by Anna Dorn
“Beau’s driving,” Jax says. I wonder how Beau can afford a G-Wagen but don’t ask any questions.
“Just throw your stuff in the back,” Beau says.
I do as ordered and hop in the back seat. “You chill with Mimi’s entire discography?” Jax asks, fiddling with his iPhone. I’m waiting for him to say something about my hair, but he doesn’t. Maybe it’s not as bad as I think. Then I feel those awful choppy layers on my cheek and become ill.
“Yeah, but once we get to the desert”—I lean back in my seat, a little buzzed—”I’m going to need to hear Lana.”
Before I know it, we’re cruising to “Video Games” among the windmills. The desert feels like I would imagine the moon, which makes me think of space, which frightens me.
Ellie finds my fear of space “confounding.” She’s the type of person who loves roller coasters and turbulence on airplanes. She talks about wanting to go to Mars and watches a lot of documentaries about aliens. She once called herself a “UFOlogist” and said that it comforted her to think about the vastness of the universe and how small she was in comparison.
“I’m just, like, a speck of matter,” she’d said with wide eyes.
I shudder at the memory and bring my gaze into the car. I focus on my legs, which always look the same. Just as I begin to dissociate, Jax hands me a joint. I wave it away and try to focus on my breath.
“Got any alcohol?” I ask when my breath freaks me out. I need to take the edge off. Weed will just cause more anxiety, more dissociation. I have to be in a good place, a drunk place, to enjoy cannabis.
Beau hands me a flask. I know I should be concerned because it’s half empty and he’s driving, but I only feel relief.
No one tells me whose house it is, a sparse, minimalist midcentury modern. Nina greets us with a gold tray filled with champagne flutes. I lean over to air-kiss her and she kind of laughs at me. I shrug and take a glass.
Nina says, finally, “Hi, freak.”
I roll my eyes.
She seems to like this and she kisses me on the cheek. I wipe my cheek theatrically and she hits me on the arm.
Lil’ Kim fills the room and I begin moving my hips. Jax appears and pulls me into the center of the room. People surround us. Most people here I don’t recognize.
“You guys,” Jax says in a sort of affected MC voice, interrupting my racing thoughts. “I want to introduce my girl Vaga, aka Vagablonde, and our new project, Shiny AF, aka Must Love Dina”—he pauses, laughs—”aka we met like a week ago.”
I chew a little on my nail. People are looking at me and I force a smile. I can do this, be around people all weekend, as long as I’m properly medicated. I have to keep a steady stream of substances going and I’ll be fine.
“Whose house is this?” I ask, and everyone just laughs.
We play Truth or Dare? by the pool as the sky pinkens.
I dare Jax to jump off the roof into the pool, and then I worry he might die and it will be my fault. My heart quickens as I watch him climb out of the second-floor window and onto the roof. But as soon as he leaps, I become mesmerized by how beautiful it looks, his pale tattooed body against the steel-gray mountains (I ate a weed mint). At some point he seems to freeze, suspended in midair for several seconds (my sense of time expands due to the edible). Then he falls quickly, like gravity is mad at him. A turquoise splash.
I pick truth every time because I’m scared of action and I’m a good liar. Jax asks me to name my first concert, which I’m embarrassed to say was Britney Spears. I was a Christina girl, but I was invited by a girl with a senator father, so my mom made me go. But Jax loves Britney, so he squeals and claps his hands, making his silver bangles clink together. His “desert look” is very retired-art-teacher-discovers-streetwear.
A girl I’ve never met before asks me about my first kiss. She looks very Coachella, with body glitter on her shoulders and sparkly ribbons braided into her hair. Her appearance bugs me, and I become angry that she zeroed in on me. But then I remember I get to talk about myself and ease back into the moment.
“Dante Mendoza,” I say. He was hot as hell. We met at soccer camp and then he invited me to a movie over AIM. We Frenched during Men in Black. Afterward, he told me he was high, and after we broke up, he told everyone I was a bad kisser. But I don’t tell any of this to the group. I just say that he was the best soccer player I’d ever seen.
When Nina targets me, my cheeks heat. Luckily it’s darker, so I don’t think anyone notices. I look up and watch palms sway against a navy-blue sky.
“Prue,” she says, a plume of smoke billowing around her mouth. The smoke swirls up and dances around a pool light. “When’s the last time you were vulnerable?”
God, how annoying. I take a cigarette out of the pack by my bare thigh, light it, inhale.
“Never,” I say.
Soon we’re in the pool house, crowded around a few monitors and speakers, sipping PBRs as Jax plays us beats. He’s wearing a midthigh-length bedazzled Aaliyah T-shirt and fishnet stockings, white Nike Huaraches.
The next beat is the one; I immediately imagine my voice on it. I feel good right now. Nina gave me an Adderall to make up for her annoying question in Truth or Dare? I have the perfect buzz. I’m not even thinking about Yumiko’s case or my vile haircut.
“This is it,” I say, and everyone starts getting rowdy.
“Our magnum opus,” Jax says as he squeezes my shoulder.
Jax ushers me into the booth. He closes the door and I put on the headphones and feel completely alone. This is my favorite thing about the booth, the way it shuts out the rest of the world. The beat drops and adrenaline hits. I open my mouth and start flowing.
I’ve been drinking for about seventeen beers
Been spittin’ for about two years
DGAF about a fixed gear
That tattoo on my cheek
I wish it were a tear
I wish Wyatt were here
I wish I was her—brrrrrrrrrrrr
When I exit the booth, everyone is shouting and my heart is racing. I sip my PBR and smile.
“Shots!” Jax says as Beau walks through with a tray of tiny glasses filled with clear liquid. These people and their trays of alcohol.
We all take glasses and clink, shoot. The tequila burns and I shiver.
After Pilar records a few angelic bars, we go back to the main house. Jax puts on Cardi B and Beau starts cutting lines on a gold tray, and I can tell it’s going to be a long night. I’m starting to feel a little out of it, not a blackout, but graying. I worry about being a bad lawyer, then remind myself that this is all part of the plan. After Yumiko’s case, I’m quitting. To be an artist.
“You okay?” Pilar asks, putting her arm around my shoulders.
“I hate my hair,” I say.
“Quelle blasphemy!” she shouts.
“What’s blasphemy?” Jax asks, then leans over to snort a line to the beat of “Bodak Yellow.”
“Prue says she doesn’t like her hair,” Pilar says.
Jax’s eyes get huge, which I attribute mostly to the cocaine. “Vagablonde!” he shouts. “Your hair is your everything.”
I become uncomfortable. Everyone is looking at me, people I don’t even know. Beau scowls and Nina looks bored.
“It’s nothing,” I say quietly. “I just got a bad haircut.”
“I can cut hair!” Pilar says.
“Pilar is a beauty queen,” says Jax. “She cuts my hair all the time.”
Jax does have nice hair, but it’s very different from mine— black and thick and coarse. Mine is fine and nearly white.
“Tell me what you don’t like,” Pilar says. She’s now sitting in front of me cross-legged and I feel like I’m in a salon.
I grab the gross choppy layers with my hands.
“You don’t like layers,” she says. “You want a blunt cut.”
“Exactly,” I say. “And no one will give it to me.”
“I will!” She grins.
When I emerge from the bathroom, everyone squeals. I know they’re high on cocaine, but the support feels good. They all love my new hair, they love me. I bask in the glory of revising myself. Then I take another shot.
I black in and we’re in a crowded bar. There are a billion red string lights and I’m surrounded by older gay men wearing leis.
“I love Toucans,” Jax whispers in my ear. Oh yeah, I’ve heard of this place. Some legendary gay bar. I still haven’t figured out Jax’s sexuality, but I’m leaning toward post-sexual.
We’re in the corner of the bar in a roped-off area. I scan my periphery. Beau is seated on my left; Nina on my right. I feel a hand on my ass and realize it’s Nina. I swat her hand away and she laughs.
I look back up at Jax and his eyes are nearly popping out of his head. Everyone’s head is turning toward a figure on the other side of the rope. Someone is removing the rope for her. She’s illuminated from behind and the first thing I see is her hair. It’s wild and messy and familiar. She has Wyatt Walcott hair. Oh my god.
“My god,” Jax says right at her. “If it isn’t the royal goddess of the flat screen.”
My heart races. Wyatt Walcott is standing in front of me. She’s in the same bar as me.
“Jax,” she says. Her face leans over to air-kiss him. Oh my god, Wyatt knows my producer’s name. We’re running in the same circles and basically living the same life.
I still can’t quite see Wyatt’s face; it’s shadowed. But I can see the golden tips of her hair in the light. Her lips move and sound emerges.
Jax pulls me close to him and my heart flaps wildly. “Wyatt, this is my girl, Vaga.”
“Hi,” she says. I want to ask her what’s up with What’s Up. I miss watching her on television. She was so effortlessly cool in a way no reality TV star is, it was as if she was trolling the genre.
Wyatt doesn’t appear to be looking at me.
“I’m a huge fan of What’s Up,” I say under my breath, then regret it, because I know from interviews that she isn’t proud of the show. I read that she didn’t feel like her real self until she quit TV and started Dead Stars.
She looks back at me blankly, then moves on to air-kiss someone else. I blew it, fumbled the ball. Behind her is a girl with nearly buzzed platinum-blonde hair. It must be Agnes, her bandmate. They both look sparkly and far away.
Jax must clock my excited expression. “I know,” he says.
“She knows your name!” I shout.
“We met in a treatment facility,” he says. I look at him with a kind of unsure expression. “I need to tell her about Shiny AF.”
My body feels warm. I’m in the hot tub. It’s me and Beau, the man I still think is mentally unstable, the one I declared my enemy just one day ago. His pale skin looks blue under the silver light of the moon, and I think I see his bones. I scan my surroundings for other bodies but see no one.
“How do you know Jax?” he asks. Surely he’s figured this out before now. We’ve been together for almost twenty-four hours.
“Through my girlfriend,” I say.
His expression is hard to decipher. I feel a pang of guilt. I should call Ellie. I wonder what happened to Nina.
I grab my Tecate.
“You’re hotter than I thought you were,” he says.
I know he’s negging me but I still feel flattered. I reach for my hair and there is nothing to grab. I’m going to need to develop a new set of mannerisms.
“Thank you,” I say.
Soon Nina appears from inside, tiptoeing in a black one-piece, her freckles popping against fair skin. She hops in the tub next to me. Guilt hits, and then my brain stops making memories.
I wake up naked in a bed alone. I sit up and expect my head to hurt, but it doesn’t. Instead I feel upbeat and alive. I scan my surroundings. The room is sparse. Just a white mattress on the floor, white walls, no closet or bedside table or lamp or books. Beside the bed is a clothing rack filled with black and white tunics. A wall-length mirror faces me. My nearly white hair sticks up in varying directions. I still think it’s too short, but I have to admit that it looks cool right now. I feel like Andy Warhol.
I hop out of bed and massage my feet into the off-white carpet, then walk up to the mirror to check out my neck. No hickies. Good. I look down and I briefly examine my body. No bruises. No blood. Good.
There’s a knock on the door and I jump, then scan the room for my clothes. Nothing in sight—not the best sign, but I decide there is an innocent explanation.
“Hold on,” I say, then grab a tunic from the rack. I’m sure it’s fine. My desire to feel less exposed at the moment trumps my fear of committing petty theft. I slide on the tunic and go open the door. Jax is standing there with a PBR in one hand, my duffel bag in the other. What time is it?
“Ah,” I say, and take the bag.
Jax chuckles. “Sleep well, princess?” he asks, then jumps onto the bed, sprawls out, and makes himself comfortable.
“I guess?” I hold the sides of the tunic. “I took this off the rack. I hope that’s okay.”
Jax just shrugs. I go over to open the blinds and the room floods with yellow light. Outside the window I see only swaying palms and the gray tips of mountains in the distance. It all feels very extraterrestrial.
“Beau said he had fun with you last night,” Jax says. He kicks off his Huaraches and stretches his legs.
I swallow. I’m still unsure about Beau, and I have no idea what my lizard brain got up to last night. I instinctively reach for my hair, once my fidget spinner, but there is nothing to spin.
“I had more fun in the studio,” I say. I recall Nina getting in the hot tub with us and wonder why she didn’t tell Jax she had fun with me too.
“O-kayyyy,” Jax says. He rolls his tongue at the end so it’s like a strange alien noise.
I feel cold and shiver.
I eat a marijuana mint with breakfast and then go lie out by the pool. Soon I’m staring at the water for several uninterrupted minutes, noting the intensity of the turquoise. My gaze meets the edge of the mountains in the distance, and I think about how I’ve known Jax for only about ten days, and I don’t know whose house we’re at, and last night I showed a man a “good time” and I have no specific memory of it.
I tell myself everything is okay. I always bender a bit on vacation, especially in Palm Springs. It’s best to lean into it. I won’t make this type of thing a habit.
Water hits my face. I whip my head toward the pool and Nina is sitting there, treading water and laughing. She dunks under the water and the pool lights flick on almost simultaneously. She’s illuminated, like an angel. When she emerges, she squirts water through her teeth at my face. I wipe it off, annoyed. I want to ask her about last night, what happened in the hot tub, after the hot tub, but I’m afraid to ask. I’m still alive, I’m not injured, it’s probably best not to know.
“You ready to hit the road, Vaga?” Jax asks from across the pool, and I want to scream with relief.
Soon we’re back in the G-Wagen and I’m staring at the windmills and feeling uneasy.
Jax hands me my phone when it’s fully charged. First, I go to my text chain with Ellie. It seems my lizard brain was nice and normal. It’s been strange going from being in each other’s physical space every day to only being able to communicate digitally. I’m not great at keeping in touch with people I don’t see. The seamlessness with which I can transition from being fully obsesse
d with someone to hardly thinking about them has always concerned me a bit. Whenever a relationship ends, or someone leaves, I’m sad for a second, but then I start to revel in not having to deal with another human’s wants and needs. I make a mental note to unpack this if I ever go back to therapy.
Then I open a text from Jake Perez.
Are you okay? Your Instagram story is scaring me.
A new text from Nina pops up.
Safe drive, freak.
The text annoys me. All she does is make fun of me. I decide she’s toxic, as is Beau, who is now driving. I shut off my phone and stare at the windmills, spinning to the beat of Lana, and dream of my bed—soft and safe.
The few days after Palm Springs are dark. I’m coming down, hard. Worse, I get a reply brief, and my hair is gone. My Virgoian rigidity forces me to write it immediately. I spend two days in a writing hole, alternating between Silver Lake Library and my apartment. The cats get on my nerves and I leave the door to the balcony open, secretly hoping they won’t return. The hot librarian wears a cropped leather jacket with a velour scrunchie.
At night I lie in my bed and alternate between checking Wyatt Walcott’s Instagram on my phone and YouTube clips of celebrities on talk shows. I don’t know why but I love watching talk show clips. It just seems like the most unnatural thing in the world, going on TV to have a conversation with a stranger, hot lights on your face and a judgy audience staring. The host is always cheesy as hell. The celebrities are expected to both be natural and entertain. It’s a confusing expectation.
I watch a video of Lana Del Rey’s “most awkward interview” while “In My Feelings” plays in the background. I open my Notes app on my iPhone and the first note is “in a dark place.” Then my phone lights up with a text from Nina.
Hi.
So annoying. She’s so paralyzed by her pathological need to appear cool she can’t even put together a sentence. I turn my phone off and watch a YouTube video on my laptop of Wyatt Walcott telling Ellen DeGeneres about her sleep paralysis, and then I fall asleep.
The next morning I’m working on formatting the opening brief in my client Yumiko’s case when I decide to google her. First, I enter “Rachel Taften.” A few Linkedln and Facebook profiles pop up, none of whom seem to be her. I guess it’s a common name.