She's Faking It

by Kristin Rockaway

  Part of me wished I’d thought of doing that years ago. If I had, maybe my PayPal account wouldn’t be frozen right now.

  Natasha folded the luggage rack with a loud slap, then placed her suitcase on its side next to the dresser. “We should get going. The Passion Powwow started five minutes ago.”

  I made no move to get up off the bed, instead reaching for the program that listed the times and descriptions of every event so I could see what this Passion Powwow was all about. It was printed on page two.

  Join us in the Hacienda courtyard for a chance to share your visions, affirm your goals, and elevate your energy levels. The perfect way to kick off your SYNERGIZING weekend in the desert!

  Well, that didn’t clear anything up.

  But Natasha seemed pumped. She stood in front of the full-length floor mirror, fluffing out her hair and straightening her skirt. Her body was practically vibrating; any elevation in her energy levels, and she’d probably blow the roof off this shoddily constructed yurt.

  It was hard to stay cynical when she smiled at me, though. There was so much hope and desire and drive in her eyes. For her, I’d stay positive. And if energy really did follow thought, maybe I’d even find myself a passion at this powwow.

  Chapter 23

  In my humble opinion, the Passion Powwow was misnamed. It should’ve been called the Hashtag Hoedown because the entire space had been transformed into one giant Instagrammable experience.

  There were multiple stations arranged explicitly for photo ops—balloon bouquets, step-and-repeat banners, life-size cutouts of Demi DiPalma, an eight-foot-tall Plexiglas champagne flute filled with plastic balls for “bubbles”—and judging by the number of phones pointing and snapping, they were all being put to good use. Signs were posted all around instructing Instagrammers to hashtag their posts with #synergysummit and #dipalmatribe—which would probably start trending, given how long the lines were. Hashtag, upload, repeat ad infinitum.

  Here, the influencers were out in full force. People posed with handbags, furry boots, someone even had a curling iron, as if she were casually doing her hair in the open desert. When one woman in a paisley catsuit draped herself around the trunk of a Joshua tree, pouting and arching her neck, someone to my left sniggered. “Who does that girl think she is, Shayla Miller?”

  The name was jarring, out of context, but it jogged my memory. Instantly, I remembered what Trey had told me yesterday morning as we filled our bellies with syrupy French toast: glamour’s an illusion. Seeing all these influencers sucking in their stomachs, waiting their turns to take the same tired pictures against the same tired backdrops, made me realize he was right.

  I pulled my phone out of my purse and texted him: So bummed to miss out on our surf lesson this morning. Can we catch up on Monday night?

  As soon as I hit Send, Natasha was behind me, thrusting me in the direction of the step-and-repeat banner. “Go take a picture.”

  “No, I’m good.”

  She snatched my phone from my hand and gave her signature exasperated sigh. “You say you’re having trouble growing an authentic following, but you’re not taking advantage of crucial Instagrammable moments like these.”

  Rather than argue in a public space where anyone could livestream my business to the entire world, I complied with Natasha’s request. In fact, I chose to make a fun game out of it, laughing and jumping and posing like a fool. There was a big bowl of glittery confetti on a table next to the banner, so I grabbed a great handful and tossed it in the air.

  “That was perfect!” With a gleeful expression, Natasha tapped at my screen, while I stared at the glitter being swept away on the desert breeze with a feeling of deep remorse.

  “Do you think that confetti is eco-friendly?” I asked, but she simply handed my phone back and strolled away to schmooze with some other guests.

  I wandered off toward the far end of the courtyard, where there was a massive spread of Demi DiPalma–brand items for sale, arranged artfully on tables. Journals, T-shirts, decals. A huge stack of books, including The Aspirational Action Plan. The jade egg was displayed on a pedestal, like the Hope Diamond.

  Then there were the crystals and oils, the talismans to manifest abundance. I’d always been skeptical, but now that I was here, I had to admit there was something sort of magical about them. An energy that radiated off the table. It could’ve been all in my head, I guess, but wasn’t every tangible thing in this world simply a reflection of our thoughts, our feelings, our sensory input?

  It was a heavy thought. The kind of thought Rob would perseverate on for hours after he smoked too much Afghan Kush.

  A woman stepped up to the display beside me and ran a finger over a smooth green stone. Back and forth, as if she was rubbing an oil lamp and hoping for a genie to appear. The movement mesmerized me, and she must have felt me staring, because suddenly her finger froze on the crystal and she turned toward me with wide, watchful eyes. Quickly, I looked down, feigning extreme interest in an essential oil diffuser.

  “Excuse me,” the woman said. “Aren’t you Bree, from Bree by the Sea?”

  I was floored. If a complete stranger recognized me from Instagram, then perhaps my nano-influencing had been more effective than I thought. Is this what celebrities felt like?

  “Yes.” I smoothed a hand over my hair, trying desperately to play it cool. “That’s me.”

  She smiled with her mouth closed, her lips pressed together firmly. Those lips looked familiar, or maybe it was the color. Sort of an iridescent puce.

  “Hi,” she said, extending her hand for a shake. “I’m Leanne Whitely, the owner of Kissy Face Lip Gloss.”

  “Oh. Nice to meet you.” This was unusual, the CEO of a cosmetics company attending a desert retreat with the commoners. “Are you giving a presentation or running a workshop or something?”

  “Me?” She laughed heartily, revealing a speck of Burgundy Wine on her front tooth. “No, no. I’m here to make some connections, spread the word about the brand. Your post was fabulous, by the way. Thanks so much for the collab.”

  “It was my pleasure,” I said. “Please give my thanks to your social media manager for reaching out to me.”

  Another laugh, like I was the funniest person in the desert. “Sweetie, I’m the social media manager. And the manufacturer. And I package and ship and do all the other hundred-thousand things it takes to run a small business.” She laughed again, but this time it was fainter, more resigned. “I’m still in the ‘faking it’ phase.”

  “Right.” That explained why she chose me to advertise her product. I wasn’t a nano-influencer. I was a nobody. “May I ask why you chose me to participate in your ad campaign?”

  “Well, I was scrolling through the DiPalma Tribe’s Instagram stories one night and saw they’d shared your photo. You said you were working through your Aspirational Action Plan and manifesting your dreams, so I knew we were on the same journey. And when I clicked on your profile—” she gestured vaguely to my face “—obviously, you’re gorgeous, and you’d posted this wonderful photo that looked like you were dreaming of a kiss. Naturally, I thought you were a perfect fit.”

  The photo in question was the one I’d taken right after Trey had delivered me home via piggyback. I really was dreaming of a kiss.

  “Can I send you my newest color for another collab?” she asked. “It’s called Grape Escape.”

  Looking at the earnest expression in Leanne’s eyes, knowing how hard she must be working to achieve her dream, the kindest thing I could do right now was tell her the truth. “I sort of had an allergic reaction to your lip gloss.”

  “A rash?” I nodded and her face drooped. “Dammit. You’re the third person to tell me that. There’s something wrong with my formula.” She dragged the palm of her hand across the back of her neck. “I just mixed up a whole new batch, too, and now I’ve gotta throw it away. What a huge w
aste of money.”

  I almost considered telling her the rash wasn’t so bad, but that wouldn’t have done her or her business any favors. “I’m sorry.”

  “It’s not your fault. Obviously.” Her fingers found the green stone again, stroking it as if it held the secret solution to all her problems. “My luck’s been so bad lately. Maybe I should invest in one of these crystals to turn it around.”

  It was a small stone, no bigger than a golf ball. The sign beside it read “Green Aventurine, the ‘stone of opportunity,’ boosts creativity, wealth and prosperity. $199.”

  That was a costly little golf ball.

  My thoughts went to Mari, how she said Demi DiPalma was a scammer because she took advantage of people in desperate situations, people who were down on their luck and eager for a change. What would she do in this situation? Probably start chucking these crystals in the trash while shouting curse words at the top of her lungs. That wasn’t really my style, but there was no way I was letting Leanne walk away without giving her an alternate perspective.

  “My sister says that luck is what happens when preparation meets opportunity.” I pointed to the sign, my fingernail tapping against the hefty price tag. “Maybe you’d be better off investing that money in preparing a new formula, so when a huge influencer wants to rep your brand, you can seize the moment.”

  It felt good to be the person doling out the advice instead of the one carelessly ignoring it. Unfortunately, Leanne didn’t share my sense of satisfaction.

  “I didn’t ask for your opinion.” She raised one manicured hand and waved it wildly, gesturing to my entire being. “You’re giving off a lot of negative energy right now.”

  She whirled around in a lavender-scented cloud, her hair swishing in my face before she stalked away. Talk about negative energy.

  This seemed as good a time as any to find Natasha, so I wove my way through the crowd of DiPalma disciples, all of whom appeared remarkably similar: white skin; thin frames; long, wavy hair painted with expensive-looking highlights. They all seemed vaguely familiar, like maybe I’d seen them on Instagram during one of my many leisurely scrolls.

  After a moment of searching, I spotted Natasha standing beside a curtain of colored streamers hanging from a rolling clothes rack. Yet another manufactured photo op that looked ridiculous in real life but amazing on the internet. She was chattering away to two girls, and from the expressions on their faces—and the phones in their hands—they clearly wanted her to move out of the way so they could take a picture and move on to the next station.

  As I approached, Natasha handed over one of her business cards, the ones with Choose Happy brush-lettered on the back. “If you ever feel you need some guidance on how to minimize your digital clutter in order to maximize your impact on Instagram, please give me a call. I do phone consultations!”

  One of the girls took the card while the other one drawled, “Okay, thanks.”

  Natasha turned, catching sight of me instantly. She waved, smiling, and closed the gap between us. Over her shoulder, I saw the girls roll their eyes.

  Bitches.

  “Why do you look so surly?” she asked.

  “People here are weird.”

  An exasperated sigh. “Stop being so negative.” She pulled the program out of her purse and perused the schedule. “Look, there’s a seminar in the pavilion now—The Four Pillars of Purposeful Power. Come with me.”

  While I would’ve preferred to collapse facedown on the bed and lose consciousness, this weekend was ostensibly about sisterly bonding, so I said, “Sure.”

  I followed along behind her, but I didn’t make it very far before my phone buzzed with an incoming call. When I saw Trey’s name splash across the screen, my body hummed with excitement. Sure, I hated talking on the phone, but this was Trey. I was hungry for the sound of his voice. So without thinking it through, I told Natasha to go ahead without me—“I’ll meet you there in a minute!”—and swiped to answer.

  “Hey there.”

  “Hey,” he said. “Sorry to bother you at your sister’s, I just wanted to hear your voice. How are you?”

  The hum intensified. “No bother at all. I’m great. What’s going on with you?”

  “I’m on a break between lessons and I was thinking about what we talked about yesterday morning. About the nonprofit I want to start.”

  “Cool.” I wound my way through the maze of photo ops, passing a woman posing with one arm wrapped around the cutout of Demi DiPalma while grasping The Aspirational Action Plan in her other hand. “Have you come up with some ideas?”

  “Yeah, actually. I started googling around to see what kinds of organizations already—”

  A series of shrieks ripped through the courtyard.

  “What was that?” Trey asked.

  “Nothing. Just some kids playing. I’m at the park with my niece. You know how it goes.”

  In reality, that eight-foot-tall champagne flute had toppled onto its side, sending hundreds of plastic balls flying across the courtyard. It didn’t appear anyone had been seriously injured, or even mildly scraped, but the collective reaction was one of sheer terror. Women went running in every direction, as if the cheap plastic display was in danger of imminent explosion.

  “Go on,” I said, trying in vain to move past the mess.

  “Okay. Well, I was thinking—”

  More screaming. This time because someone tripped over one of the runaway balls, taking down someone else’s tripod, on top of which sat an expensive-looking ring light. The owner broke out in hysterics, dropping to her knees and cradling the equipment like a newborn baby.

  This Passion Powwow was rapidly becoming the influencer equivalent of the Hindenburg disaster.

  “Are you sure everything’s okay over there?” Trey asked.

  The frenzied chatter around me was at fever pitch. People were yelling about selfies and followers and broken phone screens. This was not playground conversation, and it wouldn’t take long for Trey to catch on.

  “Actually, you know what, I’m so sorry but this is a superbad time. I should really go. We’ll talk when I get home, okay? I really want to hear all about your ideas.”

  “Sure, no problem.”

  There was a hint of disappointment in his voice, and I wanted to tell him to forget it, I was wrong, this was a great time to talk! But before I could form the words, he’d already ended the call.

  What a disaster. Why hadn’t I just sent him to voice mail?

  I walked toward the exit in a fog of regret, so distracted I accidentally bumped into a woman taking a selfie next to a cactus. She lurched forward, narrowly missing a face-first collision with its spines. As she screeched, I held my hands up, ready to gush with apologies. Then she rounded on me, and I realized she was one of those girls who’d rolled her eyes at my sister.

  “Watch where you’re going!” she yelled.

  For a moment, I considered shoving her straight into the cactus. Instead, I took a deep breath and thought of an insult that would sting far worse than the prick of those needles.

  “I’ve seen you on Instagram, and your aesthetic sucks.”

  She let out a horrified gasp, and I walked away without looking back.

  Chapter 24

  The catastrophe of the Passion Powwow was soon forgotten, and the rest of the day rolled on in a cloud of chanting circles and chakra balancing, oddly juxtaposed with workshops on conscious financial investments and breaking through the glass ceiling in the workplace. It could’ve been an inspirational experience, except each session was capped off by an in-your-face sales pitch.

  Need more help figuring out where to put your money in the stock market? Buy Demi DiPalma’s Guide to Women and Finance.

  Want to feel fierce and fearless when you walk into a job interview? Wear this underwear with NO EXCUSES printed along the butt.

&nb
sp; Does your energy feel out of whack? Install a Demi DiPalma–brand infrared sauna in your home. Sign up for the payment plan today, and there’s no interest for the next six months!

  Credit cards were being swiped left and right. It made me wonder if this retreat was really designed to be restorative and educational, as advertised. The way I saw it, it was basically a pop-up shopping mall in the middle of the desert.

  I didn’t say anything about it, though. Mostly, I stayed quiet, letting Natasha chat up prospective connections while I hung in the background, trying not to emit too much negative energy.

  Finally, at six o’clock, it was the moment I’d been waiting for: a sumptuous farm-to-table dinner. I changed into my romper (straps positioned correctly across my back, this time) while Natasha put on a gauzy, floral wrap dress, and we made our way to the Hacienda courtyard, which had been transformed into a beautiful outdoor dining space.

  Picnic tables and benches were arranged in rows, beneath globe lights strung between freestanding poles. There were bottles of rosé sweating in silver buckets on every table, and each place setting was topped with a sprig of creosote. It was golden hour, and the surrounding saguaro and sagebrush created an ethereal atmosphere that was positively Instagrammable.

  There’d be no hashtagging for me tonight, though, since I’d left my phone back in the tent, plugged into the charger. Natasha had huffed when I told her I’d be offline for the duration of our meal but didn’t push the issue. By this point, I think she’d grown tired of telling me what to do.

  We chose the last two open spaces at the end of a picnic table filled with chatty women, all of whom had that same vaguely familiar look about them. As soon as we slid into our seats, Natasha slipped easily into the conversation already in progress, sipping sparkling water and being her effervescent self. Meanwhile, I reached for the rosé.