She's Faking It

by Kristin Rockaway

  “At least it gives you good material for your videos,” I said.

  “Yeah, but a decade behind the espresso machine is a long time. And the clientele just seems to get ruder and more entitled with every passing year.” She stood up and straightened her apron. “I’ve gotta go squash this situation. Text and let me know what happens with your car, okay?”

  I nodded and gave her a quick hug before she ran off to save Logan from the lady with the undersweetened latte.

  Despite my enduring cynicism, the idea of thriving really did appeal to me. It sounded lovely to be able to craft a life that was purposeful and fulfilling, to leave an imprint on the world. To strive for something greater than the ability to barely coast by.

  Unfortunately, I had no idea what that something was.

  I polished off my coffee and stepped down off the patio, taking the long way around through the rose garden to the exit. As I passed by the front window, I caught a glimpse of the SurfRack flyer Cam had just posted. White text on a blue background advertised a new instructor giving lessons by appointment only. Apparently, he was a big-name surfer who’d just come off a pro championship tour.

  There was a photo of him on the bottom, standing onshore in his wet suit, which he’d stripped to the waist. His board was tucked under one arm, his dark hair glistened with seawater. According to the poster, his name was Trey Cantu. The same Trey who lived in the blue bungalow next door.

  Great. I’d humiliated myself in front of a famous surfer.

  No point in dwelling on it, though. Don’t look back yada yada. Instead, I walked home with purpose, mentally crafting some descriptive text for the first Craigslist ad I was going to place. “Six-foot bong, gently used. Resin included at no extra charge!”

  My phone began to buzz in my pocket. From the continuous drone, it was clearly an incoming call. Which meant it could only be one person.

  “Hi, Natasha,” I said.

  “Hi.” She sounded tightly wound, like a slingshot pulled taut and ready to launch. “What are you doing today?”

  The question felt like a personal attack. “Figuring out how to make rent money by Sunday. Why?”

  “Well, I have an appointment in Bird Rock this afternoon and I was wondering if I could drop by your place beforehand.”

  Strange. Natasha hadn’t been to my apartment since that failed attempt to help me reorganize, and that was months ago. She also never “dropped by” without a Swiffer in her hand.

  “You’re not planning another guerrilla decluttering session, are you?” I asked. “Because I’m really not in the headspace for it right now.”

  “No, it’s not that. I...just have something I want to give you.”

  “Promise me this has nothing to do with cleaning my apartment.”

  “Promise. I’ll be by around noon, okay?”

  “Okay. By the way, when do you think you might hear back about my car?”

  Natasha paused, as if contemplating her response. Then, in one hasty breath, she said, “Listen, I’ve gotta shower and get my stuff together before I head out, I’ll see you in a few, love you.”

  “Love you, too,” I said, but she’d already hung up.

  So that’s what this was about.

  Natasha didn’t come out and say it, but she didn’t have to. I knew the truth, deep in my bones: my car was hosed, and it was never coming back.

  Chapter 5

  Normally, I would’ve tried to straighten up a little before Natasha came over. Despite her promise, I knew she wouldn’t be able to stop herself from making helpful “suggestions” about how to get my apartment in order, and it was in a particularly horrific state right now. Jamming some of these dirty clothes into the closet and cleaning off my coffee table would’ve made me appear slightly less slovenly.

  But at the moment, I had bigger fish to fry. Like coming up with two hundred dollars in the next forty-eight hours and finding a new job that didn’t require a car.

  I have no car.

  I have no job.

  I can’t pay my rent.

  As the reality of my situation sank in, I fought the desire to curl up on my futon in a sniveling, shivering ball. There was no time for that.

  After posting the bong for sale on Craigslist, I applied for accounts at half a dozen websites that catered to gig economy workers like myself. Opportunities within walking distance were seemingly limitless. I could do odd jobs with HandyMinion or walk dogs with BarkBuddy. The odds of me getting approved and hired in time to make rent on Sunday were slim, but in the meantime, maybe I could search the neighborhood for some of those electric scooters in need of a charge.

  I was reviewing a list of paid medical research studies seeking participants when I heard the distinct sound of footsteps climbing the stairs leading to my apartment. It was 11:59. Natasha was one minute early.

  As soon as I opened the door, she thrust a Tupperware container into my hands. “I brought you lunch. Enchiladas. Don’t worry, they’re not keto.”

  “Thanks,” I said, trying not to notice her eyes bulging at the sight of my mess. To her credit, she didn’t comment. She just stepped inside and flashed an uncomfortable smile.

  “How are you?” she asked, but I was eager to cut to the chase.

  “My car can’t be fixed, can it?”

  She winced. “I’m sorry. I wanted to tell you in person, but I should’ve known you’d have figured it out.”

  A queasy feeling socked me right in the gut, and for a moment I was sure I would puke. But the nausea quickly passed, replaced by a burning sensation deep in the pit of my stomach. Like I was having an internal core meltdown.

  As I collapsed on the futon with my head in my hands, Natasha said helpfully, “It will be fine.”

  “Natasha, I have no car. Which means I have no job.” My voice was craggy and I sounded slightly unhinged.

  “Well, there’s a silver lining in all this.” She sat down beside me and plucked a white envelope from her purse. “A thin one, but still.”

  With shaky fingers, I tore open the flap and pulled out the contents: a single check, made out to me, in the amount of $467. It was signed by Jerry, the owner and proprietor of Encinitas Auto Repair.

  “I don’t understand. What is this?”

  Natasha breathed deeply, held it for a second, then said, too brightly, “It’s the scrap value of your car.”

  “Oh.”

  At least I no longer had to worry about coming up with two hundred dollars by Sunday. This check from the mechanic covered my rent and then some.

  It did make me a little sad to think about my car getting torn apart at a junkyard, though. Sure, it was hideous and long past its prime, but we’d been through some good times together, and now my trusty Honda Civic was nothing more than a shredded pile of rusty metal. The image made me whimper.

  “It’ll be fine,” Natasha repeated, more firmly this time, because whenever I threatened to fall to pieces, she was the glue determined to hold me together. “I have a book I want you to read. I think it’ll help you a lot.”

  There was a time in my life when I believed a book might have solved all my problems. Sadly, that time had long passed. “A book.”

  “Yes, a book. And don’t say it like that.” She scowled.

  “Unless this book has four wheels and gets forty-two highway miles to the gallon, it’s not gonna help me.”

  “I’m serious. It changed my life and I think it could change yours, too.”

  This was all too reminiscent of the conversation I had with Rob on this very futon seven months ago, in which he told me all about the Divine Mother Shakti and the book that changed his life.

  “You’re not gonna suggest I run off to an ayahuasca lodge in the Amazon, are you?”

  “I’m not your loser ex-boyfriend, Bree.” Her tone was sharp. “I’m your big sister, and I
’m trying to give you some important advice. It would be nice if you listened to me for once.”

  Ouch.

  “Sorry,” I said. “Go on.”

  “For a long time, I felt very unsatisfied with the way my life was going. Yes, I had Al and Izzy—and I love them more than anything, don’t get me wrong—but taking care of a home and a family...it wasn’t enough for me. I felt lost. Stagnant. Sometimes, it was a struggle just to get out of bed in the morning.”

  No way. Natasha was so focused, so put-together, so extraordinarily satisfied with the direction of her life. It was nearly impossible to imagine her struggling to get out of bed, especially since I knew she liked to arrive early for her 5 a.m. Orangetheory classes.

  I must’ve looked skeptical, because she said, “I hid it well. I didn’t want you worrying about me. You had enough on your plate. Anyway, one day, I was googling around for inspirational advice, and I happened across a YouTube channel called, Aspire Higher. Have you ever heard of Demi DiPalma?”

  A bell chimed in my brain. “I saw her on Instagram last night, actually. She’s a lifestyle guru, right?”

  “A lifestyle guru, a wellness vlogger, a bestselling author. An all-around genius. Her advice is so spot-on and the way she shares her experiences and emotions is so raw and electrifying. I binge-watched her entire collection of videos in a weekend, and then I bought this.”

  She pulled a slender book out of her purse, a glossy white hardcover with the title embossed in shimmery gold block letters: The Aspirational Action Plan, by Demi DiPalma.

  I took it in my hands and flipped through the pages. “What’s it about?”

  “It’s a self-help guide that teaches you how to dig deep to discover your most authentic self and then manifest your dreams into existence. I know it sounds crazy, but it works. Her ‘fake it till you make it’ philosophy was the catalyst for getting my business off the ground.”

  “Really?”

  “Really. I never considered becoming a professional organizer until I went through Demi’s four-step manifesting process. Once I defined my aspiration and created my vision board, I suddenly discovered I had this passion for organizing. And when I decided to monetize that, I didn’t even have to advertise, people started contacting me to streamline their homes. Then, one thing led to another, and now I have a really successful small business. The advice in this book is like a magic spell.”

  “A magic spell?”

  If these words had been coming from anyone else, I’d be nodding politely while internally rolling my eyes at how preposterous the whole thing sounded. But this was Natasha speaking. She was the most pulled-together and down-to-earth person I knew. My big sister, my rock, my role model. Whatever she said had to be true.

  “I’m telling you, Bree, reading this book lit a fire under me that I thought had been completely extinguished a long time ago. Back when...you know.”

  I nodded, a silent acknowledgment that I knew what she meant even if she couldn’t actually say it.

  Natasha didn’t like to talk about our mom’s death. She always referred to it as “that time” or “you know” or “when it all went down.” I couldn’t blame her for not wanting to discuss it at length; it was a painful experience fraught with trauma and grief. But she avoided the topic so thoroughly, sometimes it felt like she preferred to pretend Mom had never existed at all.

  I never called her out on it, though, because when it came to the whole experience of “that time,” between the two of us, Natasha had drawn the shorter straw. I’d only been fourteen. Too young to lose my mom, sure, but for the most part, after she died, most aspects of my life remained unchanged. I still lived in the same apartment, I still went to the same high school, I still had the same friends and the same general goals of doing my homework and getting good grades. Natasha, on the other hand, watched her whole world get blown to bits.

  Technically, it was all my fault because I needed a guardian, and Natasha was my only option. Last we’d heard of our dad, he was off in Vegas doing god-knows-what with god-knows-who, and we had no grandparents to speak of. So during the very start of her sophomore year at UCLA, my extremely bright and ambitious big sister dropped out of school, moved back to our apartment in Pacific Beach, and started waiting tables to pay the rent.

  To say I felt guilty was an understatement. It was self-imposed, though. Natasha never laid a guilt trip on me, not once. She simply cared for me, with all her heart and all her strength, picking up where Mom had left off. If it hadn’t been for her, I never would’ve graduated high school, never would’ve been accepted to UCSD. She’d sacrificed her chance at a college degree so I could have one.

  Then I’d squandered it.

  Initially, I figured she’d reenroll after I turned eighteen. But then she met Al, and her life took a sharp turn in a completely different direction. One that I thought made her happy, but apparently there was some deep dissatisfaction simmering beneath the surface.

  Or there had been, before she discovered Demi DiPalma.

  “I love you, Bree.” She squeezed my arm and fixed me with her big-sister stare. One of care and concern, tinged with exasperation. I took in her perfectly blended foundation, her neatly manicured fingernails, her crisp, white button-down shirt. She always presented herself so impeccably.

  “I love you, too.”

  “Then listen to me. Take my advice and read this book. And then take control of your life.”

  I turned the book over in my hands. The back cover featured a photo of Demi DiPalma, decked out in a gauzy white robe, looking as ethereal as ever. Hadn’t I just been wishing for a spiritual guru to point me in the right direction? Maybe The Aspirational Action Plan was exactly what I needed to help me find my passion and start to thrive.

  “I’ll start reading it right away,” I said.

  “Great.” She looked relieved, like she’d been afraid I was going to put up a fight. Then she let out a big breath and said, “I’d better get going. My appointment’s at one, I don’t want to be late.” As she stood up, her eyes scanned the room. “While I’m here, though, I could take a quick look around, maybe offer some suggestions about how you could make better use of this space.”

  See? She couldn’t help herself.

  “No, thanks. This has been a pleasant visit, and I’d like to keep it that way.”

  “Fair enough. Will you walk me to my car, though? I’ve got something else for you.”

  That something else was a big heavy box filled with the contents of my now-scrapped Civic. Mercifully, it looked like the mechanic had discarded all the empty Big Gulp containers and burrito wrappers, but there was still a bunch of random stuff in there. The hoodie, the flip-flop, some long-forgotten paperwork. It was too much to process at the moment, so I dropped it in the middle of my floor and told myself I’d deal with it later.

  Besides, right now, I had other priorities. Like wolfing down these enchiladas and digging into The Aspirational Action Plan.

  THE ASPIRATIONAL ACTION PLAN

  INTRODUCTION

  Get Ready to Evolve

  Psst.

  Hey, you.

  Yeah, I’m talking to you. The woman reading this book.

  I see you, sweetie.

  I see right straight into your heart. There’s hurt there, and disappointment. Hidden longing and dormant ambition. Echoes of your past struggles and shadows of your unmanifested dreams.

  I see how desperately you want to make a change, and how utterly impossible you think it is to do so.

  I know you want to be better. I know you can be better.

  Because—and here’s where I’ll let you in on a little secret—I used to be you.

  I used to be the woman who wanted greatness, but never achieved it. I watched everyone around me move onward and upward, yet I stayed still as a stone. I allowed my past to weigh me down and my negative t
houghts to hold me back. I made excuses for my multitudinous failures.

  Then one morning, I woke up, drew back the curtains, let great golden beams of sunshine stream into my bedroom, and declared, NO MORE.

  I would stop making excuses.

  I would move forward.

  I would achieve greatness.

  In that moment, I resolved to manifest my aspirations into being.

  And it worked.

  Now I’m ready to share the secrets of my success with you. Contained within these pages is a system for recalibrating your entire existence. You’ll learn all about my four-step manifesting process, including:

  1. DEFINING YOUR ASPIRATION

  Use creative visualization to meander through your subconscious mind and decide what you want your new life to look like.

  2. SENDING YOUR DESIRES OUT INTO THE UNIVERSE

  Construct a tangible representation of your aspiration with a vision board and cement it with positive affirmations.

  3. CLEARING AWAY NEGATIVE ENERGY

  Explore rituals such as sage burning and fire ceremonies to banish destructive thought patterns and cleanse your physical spaces.

  4. RECEIVING YOUR ABUNDANCE

  Open your heart, mind, and spirit to the wonders that are coming your way.

  The Aspirational Action Plan >will help you put your past in the past and guide you toward an extraordinary future that’s brimming with possibility and abundance. By reading this book, you’re choosing to walk the path toward happy.

  But first, a warning: you’ve got to want this more than anything you’ve ever wanted in your life. You’ve got to believe this will be yours. And you’ve got to know you deserve this, deep down in your soft, spongy marrow. Because energy follows thought. And if you tell the universe, “Hey, I want this, and I know it will be mine!” then it’ll obey.

  You may be thinking, This is too hard, Demi, my dreams are too big for this one small woman. But the truth is, sweetie, no dream is too big for you. And if you’re having trouble believing it, then fake it.

  Fake it until you make it your reality.