It was all a farce.
My face is too pointy and my skin is too pale. My ears stick out a little too far from my head. I’m too short. Too thin in all the wrong places. Too brown-haired. Too grey-eyed. Too boring.
And after that night, I never went on another acting audition. Not for movies. Not for stage. Not for commercials. I took my name off the call lists and a week later, I had the job at Ever After, where a voluminous blond wig, lots of cream foundation and a huge pink ball gown hid my averageness.
Ren called it my “bubble bursting,’’ but actually, it was more than that. It was a necessary change—a reality. Like a caterpillar transforming.
And I know what you’re thinking. As soon as I brought up a caterpillar transforming, you imagined it emerging from its cocoon of bright green silk in a twist of colorful wings. You imagined a butterfly.
You imagined that because you’ve been conditioned to think of the metaphor in that way. By this point, you’ve already heard a hundred stories full of flowery language and sunny imagery about a caterpillar’s metamorphosis. You’ve seen it in cartoons. You’ve heard it in song lyrics. Maybe you’ve even dreamt it.
What no one wants to point out is that some caterpillars don’t become butterflies. Some caterpillars become moths.
That’s me.
A moth.
Shoving my rambling thoughts aside, I blow out a thundering breath and blink the road back into focus. I check the directions to Julie’s apartment. Then I flick my blinker to hang a right onto the Pacific Highway. A few miles later, with the sea breeze rushing in through my open car window, soft music washing over me, and the terrain changing from urban to residential, my racing heart finally slows down and the bubble of anger and hot embarrassment lodged in my chest dissipates a little.
And, by the time I’m carefully nosing my car down a hidden drive carved out between a set of steep, sandy blond hills, I’ve nearly stopped shaking.
The road veers left and widens just as the sun breaks over the trees and washes the world in a patina of gold. I lean forward, my chest pressing into the steering wheel, and get my first glimpse of where I’m staying.
The two-story building is actually a little dingy in the bright sunlight. A flat roof made from curving orange terra cotta tiles gives the whole place a dilapidated hacienda feel not unlike an older Taco Bell. I notice a few of the windows spaced across the façade are cracked and the stucco is crumbling away in uneven chunks near the roofline. On the northern corner, the downspout is detached from the exterior and a slug trail of dirty brown mildew meanders down the length of the building.
I reach to the dashboard, my fingers seeking the small slip of paper with Julie’s address so that I can double check that I’m in the right place. But before I can find the address, a black iron gate swings open and a petite girl with wide, rounded hips and red-gold hair pulled up into a high ponytail comes barreling toward my car. She’s got on a rockabilly-style blue, quarter-sleeve sweater printed with white and black flowers. A mustard yellow skirt flares out from just below the curve of her hips.
I push the door open and step out of the car. When my best friend sees me she bobs up and down on her toes, waving her arms and whooping excitedly, “It’s you! It’s you!”
“It’s me!” I call back, feeling the corners of my mouth lift automatically.
Julie rushes me, jumping into my arms and rocking us both dangerously to one side. “I missed you so much.”
“I missed you too.” My voice is squeaky and small.
“How are you feeling?” she asks against my hair, her fingernails digging into the skin of my upper arms.
I pause and suck in a ragged breath. I can’t believe I’m already close to tears again. “Not really sure how to answer that at the moment.”
Julie pulls back, seeks out my watery eyes and says, “Totally understandable, Gem.” Then she’s reaching past me for my makeup case and a rolling suitcase from the backseat of my car. “Let’s get you upstairs and into the apartment, okay?”
Catching a breath, I pick up Weebit’s travel carrier and let Julie get a quick look at him. I figure that I can come back for the cage and the rest of my stuff later.
“I have so much planned for us,” she tells me as we follow a slightly uneven sidewalk through a side entrance and down a narrow hall, finally emerging into an open-air courtyard. The sound of our footsteps changes from hollow to squishy as we cross the terraced space that descends in four wide stone steps to a rectangular pool filled with greenish water.
The courtyard is neglected and barren except for a few potted aloe plants, some ragged-looking palms, and a handful of mismatched plastic lawn chairs stacked near a black hooded grill. A half-dead vine hugs the south wall, crawling all the way to the second story and wrapping round the metal railing.
“You okay back there?” Julie calls.
“Yeah, I’m good.”
“You seem pale, Gemma.”
“Having your life ruined will do that to you,” I snap. What would she have thought if she had seen me a few hours ago? At least now I’m showered and wearing clean clothes.
“I know.” She stops at the base of the stairs. “But you’re here now.”
“I’m sorry,” I shake my head, feeling awful. On top of everything else that’s happened, I don’t want to fight with Julie. With my parents and Ren out of the picture, she’s really the only person I have left in this whole world. “You’re right. I’m here.”
“And I promise you that everything is going to be better now.” Her tone is forgiving and I smile in relief. “If you want, we can go out tonight, or we can stay in and paint our toenails sparkly pink and have the traditional breakup ice cream binge. We can eat pizza until we’re sick and watch movies until the sun comes up.”
“Can we watch a tragic miniseries about a dysfunctional family?” I joke as I count twelve apartments in total. Six upstairs and six downstairs.
She laughs. “Maybe a sappy vampire love story?”
“I vote for a musical about a shy girl who lands the lead in the school play.”
“Or we can settle in and watch every single episode of Sherlock.”
“Now you’re talking.” Benedict Cumberbatch is my homeboy.
“That man’s face is long and his old ass is white as Swiss cheese, but he’s got a vibe, doesn’t he?” She shimmies her shoulders in obvious approval. “One hundred percent hot.”
“And he’s British, which means that he probably says things like bangers and mash and bits ‘n bobs.”
“And arse,” she tosses back.
“And bugger.”
Her laugh rises as she trots up the steps, my rolling suitcase jerking behind her. She pauses briefly at the apartment at the top of the stairs. Her hand makes a fist and she thumps on the door two times. “Claudia and Smith live here. You remember I told you about them?”
“Is Claudia the one who makes the pesto hummus?”
“No, that’s Smith, her maybe-boyfriend. Claudia is in my department at school. She found me this apartment when my other lease ran up in August.”
“That’s right,” I say, trying to remember what she’s told me about her neighbors. “What’s a maybe-boyfriend?”
Jules shrugs. “They’re friends. They’re lovers. They’re bi-sexual. It’s all very progressive and I can’t really keep it straight so I’ve stopped asking questions.”
“So just go with it?”
“Basically.” She comes to an abrupt halt in front of the door marked 6B and paws through the pocket of her skirt looking for her keys. “Across the way you’ve got Ria in 7B and Landon in 8B. At the end of this side is Mrs. Healy’s place. Beware though. She’ll corner you if you give her the chance.”
“And that’s a bad thing?”
My best friend shoots me her craziest eyes and rolls her finger in a circle near her ear. “She’s a complete whack job.”
I grimace. “What do you mean? Like serial killer?”
“
No, nothing like that,” she says, slipping the key into the lock. “At first, she seems very normal and grandmotherly but then you find out that she’s convinced aliens are experimenting on her and the government is tracking her movements. Take my word for it, Gem, her conspiracy theories are highly disturbing. If you don’t keep your distance, I guarantee you won’t be able to sleep for a week.”
I peer around the corner with growing apprehension. There’s a surfboard leaning up against one wall, and just past it, a door embellished with a quilted wreath and a small wooden bird painted green and black. That must be Mrs. Healy’s place. “Mmm-kay.”
“So, about the door to the apartment…” As she turns the key, she wiggles the knob side-to-side and presses her shoulder into the upper door panel. “It’s sticky so you have to kind of shake the handle.”
I adjust Weebit’s travel case and inch closer. “Uh-huh.”
She grunts. “Like this.”
The door to 6B flies open with an audible pop and I jump back, startled.
If Julie notices my response, she doesn’t let on. “The kitchen is over here. Pay no attention to the buzzing sound coming from the fridge. It’s wonky,” she says, walking through the door and turning her body in a full circle. “And, let’s see—I’m over there and the bathroom is at the end of the hall.” She drops her keys into a shallow ceramic bowl shaped like a peacock and reaches for the light switch on the wall. “I’ll have to show you how to turn the shower on because it has a mind of its own. The hot sometimes comes out cold and the cold comes out hot.”
“Sure,” I say, feeling anything but sure.
Almost the entire apartment is visible from where I’m standing. There’s a galley kitchen to my immediate left. The walls are pasted with shiny avocado green tiles and hideous brown and yellow wallpaper. Directly in front of me is an oblong living area. The focal point is a sun-faded red couch covered in lumpy mismatched throw pillows. A wooden piano, an old armchair and Ikea shelves packed with books and funky knickknacks eat up the remainder of the room. There is a single metal-framed window—the kind that you have to wind to open—centered on the far wall.
“You’re welcome to anything you want from the kitchen,” Julie says, pulling open a cabinet door. “Like I said, I got ice cream because I figured it was a breakup necessity. But there are also chips and lots of…” She peers into what must be a pantry and laughs. “Chocolate.”
I look to see what she’s talking about. There are enough bags of candy bars and individually wrapped chocolate pieces on the shelf to satisfy a class full of sugar-crazed kindergarteners for a decade.
“The after-Halloween sale,” she explains with a sheepish smile.
I snicker. “I can see that.”
“So, you’re going to be in the nook.” she points to a tiny recess separated from the rest of the apartment by a floral-patterned curtain. It’s crowded with a sagging brown futon and a low-slung table so scratched up that I wonder if it was a dog chew toy in another life. “I know the apartment isn’t much, but it’s comfortable and the location is great since we’re so close to the beach,” she goes on, pushing the curtain all the way to one side and parking my rolling suitcase next to the futon. Then she steps back, rests her hands on her hips and releases a long breath.
“And I know that the circumstances are hella horrible, but we’ll make this fun, okay?”
Fun?
I’m exhausted and disjointed from rearranging the pieces of my life. I’m depressed. I’m humiliated. I’m defeated and broke.
Fun is not happening.
Fun was strapped to a rocket launcher and fired through a hole in the ozone.
Fun is orbiting a solar system in another galaxy right now.
What I really want to do is get back into a pair of pajamas, curl myself roly-poly style into a tight ball, close my eyes tight and fall asleep on that futon for the next decade. Give or take a few months.
But Julie’s acting like everything is decided. Like she’s been tasked as navigator and handed a compass and the map that leads the way out of my breakup hell.
“Definitely fun,” I lie. “It’ll be just like drama camp.”
She smiles, clearly relieved. “Are you hungry? We can get some food or I can help you put away your clothes if that’s better? I already cleaned out the hall closet for you and set aside some space in the bathroom for your things.”
I lift Weebit’s carrier up to eye level. “I think I better get this guy’s cage from my car and work on setting that up first.”
An unfamiliar hand lands on my shoulder and a deep, melodious voice speaks into my ear. “I can help with that if you’d like.”
“Agh!” I release a bleat of surprise and dodge away from the hand.
“You almost gave her a heart attack!” Julie’s tone is chiding but a smile is creasing the skin around her eyes.
Clutching Weebit’s carrier to my chest, I spin and come face-to-face with a stranger.
“Sorry, I didn’t mean to scare you,” he says, sticking his arms up over his head like I’ve just placed him under arrest. He’s tall with a mane of thick black hair that he’s pulled away from his face and secured in a low ponytail.
Julie nods to him. “This is Smith.”
“Marcus Smith,” he says. “But most people just stick with Smith.”
“Right. The Smith of pesto hummus fame,” I reply with a smile.
He laughs. “That’s right. And you’re Gemma?”
“Of sex tape fame?” A girl appears in the doorway.
Julie winces as she grabs the newcomer’s elbow and presents her to me. “Gem, pay no attention to anything this one says.”
“She has no filter,” Smith adds.
The girl puts her hands on her hips. “For your information, I do have a filter. My mouth filter is optional, and I simply opt not to use it.”
“Good to know,” I say, one hand extended politely.
“Claudia Young.” Clearly not a student of body language or a believer in personal space, Claudia skips the handshake and goes straight in for the hug.
She’s about my height with the slim, wiry build of a long distance runner. A shock of platinum blond hair swoops low over one side of her oval-shaped face in a style that I can only describe as skate punk meets post-modern. She has deep-set dark brown eyes and a wide, pretty mouth.
“You’ll love it here,” she comments as she turns sideways and squeezes past me. “What we lack in amenities, we make up for in character.” When she sees the animal carrier in my hands, she bends forward to peek through the cage bars. Her red-shellacked mouth twists up and her eyes turn round as dinner plates. “And what do you have there? A fat squirrel?”
A fat squirrel? Checking on the dove grey ball of fur cowering toward the back of the carrier, I expel a breath and try not to be offended for my pet’s sake. “Weebit isn’t a squirrel. He’s actually a chinchilla.”
She pauses to check out Weebit again before popping over to the refrigerator to help herself to a can of soda. Smith is right behind her. “A chinchilla? Well that’s different.”
I’ve gotten used to this reaction. Chinchillas aren’t particularly rare, but they’re not exactly mainstream. Ren, for one, thought I’d lost my mind when I showed up with Weebit and his giant cage last month. I tried to explain that I was bored and lonely with him working so many hours on the show. Ren’s response: If you’re bored, you could work out more. It would be good for your body.
To Claudia, I say, “I’m allergic to cats and chins are clean, quiet and cute. Don’t worry—he won’t bite you.”
“Then I won’t bite him,” Claudia says, plonking herself down on the couch with the gusto of familiarity. Adjusting the cushions behind her back, she says in a conversational tone, “So we heard you just got steamrolled by Ren Parkhurst.”
Julie throws her hands up and lets loose an annoyed shriek. “Claudia!”
“What’s the problem?” Claudia, who I have to remind myself hails from the planet
No-Filter, pushes a white-blond tendril from her forehead and scrunches up her nose. “I think I’m only stating the obvious. At least I didn’t lead with a pregnancy question.”
“Agghhh!” Julie cries out. “That’s not the point, Claudia! It’s so obnoxious to just put that out there when—”
“It’s okay, Jules!” My voice barges in and steals the spotlight. I wave my left hand aggressively because I don’t know what else to do with myself. “Just so we’re all clear, I’m not pregnant with Ren’s baby.”
Julie slouches with relief and laughs. “Thank you, God. I was almost afraid to ask.”
Unaffected, Claudia opens her soda can and takes a long swig. “Glad to hear about the status of your womb. I swear I didn’t mean to start off on the wrong foot. I figured you might as well be prepared for the commentary because people are going to bring it up. The image of you passing out on the bathroom floor while your boyfriend gets it on with someone else is seared into people’s brains.”
I nod. Thanks for the reminder.
“I gotta hand it to you for becoming a part of the pop culture machine. Many have tried, but few have succeeded.” She lifts her soda like she’s toasting me.
“Yep.” More nodding. I’m nodding so much that the room is starting to go cockeyed.
“Anyway, I should probably warn you up front that I love Hunter Digby. Love,” she emphasizes, earning a snort from Smith and another horrified look from Julie.
“Do you not understand why Gemma is here?” My best friend bends her head and covers her eyes. “She just broke up with the guy. She does not want to hear you talk about how much you love him.”
“I didn’t say I loved Ren,” Claudia defends, straightening her posture and kicking her feet out from the couch. “I said that I love Hunter Digby. It’s not the same thing and Gemma seems sophisticated enough to know that.”
Hunter Digby is the character Ren plays on Howl, a craptastic teen werewolf show that started to takeoff in the ratings about six months ago. Now, it’s a staple show for American girls aged thirteen to eighteen. Viewership is boosted by the fact that Hunter Digby (a.k.a. my waitress-banging ex-boyfriend) is a supernatural hero who spends seventy-five percent of his airtime shirtless, greased up with some kind of oil, and smoldering under good lighting.
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