Halfway Perfect

by Julie Cross

  • • •

  “You’ve got to be kidding.” I stare at the papers in front of me then up at the middle-aged woman behind the desk in her tiny Student Aid office cubicle.

  Steph is seated beside me, and she leans in to get a closer look. “What is this stuff? I didn’t know you owned a car?”

  I swallow the dryness in the back of my throat. “I don’t.”

  My eyes meet Steph’s and she says, “Your parents did all this?”

  I can’t do anything but nod.

  “Because of your credit score being so low, getting loans for next year is going to be impossible,” the woman says, looking both uncomfortable and sympathetic.

  “But it’s fraudulent,” Steph argues. “That stuff can be erased.”

  The woman nods. “True. But in this case, if it is your parents using your name and Social Security number while you were still technically under their care, it’s very difficult to contest.”

  After leaving Janessa’s, I headed right back to my room to tell Stephanie what had happened, and after an hour of talking through the logic with her, I had come into this meeting ready to bite the bullet and start the process of student loans that would take me a hundred years to pay off. And now, thanks to my parents, I couldn’t even do that.

  “She’s emancipated. Why doesn’t she qualify for loans again?” Steph asks.

  “Because in the last tax year, I technically had a hundred grand in my bank account.” This possibility had already been explored many times over. Hence the need for a scholarship.

  “But,” the woman says, trying to inject some amount of hope into the conversation, “this time next year, you’ll have a much different financial status and I imagine you’ll qualify for some grant money then.”

  I sat there feeling sick as a dog, nodding as she went on about a few options for much smaller scholarships that could help for next year, and then finally Steph and I left the office carrying a dozen pamphlets on student aid and a copy of my very flawed credit history.

  It seemed fitting that my life in the tabloids mimicked that of my credit report: lots of experiences I never had but that my name has been attached to.

  “Look,” Steph says. “This semester and spring semester are paid for. It’s just a matter of next year. And you heard that woman, even the year after next will be easier. One year, Eve. Two semesters.”

  “Right,” I say, nodding, trying to catch her logic, her hopeful energy. There’s got to be a way. There’s always a way. I should know. I’ve dug myself out of some very deep holes.

  “Worst case,” she adds. “You find some rich family on the Upper East and become their live-in nanny for a year. People do that.”

  “That’s a good plan B to replace the student loan plan.” I’m shivering from the fever, talking through chattering teeth. “The Mason Scholarship was always a long shot.”

  “But just being a finalist will look great on your résumé,” Steph says.

  After we walk into our building and I’ve breathed in enough warm air to stop my teeth from chattering, I say, “There’s one other much less appealing, but technically possible, option to explore.”

  Steph hits the button of the elevator before looking at my face, her eyes wide with comprehension. “Oh no, you’re aren’t actually thinking about—”

  I let out a breath. “I’m just saying it’s an option.”

  “Why does this feel like one of those one last jobs, gotta help your gang brothers or Soprano family deals?” Steph asks. “Like you’ll go in, but never come out again.”

  I shake my head. “It doesn’t have to be like that.”

  But really I’m not sure what it would be like to model again. Or if the Sears catalog is even hiring still.

  Chapter 37: Alex

  December 3, 10:00 p.m.

  “Why are we here again?” I ask Elana.

  Unfortunately, I’m feeling well enough today to be forced into another party with my “girlfriend.”

  “New collection of Gucci watches, remember?” she says, quiet so no one will hear. “Are you okay?”

  No, not really. My tie is strangling me, probably because my glands are still swollen. But my fever is gone and my nose isn’t dripping like a faucet anymore.

  I miss Eve. I miss texting her. I miss libraries and coffee shops and her and her camera. I wait until we’re alone at the bar before responding to Elana’s question. “Have you talked to her?”

  Elana nods, knowing exactly who the her is I’m referring to. “I think she’s still sick. We didn’t get to talk for long.”

  A pang of guilt hits me hard. She’s still sick. “What else? The tabloids have been publishing the worst kind of lies I’ve ever seen in my life.”

  Elana looks down at her hands, currently gripping the edge of the bar. “She can’t assist Janessa right now. The designers don’t want her on set.”

  I press my face into my hands. “Fuck. This wasn’t supposed to affect her.”

  Elana leans down so our heads are practically pressed together. It’s very cozy for a “couple” photo. Smart girl.

  “What do you think about Eve?” I ask Elana. “Do you think she’s messed up?” I hate to even ask, but maybe I was in over my head. “She’s had a hard life.”

  What the hell am I doing consulting a fourteen-year-old for advice?

  “She’s had a hard life,” Elana agrees, looking like she’s really thinking her answer through. “She told me a little about it, but she’s not trying to give a sob story. I think she just wants to move on.”

  And now I’ve made that impossible for her because she’s lost her job with Janessa.

  Wes interrupts our private moment. “Elana, honey, I’ve got someone I want you to meet.”

  Elana set her glass down on the bar without hesitation. I zoom in on Wes’s hand resting on her arm as he guides her away. The nausea from the other day returns, and I set my own drink down, pushing it away. I watch them walk across the room.

  Is this why Eve was always asking me about Elana? Where she was and who she was with?

  I’m so deep in thought that I hardly notice Elana’s agent, Kara, sliding beside me at the bar, watching the same two people that I’m currently staring at. “Here we go again, right?” she says, low enough so only I hear it.

  I snap around to look at her. “What do you mean?”

  “Nothing.” She shakes her head, looking extremely pissed off about something, then the anger drops from her face, and she fakes a smile. “I forgot why I came over here, not for alcohol. I’m supposed to tell you that you’re allowed to leave. Wes said he wants you healthy and rested up for tomorrow. Just sneak out when no one’s looking.”

  “What about Elana?” I ask. “Are you taking her home?”

  Now I sound like Eve. But Finley, that girl from my agency, was right about the plan for Elana. December first came and Lumina was gone. Finley moved in with Elana and her other roommate, so maybe I can talk to her about keeping an eye on Elana.

  Kara sighs and points to my glass of wine, signaling for the bartender to bring her one. “Wes will take care of it; just go. You’re free, unlike the rest of us.”

  My palms are sweating and my stomach is queasy. I slide off the bar stool and instead of sneaking out, as I’ve been instructed, I walk over to where Elana and Wes are talking to a Gucci designer I recognize from the last party. Before anyone can say anything to me or reintroduce me, I lean close to Elana and whisper, “Wes said we should make up an excuse to leave. He wants us healthy for the fragrance shoot.”

  I can see confusion and then nerves reflected in her expression, but she hides it quickly and turns to the designer, “Excuse me,” she says. “My parents are trying to get ahold of me. I need to give them a call. Really lovely to meet you.”

  I try not to groan out loud. It’s the middle of the n
ight in France, but I guess if it’s an emergency people call in the middle of the night. Whatever. She can work on her lying skills later. I pull her away and toward the exit before Wes can stop us. He’s probably got a car for me, but I’m not going to stick around long enough to ask. We grab our coats and then a cab. If he gets pissed at me for taking Elana away from an important conversation, I’ll just tell him I must have misunderstood Kara and thought we were both supposed to sneak out.

  “That was really nice of Wes to let us go early.” Elana settles into her seat. “Maybe I can watch Letterman.”

  I don’t think I’ve ever been this nervous or stressed out in my entire life, and she is the epitome of calm and relaxed.

  “Elana,” I say slowly, trying not to sound like something is really wrong. But of course she looks at me with alarm. “You can’t—I mean—just stick with me, okay?”

  She turns to look at me. “What do you mean?”

  My phone buzzes in my pocket. I know it’s Wes so I don’t look at the text. “It’s just…there're people who do really bad stuff…take advantage of children—”

  She glares at me and scoots further away. “I’m not a child!”

  Okay, this isn’t going well. “I know you’re not a child. I didn’t mean it that way. Fourteen is old, really old.”

  “I’m fifteen.” She won’t look at me now, but there’s a shake in her voice like she’s about to cry. “Yesterday was my birthday.”

  “Oh.” I let out a breath. How did we go from preventing statutory rape to birthdays? “Well, happy late birthday.”

  “Thanks.”

  I can tell we’ve hit a wall, and this birthday thing is a big deal to her. I probably jumped into the more serious topic too fast. I suck at this. “Let’s go somewhere and have some cake. Have you had cake yet?”

  “Wes and Kara brought me a cake yesterday,” she says.

  Wes actually gave cake to a model? That’s a shocker. I bet he laced it with laxatives. That would explain her moodiness. “Then we can do something else. You are my girlfriend after all, right? We have to celebrate your birthday.”

  Elana’s too polite to not at least smile at my sorry attempt at a joke. “I feel like going home.”

  “You would tell me if you, you know…liked someone? Maybe wanted to date them secretly?” I spit out the words with a great deal of effort. “Like if you had a real boyfriend, you’d tell me, right?”

  She finally turns to face me again. “Like how you told me about you and Eve?”

  “Oh, come on, you knew.”

  “Not because you told me, and not because Eve told me,” she challenges.

  I’m currently at a loss for words, and the cab has now pulled up in front of Elana’s building. She rests a hand on the door handle. “Just admit it, Alex. You hate being around me. You hate this whole situation, and if you didn’t feel so guilty about lying to everyone, you wouldn’t care about me at all. And Eve is only nice to me because of you. She’d do anything for you.”

  “That’s not true,” I say, trying to sound as firm as possible. At least the part about Eve isn’t true. She worries about Elana all on her own. But what she said about me, that’s mostly true. I don’t hate her. I really don’t. I hate the situation.

  “Good night, Alex.” She’s out of the cab so fast, I don’t even have a chance to check the outside of the building for weirdos or potential murderers, but I make the driver wait for her to go inside before I give him my address.

  I instinctively reach for my phone, preparing to send Eve a text before I stop myself and remember that she and I are over. And the text I got earlier surprisingly wasn’t from Wes. It was from Katie.

  KATIE: You are all over the Internet. What’s the real story?

  ME: Trust me. It’s not nearly as interesting as anything you’ve read.

  KATIE: You can tell me the truth. I won’t tell anyone.

  ME: It’s complicated and your life should stay as simple as possible. Just promise me something?

  KATIE: What?

  ME: Don’t become a model.

  KATIE: Yeah right. Want to talk?

  I let out another long sigh. Talking to Katie about all her high school angst actually sounds kind of nice, but I know she’ll want to know what’s going on in my life, and avoiding the truth is one thing. Lying is a completely different thing.

  ME: I’m beat. Maybe tomorrow?

  KATIE: Sure.

  More guilt is invading me. She probably thinks I don’t want to listen to her current life’s drama, or that I’m too cool for my family and my little sister.

  As an afterthought, I send one last text to her, because there are two people I’d like to say this to but only one who I’ll actually allow myself tell.

  ME: I miss you.

  Chapter 38: Eve

  December 5, 1:20 a.m.

  I’m coughing up blood. And possibly a lung. At least that’s what it feels like. “This is bad,” I say to Steph, who has just shot up out of her bed.

  “You need to go to a doctor, seriously.”

  I can hardly move, let alone contemplate the idea of getting somewhere like a hospital. I know what this is and it’s not going away without some strong antibiotics. Or at least I hope that’s the worst-case scenario.

  “I’ll go with you,” Steph says.

  “No, you’ve got an exam in a few hours. I could be there all night. I’m not dying, so who knows how long the wait will be?” She looks reluctant to agree, so I add, “Just help me bundle up and maybe get a cab.”

  Steph loans me her extra thick ski jacket, scarf, and hat and then comes downstairs with me to hail a cab. I feel like I’m only half in reality, like my brain is fogged up and I can’t get a grip on anything but surviving.

  • • •

  “You have pneumonia,” the ER doc says.

  “What’s the treatment?”

  He’s already scribbling on his prescription pad. “First off, you have to push fluids. You’re dehydrated. I’m giving you an antibiotic and you should take it with food. Also a cough syrup with codeine so you can sleep, and an inhaler to get your airways open.”

  “Which ones do I absolutely need? Like if I can only afford one or two?” I have the bare minimum of insurance policies that the university requires and it doesn’t cover prescriptions.

  The doctor opens his mouth to protest, but a nurse walks in, followed by Wes.

  Wes is here in the emergency room. Lovely.

  “What are you doing here?” I say, not hiding the whine or the frustration in my voice. “And how the hell did you know I was here?”

  “Twitter.” He holds his phone up. “I think you have someone following you.”

  “Oh great, I’m probably pregnant, overdosed on crack that I bought from the ghetto dealers, and I bet I have an STD too.” I glance up and see that I’ve scared both the doctor and the nurse. “Not really,” I say quickly.

  “Well then.” The doctor taps the stack of prescriptions. “To answer your question, you need all of these. You’ve got finals coming up, right? You need all the help you can get.”

  I don’t even realize I’m crying until the tears start landing on my hand. Finals. No place to stay for winter break. I’m sick as a dog. I can’t work with Janessa. And Wes is here.

  The doctor sits beside me and pats my hand. “We can keep you overnight if you want? IV fluids can do wonders.”

  “No!” I wipe my eyes with my sleeve. The co-pay for a hospital stay is something like a thousand dollars. I mean at this point, a thousand might as well be a million.

  Wes snatches the prescriptions off the bed and turns to the doctor. “Where can we get these filled tonight?”

  The doctor looks relieved. “Pharmacy right across from the information desk.”

  “Come on, Evie.” Wes holds out a hand for me.


  I don’t know why, but I follow him even though it’s a really bad idea, but what the hell am I supposed to do? While we’re waiting at the pharmacy, I curl up in a chair and doze off. I barely notice Wes pulling my purse from my hands and spouting off my address, phone number, birthday. My ears perk up when I hear them say it’s nearly two hundred dollars for the prescriptions. I peel my eyes open to see Wes remove his own wallet and hand over a credit card.

  When Wes comes back over, I manage to open my eyes long enough to say, “I’ll pay you back.”

  “Don’t worry about it.” He leads me out the doors and into a cab.

  My head bobs around as I fight to stay awake, but I’m aware enough after about ten minutes to realize we’re not headed back to my dorm. “Where are we going?”

  “My place,” Wes says.

  “No! I can’t. My roommate is expecting me.” I look over and he’s got my phone in his hands, then he hands it to me.

  “Text her. You can’t go to class when you’re this sick, Eve. Just sleep on the couch tonight,” he says. “You only have to walk about three feet to get to both the bathroom and the kitchen. Let me help you. It’s the least I can do.”

  So now he feels guilty for letting everyone think that I was a druggie at sixteen. That’s nice. We’re already dating online. I guess I might as well get something out of this nightmare. “Fine. Whatever.”

  He’s moved since when I dated him. This place is bigger and full of black and gray electronics, and of course it’s neat as a pin, with everything perfectly in place.

  Wes gives me a very fluffy pillow and a very soft, warm blanket, and I’m already curled under it, ready to drift off, when he lines up the prescription bottles on the coffee table.

  “God, Evie, what have you done to yourself? This is a lot of drugs,” he says, examining each bottle.

  “Well, I decided it might be fun to put bacteria into my lungs and see what happens.” Didn’t he say he wanted to help? “Who doesn’t want to cough up blood and have a hundred and five fever?”