Like Me

by Hayley Phelan

  Forget it, I wrote. Sorry. I had a rough night, not in the best mood.

  It’s cool, wrote Julia.

  What happened? asked Blake.

  Yeah, tell us about it! We want to hear all the deets!

  Ugh nothing, I went home with Benoit.

  How was it.

  I started typing. Then deleted what I wrote. Meh, I sent.

  Then I wrote, He’s kind of obsessed with me it’s a little awk.

  These would be used against me, of course, later on. The prosecution would have a field day with them.

  Also, I continued, the guy with the cowboy hat was like hitting on me the whole time, right in front of him.

  Oh God.

  Creeeeeep.

  I think they’re working on Calvin together. He’s big-time, apparently.

  Omg, you’re totally going to get it.

  They more or less told me I had it.

  Gaaaah that is so exciting!!!!!!

  I don’t want to jinx it. But Benoit said it was 95% going to happen.

  Typing it out had the effect of convincing me it was true. Though my memory from the night was blurry, I was sure that a transaction of some sort had transpired and that, ultimately, it would benefit me. The more unsavory elements were already beginning to loosen in my mind, much like when I cashed a check from a catalogue shoot and instantly started forgetting the hours of excruciating boredom I had spent earning it. I saw myself on a billboard looming over Houston Street, large and untouchable, and the vision temporarily blotted out what was left of last night’s pain and embarrassment. If I told no one about it then, when it did completely drop from my mind, it would be like it never happened, and I’d be restored to myself. Like if I put up a post, but no one Liked it or even saw it, then it basically never existed. The funny thing was that if that happened—if no one Liked one of my posts—I’d probably end up deleting it, bringing its effacement to fruition.

  Btw that dude Andrew came up to me and asked me about you, Julia wrote. Wanted your number. Said there’d been some kind of miscommunication.

  He’s a dick.

  He said you ignored him or something?

  Um, he didn’t even recognize me.

  He said YOU pretended like you didn’t even know him.

  That gave me pause. Was it possible I’d misread him?

  He liiiiiiikes you, she wrote. He told me.

  Ugh, I wrote back. He just wants to get back into my pants.

  I dunno, he said he had real feelings for you—that he thought “there was something real there.”

  At first, I was a little flattered. It was nice that Andrew thought he liked me. But the more I thought about it, the more it enraged me. Andrew didn’t even know me!

  Men, I wrote. Fuck them all.

  Literally or figuratively?

  Lol, I wrote. Both.

  Suddenly, I felt the weight of my exhaustion settle over me. I had not slept last night at all. Still naked, I got up and looked at myself in the mirror. The locket beat against my chest, like another heart. I swayed my body and it caught the light, piercing a hole in my naked reflection. I climbed into bed and fell into a fevered sleep.

  I woke, several hours later, in a panic. I’d been dreaming of Gemma—she had been speaking to me but I couldn’t understand anything she was saying. I tried to get her to explain it, it was clear that she was in distress, that something was wrong, but when I opened my mouth I found I could not speak. It was my screams that woke me up. I was saying, Where are you?

  Instinctually, my hand reached for my phone, which was plugged in at my bedside table, and sightlessly navigated to Instagram. I began typing her name in the search bar. I was not seeking any news or updates—I was used to the static quality of her page by then, had stopped hoping for anything else. I wanted only to look at her face, slide my thumb over the glassy surface of her life. It’s true, her name usually populated at the top with the first quick tap of the G—another way the algorithm served you, nudging you in the direction of what it knew you wanted—but I didn’t think anything of having to type out the rest of her name, it flowed so fast from my fingertips, e…m…m…a. A list of @Gemmas appeared at the top of my screen, and I almost tapped on the first one before a flicker of discordance ran through me and I realized it wasn’t her. I scrolled through the stream of Gemmas peeking out from perfect circles. None of them was her.

  There was a sickening twist in my gut. I typed out her username, just her full name—classy, simple—@GemmaAnton. Gray forms took shape on my screen, then disappeared.

  No results found.

  I tapped on the words again and again as if they might yield something, some new information, as my heart raced. The screen didn’t so much as blink, it just stared at me, relentlessly blank and unchanged. My stomach gurgled and I had to run to the toilet to throw up, seized with a horrible sensation. An image appeared in my mind as clear liquid streamed from my mouth: Gemma, standing at the edge of a pier off the West Side Highway, the setting sun blazing in front of her. I call out to her and she turns to look at me with her mouth open in surprise…I pressed the butt of my hands against my head, dispelling the strange daydream, then wiped my mouth and flushed. Still, I could not shake the heavy dread that gripped me, and I began to think, and then to really know, that something truly terrible had happened to her. On Law & Order it is always the husband, the boyfriend, the closest man who is responsible, and I began to think of Benoit, and what I knew of him, and feel increasingly panicked.

  I forced myself to drink some water, trying to calm down. It was then I noticed a distinct atmospheric shift in the room. I looked outside and saw an iridescent sheet of pouring rain between my window and the brick building, like a curtain of glass beads blowing in the breeze. I took a deep breath. I walked to the window and stuck my hand in the water. A plan had already taken form in my head, though I didn’t want to admit it to myself. I spread my fingers out wide and turned my hand over in the rain, letting the water splash both sides, and at the same time I turned the idea over. I sighed resignedly, as if it weren’t my idea at all but an order from a micromanaging boss.

  Finally I said, “Well, that’s all there is to do.” The rain responded with a hiss.

  As soon as I said it out loud, all hesitation evaporated. It was the right thing to do. It was the only thing to do. I dressed quickly. Bruises were darkening along my neck, thighs, arms, and knees, and I chose a white sail of a dress that went to my ankles and billowed at the chest and sleeves. Even though I was in a rush, I reflexively took a few photos of myself in the mirror.

  It took me fifteen minutes to get to her apartment. The doorman was standing under the green awning, his hands in his pockets, looking at the rain. He was portly and balding, with light-brown skin and a trim black goatee. And he was whistling.

  “Hi!” I said.

  He stopped whistling and looked at me, his mouth falling open in surprise.

  “Oh wow,” he said, “you needa umbrella?”

  I looked down at my dress, which was drenched and revealed the pink of my skin where it clung to me in uneven patches. The bottom of it was gray and speckled with flecks of black. My nipples protruded like pencil nubs as my chest heaved. I laughed. I had filmed myself on the way over. I had thought it’d read as carefree and romantic.

  “Oh, thank you,” I said. “I don’t mind the rain. I’m here to see Gemma.”

  “She’s a tenant in the building?”

  “Oh yes, she’s my cousin.”

  Had I been a man, had I not been white, had I been anything but a dumb blond in a soaking, see-through dress, he might not have let me through. But because I was so obviously not a threat—just a little sweet trifle, a kitten, nothing to worry about—he opened the door with a nod and waved me in. It is not a very nice feeling to be the beneficiary of a racist and unjust system, but back then I
was not about to deny myself the benefits. I walked purposefully through the lobby, as if I’d been there a dozen times. I froze in front of the elevators. I walked back out.

  “You know,” I said to the doorman, “I always forget her apartment number.”

  He looked at me blankly. I think he was just really enjoying the rain.

  “I texted her,” I said, flashing him my phone’s screen, “but you know her…total space cadet.”

  He sighed, looked one last time at the rain coming down, and went inside. I followed him. “What was the name again?” he asked, making his way behind a tall, semicircular counter.

  “Gemma,” I said. “Gemma Anton.”

  “Let me just look her up real quick. I’m new so I’m still getting to know everyone’s names.” He stood in front of the swivel office chair but did not sit in it. Instead he hunched over the ancient-looking desktop computer, his tongue pressing against his upper lip so that I could see its purple, veined underbelly, and typed with his pointer fingers.

  “Gemma…” he said, drawing out the name as he painstakingly click-clacked on the keyboard. “Is that with a J?”

  “No, a G.”

  He hammered on the backspace key.

  “It’s G-e-m-m-a,” I said helpfully. “A-n-t-o-n.”

  The tongue came out again. Click-clack-click-clack.

  He shook his head. “I don’t see her.”

  I sighed, trying to hide my irritation. In a louder voice I said again, making sure to carefully enunciate, “It’s G-e-m-m-a. A-n-t-o-n.”

  “Yes, I understand, but she’s not in here.”

  “G—as in George. E—as in elephant. M—as in—”

  He laughed, also trying to hide his irritation. “Yes, I hear you, but she’s not here.”

  “Just try Gemma, without the last name, maybe there’s a typo.”

  Reluctantly, he hit the backspace key, then clicked enter. I leaned over the top of the counter to watch him.

  “No, I’m sorry, she’s not in here. The system can be like that sometimes. Maybe try calling her again?”

  I sighed as if this were an inconvenience of unconscionable and unimaginable proportions, and took out my phone. I pretended to hit a few buttons, then pressed the phone to my ear. I wandered away so that he would not hear there was nothing on the other line. After a few moments, I “hung up” and put the phone back in my purse.

  “See?” I said aggressively. “She’s not picking up.”

  He shrugged apologetically. “I’m sorry.”

  “Try Anton, then, the last name.”

  The man’s patience was clearly wearing thin, but he acquiesced, this time taking a heavy seat in front of the computer. I followed his fingers on the keyboard carefully, making sure he typed correctly. I knew it was insulting, my leaning over like that, as if he couldn’t be trusted to type a person’s name correctly—but then people’s incompetency never fails to amaze me. Even with my oversight, however, his persistent click-clacking yielded nothing. Or so he said. I was starting to worry that he had become suspicious of me. His eyes had taken on a shifty quality. Instead of looking at me straight on as he had done before, he now snuck glances sideways, his eyes darting away before I could ever meet them. Maybe he was only bluffing, trying to get me to leave.

  “Look, I’m her cousin, I swear,” I said. “I mean, seriously, look at me. I’m obviously related.”

  He laughed uncomfortably. “I believe you. But I have no way of knowing her apartment number.”

  The man was lying. He was fucking lying to me! I pulled out my phone again and hesitated briefly, remembering that her account had been deleted. Then I scrolled through my camera roll, millions of little squares, mostly showing some miniature version of myself, until I found the pictures of the two of us together at the Strand.

  “See?” I said, showing him the screen. “Cousins.”

  He looked at it wonderingly, then shook his head.

  “I don’t recognize her, you, whoever,” he said slowly and carefully. What an actor! Looking at his face, anyone would have thought he’d never seen Gemma before in his life.

  “Yes, I know you don’t know me. But she lives here.”

  “If she does, she must be new.” He added, in an upbeat, helpful tone—the sly devil, the fucking theatrical genius—“Maybe that’s why she’s not in the system.”

  “She’s lived here for years!” I was getting really exasperated now. It was one thing if he wasn’t going to let me in. But to carry on this charade was absurd. Who did he think he was?

  “Ma’am,” he said, which everyone knows is code for bitch, “I’m sorry I really can’t help you.” His tone was icy, and his eyes, which he was no longer afraid of pointing directly at me, were flat and calm, as if he’d brought a metal grate down over them.

  “Oh, come on.”

  “Maybe you should come back another time.”

  “This is getting ridiculous.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  The elevator doors opened, and a middle-aged man holding the hand of a small girl came out. I lunged towards them with my phone, and the man’s eyebrows rose in surprise. The doorman stood up behind me, and quickly followed me—no doubt eager to keep his unprofessional behavior from the eyes of tenants.

  I put on my sweetest voice. “Excuse me,” I said, “I don’t mean to bother you. But I’m having a little trouble reaching my cousin. Gemma. Gemma Anton. You know her?”

  The man shook his head. His daughter took a step closer to him. I smiled down at her. She was not particularly beautiful, but she had good bone structure, and long, thin limbs, and I saw instantly that she’d one day make a good model. Not a great one, but a good one. I looked back at her dad.

  “She’s the blond model who lives here, tall, beautiful,” I said, taking out my phone and showing him the picture. “That’s her. It’s us. She’s on the right, there.”

  The man frowned at the photo and shook his head. “I’m not sure…”

  “I’ve asked her to leave,” the doorman said to the man. “I told her she should go.”

  I rolled my eyes theatrically, letting the man know that I thought the doorman was being ridiculous. “I’m just trying to find my cousin!” I shouted. “She lives here!”

  At that moment, an older woman with frizzy yellow hair walked in from outside with a little black dog on a leash. She smiled at the four of us standing there, and her smile seemed to ask a question. I took a deep breath, and smoothed out my voice until it was calm and syrupy.

  “Maybe you can help,” I said, smiling my best smile. “My cousin lives here, Gemma, the model, do you know her? You see, I’ve forgotten her apartment number, and she’s not picking up. I’m worried about her and—”

  The woman looked at me as if dumbfounded. “I’m sorry—what—”

  Before she could finish her question, I flashed her the photo on my phone. “See—it’s us. Well, do you know her? Maybe you could help me knock on her door? Her name’s Gemma.”

  “Gemma…?” the woman repeated, a confused, stricken look on her face.

  “Well, do you?” I shook the phone in my hand, and the woman picked up her little dog and tucked him into the crook of her arm, then stepped forward to get a better look. The man and his daughter stood nearby, as if waiting to be dismissed.

  “What’s going on?” the woman asked, looking at me. She’d barely even glanced at the phone screen. It was then that I noticed she was holding Pancakes! She was holding Gemma’s dog right there in her arms, and pretending to not know Gemma! She saw me staring, open-mouthed, my entire body rigid in astonishment. Gently she touched my forearm.

  “Are you okay?” she asked, in a low whisper.

  “That’s Pancakes!” I shouted, my hands clawing the air in front of me. “That’s her dog!”

  The woman stepped back, clearl
y startled and afraid. She hadn’t counted on me recognizing the dog.

  “Of course I recognize Pancakes!” I said. “I’m not fucking dumb!”

  The doorman put his hand around my elbow. The man and his daughter moved quickly away. I ignored all of them and continued to yell at the woman, who was clutching Pancakes to her body.

  “You think I’m not going to notice you kidnapping Gemma’s dog or something? You think I’m that fucking stupid?”

  The woman bore an expression of frank shock and fear. I don’t know who she was scared of—possibly the lobby was being surveilled, and whoever wanted Gemma to remain MIA was watching to make sure everyone kept their mouths shut. My head swiveled around, looking for cameras. The doorman tightened his grip around my arm. I looked back at the woman, and the more I looked at her, the more obvious it became that she was wearing a wig, and a horrible-quality one at that, with bad, streaky highlights. If you looked at the frayed ends, it was clear they were synthetic.

  “Well?” I said harshly.

  She said in a trembling voice: “I don’t think you’re stupid.” Ha! So she wasn’t denying it! She went on, “Let’s just all calm down a little bit.”

  I relaxed for a brief second, and the doorman took the advantage and began moving me towards the door. When I struggled against him, he took hold of my other arm and said, in a chiding, parental tone, “I’m sorry, ma’am, but I need you to leave now, or else I’m going to call the police.”

  “Call the police?” I screamed. “I’d love you to call the police! Then maybe this woman can tell me why she’s got Gemma’s dog and is lying about it! Bet the police would get a fucking kick out of her disguise, too!” I turned my head to look back at her—but she had fled to the elevator and the doors were sliding shut in front of her.

  “Coward!” I screamed. “Fraud!”

  The doorman held my wrists with one hand and propped open the door with the other. He pulled me through it, and I could feel his disgusting sweat leaking from his palms, contaminating my skin. Outside, the downpour had turned into a light drizzle. The father was standing under the awning with a protective hand on his daughter’s chest (or was it even really his daughter? The two looked nothing alike, they were probably just actors), and when he saw us come out he moved backwards, so that rain was splashing against the back of his neck and shoulders.