by Amina Akhtar
“What?! Oh my God, Anya. What is this shit?” Sarah screeched.
“Um, should I call someone?” I asked him.
“No, she’s not under arrest. It’s just questioning, for now.”
I didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. What had I done?
But then relief settled over me. This is what she got. I played out the scenarios that could happen. Sarah arrested. Tried, convicted. Everyone would hate her. Or she’d be a suspect, not arrested. And everyone would still hate her. I smiled. Sarah wouldn’t be queen bee anymore. Sarah would be branded a lunatic. Even if she tried to expose me, no one would believe her. Or care. She’d be powerless. Faking a résumé was so quaint compared to killing people.
And best of all, I could make her think about me until the day she died. I would win. She should have just been my friend. But no, she had to threaten me. Blackmail me.
You know what they say—if you can’t join them, beat them.
* * *
The media caught onto the story quickly. Do you know what the papers were saying about Sarah the next morning? Poor little rich girl. So bored with shopping that she chopped up her intern and maimed Celia’s assistant. Allegedly. So desperate for attention, she turned into Bloody Sarah. But rumors were rumors, and despite all the buzz, Sarah came to work like nothing had happened. Like her face wasn’t plastered on the front page of the Post and Daily News. Like no one knew she’d been filming Greg. (The police were still mulling over charging her for that. At best, they could get her for invasion of privacy.) That’s poise. I had to admire her for it.
At least until she got to her desk. Or what used to be her desk.
Sarah was ready to throw her stuff down, when she stopped. “W-T-F is this shit?”
Zhazha didn’t bother looking up.
“Anya! Why is this Russian whore at my desk?!”
“You need to go talk to Celia.”
“This is so not okay!” She half stomped, half ran to Celia’s, where she no doubt was told that Zhazha would be sitting next to me from now on. Sarah needed to keep a low profile: she had to work from home, stay away from events, and not represent La Vie in any way until this mess with Cassie died down.
And I might have told Celia I was too frightened to work so closely with Sarah. That it was a safety issue. That she shouldn’t be allowed in the office with the whole Greg thing.
“You can’t do this!” Sarah whined loud enough for me to hear. And then she got pissed. “I’m Sarah Taft. I’ll do whatever the fuck I want!” And out she blew, Hurricane Taft.
“This is not how a La Vie woman behaves!” Celia called after her.
Sarah stopped at my desk. “This is your fault, Anya! I bet you put those nails in my desk!” she bellowed.
“And I put the cameras up too? Really? We’re supposed to be helping with the investigation, per Celia’s orders. I had to tell them everything.”
She glared. But I wasn’t at fault here, and she knew it. Deep down.
“Well, fuck you! This is all your doing! You—you fake!” She took a deep breath. Maybe she was learning from me? Deep breathing and mantras make all the difference. “Make sure you hold my packages so no Russian prostitutes get ahold of them. And you—” She pointed at Zhazha. “You’re just the flavor of the month. Don’t get too cozy. You know what happens to people around here who do.”
I heard gasping around me. She stomped out of the office. No one commented on the fake bit.
“Well, we knew it was going to be awkward. But back to work, ladies!” Celia clapped her hands like we were all at Miss Mabel’s Academy of Fine Manners or some shit.
Sarah was right, this was my fault. I had made this happen. But I didn’t feel guilty. This was just the end of me and her and the beginning of me and Zhazha. Why wallow when I could just move on? Besides, Zhazha fit in. Everyone loved her. Best idea ever!
I said all these things to Dr. M that night, but he probably knew I was lying. If I was ever too positive, he knew I was faking.
“I mean, it’s totally great having her in the office, don’t get me wrong.” I paced my living room. Dr. M was sitting in his usual orange chair. He was the only one who used it. But he was also the only person I allowed inside my apartment.
“But . . . ?” Dr. M prompted.
“But I don’t think she’s ever worked in an office before, so there’s an adjustment, I guess. But everyone has a weird trial period. Right?”
He didn’t say anything. Why did everyone try the silent trick on me? He stayed quiet, waiting for me to continue, waiting for me to find the answer on my own. I knew the goddamn answer, I just had to “show my work” out loud to him.
“I just hope that everyone else gives her a chance to adjust and learn our ways before giving up on her. Otherwise, it will look bad for me since I brought her in.”
“Well, you’ll just have to help her, won’t you?”
I spent the evening uploading Sarah’s videos of Greg online. Sarah never changed her email password. Now the entire world would see our publisher fucking the intern, doing coke before lunch, and (my personal favorite) crying in his underwear after hours. La Vie, so chic.
15
Sarah was out. Of the office, at least. Zhazha was the new star, there to take our minds off death, bloody fingernails, and my now former BFF. But as excited as everyone was to welcome her, it didn’t last. Nothing golden, blah blah blah. La Vie was cursed. Everyone associated with the magazine became evil. Or died. Ruined. Maybe the ground we walked on had been hexed, salted so nothing, not even friendship, could grow.
I hadn’t heard from Sarah in what seemed like weeks. No “Happy Thanksgiving, Anya!” text. No hilarious refrain that I’d eat the whole turkey and gain weight. Well, joke’s on her—I ordered Chinese food to celebrate the pilgrims massacring Native Americans.
“Did you have a good holiday, Z?” I asked the Monday after. It had been a week since Sarah stormed out.
She looked up and smiled, her lips fuchsia. “Yes. I went to Belize for some sun.” She hadn’t invited me. I didn’t think she would, but still, it’d have been nice. I smiled and went back to work.
Zhazha was dressed like that old zebra joke, all black and white stripes but with yellow platform Crocs by Balenciaga. (They were a few seasons old but still spectacular.) She had only been with us for a week and already stood out like a giraffe. She was loud and impulsive and wore any brand she wanted. Her hands weighted down with rings and bracelets. Like a run-through come to life. Evie’s and Dalia’s jaws dropped. I loved every second of their reactions.
“Okay, everyone!” Celia clapped her hands, ushering us into the conference room. “Let’s go over the latest issue.”
“My photo shoot,” Zhazha said once we were seated. It was a statement, not a question. Everyone swiveled toward her.
“What about your photo shoot?” Celia asked coldly.
“When we do it?” Zhazha didn’t ask permission. I was obsessed.
“Well, if you’d let me speak, I’d get to it. Please try not to interrupt. Just listen and observe, Zhazha.”
Zhazha pouted.
“So where was I? Yes, we need to do Zhazha’s shoot ASAP and sneak it into the next issue. We were thinking old Hollywood icons.”
Zhazha looked at me for my opinion. Maybe I did like her better than Sarah.
“Celia?” I interjected. “What if we changed it slightly?” This was a gamble, but I wanted to go big. “Something darker, as a way to offset all our bad news.”
“Like what?”
“Well, we want to highlight pencil skirts and coats, right?” She nodded. “What about Zhazha as Hitchcock’s heroines?” Silence. It was almost deafening. No one talked, everyone waited for Celia to speak. The buzzing was starting up. She had to say something soon, right?
Finally, Celia said, “Oh, that could be good.”
“There are so many great bags and shoes for it,” Dalia added.
“Oh, and the hair and makeup would
be on point,” Evie chimed in.
Everyone was falling in line. They were here to help me. Me!
Celia nodded. “Okay, let’s pull some clothes and see if we can make this work. Good idea, Anya.”
Holy shit, she liked it! She liked my idea! I knew she would, but still, a win for me! I wanted to tell Sarah, but she was MIA. Under the table, Zhazha grabbed my hand. But instead of feeling excited that she wanted physical contact, I was repulsed. I bet Dr. M had some clinical term for it like intimacy avoidance. But really, there’s nothing quite as unsettling as the feeling of another person’s hand in yours. (He later said it had to do with Sarah, that I was mourning our friendship, replacing her too quickly. He suggested I set boundaries with Zhazha and ease into things.)
“I want froyo,” Evie said after the meeting.
“Wait, are we doing froyo again?” Dalia asked.
Zhazha had run off, presumably to see Greg.
“Yeah, it’s totes okay with my diet,” I replied. They both smiled at me. I was finally belonging. “Let’s go.” I grabbed my wallet.
Without our leader to guide us, Evie and Dalia were looking to me to take over. It was everything I had worked for and also completely fucking terrifying. I was aiming to be a benevolent leader. Make our group whole, an organic assortment of talent, working together. Ugh. I needed to up my meds. Kumbaya shit didn’t work in real life.
“Can I admit something to you guys?” Dalia was spooning a berry-flavored yogurt into her mouth on our way back. “I kinda miss Sarah. I mean, I don’t miss her bossy attitude, but, like, her. You know?”
Evie and I nodded. Evie was eating chocolate. I stuck to vanilla. Vanilla was the best flavor, hands down.
“Do you think she killed everyone?” Evie grinned.
“No, no way,” I said. “Sarah would faint at the sight of blood.” She nearly threw up each time I cut myself. “Besides, aren’t these things usually done by men?” Fact: 80 percent of violent crimes were committed by men. The more you know!
“So one of us could still die next?” Dalia shivered.
“I bet we’re fine,” I said. “We can’t worry about that. Like, you could have an aneurysm and die this very second.” They both looked horrified. Had I said the wrong thing?
“Dark, Anya. So dark. Ugh, no more froyo. Let’s do a cleanse tomorrow!” Evie tossed her yogurt in the trash.
“Anyways, with the Greg vids all over the internet,” I said, “I wonder if Sarah will even be allowed back.” The two of them gasped and then ran to their desks to hunt down the videos in question.
* * *
My love affair with Zhazha burned bright—and then flamed out.
“I told you, you can’t jump into a new friendship like that,” Dr. M chastised. I hated when he was right. Zhazha had started following me around the office, butting in whenever Dalia or Evie stopped by to chat. It was cute at first. But by the end of her second week, her voice was like nails on a chalkboard. Dr. M broke it down for me that evening.
“You’re realizing she isn’t Sarah. Anya, I keep telling you, you have to mourn Sarah and that friendship before you can get close to anyone. It’s how the brain works. Stop trying to fight it.” Each time he struck a nerve, I wanted to stab something. Someone.
“So you’re saying I resent Zhazha for not being Sarah?”
“Exactly.” He smiled triumphantly, like this was a breakthrough.
“How do I get over this?”
He shrugged. “That’s up to you. Maybe have a bonfire of Sarah items. Or just metaphorically. Yes, a symbolic fire. Don’t play with matches, Anya.”
“You’ll never let me live that down. I set one fire. One.” He was always on Meredith’s side, but he’d never even met her.
But Dr. M was right. Not about the matches thing. But about Sarah. I had to move on so I could give Zhazha a chance. I was being such an adult. I held up the wig that looked so much like Sarah’s hair. If I burned this, would I love Zhazha? I held up the lighter (no matches, remember?) but shakily moved my hand away. No. I’d never get rid of this wig. It was too perfect, just like Sarah. I’d just have to try harder with my new friend.
At work, I smiled at Zhazha every time she spoke to me. I smiled when she wore her jangly new bracelet by Georges Pike. It made noise every time she moved her arm. I used the metal heel on my stilettos to dig into the tops of my feet. We were in an adjustment period. I had to temper my reaction to Zhazha’s quirks. But every sound she made, every time she laughed or spoke in Russian on the phone, I felt flashes of disgust and annoyance. I missed Sarah’s constant nail filing. Her biting remarks. Her hair flips. I just missed her.
I started spying on Zhazha—just to be safe. Never trust anyone at a women’s magazine. Or any magazine, for that matter. Everyone is out for herself. Sarah taught me that. It had to be the low pay combined with the lack of job security that made us all ready to take someone out, Gladiator style. Two editors enter, only one leaves.
She left her phone on her desk. Just like that. Zhazha didn’t care if anyone picked it up. She didn’t even lock it! I could have tweeted how much she hated the latest brand paying her, but I refrained. (I gave myself a cookie for being good.) But her texts were all there for me to see. Love notes to Greg. (Gross.) Shit in Russian I couldn’t decipher. And messages to Jack. (He was such a slut.)
Zhazha: Let’s get drinks soon. But no Anya.
Jack: Of course, babe! And how naughty of you.
She sent a winky face back to him.
So Zhazha was already looking to expand her circle beyond me. So ungrateful. At least Sarah was upfront about wanting to ditch me.
* * *
I snuck out for lunch with Jack the following Monday. It was December, and we both needed some face-to-face time. I wanted to know what he’d said about me to Zhazha. And truthfully, I missed him. Without Sarah, we saw each other less and less. We met at a salad place, and the line was down the block.
“Trust me, it’s so worth it,” he declared when he saw my annoyed face.
“Whatever. How are you?” We hugged like old friends. He smelled like Tom Ford’s Tuscan Leather. I wanted to rub my face against his.
“Babe! I missed you. Okay, listen. We have got to sort this mess out. We need Sarah.” He said it like she was air. We needed her to live. And he was right. “There’s no way she killed anyone. I’m telling you, Sarah is being set up.”
“Okay.” What the fuck was I supposed to say?
“I think it’s Zhazha. All this started when she came on the scene. And, like, I so don’t trust her.”
“You said she was amazing.”
“Her style, not her fucking personality! Did you know she texted me bitching about you?”
I did, but I shook my head. I smiled. Smiling says you’re breezy and don’t care for petty nonsense. (Inside, I was seething. She’d called me a dictator. Compared me to Stalin for not letting her act out at work. Ugh, I was trying to help you, bitch.)
“Do not trust her, Anya.” He said it all serious like too, grabbing the fleshy part of my upper arm and squeezing for emphasis. He widened his eyes. “Girthy!” And then exploded into laughter.
Jerk. I made sure to spill my green juice on his Comme des Garçons sneakers. But he was right. I couldn’t trust Zhazha. I couldn’t trust anyone. Not if they were at La Vie. The constant power struggle was exhausting.
* * *
Mornings: Zhazha wanted to get coffee with me. Lunchtime: We went to the cafeteria together. Afternoons: She had to go to Starbucks for a latte arm-in-arm.
Was this my life now?
She acted like we were the best of besties, but I knew it was a lie. Rebounds were so messy. I missed Sarah ignoring me. God, that was totally the best, wasn’t it? At least I knew where I stood with her. (At her feet.)
I got up to go to the bathroom, and Zhazha jumped up.
“Dammit, Zhazha, I’m just going to pee. It’s called personal space,” I snapped. I should have been flattered. The c
hicest blogger in the world wanted to be with me twenty-four-seven. She needed me. I was like her Beatrice, guiding her through fashion hell. But I couldn’t wait to throw her body off a bridge. When I got back to my desk, I found Zhazha on my phone.
“What are you doing?”
“Your phone rang,” she said, holding it out.
“Give me that. Hello?”
“Jesus, is that commie whore answering your phone now?”
My whole body melted.
“Sarah! Oh my God, I’ve missed you.” It came out before I could stop myself.
“Of course you have. W-T-F? Why is she answering your calls?”
“Ugh, I don’t know. Such a stalker, right?”
Sarah laughed. I felt my stress dissolve. I had missed her. Her voice made everything better.
“What am I missing? What’s the info?”
“Well . . .” And there wasn’t much to tell. Without Sarah, life at La Vie was dull. She had been out of the office, working from home, for almost a month. It felt like forever. I needed her back with me. I needed to smell her hair.
“I’m going to ask Celia if I can come back soon.”
“Do you think she’ll let you?”
“She has to. I’m not really a suspect. I mean, come the fuck on.”
“Totes. Well, I hope you hurry back.”
“And, Anya, no hard feelings about the nails. You know.”
She was lying.
“Right. Shit happens.”
“Right.”
I could feel her cold smile through the phone. She was going to make me pay for my treachery.
“Okay, talk soon!” I hung up, catching Zhazha’s eye. She had watched me like a hawk.
“Sarah’s coming back?”
“Yes! Isn’t that great?”
“Hmph.”
“Whatever, Z. You two will have to get along.”
“She’s an idiot,” she said simply. “She got caught.”
“Caught? You mean the nails?”
“I know how to dispose of bodies better.”
Was she serious? “And how would you do that?” Maybe her methods were better than mine? Sharing was caring. We should compare notes.