by Naima Coster
“Oh my gosh, this is so yummy!” she said, biting into a croissant stuffed with ham and orange cheese.
The makeup artist had violet hair and false lashes. She was old and trying not to look it, but then again so was Margarita (twenty-nine).
“Aren’t you striking,” she said. “Look at your skin. I won’t have to touch you at all.”
Margarita knew this wasn’t true. The makeup artist would make her face disappear, then bring it back again. It was a process she loved to watch, like being born, or something. She propped her phone against the mirror to record a time-lapse. She watched her face grow creamy, uniform, more square than ever, and then there was bronzer, blush, and she had dimensions again; she was different, rosier, Margot.
The makeup artist traced gold dust along her brow. “You’ve got an exotic look to you,” she said. “But it’s not too much, you know? It’s really subtle. You’re not niche. You could go all kinds of ways. You know, one of my clients, she’s as white as they come, from Vermont, but you’d never know looking at her. She’s got freckles, and this big, crazy hair. She’s working for this brand that I bet would love you. They’re starting a hair-care line for women of color, and you’ve got that look.”
Margarita’s phone buzzed. It was her mother. She dismissed the call.
“I’ll call her later,” she said, in case the makeup artist had noticed. “I see her all the time. We’re very close.”
She checked to make sure her video hadn’t been lost, then uploaded it with the text Every Girl Is Beautiful. She listened to the message from Lacey May.
Margarita. Why won’t you call us back? It’s been days now that I’ve been trying. I don’t know what it is that you’re trying to prove. They’re saying they can’t start me on any treatments yet because there’s too much swelling in my brain. I’m on these drugs to bring it down. They’re talking about surgery. I want to get the whole family together before then. Just in case something goes wrong. Have you heard anything from your father? I can’t reach him either.
Margarita felt herself sink. It was bad enough her mother had never asked her to come home before. She’d waited until she was dying. And now, she was really after Robbie—he was the one she couldn’t do without.
Ollie came over, tapping his foot. It was nine thirty. They’d lost track of time. “She looks fine,” he said, and rushed her off to change. At ten, she padded onto set in a pair of skimpy pajamas. They handed her a tablet loaded to the home screen of the banking app. She had a fake name, Emmy, and a fake account balance—$38,292.06.
They started shooting, and from the first take, it was all wrong. She tapped when she should have scrolled, flopped onto her belly when she should have rolled to her side. And she wasn’t exuding a sense of pleasure at all—online banking was supposed to feel good. The director kept leaning over to whisper to Ollie. What was he saying that he couldn’t say out loud? This isn’t working or Look at her head?
Margarita tried to channel ease, exhilaration. She visualized the Pacific, gray on a cloudy day. She and Celeste paddling out. The warm water, a quiet rush. Instead she saw her mother gasping for air in a hospital bed. Her sisters on either side of her, all their hands clasped together in a knot on Lacey’s chest. Margarita heard Ollie calling her name. She’d forgotten where she was, what she was supposed to be doing. The director called for everyone to take five.
She ran into the DP and the prop stylist in the bathroom. They were washing their hands at the sink, talking about the president. On the news, he had compared the people who crossed the border to livestock.
“My parents came over on a plane cause we’re Korean, right?” said the DP. “They didn’t cross the border, but he’s still talking about us when he says something like that.”
“I don’t know,” the prop stylist said. “He’s probably talking about, like, drug addicts and people in the cartels.” She looked at Margarita, waiting for her to weigh in.
“Right,” Margarita said, “like people who don’t belong here in the first place.”
“Exactly.” The prop stylist smiled at her. “Where do you live, Margot?”
“Oh, I live in Venice. It’s just this little pink house, super small, but I love it.”
“I thought you looked familiar,” the DP said. “We’re neighbors. I just bought a place off Rose. Where are you exactly?”
The prop stylist saved her. “You ever been to Black Bear? They’ve got this thyme syrup they mix into Sazerac. I know what you’re thinking—what the fuck am I doing drinking Sazerac…”
The women wandered back to set together, the DP complaining about closing costs. Margarita commiserated and asked whether either of them knew when they would be cutting checks. No one had mentioned anything to her yet about when she would get paid.
The director cut in, looking Margarita in the eyes for the first time all day. “Does anybody even read their contract anymore? Why do we even bother making contracts if they don’t read?”
Margarita saw then the only way to win was to show him she was more than he thought of her. She asked to start from the top again. Ollie coached her through. You remember the bottomless mimosas. Your grandmother loves the tulips. You miss your boyfriend in Thailand. Margarita nailed it all. The last thing she had to do was fling herself back on the pillows, shut her eyes, and sigh. She imagined an orgasm, a gorgeous line of coke, and they were done. There was a brief smattering of applause.
Margarita went around to shake hands as the crew started setting up for another shoot. Even the makeup artist had a different woman in her chair. Margarita showed herself out. She was waiting for the elevator when she heard Ollie running down the hall.
“I asked about the check for you,” he said. “You were paid half on signing. It should have been deposited into your account a while ago. You get the rest after they green-light the clip.”
Margarita did her best to cover her shock. She had blown through the money already, hadn’t even noticed when it came in. It might be weeks until she got the rest, if she ever did. She thanked Ollie and left.
She had an hour before her business meeting with Celeste, but she wanted to squeeze in another post first. It was lunchtime. She wandered until she found a café with outdoor seating, an empty bistro table where someone had left a paid bill and an unfinished plate of risotto. Margarita sat down swiftly, discarded the squeezed lemon, ground pepper over the plate. She took pictures of the table, herself, the view of the street. She uploaded them and promised more food content later in the day.
She and Celeste were making another recipe video this afternoon, although Margarita’s agent thought they were a waste of time. But Celeste said that if people liked you, then brands liked you, and that was all that mattered, more than your reel. Margarita had seen it work for other people. Why couldn’t it work for her?
She closed her eyes. They would make a good video today. They would get fourteen thousand likes. She’d get tapped for a sponsored post for nontoxic moisturizer or smoothie home delivery, then move to West Hollywood or Silver Lake. Fuck it—to Venice. She’d go to Black Bear, and run into the director at the bar, order Sazerac. She would know what he wanted, pull him into the bathroom, an expensive candle burning on a shelf. He’d slip his hands in her underwear, stand her up on the toilet. She’d brace herself against the ceiling while his tongue split her apart.
She could see it all; she could see her problems flitting away. A server tapped her on the shoulder and told her to move along.
They filmed themselves in Celeste’s kitchen, in short, halting clips, as they drank sake and assembled the cold ramen. They wore cutoffs and swimsuits to show off Celeste’s rib tattoos and the large bells of Margarita’s breasts. They spiralized squash and soft boiled eggs, Celeste chopped tomatoes and swung her hips, and Margarita placed a bonito flake on her tongue, squeezed her eyes at the sharp taste. At the end, they bowed.
They went back and forth about whose account should host the video. In the end, Celeste won be
cause she’d bought the ingredients, and they were in her house. Margarita could repost it on @Margot_doez_LA, but it wasn’t the same as being the originator of the content.
“What are you complaining about?” Celeste said. “You’re already going to look prettier than me.” She was referring to the professional makeup, but even she didn’t seem to believe it. Celeste was blond and brown eyed with golden skin for a white girl. She had bleached teeth, a flesh-colored mole on her cheek that added interest, long jawbones, and a tiny, rounded chin (diamond).
They had locked Celeste’s grubby Maltese, Annelise, in the bathroom while they were filming. They let her out and went to the yard with the vape and a bottle of whiskey. It was sunset, a magic hour in Venice. They sat under the lime tree, and Margarita stroked the dog between the ears.
“I used to have a dog. He went missing.”
“No shit,” Celeste said and dragged on the vape. “I wish she’d go missing. I’m kidding. I just don’t have the headspace for a dog these days. You should take her, honestly. Venice is a circus. A guy on a unicycle nearly ran her over the other day.”
Celeste’s parents rented the house for her. It was pink with bougainvillea growing up the walls, a single bedroom, but there was an attic with a little moon of a window.
“So, how’d the face work for you today? You a rich bitch yet?”
“The shoot was fine, but I’ve got to wait on the money. Actually, I think I’m in trouble. I owe a lot of rent.”
Celeste shook her head, handed her the vape. “Do you ever think, like, what’s the point?”
“Of modeling?”
“Of cities. You pay all this rent. But you don’t want to spend time at home, so you hemorrhage all this money so you can go out. Lunch, happy hour, Pilates. It all adds up. Now, you turn thirty, and you can’t even buy a house unless it’s, like, in Long Beach. My parents, they had it easy. They had a mortgage, no traffic, everything was five minutes away. But our generation? We could be in L.A. forever. And, it’s like, how’d we get duped? Into this expensive, shitty life? I hate it here.”
“You’re good at it,” Margarita said. Even now, in the vinyl lounge chair, Celeste was an ever-ready image for her followers. At @Celestial_LA, she had nearly twice the number Margarita had.
“I’m lonely,” Celeste said. “I’m twenty-seven, and I’m totally alone. No offense.”
“Why don’t we become roommates? I’m here all the time anyway.”
Celeste sucked on the vape, the colored lights blinking. “You idealize this place too much. I’m telling you, Venice is not that great. You can never find parking at the beach.”
“It’s not about Venice. They’re going to kick me out.”
“Didn’t you fuck that guy? Gavin?”
“I’ve got until tomorrow.”
“That’s what I’m saying about cities. They pump you for your money, and you have nothing to show for it.” Celeste fidgeted with her phone.
“Nobody is bankrolling my life out here,” Margarita said. “I don’t have anyone to rely on.”
“What about your parents?”
“My mom is sick.”
“Holy shit. Since when?”
“She’s got cancer. She’s in the hospital.”
“What about your sisters? Maybe they can help you out.”
“We’re not those kinds of sisters. Can’t I just stay here? I’ll sleep in the attic.”
“Margs, you know my deal with my parents. If I move anyone in, they stop paying the rent. This is my sanctuary. It’s supposed to help me focus.”
“You wouldn’t have to tell them.”
“My mom’s got a sixth sense. She’d know.”
They sat in an uneasy quiet. In all the years she’d known Celeste, Margarita had never needed her for anything but to go out—to sushi, to bars, the nail salon, a bonfire on the beach with some guys she’d met surfing. Celeste always said yes. Margarita had never asked her for anything else.
Celeste smiled and proposed they drive to Malibu to cheer themselves up. They could get drinks cliffside, watch the waves.
“I just told you I’m broke,” Margarita snapped, and retreated into her phone.
The videos they had posted already had hundreds of views, and she had a dozen direct messages. She clicked through them, ignoring Celeste, and stopped dead when she saw a message from Noelle. Her sister didn’t even follow her on any of her accounts, but there was her profile picture, a tiny orb on her screen. The message was a single line.
Nice to see you’re not answering your phone because you’re busy doing big, important things.
Margarita stood and snatched the whiskey from Celeste. “Fine, let’s go,” she said and drank straight from the bottle, swallowing as much as she could in a single swig. “But we’re getting something stronger on the way.”
Of all the drugs she had tasted, shrooms were her favorite. The way she felt the edges of herself melt away, how close she became to everything, as if she were swimming through existence. It was a pure, ecstatic feeling. But afterward, she could spend days in bed, crying for no reason she could name, which wasn’t like her—she wasn’t the sort of person prone to feeling sad. Weed was fun, but she only liked the head highs, traipsing around L.A., giggly, loose, allowing herself ice cream and cold soda. MDMA and alcohol were standbys, precursors for nights out. Fun, electric. Hazy. Cocaine was all right if everyone else was doing it, a ritual that roped a group of strangers together for the night, but she watched herself with that one.
They got edibles: a dark chocolate square for each of them. Celeste drove fast along U.S. 1 so they would get to the beach before it hit them. The sky was velvety blue, the waves cresting one after the other.
They were bowled over by the high once they reached the beach. Celeste was giggly and yammering about nothing. Margarita splayed out on the sand and watched the clouds morph, felt herself sink into the earth.
Since she was a girl, she had been haunted by the sense that she was no one. It wasn’t a voice in her head; it wasn’t even a conscious thought, really. It was a feeling, like a blanket draped over her body to disappear her. It wasn’t because her father went to jail or used; it wasn’t because her mother had no self beyond her marriages. It wasn’t being mixed and knowing she was always half-in with white people, half-out with people of color. It wasn’t any of that—or, it wasn’t only that. It was the way she slid out of the watchfulness of everyone she wanted to see her. It wasn’t classic middle-child bullshit, either, because she knew other middle children.
Margarita closed her eyes, wished for the ocean to sweep up to shore and carry her away.
She felt Celeste kick at her side. “Get up. I’m hungry. I want In-N-Out.”
Margarita sat up and glared at her. “Why won’t you let me stay with you? What will it cost you? You already have everything. Your house, your parents, your diamond face—”
“Don’t start with that square-face bullshit, like you’re some victim.”
“I have nowhere to go.”
Celeste squatted beside her, put her hands in her hair. “You’ll figure it out. You’re resilient! And so pretty.”
Margarita shoved her away. “You selfish cunt.”
“You don’t know what you’re saying,” Celeste said. She hoisted Margarita up with both hands, dragged her in the direction of the road.
Once, Margarita found Robbie in the yard. It was fall, and there were leaves on the ground. They crinkled under her feet, soft and cold, as she walked toward him. He lay flat on his back in the dark. Margarita often woke before her sisters and watched TV by herself in the living room. She had heard a noise, followed it onto the back porch, and saw her father, his breath streaming above him in warm clouds. It might have been a year before Robbie left, before Lacey May said he’d gone without saying good-bye to take a last-minute fishing job on the coast.
He was in his work clothes, his name embroidered on the pocket in shiny thread. His eyes were closed, but she could see h
is eyeballs zooming underneath the lids. His lips twitched, as if he were trying to say something. She called him, and he said nothing. She gripped his shoulders, and his eyes fluttered open. They closed. He started to hum. Margarita screamed, and Lacey May found her. She scolded her for being dramatic, sent her inside.
Margarita watched from the window as Lacey May hooked her hands in his armpits, tried to haul him toward the house. He stood, and then he fell. Lacey May tipped him over onto his side and he vomited.
A while later, they entered the house, and Robbie collapsed onto the couch. Lacey May called Margarita into the kitchen, away from her father, and she obeyed. Her mother fixed her a cup of hot chocolate, a piece of toast. She told her that Robbie had been sleepwalking. Margarita had asked who kept them safe at night if their father was outside wandering around.
“That’s why he does it,” Lacey May had said. “To watch over us.”
Margarita woke to vomit. Celeste had placed a paper Whole Foods bag on her side of the bed. Margarita missed. She was thirsty; her head throbbed. Somehow, they had gotten back to Venice. Somehow, they had eaten burgers. Wrappers littered the bed. Celeste snored beside her. The lights were on, and it was one a.m. She fumbled for her phone.
She checked her texts, her voicemail, her email, the messages on each of her social media apps, but she hadn’t heard again from her mother or her sisters. They had given up. Of course. But the videos she and Celeste had posted had over ten thousand likes altogether. It lifted her. She clicked to Celeste’s profile and saw her followers had ballooned by at least one hundred. Margarita navigated back to her own account and counted her new followers: sixteen.
She looked over at Celeste, her slender body curled around the dog. She had vomited, too, yellow crust on her pretty chin, chunks of noodle and tomato on the bedspread around her. Her blond hair was pasted to her face, her bare breasts hanging out of her tank top. She was no better than Margarita, and yet Margarita had affixed herself to her. Why did she always forget she was enough on her own?