Absolutely True Lies

by Rachel Stuhler

  Too depressed to think straight, I stood up and walked to the blinds, flipping Tito the bird before shutting them. I then collapsed into my tiny bed and went to sleep. For days. And I do mean days. By the time my mother called to make sure I hadn’t been gang-raped and strangled to death, the hair on my legs could have been French-braided.

  “What, Ma?” I said from beneath the covers, lest I accidentally let any light enter my dungeon of despair. “I’m not in the mood.”

  “You haven’t called me in a week, Holly. I thought you were dead.”

  No, I just wished I was dead. “I’m fine,” I lied, yawning. “I’m just tired.”

  “Why are you tired? You go to the movies and write five hundred words about it.”

  This was an argument we had all the time. My mother works for city government and feels that her forty hours a week at a desk is much more grueling than my forty hours a week at a desk. I didn’t know how to tell her that I no longer even had a desk.

  “I’m sick, okay?” I shot back, about ready to throw the phone at the wall.

  “Were you making out with someone last night?” my mother asked, chastising me like I was twelve years old and caught with the boy next door. “You don’t know where those men have been, Holly.”

  The only creature who’d attempted to make out with me in months was Smitty, and even that only happened when I was eating something that smelled appetizing.

  “No, Mom, it’s just something that’s going around at work.” Yeah, it’s called unemployment. “I’ll call you back in a couple of days when I feel better.”

  “I just wanted to let you know that Uncle Bob is going to be calling you—”

  “Great,” I said, “Love you, Mom. Bye.” I hung up quickly, before she could say anything else.

  Then I opened up the back of the phone and yanked out the battery, tossing all three pieces on the floor next to the bed. I had no job, no boyfriend, and very few friends—who the hell needed to talk to me? If I were found dead in this apartment a week or so from now (the manager always bangs on the door and lets himself in when the rent is even six seconds late), who would really care besides the local news? I’d even be willing to bet that I’m worth more to this world as a tragic, twenty-five-year-old dead Hollywood wannabe than a living, breathing, aspiring novelist. And my mother would finally have an emotional wound big enough to top everyone else in her bridge club, including Debbie Paul, whose son was born with a cleft palate and, according to my mom, never shuts up about it.

  So I went back to sleep, half of me hoping that this was all just a really cliché insecurity dream and the other half praying that God, Allah, Zeus, or whoever would just strike me down in my sleep and save me from having to wake up again.

  • • •

  But I did wake up eventually. By the time I actually did get out of bed long enough to take a shower and change my clothes, Smitty was in the kitchen, chewing through a cardboard box of cereal. I had a sudden pang of guilt as I saw the row of hastily opened cans of cat food I had just tossed on the floor each night before crawling back into my den of self-pity. Apparently, I had forgotten to even do that the night before.

  “I’m sorry, Smits,” I said, bending down to pet him. But Smitty just gave me a look of contempt and abandoned the cereal box, sashaying his way into the living room without so much as a backward glance. Great. Now even my cat hated me.

  I didn’t know what day it was, and it was only by the sun peeking through my blinds that I guessed the microwave clock read 2:00 P.M., not 2:00 A.M. Against my better judgment, I walked the ten feet from my kitchenette back to my bed and knelt down, gathering the pieces of my cell phone. The only thought running through my mind was that I had had this phone number for four years now; four years and I was likely about to have my phone shut off for nonpayment.

  As the screen blinked to life, I saw that it was now the twenty-­ninth. I had been asleep for eight days. I waited anxiously for my phone to register any texts or voice mails, hoping to discover that Kragen had reconsidered and saved the magazine, even though I’m fairly certain they made about eleven dollars an issue.

  I was even more hopeful when my phone politely dinged and said I had nine new voice mails. But my excitement quickly faded as I discovered that the first five were from my mother.

  At least number six was a surprise. “Hey, kid, it’s your Uncle Bob-O. I just wanted to let you know that I gave out your number to a friend of mine in the L.A. area. He said something about needing an entertainment writer and I told him I had just the gal. His name is Jameson Lloyd and he used to jam with me back in high school. Not really sure what he does now, but maybe you can clear some extra cash. Talk to you later, Holly.”

  I pressed delete. You might think I was excited by this message, or at least the teensiest bit encouraged, but I wasn’t. Not even the slightest. That’s because in this town, people promise you Tiffany and can’t even deliver Taco Bell. Everyone I’ve ever met in L.A. has told me what a fantastic, talented, brilliant, genius writer I am, and how they plan to catapult me to the top of the literary world. No one has ever gotten me a job, read a single word of what I’ve written, or even bothered to call me back a second time. Even my “agent,” Gus, who I met through the aunt of a friend of a boss’s sister-in-law, who guaranteed me he’d tear the throat out of any client who tried to screw me, never met with me again after I hired him. Though he does dutifully collect his ten percent of my measly earnings every month. When my paycheck from Kragen is late, it’s Gus who notices first, not me. Oh, and he didn’t even get me that job—I applied over the Internet and was stupid enough to tell him about it.

  So when I listened to the next two messages, I wasn’t expecting a thing. My best friend, Camille, called to say she was worried about me and that my mother had been obsessively texting her for information, and was I alive and available for a drink? As I thought back to my drunken mint stupor, the bile rose in my throat and I quickly pressed 7 and moved on. I resolved to abstain from alcohol for six months or until I had hung myself in despair, unable to wash the stench of failure off my skin, whichever was sooner.

  The eighth was from a local congressman, hoping for my vote in the special election. I was not aware we were having a special election, and to be perfectly honest, I’m not altogether sure I’m registered to vote in the state of California (I’ve always had a misaligned sense of civic duty). I sighed and expected that the last would be from a Chinese food hellhole telling me about their latest egg foo yong special, but I was unfamiliar with the voice speaking back at me through the phone.

  “Heya, Holly, my name is Jameson and I got your name through Bob Riker.”

  I sat up straighter in astonishment. I think I may have even glanced at Smitty to make sure he wasn’t talking to me, as somehow, that would have seemed less strange.

  “I have a client who’s looking for a good ghostwriter, and Bob recommended you. I’d love you to come out and meet with us next week if possible, and you two can chat and see how things go. I can’t promise you anything beyond that, but give me a call and we’ll see if we can work something out. My number is 3-1-0—”

  I heaved myself off the floor and ran for a pen. Not finding a piece of paper, I wrote the phone number on the wall with a Sharpie. Hey—I already lived in a shitty apartment, how much more damage could I do to the place? I then replayed the message to double-check the number and make sure I wasn’t hallucinating. But it was real, all of it. I had no idea who this client was or how much the job might pay, but if it could get me through even another month, it might be enough to keep me afloat until I could find something else.

  My grandmother always says that God never closes a door without opening a window. For twenty-five years, I was pretty sure she was full of shit, but right about now, I was ready to throw open every one of the barred and double-paned windows in my postage stamp. Hallelujah, praise Jebus—there was a c
hance that I was back in business.

  CHAPTER 2

  You’ll be surprised to know my life is actually pretty normal. I live in a house with my mom and dad, just like other teenagers. I failed my driver’s test twice (I can’t believe I just admitted that!), and even now, my mom doesn’t really like me to drive after dark.

  I probably don’t get as much sleep as other teens, though. With work on the show and my next album, sometimes I only have two or three free hours a day, during which time I curl up with my three dogs and try to get a little bit of shut-eye!

  Four days later, I was driving aimlessly around Holmby Hills, a part of Los Angeles I’d only just discovered existed. It’s an absurdly rich section of West L.A. sandwiched in between Bel Air and Brentwood, and given that we do still technically live in a desert, I found it bizarre and more than a bit offensive that every lawn I passed looked like Technicolor Astroturf. I once saw a weed growing resolutely from a crack in a sidewalk in my neighborhood, and even the weed was a mousy brown.

  You might think I was driving in endless circles because I was lost, but that’s not the case at all. I just had no idea where I was headed. When I first returned Jameson Lloyd’s phone call, I received a laundry list of instructions that provided not a single clue as to (a) where I was going, (b) who I was meeting, or even (c) what the job was.

  “My client is very private,” Mr. Lloyd had told me over the phone. “And so you understand why I can’t give you the address.”

  “Of course,” I lied. “And what does the specific job entail?”

  Lloyd inhaled sharply through his teeth like he’d just stubbed his toe. “Wow, Hols—I can call you Hols, right?” He didn’t wait for an answer before rushing on. “I think we’re getting ahead of ourselves. Just head out to Holmby Hills around noon on Sunday and give me a call. I’ll give you the turn-by-turn directions to get up here.”

  By this point, I was fairly convinced my uncle Bob had sold me into white slavery and I was about to be kidnapped and shipped to Abu Dhabi. Especially when I tried to locate Holmby Hills on a ­Google map and was informed that no such city existed. But after a few more online searches, I finally realized it was a neighborhood—a very tony neighborhood with residents like Gwen Stefani and Hugh Hefner. I still thought I was about to become the concubine of a wealthy Middle Eastern oil magnate, but at least then I wouldn’t have to worry about making rent every month.

  So as Sunday approached, I was terrified. But not just at the possibility that this job could all be some sort of a scam where I was asked to mail a check for a thousand dollars to Christian aid workers in Nigeria; I was also just as scared that this might be a real job. I had never ghostwritten anything before and had zero idea what the hell it really meant. I mean, I knew that I was supposed to write down the words and let someone else take the credit for them, but nonfiction has never been my strong suit. I’m a lazy researcher, and most of the time I find the truth about as exciting as instant oatmeal. I would much rather offer my ill-informed opinion or, even better, make up a story entirely. But I had just written my rent check and now had two hundred dollars to my name, so this wasn’t the moment for me to be picky.

  At 11:55, I called Mr. Lloyd from the parking lot of a golf course on Sunset.

  “Excellent,” he said. “My client should be getting up any time now.”

  My eyes shifted to the clock in my car. It was noon, right? I know this is a strange town, but who gets up at noon? I shook my head and remembered that I had to keep an open mind. Maybe he or she was sick, or had been down for a nap with their newborn . . . There were plenty of reasons—other than idle waste—that someone might sleep into the afternoon. It’s just that, given the inherent hedonism of my adopted hometown, I was inclined toward the latter explanation.

  Now that I had reached the general vicinity, I expected Mr. Lloyd to give me the actual street directions to the house. Again, I was wrong.

  “The paps would just die if they had this address,” he told me. “And besides, it’s really only another mile from where you are, I can totally talk you through the turns. Get back on Sunset going west, and let me know when you see a street to your left that’s shaped like a thong.”

  I’m sorry, a what?

  “Um . . . sure,” I replied, once again illegally talking on my cell phone. I turned back out onto Sunset Boulevard and wondered what the hell a thong-shaped street was supposed to look like. “A thong, you said?”

  “Yeah, yeah,” he replied quickly. “Off to your left, just a couple streets up. Wide mouth for a residential street.”

  I caught sight of the street and moved into the turn lane, cringing as I realized why he thought it looked like a thong. So far, this guy seemed like a real class act.

  “Now you’re going to follow that road for the next three quarters of a mile, almost until it ends. You’ll be able to see the split, but don’t go that far—turn in to the last house on the right. The guard knows you’re coming.” And without his saying good-bye, there was an audible click as he hung up the phone.

  “Okay,” I said to myself as I wound past houses several times larger than my entire college. Just in case I actually got this job and had to come back, I made a mental note that I was on Charing Cross Road. I wondered if Lloyd, in keeping the address from me, thought I was truly so stupid that I wouldn’t—or couldn’t—read the street signs. Me . . . a writer.

  I drove past several more estates that looked far too large for any single human being or family to reside in, before seeing the end of Charing Cross a hundred feet in front of me. I slowed down and anxiously turned in to the gate for the last house on the right, noticing that it was one of the biggest in the neighborhood.

  And when I say I slowed down, I mean I slowed down. Whenever I start something new, I find the most frightening part is walking into an unfamiliar place and meeting your new bosses and co-­workers. I’m never really that nervous in interviews or even the morning of a new job, but that last couple of minutes before I’m thrown into the mix makes me want to turn tail and flee to a cantina in Oaxaca and spend the rest of my life as a beach bum. I imagine my first morning of preschool had to be sheer hell for all involved.

  But the entry to the driveway was only about thirty yards deep, so I couldn’t avoid the inevitable for very long. By the time my front tires touched the driveway, a burly guard had already sprung out of his little brick station and was halfway to my car. In the three seconds before he actually spoke to me, I realized that in my ancient and sputtering vehicle, he might mistake me for the maid. And I wouldn’t blame him one bit.

  “Holly Gracin, here to see . . . er . . .” I hesitated, wondering how I was supposed to announce myself to the unnamed and unknown big shot who lived in this palace of capitalist greed and waste.

  “They’re expecting you.” The guard nodded. “Just drive straight up to the house and Mr. Lloyd will meet you.”

  He turned and walked back to the guard station, typed a code into the computer, and then the heavy iron gates began to swing open. For a split second, the theme song to The Real Housewives of Beverly Hills popped into my head and I craned my neck to see if some superfamous restaurateur I’d never heard of was painting her nails on the front veranda. But who was I kidding—no one does that in front of the house in plain view of the street. They have backyard infinity pools for that.

  I drove around the small, circled driveway and wished like hell I didn’t have to park my car in front of this house. Couldn’t I have hidden it down the block and walked the rest of the way? If I had to negotiate a project price, I knew I wouldn’t have much leverage once the client caught sight of the heaping pile of fiberglass and rust baking in the sun.

  But if I was worried that Mr. Lloyd would make a snap decision upon seeing me climb out of the car, I didn’t need to be. Contrary to what the guard had told me, there was no one waiting for me. In fact, just from looking, I wouldn’
t have guessed there was anyone home. No open windows, no cars in the driveway . . . The place might as well have been a movie set.

  I waited another minute or so, then climbed up the steps and walked to the front door and rang the bell. No one answered, but immediately, I heard what sounded like thirty yappy little dogs begin barking from somewhere inside the house. When I rang the bell a second time, I could hear them skittering toward the door, their collective miniature paws scraping the bare floors.

  “Belle, Jasmine, Ariel,” exclaimed a high-pitched girlish voice with a distinct southern drawl. “I swear to God, y’all are giving me a headache!”

  A moment later, the enormous front door swung open and I found myself staring down at a teenage girl so slight I was pretty sure she could fit in my pocket. It was roughly five more seconds before I realized who she was, this face that I’d seen plastered on magazine covers and movie screens for the last several years (not to mention the endless tawdry tabloids I glanced at in line at the grocery store).

  Her beauty in person was nothing less than profound, and I completely understood why men and women alike stopped and stared. With golden blond, wavy hair that fell to the middle of her back, a heart-shaped face that completely lacked guile or pretension, and eyes the color of clear Bermuda water, the girl looked like she had been crafted by an artistic genius instead of born from a normal, living, breathing human being. If I pricked her, I thought she might have bled Cristal.

  The midget screen princess blinked up at me with those enormous Caribbean eyes and broke into a dazzling grin. “Are you Holly?”

  “Yes.” I nodded nervously, glad I still retained the power of speech.

  “I’m Daisy Mae,” she continued, smiling brighter. “But I’m sure you already know that.”

  Of course I did. You’d be hard-pressed to find someone under the age of seventy who didn’t know the name Daisy Mae Dixson, the veteran Nickelodeon child star who had moved seamlessly into both blockbuster movies and pop music, and whose adolescent crushes were the subjects of entire articles in Star and In Touch Weekly. She was such big news that this time last year someone had devoted a website to the countdown to her eighteenth birthday, for those men who felt their attraction was acceptable once she passed the age of sexual consent. As though this gave them any chance of getting within a mile of the Christian pop princess who still went to church with Daddy on Sundays and wore a promise ring on her left hand. And yes, it frightened me that I, a twenty-five-year-old woman, knew this many details about the life of an eighteen-year-old stranger.