by Sloane Tanen
Hailey stood up to get a glass of water. She ran her fingers across the handles of the knives in the cutlery block and pulled out a pair of kitchen scissors. Then she went into the bathroom.
Hailey started cutting at the crown of her head so she couldn’t chicken out, and she kept going until the bathroom floor was carpeted with long blond hair. Looking in the mirror, she tried to steady herself against the swell of nausea, but it was no good. Not only did she throw up, she nearly missed the bowl, sending splashes of vomit all around the toilet. Then she sat down on the floor and laughed and cried and couldn’t stop crying until Jaycee opened the door.
“Holy shit, Hailey.”
Hailey started laughing again because Jaycee’s expression was straight out of a horror movie. She watched as the emotions played across her sister’s face, panic melting into anxiety and finally, awfully, settling into sadness. Hailey stopped laughing.
“God,” Jaycee said, kneeling down next to Hailey and reaching for her. “Come here.”
Jaycee’s tenderness struck Hailey in the center of her grief. Jaycee held her sister for a long time while Hailey cried freely, her face soaked with tears and snot. She stared absently at the pink-tiled wall over her shoulder. Jaycee was crying too.
“Oh God,” Hailey finally said, disentangling herself from her sister. She looked around at the mess of her beautiful long hair.
“Don’t worry,” Jaycee said. She tried to catch Hailey’s hand before she got up. “It’ll be okay.”
Hailey walked over to the mirror and inhaled sharply. She’d hock her virginity for a rewind button. She resembled a psychiatric patient or someone from a cult. It so wasn’t okay. Looking back over her shoulder, she saw that Jaycee had pulled herself into a ball, knees drawn to her chest, arms wrapped tightly around them. Her head was down, moving slightly side to side. She knew Jaycee was thinking about their mom too. Amanda cared a lot about the way things looked to other people. Never mind that Hailey was troubled—the fact that she looked troubled would be completely unacceptable.
“What if I tell her I freaked out about Dad being gay?” Hailey said after a minute. “I mean, that’s reasonable, right? That’s not nothing. They should have told us. It’s kind of their fault for not telling us.” Hailey instantly realized Jaycee couldn’t know about their dad yet and was sorry she’d just blurted it out without thinking. “Shit—” She started to explain, but Jaycee interrupted her.
“When did you find out Dad was gay?” Jaycee asked nonchalantly. “Today?”
“You already knew?” Hailey screamed, dissolving into tears again. “What the hell?”
“It’s not a big deal. It was kind of obvious.”
“That’s right. Everything’s so obvious to everyone but me.” She snorted and wiped her snot on the back of her arm. She looked in the mirror again. “Fuck, Mom’s going to kill me.” Hailey pulled at the clusters of hair springing out of her head like clumped, undercooked macaroni. She sank back against the wall and slid to the floor, supine. Jaycee lay down next to her. They stayed like that for a bit, silent, looking up at the old light fixture in the ceiling. “What am I going to do?” Hailey finally asked. “I can’t even run away and support myself as a prostitute looking the way I do. Who would pay for this?” She paused, thinking. “Maybe somebody in, like, China?”
Jaycee shook her head.
“Lebanon?”
Jaycee laughed and sat up. “I have an idea.”
“Romania?” Hailey asked as she absently watched Jaycee stand and clear a path to the sink. Jaycee closed her eyes and braided her long hair. She opened her eyes, looked in the mirror at Hailey, and took the scissors off the basin. She positioned them at the nape of her neck.
“Oh my God, Jaycee! Don’t!” Hailey screamed, sitting up as she watched her sister’s ropy braid unwind and fall like a dead bird onto the bathroom floor. Once the braid was gone, Jaycee went at the rest of her hair without vanity or care. She looked at her reflection and started to laugh. Hailey recognized the particular pitch of her sister’s laughter; it had sounded like that when they were kids. She smiled.
“Well?” Jaycee asked, turning to face her, proud. For the first time Hailey could remember, Jaycee looked really, really bad.
“God.”
“Now we go to Supercuts and have whatever crap-ass stylist there try to make this,” Jaycee said, pointing to her head and then her sister’s, “look somewhat acceptable. It’s not like Mom won’t be pissed, but at least she won’t know you had a freaking psychotic break.”
Before they left, Jaycee carefully cleaned up the bathroom. She didn’t even complain about the smell. Then she grabbed two old ski hats from a SELL box, and they ran, laughing and holding hands, to Supercuts in the strip mall on Solano Avenue. There was something totally freeing about the moment, mostly because it was chased so quickly by regret. It was important to stay ahead of it, Hailey thought, even though you knew that wasn’t possible. Hailey’s heart throbbed with affection for her sister.
Hwan, the stunned stylist at Supercuts, chopped Hailey’s hair into a badass punk style. Hailey liked it at first because it made her appear tough rather than insane. He gave Jaycee a pixie cut, which made her look—everyone at the salon said so—“like a young Mia Farrow.” Was it that obvious to a middle-aged Korean man that Jaycee deserved the Audrey Hepburn treatment while Hailey warranted the Siouxsie Sioux? Was it that obvious to everyone? Hailey tried not to fixate on this. She tried to stay focused on how much easier it was going to be to face her mom now that Jaycee was on her side again.
Hailey would never forget how Jaycee took the blame for everything later that night. Their dad took one look at them, ordered them into the car, and drove them right back to LA. He dropped them off in front of their mom’s apartment without a word. He didn’t even ask for an explanation.
Unlike their dad, who was too petrified of his ex-wife to venture upstairs, Jaycee was a hero in the face of their mother’s wrath. She maintained that the haircuts had been her idea. And no matter how many times Amanda demanded the truth and insisted they were both little liars, Jaycee stuck to her story. As a result, Hailey didn’t even get upset when their mom texted her (but not Jaycee) the name of the school therapist with the instructions to make an appointment “yesterday.” None of it mattered. Jaycee had taken the fall for her.
Over the next few days, Hailey found herself stealing glances at her twin, obsessing about how good Jaycee looked with that pixie. She might even look prettier now than she had with long hair. Would Jaycee mind if she got the same haircut? She didn’t think she would. They’d always had the same haircuts when they were kids. And because her sister had always been her best friend—and because she was feeling close to her again—Hailey told her the next morning before school that she was thinking of getting a pixie too. That was a mistake.
Jaycee listened but didn’t say anything. She shoved her jacket into her backpack and put on her sneakers.
“What’s wrong?” Hailey asked.
“You can’t be me, Hailey. Don’t you get that? You need serious help.”
“I’m not trying to be you. Forget it. I was just thinking about it.”
“How about you stop thinking about it? How about you stop thinking about me? You’re like Single White Sister or something. Do you think I don’t know that you go through my shit all the time? That you steal my homework to copy? And do you really think I don’t know about that selfie you sent to Devon last month from my phone? Don’t you think he knows what my tits look like? Don’t you think he knows I would never do that?”
Hailey pinched her thigh hard so she wouldn’t cry. She’d totally forgotten she’d done that. She couldn’t even remember why she had. “That was before—” Hailey started, and then she stopped, realizing there was no excuse. “I don’t know. Maybe I thought it would be funny or something. Why didn’t you say anything?”
Jaycee rolled her eyes. “Because Devon asked me not to. He felt sorry for you. Everybody feel
s sorry for you. That was fucked up. You’re fucked up. Therapy won’t help you.”
Hailey narrowed her eyes. “Did you tell Mom I needed therapy?”
“She figured it out, Hailey. Everyone in the state of California has figured it out. You don’t make it that hard.”
“Why’d you even bother lying to Mom about what happened at Dad’s?”
Jaycee zipped her backpack and stood up. “I don’t know. Maybe I thought I could protect you. I was freaked. What you did was fucking straitjacket-crazy.” Jaycee slipped her backpack over one shoulder and walked toward her sister. She stopped a few inches from Hailey’s face, so close Hailey could smell the toothpaste on her sister’s breath.
Hailey stepped back. “Get away from me.”
“Think about it, genius,” Jaycee said, tapping her index finger on Hailey’s forehead. “I was trying to help you.”
Hailey waved Jaycee’s hand away violently. “I don’t need your help, you fucking traitor.”
“Good timing, because I’m so fucking done.” With that Jaycee turned around and walked out, slamming the front door, never even bothering to look back to see if Hailey was okay.
Hailey stood there, numb.
Janine
Janine chased two Advil with her morning coffee and reread the e-mail Amanda had forwarded from her ex-husband, Kevin. Some long rant about how he and Amanda had both failed as parents and how he couldn’t be held responsible for the girls’ hair. On what basis did Amanda think Janine had even the faintest interest in her nieces’ hair? She barely knew them. Her head was pounding. Days later and she still hadn’t fully recovered from the night with Kayla.
She had woken up at four in the morning and slipped out, taking some consolation in the fact that Kayla—draped over the sofa like a wet towel—didn’t look much better than she did. Janine felt old. Maybe she was getting the flu. She sipped her coffee, waiting for the Advil to kick in, and opened the next e-mail from Amanda. She clicked on the link.
Another One Bites the Dust: Whatever Happened to Li’l Jenny from Family Happens?
When Janine saw the headline, her heart began to beat like a rabbit’s. As she scrolled down, she felt the saliva in her mouth evaporate. She swallowed hard, coughed to keep the sides of her throat from sticking together. There it was. A photo of her, taken from a foot away, passed out on the floor at Kayla’s apartment. She had an empty bottle of Scotch next to her hand, an ashtray full of cigarettes by her side, and a spilled bong leaking dirty water inches from her gaping mouth. Her eye makeup had bled halfway down her face. The caption under the photo read Yikes! Yep, it’s Janine Kessler, all grown up, but looks like li’l Jenny still needs a chaperone.
Janine clicked on the picture. It took her to the TMZ site. The photo appeared again, larger this time, with a little narrative under the caption.
This is priceless. The Greta Garbo of child stars reappears twenty years later looking, well, like your typical washed-up former child star. A source says Kessler is known as a “party girl” who likes to hang out with a pretty crowd half her age. Not that we can blame her. This photo was snapped after a lovelorn Kessler was reportedly rejected by a twenty-six-year-old—wait for it—woman!
Janine scrolled back up to the photo. She could make out Kayla’s hand touching the floor behind her head. She scrolled back down, reread the paragraph, and saw that there were 211 comments. She knew she should stop, that she shouldn’t read them, that she should turn off the computer and throw herself out the window. But she couldn’t help herself.
The first comment was from someone who called himself Exlax:
WHO THE FUCK IS THIS UGLY CRACK WHORE?
From Wakawakawaka:
I remember her. She was v. cute. So sad. Drugs and liquor. I hope she finds God before it’s too late.
From Toilethead:
Throw this old dyke in with the other washed-up child stars and lock them in a house together. Now that’s a reality show I’d like to see. Better yet, throw them in a garbage can and lock the lid.
From Jackster:
You’ve never had one too many? Never tried a drug here or there? Give her a break. You feast on this because you have no life of your own…lol
From Toilethead:
And what are you doing today, Jackster? Taking a break from the heart surgery your preforming at the hospital? Prepping for your P.H.D. on astraphysics? Your obviously reading this shit to so who the hell do you think you are to judge me?
From Jackster:
I make no apologies. YOU are the loser who can’t reconcile the fact that you have to judge people because you have no life. You also can’t spell.
From Exlax:
Why are we still talking about this old hag? Get a life. Both of you.
The comments continued.
Janine pushed her chair away from her desk and ran into the bathroom in search of her inhaler. She didn’t use it a lot because she didn’t really have panic attacks anymore, but there had to be an expired one around. “Where is it?” she screamed, wasting precious air working herself up. An old bottle of her most expensive perfume, a gift from Jürgen, fell on the floor and shattered.
“Fuck!” she cried, sitting on the toilet to catch her breath. She tried to slow her breathing through conscious meditation the way she’d been taught. The tightness in her chest increased. The air was filling her lungs too slowly. She stood up and stepped on a piece of glass so large, she could feel the edge slicing into her heel like a dull knife into a Christmas ham. Dizzy from the sight of all the blood, she sank to the floor and crawled into the kitchen for her phone. She dialed Jürgen.
“Hiya,” he said in his thick German accent.
“I need you,” she cried.
“Janine, you know I can’t just—”
“Please. I did something bad. It’s an emergency. I’m bleeding.”
“Okay, I’m coming,” he said. “Don’t hang up.” He said something in German, and then she heard the voice of his wife, Birgit.
“I’m going to stay on the phone, okay, Janine?”
Janine didn’t say anything. Through the pain, she tried to unravel why she was on the phone with her ex-boyfriend’s wife, how pathetic it was that she had nobody else to call.
“Janine?” Birgit said. “Are you there?”
“Yeah,” she said, surprised that Birgit seemed so completely fine talking to the woman who’d been her husband’s girlfriend for ten years. And she sounded so young.
“Janine,” Birgit said again. “Just relax. I’m on the line.”
“Okay,” Janine said. “Thank you, thank you.” She panted, feeling the air leaving her body for good. Kitty Fisher sauntered over, examined the scene, sniffed disdainfully, and left the room. Janine was going to die of a panic attack, but she knew everyone would think it was an overdose. She hoped her father would know the truth—that she’d never do that to herself, that she’d never do that to him.
“Just turn it off,” Jürgen said, watching Janine from the kitchen she’d hired him to renovate so many years ago. A decade later and he was still her best friend, the person she called when she needed a favor or had good news to share, her occasional cat-sitter. Now her leg was propped up on a tower of pillows he’d made as she stared blankly at her computer.
Janine had been in bed for two days, since Jürgen had brought her to the hospital and then back home. She’d been given stitches and crutches, but moving around was painful, even with the Vicodin. Worse than her foot was the certainty that she could never, ever go back to class now. No amount of Vicodin could numb that humiliation.
Jürgen had come over every day, bringing groceries and cooking her meals. She was grateful to him but she just wanted to bathe in self-pity. His German upbringing was intolerant of such self-indulgence.
“I don’t understand your relationship with your sister,” he said now, pouring the ravioli he’d made into a colander. “She’s a Rotzlöffel,” he went on, trying to cheer Janine up.
She
looked at him. “What’s a Rotzlöffel?”
“A snot spoon. A brat.”
Janine nodded, the hint of a smile breaking through despite her commitment to being miserable.
“What kind of human being is she, with these stupid e-mails about you getting drunk and some asshole taking your picture? Who cares?” he asked, indignant. “Why is this news?”
“She just wants me to know that the pictures are getting picked up by all the tabloids. That it’s not going away.”
He carried a plate over on a tray. Jürgen had never understood about the world of fallen celebrity, didn’t get that this was just the sort of incident Janine had been so careful to avoid. Maybe there was a small part of her that liked proving something to him, as if her public shame spiral was evidence of her worth. Paparazzi had been stationed outside her apartment since the first picture was posted. Obviously it was a slow news week in the land of celebrity screwups, but still.
Three other pictures had come out in the days since, obviously taken by that asshole Corey, all equally unflattering. In one, he had hiked up her skirt so that the viewer could make out a small patch of her underwear. A big cartoon star had been placed over her crotch as if to suggest she hadn’t been wearing underwear at all. Janine read all the articles silently. She was beyond crying.
“Has your father seen it?” Jürgen finally asked. He knew this was the question she couldn’t bring herself to ask her sister. Janine didn’t think her dad knew. She assumed Amanda’s sending her every single feed was her way of letting Janine know how very hard she was having to work to keep it from him. Janine consoled herself with the thought that her dad was in rehab; his access to the outside world would be minimal and it wasn’t likely anyone would come bearing bad news. Not even Amanda. She had nothing to gain from upsetting their father. Upsetting Janine, however, Amanda was clearly enjoying.