Vagablonde

by Anna Dorn

  Then I type in “Yumiko Houndstooth.” The search reveals several articles: profiles in artsy online publications. There is a piece in Philadelphia Weekly announcing her as the “Queen of the Philly Underground.” All the articles connect her to Philadelphia. How did she end up in California?

  I come across Yumiko’s “contact info” and am surprised to see it includes a telephone number. I’m supposed to write my clients and be like, “What’s up, I’m your lawyer.” In, like, lawyer-speak. But ever since my first few clients didn’t respond, I stopped doing it. Most of my cases are misdemeanors and my clients aren’t in jail. So they don’t seem to have much interest in their appeal. Following her guilty plea, Yumiko got four months, which she’s apparently already served. Soon, without realizing why, I’m calling her.

  “Hello?” she answers after just one ring. Her voice is husky and she sounds annoyed. I guess no one wants an unexpected phone call.

  I hesitate for a second, wondering how to address her. “Rachel?” I finally say, and regret calling her.

  “Who is this?”

  “This is your lawyer,” I say.

  “I didn’t hire any lawyer,” she says.

  “You didn’t hire me. The state appointed me”—I swallow— “for your appeal.”

  “Oh,” she says. I think I hear a cigarette light. “Do I have a shot?”

  Fuck, I haven’t even finished reading the record. Why did I call her? I’m an idiot. “I think so,” I say.

  “Good,” she says. “I feel like I was fucked.”

  “You were,” I say. “I just wanted to introduce myself. I’m Prue Van Teesen.” Introducing myself with my full name always feels awkward, but it’s expected in the law.

  “Cool name,” she says, and I feel myself smile.

  “Thanks,” I say. “I like Yumiko.”

  “I studied abroad in Tokyo,” she says. I don’t think I’ve ever had a client who studied abroad, let alone went to college.

  “Cool,” I say. “I’ve always wanted to go.”

  She’s silent for a second. I imagine her dragging a cigarette on a dirty street. “You don’t sound like a lawyer,” she says.

  “I know,” I say. “But don’t worry, I’m good.” I don’t know why I say this.

  “I can tell,” she says. “Is that it?”

  “For now,” I say. “I’ll be in touch soon.”

  As soon as I hang up, Ellie calls.

  “Hi,” I say.

  “My word,” she says in a cute, dramatic voice. “Do you even remember me?”

  “Sorta,” I joke. “Curly hair? Ass for days?”

  “Pretty much,” she says. “I can’t believe how long it’s been since I’ve heard your voice.”

  I collapse onto my bed and reach for my vape pen. Has it been that long? The last week has been a blur. “The last week has been a blur,” I say.

  “I know,” she says. “I’ve seen your Instagram Stories.”

  My cheeks heat.

  Ellie starts talking about New York and how depressed she is, like everyone in New York is, like everyone everywhere is. I zone out after a few seconds and stare at the shadow my palm plant casts on the wall, thinking about the Buddhism book I read that said humans are biologically wired to be perpetually dissatisfied and there is simply no way around it.

  When Ellie asks me about myself, I tell her I don’t have the energy to talk right now and not to take it personally. I tell her I still love her, which I’m pretty sure is true.

  “Love you to the moon,” she says, then hangs up.

  I think about Palm Springs and feel empty and haunted. For mental health reasons, I decide to pretend Palm Springs actually is the moon, another celestial body with its own set of special rules inapplicable to life on Earth. I did nothing wrong. No hickies, no bruises, no blood. Just “a nice time.”

  SIX

  Jax calls me Friday morning and tells me he’s throwing a “soirée” at the Chateau Marmont. “You must come,” he says. “I just got a big check from GTA.”

  For a second, I’m confused. Then I remember: Grand Theft Auto.

  I wear a black silk tunic I bought after feeling inspired in Palm Springs, Adidas Gazelles. I watch another makeup tutorial and my wings look nearly perfect. I deliver for the Chateau. Especially when it’s nighttime and my parents aren’t there.

  When I arrive at the front desk they say, “Who are you here to see?” and I say, “Jax Jameson.” Two men whisper and then one takes me to the elevator, which takes me straight into a suite. I can hear noise before the elevator opens.

  The room is jam-packed and the Fugees are blasting: Fu-la-la-la. Less of a “soirée” and more of a full-blown rager.

  “GTA MONEY,” Jax yells over the music. “Invite whoever.”

  I scan the room first for alcohol, then for friends. I get a weird sinking feeling, like I’m super tired and something is pressing down on my shoulders. Pilar appears through the crowd in a floor-length blue silk kimono. She kisses me on the cheek, then slips a pill in my hand. It’s the same color as her kimono: Adderall Blue.

  The room empties out and I take stock of who is here: Jax, Pilar, Nina, Beau, and a generic girl on Beau’s lap. Mariah Carey is playing and I feel better than when I entered, not because I don’t like the Fugees—I love the Fugees—but I don’t care for crowds.

  Pilar’s arm links through mine. She’s shed the kimono and is just wearing a slip, also Adderall Blue. Her skin is crazy soft and seems to sparkle; mine feels patchy and ashy in comparison. “Prue was so fun in PS,” she says.

  Nina, who is rolling a joint on the coffee table before us, just laughs. “That’s one way of putting it.”

  “Nina,” Pilar says, “just because Prue doesn’t have a stick up her ass like you do doesn’t mean you have to ridicule her.”

  I’m shocked she’s defending me.

  Nina rolls her eyes and Pilar pulls a skinny blue cigarette out of nowhere.

  “You should probably smoke that outside,” Nina says. “We don’t want Jax to be fined.”

  “Oh yes,” Pilar says, voice nearing a hiss. “We must go outside, but you can smoke your endless supply of empathy-numbing hippie crack in here.”

  Damn.

  “Pilar’s got bars,” Beau says without looking up from his phone. The generic girl giggles breathily in a way that makes it clear her Saturn has not returned.

  “Come on, Prue,” Pilar says, her arm still linked with mine. “Let’s go have a cig outside. The artists are being banished. It’s like the McCarthy era in here.”

  Soon we’re in the courtyard, the same place where I had lunch with my parents just over a week ago. It’s weird being back under such different circumstances. That sinking feeling hits again and I quickly light a cigarette. I exhale toward a massive, backlit leaf.

  “You know she’s only a cunt to you because she has a crush,” Pilar says. She waves to someone in the distance.

  I feel a little flutter in my chest that I want to go away. I had an inkling this was true, but also I never think anyone has a crush on me. They have to be on top of me before I realize it, and even then I’m like, Maybe they fell?

  “No, I think she really finds my existence repulsive,” I say.

  “Bulllllshit,” says Pilar. Then she disappears to go say hi to someone and I’m happy to have a moment alone.

  I smoke my cigarette and stare at the moon. This is exactly why I started smoking cigarettes to begin with, to leave the party and stare at the moon. After a few puffs, I remove my phone from my tunic pocket. It’s only 10:05 P.M. Wow. I thought it was much later. Just as I’m about to check my texts, my phone lights up with an incoming call. Holy shit, it’s Yumiko.

  “Hello,” I say. I should have let it go to voice mail.

  “Why hello, Miss Esquire Extraordinaire,” she says. Her voice is a bit slurry.

  “What’s up?” I say. Then I curse myself for not being more formal.

  “You know,” she says. “Faded Friday.
” Then she lets out an unhinged cackle, which reminds me of all the texts from Jake Perez I haven’t responded to.

  “Yeah,” I say.

  “So a brief Google search earlier led me to your SoundCloud,” she says.

  I swallow. I’ve had a vague, underlying paranoia since I passed the bar that someone from my law world would find my internet persona and I would be disbarred. But Yumiko doesn’t sound like she’s about to report me.

  “Girl, you got bars!”

  Relief hits. She’s just a fan. “Oh, thank you,” I say. “That means a lot from the Queen of the Philly Underground.”

  She cackles again. “What are you doing tonight?” she asks.

  “At the Chateau,” I say,”for a friend’s party.”

  “Oh my god, I love the Chateau!” She’s screaming to the point that I have to remove the phone from my ear. Pilar walks by and motions that she’s going back to the room. “I’m actually housesitting right by there—I could be there in, like, five minutes!”

  Oh god. I cannot be partying with my client. But Yumiko isn’t my average client. She’s young and hip and gets it. And she’s a fan!

  “Great!” I say. I hang up and swallow hard. I wait nervously outside the Chateau and watch rich people valet their Bentleys. Yumiko said she’s biking, which is insane to me. I had no idea people biked in LA.

  My phone lights up with a text from Nina. Did I scare you away?

  No, I write back. She’s so annoying, like an elementary school boy firing spitballs at his crush. Then I remember her tiptoeing toward the hot tub in her one-piece and feel an uncharacteristic wave of horniness. SSRIs murdered my sex drive, but I guess it’s coming back. I don’t feel great about this. Desire is annoying, particularly when it’s hard to control. Best to avoid it.

  As I put my phone back in my tunic, a bike comes barreling around the corner. The valet people look afraid as she slams the brakes and nearly falls off. She’s wearing a tattered leopard-print coat and holding a plastic bottle of whiskey. She’s going to fit in.

  “Yumiko?” I say.

  She smiles to reveal a gold tooth. “Miss Lawyer Biddy, what’s goooooood?”

  By the time we arrive back in the suite, Jax has set up a makeshift studio. He’s cornered it off with the shoji panes and it’s glowing blue, making the rest of the room appear red. Nina is in the same position rolling a joint, and Pilar is leaning on her. I guess they made up, or maybe they were never fighting. Maybe they just enjoy bickering for sport, which I absolutely cannot fault.

  “Guys,” I say, not totally sure where to look. I’m horrible at introducing people. Also, there are a few more people in the room now, none of whom I recognize. “This is Yumiko.”

  Yumiko curtsies and some whiskey drips from the bottle in her pocket and splashes onto the floor.

  “Hi,” Pilar and Nina say in unison, unenthusiastic. Beau just shoots a look of disgust. I guess I’ve never brought anyone around the Kingdom before.

  “Fun crowd,” Yumiko says. Her accent sounds British and I’m wondering whether I’m mishearing it now or I missed it before. “What’s over there?” she asks, pointing at the studio. Her accent is definitely British, definitely for the first time at this moment, and I realize this woman is mentally unwell and I’ve done something horribly insane by inviting her here.

  Jax appears from behind the panes, then looks Yumiko up and down. I’m terrified. He’s going to yell at me for bringing this psychotic criminal to his suite at the Chateau. I want to disappear. “Who is this treat?”

  Thank god.

  Everyone looks at Yumiko, who is actually kind of beautiful. She has fair skin and big marshmallowy blue eyes with thick lashes. Her exaggerated facial features and oversized coat make her resemble a cartoon character or the “bad girl” in a video game. Jax seems taken. Probably because she is striking and unhinged in the precise way he seems to find attractive.

  Yumiko quickly charms Pilar and Nina by smoking them up with some “medical-grade hash” and reading their birth charts, which is great for me because now I know their charts without seeming nosy. Nina’s chart is predominantly water, which means she isn’t as disinterested as she seems. Pilar is a triple Gemini. No surprise there. This explains why she’s simultaneously inviting and impenetrable. It also explains her musical ability. I’ve always been envious of Geminis; they’re the musical geniuses of the zodiac. Kanye West, Tupac Shakur, Lauryn Hill, Lana Del Rey, Wyatt Walcott. I’m a Virgo, the less fun Mercury-ruled planet. We have Amy Winehouse and Beyoncé, who represent opposite reactions to the Virgoian need for control—Beyoncé embodying it; Amy setting it on fire. But Geminis have always seemed cooler.

  Yumiko also collects some important backstory on the Kingdom, information I’m frankly embarrassed I don’t know at this point. Jax and Pilar met when they were paired for a group project in a freshman seminar at Cal State Northridge. Instead of completing the project, they decided to drop out of school and focus on music. Their “Goth spiritual” project got some buzz at first, but Jax stopped taking it seriously when he got hired by Grand Theft Auto, which caused a several-year rift between the two. Without a right-hand woman, Jax befriended Nina at an industry event, where he was taken by her perfectly rolled joints and encyclopedic knowledge of ‘90s R&B. Jax and Pilar finally made up, and the Kingdom was born.

  “I don’t want you to think I’m using you to further my professional goals,” Yumiko says after blowing a cloud of hash smoke toward the window, “but I can freestyle quite well.” She’s jumped back into the British accent.

  “Are you British or not?” Beau finally asks, and I must say I’m relieved I don’t have to be the one to ask it.

  “Do not interrogate our guest,” says Pilar. She’s really into defending people tonight.

  “She talks in a British accent one second and working-class Philly the next,” Beau almost grunts. The skinny girl with the big breasts is asleep on his lap.

  “Good ear,” says Yumiko.

  Jax appears out from behind the panes in the corner. “Hold up,” he says, looking at Yumiko. “Did you say you can freestyle?”

  Soon, I’m behind the panes with Yumiko and Jax and Pilar. Beau is lurking with a DSLR. My discomfort must be obvious, because Yumiko looks at me and then looks at him and says, “Hey, beat it, Annie Leibovitz.” I mouth her a “thank you.”

  “So,” Jax says. He’s in full Leo mode, ruling his pride, his Kingdom. “Our band, Shiny AF—which consists of Prue, Pilar, and myself—has this fire single we’ve been working on called ‘Dearly Queerly.’”

  “Dig it, dig it,” Yumiko says, then swigs some whiskey.

  “We have two dope verses from Prue,” Jax continues, “and Pilar slays the hooks. But I know it’s missing something, and I think if we could get a quick freestyle from you… I’m thinking like Chance on ‘Ultralight Beam.’”

  “Nobody else speaks!” shouts Yumiko.

  “Exactly,” Jax says, then looks at me. “Where did you find this bitch?”

  I panic. Just as Yumiko starts to open her mouth I blurt out, “Camp friends.”

  Yumiko looks skeptical for a second, then nods. “Camp Wana-tonka,” she says, and does a faux salute, which I try to mimic. “Bunk Eleven for life.”

  “Bunk Eleven for life,” I echo.

  Yumiko asks that everyone go to the other side of the room while she records, which makes me nervous—I hope she can deliver. I sit beside Nina so I can avoid thinking about this insane situation I’ve put myself in. I’ve just invited my client to a party and now she’s going to be on my first single with my new rap group.

  “Oh, so you like me again?” Nina asks as soon as I sit down.

  “You’re all water,” I say in reference to her birth chart. My anger evaporates like water in the desert.

  She shrugs. “And?”

  “You’re sensitive,” I say, and I place my finger lightly on her leg, then start tracing circles around her kneecap.

  “And you’re a
freak.”

  She pushes my finger away, then looks out the window and drags her joint. She ashes it and then looks at me. I wonder how many freckles she has. Probably billions.

  “Why didn’t you respond to my text the other night?”

  She looks vulnerable for a second and I feel bad. Not just about not responding to her text, but about flirting so flippantly with Nina when Ellie “loves me to the moon.” God, the moon. I feel dizzy.

  “I’m trash,” I say.

  Yumiko and Jax are still behind the panes when I duck out. Nina says she wants to go too and asks if we can share an Uber back to the East Side. I shrug and say fine.

  It’s twilight when the Uber arrives. Nina opens the door for me, and like the little brat I am I go around and get in the other door. She frowns at me, then puts her head on my shoulder. I feel stiff, like my skin has turned to metal.

  “You can sleep over if you don’t feel like going all the way to Echo Park,” she says. Nina lives in Silver Lake, which is only about two minutes closer.

  “I’ll be fine,” I say.

  Nina yanks her head off my shoulder and pulls out her phone, begins scrolling through Instagram with determination.

  My own phone starts to buzz in my tunic pocket. I pull it out and answer. “Merry Christmas, angel,” Ellie says.

  “Merry Christmas,” I say. I had no idea it was Christmas. Nina starts coughing theatrically like a ten-year-old throwing a tantrum. “Can I call you back in a few?”

  “Of course,” she says.

  I hang up. “What is your issue?” I say to Nina.

  She shrugs. “I know you have a girlfriend,” she says. I don’t really get why she’s saying this and don’t quite know what to say back.

  “Did you know it was Christmas?” I ask.

  Jake and I have a tradition of eating Christmas dinner in Thai Town. I try to cancel on him—my hangover is deadly—but he doesn’t allow it. Feeling unable to drive, I force Jake to pick me up.