee,” she said. “I think you need those paper thingies to make it turn out.”
I scratched my head blearily. “Filters? Yeah, probably. Who makes coffee at home anymore?”
I opened the kitchen cupboard. No food, but a fabulous array of glassware and dishes, my favorites being multicolor earthenware I’d ordered from Kitchen Kaboodle. Fabulous dinnerware. Just no dinner to serve on it.
“How’s Trev?” Hailey asked.
“He’ll survive. If he stops abusing himself. He’s agreed to go to rehab.”
“That’s a silver lining.”
“We’ll see. He’s been there before.” I closed the cupboard and drummed my fingers over the granite counter. “We’ve got to get out of here,” I said. “I need to shop.”
“But what about our doing the Marcella Plan?” Hailey sat up and folded her arms. “I’m not giving you your card back. Well, unless you really want it.”
“We’ll work off our savings. I can stop at the ATM and take out some cash. And then—I know!—we’ll check out one of those budget places. Mandee or H&M or Blueberry’s.”
Hailey fell back onto the couch. “What has my life become?”
“It’ll be fun. Come on, get your body dressed, girl. We’re going shopping!”
Honestly, it took me a few minutes to make the mental adjustment. Blueberry’s was cute as a Barbie’s Malibu Beach House, but just as tacky, and it sort of disturbed my aesthetic sensibilities to see so many adorable things merchandised together.
Truly, I’d entered the mother ship of the Nayasias and Sharons of the world.
“I don’t think I’ll find anything here,” Hailey said nervously. “Can we go? I think Macy’s is having a sale today.”
“Let’s just take a look,” I said, trying to think of something that would be safe. Socks? Hair scrunchees? “What about these mood rings? Aren’t they fascinating? I mean, it’s something to talk about when you’re stuck with a dud conversationalist.”
Hailey shook her head. “They remind me of my parents. Mood rings and granola and incense. Talk about a lost generation.”
I had never seen my friend in such a funk. Here we were shopping and she couldn’t find something to lift her out of that mood?
“I am going to grab an armful of—I don’t know—some of those little shorty pajamas over there, and I’m going to try them on. You’re welcome to join me when you come back to the human race.”
I flicked the tag up on the pajamas and was shocked to find that they were more than twenty dollars. Twenty bucks here at Blueberry’s? Didn’t they advertise, Don’t get the blues, shop at Blue’s, where the prices will lift your spirits? What a crock.
On the way to the dressing room, I told Hailey, “Oh, and I’m going to need my card. I’ll be back in a flash with a stash.”
Hailey never did show up in the dressing room. When I reappeared in the store, I nearly dropped my selection of shorty pajamas.
“Marcella?” I tried not t
o sound guilty. “What are you doing here?”
Her face was puffed up with anger. “The question is, Alana, what are you doing here?”
“I called her,” Hailey admitted, her face pinched. “Sorry, but I didn’t know what to do, but it just seemed wrong to give back your credit card.”
I scowled at her. “You ...”
“Don’t blame Hailey,” Marcella cut in. “The only one you have to blame is yourself, coming in here and planning to burn money on more things you don’t need.”
“Excuse me? Can I wear pajamas, please?”
“Pajamas! Sleep in a T-shirt. Did you hear anything I said last night? The Marcella Budget Plan? Alana, you are broke, sister.”
“I know.” I put the pajamas on a rack of socks. The cheap brushed cotton fabric had shed, leaving little flecks of white on the front of my black tank top. “But that doesn’t change anything. Shopping is what I do, it’s like breathing or eating. You can’t expect me to stop living.”
And without even brushing the fuzz off my shirt, I tucked my Louis Vuitton under my arm and strode out of there, my head held high.
That Marcella had a lot of nerve, getting in my grill and telling me what to do. And Hailey, with her namby-pamby “I didn’t know what to do” and “I’m so sorry!” I’d had about enough of them.
And doing this to me after I was up all night with Trevor. I marched down the street, thinking what a horrible city New York was when your friends turned against you.
Friends ... huh! Telling me what they think I should hear. What did they care about me?
Again, the image of Trevor in the hospital bed came to mind, and I realized he had felt the same way. The people who cared about him were telling him something he didn’t want to hear. Dammit if they weren’t right, too.
I turned, and there were my friends, a few paces behind me. Yes, they really were my friends. Oh, I felt ready to kill them both, but I knew they meant well.
“I need a commitment from you,” Marcella said, getting right to the point. “Either you want to work with me on this, or you don’t. I can’t make you do it, honey. Alana is the only one who can fix Alana.”