Vagablonde

by Anna Dorn

  “I think he’s bad news,” I say.

  Nina just laughs again.

  “I’m glad I’m just one big joke to you,” I say.

  “Oh please,” she says. She adjusts her jean jacket and reminds me of James Dean somehow. Like if he were a hot girl. “You aren’t serious, are you?”

  “How can I be serious when I’m such a joke?”

  “Where is this coming from?”

  “I asked you a question and you laughed,” I say.

  “I’m sorry,” she says. “I’m high.” She licks her upper lip and I want to bite it, half in a sexual way and half in a violent way. “Beau and I went to high school together.”

  “Was he your weed dealer?”

  She laughs and licks her lip again. “Yes, actually.”

  Jax appears out of nowhere with a tray of shot glasses. I’m sick of shots at this point but I do one anyway.

  “Fuck, I love this game.” I’m on a skateboard, soaring through the air.

  Beau laughs. “You’ve said that, like, twelve times.” He flips his bangs and the light from the TV makes his hair shine and it looks kind of cool.

  I’m in an unfamiliar apartment now. It’s high up; we’re looking at the tops of buildings. Big windows, but it’s not the Kingdom. I don’t remember leaving.

  One of the windows flies open. A hand hits my thigh. I look to my right. It’s Nina. I try to smile at her and she says, “Freak.” Then she wraps her arm around my waist and pulls me close to her. Her body is warm and soft, and for a second I feel safe.

  “Sup, bitches,” says Yumiko. She looks me in the eye again. “My little esquire bitch.”

  “I told you, babygirl,” I say while looking in Yumiko’s eyes. It must be the uppers, or maybe my new outlook on life, induced by the uppers. “I got you.”

  “Hey!” Beau shouts at me. “Focus on the game.”

  I redirect my eyes to the screen and the Xbox controller in my hand, try to avoid hitting trees and other obstacles. I guess I’m racing Beau, who is also holding a controller. His thigh is shaking against mine.

  “What do you mean, ‘you got her’?” Nina asks. I’m nervous for a second that she knows Yumiko is my client. I haven’t said anything, but maybe she’s done some digging.

  “The game!” Beau says again, and when I return my gaze to the screen it says I’ve “died.” Oh well.

  “Too literal,” I say. As I put down my controller, Yumiko opens her parka and my eye is drawn to something in her inside jacket pocket.

  Nina grabs my thigh and whispers in my ear: “She’s packing heat.”

  For a second I think Nina is joking and I laugh. Also, I’m relieved we’ve moved on from the esquire bit. Then I realize Yumiko is really carrying a gun. It has a shiny gold handle and it’s actually really pretty. The parka swings closed. Yumiko is delivering an enthusiastic interpretive dance, and I look outside the window again. The streetlights outside hurt my eyes. I look back at Yumiko, her jacket open again, my eye hitting the gold handle.

  “What the fuck?” Pilar screams as she comes out of the bathroom with Jax. I didn’t even know they were here. “Is that a gun?”

  Yumiko looks embarrassed, like her mom just walked in on her masturbating.

  “Dude, chill,” Beau says.

  “Is it, though?” Jax asks. “You know I don’t fuck with weapons or violence.” He holds up two peace signs. “Namaste.” He laughs a little.

  “This isn’t funny,” Pilar says, grabbing her purse from the table. She heads for the door.

  Yumiko runs to stop her and grabs her arm. “Wait,” she says.

  Pilar freezes, looking legitimately afraid.

  Yumiko reveals the gun and puts it on the floor. A slow and theatrical surrender. A Tarantino movie.

  Jax runs over to Pilar and wraps her in his arms, and—to my shock—Pilar begins weeping.

  “I’m sorry,” Yumiko says.

  Pilar looks right at me. “I knew your friend was sketch,” she says. “Everything has been sketch since she got here.” She frees herself from Jax’s grasp. “I’m done.” She slams the door on the way out.

  Jax looks like he wants to run after her, then he shifts his focus to Yumiko. “What the fuck?” he asks.

  “I’m sorry,” Yumiko says. “I had no idea you would freak out like that.” She’s using a voice I haven’t heard, kind of soft and sincere. Maybe it’s her actual, god-given voice.

  “Toting a gun at four A.M. when we’re all on drugs isn’t chill at all,” says Jax. “I mean, toting a gun is never chill.”

  “I’m just a little confused,” says Yumiko. “I thought you all would be into it, honestly. You blast ‘Paper Planes,’ like, every night, and I’ve seen Pilar do fake gunshots with her hands on the chorus. You all do!”

  “Emphasis on ‘fake,’” says Jax.

  “You work for Grand Theft Auto!” Yumiko says.

  “It’s a game,” says Jax. “And frankly I’m very conflicted about the message it sends.” He looks like he might cry for a second. “I’ve lost sleep over it.”

  “I understand,” says Yumiko. “Listen, I don’t like violence either. But I believe in protecting myself. And I really didn’t think it would be a big deal.”

  “Well, it is,” he says. “I’m going to talk to Pilar.”

  TEN

  I wake up in my bed, alone, and feel accomplished. I roll around, take up as much room as possible. I sprawl and thrash and make imaginary snow angels. The light peeking in through the curtains hits my palm plant and casts a pretty shadow on the wall. I feel giddy.

  Then I grab my phone, and there’s a lot to take in.

  First, a text from Jax. Love you Vaga.

  It makes me uncomfortable, but I type back, love you too, because female conditioning.

  Then Jake Perez: Call Me By Your Dealer’s Name. That’s my new name for you. LOL.

  I type, LOL.

  Then a new text from Jax. But we need to talk. Last night floats into my head. The gun in Yumiko’s parka, glinting. Pilar’s freak-out, the Tarantino movie. Shame and embarrassment and some other things fill my stomach. Pilar looked me in the eyes, called me “sketch,” and blamed me.

  There’s also a text from Nina. Do you hate me? I don’t know why I’d hate her.

  Why would I hate you? I type back. Then I realize I do hate her. Just a little bit. But revulsion is a crucial component of attraction. And she obviously doesn’t respect me. Actually, I have no idea what she thinks, which only intensifies my stirrings.

  I see those typing bubbles and then they disappear.

  I meet Jax and Pilar at the Kingdom that afternoon. Everything looks dirty in the harsh afternoon light. I notice tufts of dust and scratches on the ceiling and beer cans everywhere. My instinct is to turn back toward the door, drive home or maybe to the ocean. But the traffic would be terrible and I’m a little high and would probably have a panic attack.

  Pilar is sitting on the edge of the couch, smoking and staring out the window. Jax leads me over and I sit on the floor. For a second I imagine Nina rolling her joint on the table in front of me. I should probably text her. I know Jax and Pilar want me to play up the flirt for the sake of Shiny AF, about which I have no real ethical qualms (this is Hollywood), but I do feel momentarily confused. I mean, they are best friends with her. Shouldn’t that be enough? Shouldn’t our music be enough? I laugh a little at that thought.

  Jax dips a tea bag in and out of a steaming mug. No one is saying anything, and I feel saliva building in my throat and it quickly becomes all I can think about. Eventually I swallow so loudly it seems to echo against the tin ceilings and then my cheeks get hot. I regret vaping on the way over.

  “Last night was really not cool,” Pilar says finally. She’s still looking out the window. Jax is looking at his teacup and I’m looking all around.

  “I’m so sorry,” I say, looking toward Pilar. I feel her head shifting toward mine. Make normal eye contact, my inner voice says. Kind and sympa
thetic. NOT creepy. But I’m so high. I know my eyes are crazy. I try to focus on my breath, like they recommend in the guided meditations I don’t listen to.

  “I like you, Prue,” she says, “but I don’t know you that well. And last night you put us in an incredibly dangerous situation.”

  I nod. As my chin bobs up and down I feel like a doll. “I know,” I said. “I had no idea that would happen. I was just as surprised as you.” I mean, I am representing Yumiko for gun possession. I should have known that this could happen.

  “Like, you said you know her from summer camp,” Pilar says. “I trusted that we were in a safe space.” She looks deep in my eyes and I swallow again. “And she—and you by association— betrayed that trust.”

  Pilar lights another cigarette and I swallow twice more. Jax just bobs the tea bag up and down, seemingly transfixed, and I realize he’s higher than I am. I want to laugh at that, but instead I swallow one more time.

  “She pulled a gun on us,” Pilar says suddenly.

  “Okay, okay,” I say. “I wouldn’t say she ‘pulled a gun.’” My criminal defense brain steps in automatically. “She was showing us.” I was pretty drunk, and I still haven’t talked to Yumiko about it. But I’m pretty confident she wouldn’t threaten anyone. “I really think she thought you would be into it. Like she said, because you act in a certain way—”

  “It’s an aesthetic,” she says. “We don’t like guns, weapons, or violence.”

  Jax looks up from his tea and nods furiously. I can tell he’s trying as hard as I am to come up with the right facial expressions, and we share a brief and knowing smile.

  “I get that,” I say. “I can have a talk with her. Let her know that kind of thing is completely unacceptable.”

  “Yes,” Pilar says. “That’s what I was going to say.”

  “Same,” says Jax.

  “If Yumiko is going to stay on with us,” Pilar continues, and something about the way she says “us” makes me feel happy, like everything is going to be okay, “she’s going to have to promise not to do anything like that again.”

  I nod. “Of course.” I’m proud of myself for saying the right things and not letting Pilar know how high I am.

  “Also, why the fuck does she have a gun?” Pilar asks.

  “For protection,” I say. “Like she said.”

  “She’s a white girl from Pennsylvania,” Pilar retorts. “What on earth does she need protection from?” She steps toward me and grabs a chunk of my hair with an unsettling mix of aggression and tenderness. “I mean, she went to summer camp with you.” She releases my hair and I get her point.

  I want to tell Pilar that Yumiko has a fairly lengthy criminal record (mostly misdemeanors, but probably just due to her baby-blue eyes), that she’s been involved—romantically and professionally—with some of the biggest arms dealers on each coast.

  But I can’t, so I don’t.

  “Everyone needs protection,” I say instead.

  The next morning I’m petting one of the cats when I notice a missed call and voice mail from my dad. He also texted me, thank god. I’m a millennial. I don’t check voice mail. So much listening. Hopefully no one has died. I open the text.

  Hello Prue. Your mother and I are in LA on the way back from Phuket. Would you like to get lunch?

  He sent it only an hour ago. What time is it now? I check my clock: 9:13 A.M.

  Of course, I type back. Tell me when and where

  Then I call Yumiko. It rings and rings and she doesn’t answer. As I reach for my laptop to put on music, she calls back.

  “Hi,” I say.

  “Hey.” Her voice is distant and withdrawn.

  “I talked to Pilar and Jax yesterday,” I say. “They said you need to promise not to pull anything like the other night again.” In this moment I feel like her lawyer. And she reminds me of one of my clients, just waiting for me to tell her what to do, as if I’m at all qualified to ever do that to anyone ever.

  “I’m pretty embarrassed,” she says.

  “Don’t be,” I say.

  “I mean,” she says, her voice perking up, “I’m pretty shocked they were so bourgeois about it.”

  I laugh.

  “Like, it’s a gorgeous gold glock.”

  I remember the light dancing off it. “It was pretty,” I say. “But unfortunately it’s a deal breaker for them.”

  “It’s no issue,” Yumiko says. “I’ve left most of that behind.”

  I’m interested in her use of “most” for a second, then I decided to forget about it. “So you promise?”

  “I promise.”

  This time my parents are staying at the Beverly Hills Hotel. I’ve never been, but I’ve seen the pink building in films and know it’s famous for its wallpaper. My dad greets me outside. “Did you know it’s thirty dollars for a hot dog here?” he whispers in my ear as though this is impressive.

  My dad takes me into the garden restaurant. We pass many different variations of pink-and-green wallpaper. I vaped earlier, so I’m mesmerized. I’m grateful that my dad doesn’t try to make small talk.

  My mom is sitting at a table under an umbrella, half in the sun, stirring what appears to be an espresso with a tiny spoon. The restaurant is mostly empty and the sound of stirring reverberates.

  “Hi, Mom,” I say. I force a smile.

  My mom nods with a hesitant expression. She’s wearing a stiff gray suit, completely at odds with the aggressively casual surroundings.

  “Your mother is very tired,” says my dad.

  When I was five years old, I came home from school with a drawing for my mom. I never had great motor skills. Doing my makeup presents a challenge to this day. But I tried my best. It was a portrait of her in a black dress with a tiny pearl necklace, and underneath it said I LOVE MY MOM. I gave it to her when she was smoking a cigarette in the sunroom, staring at a plant. She didn’t say anything. My dad walked in and said, “Your mother is very tired.”

  “How was the trip?” I ask as I take a seat. I put my sunglasses on and instantly feel more comfortable.

  Soon my parents and I are all on our phones again. I’m pretending to look at the New York Times home page while my thoughts start running. My dad is looking at his email and I feel like my mom is spying on me. Sometimes I think she’s a literal spy. She doesn’t emote. Wears only gray. Always “very tired.” Why? It’s not like she has a job. I literally have no idea how she fills her time.

  Nina texts me and I’m grateful for the distraction.

  Hi.

  Ugh. Such a Scorpio.

  Chatty Cathy, I type back. I look up and my mom is raising her eyebrow at me. I don’t think she saw what I wrote, but she’s always judging me, and this time she happens to be correct. It was a dumb thing to say.

  “Prue,” my mom says, addressing me for the first time this afternoon. “What are you wearing?”

  Honestly, I’ve forgotten. I try to look down at myself without being obvious about it. “A tunic,” I say. “It’s modern.”

  She frowns at me.

  “The style is different in LA,” I say. “It’s not as formal.”

  “‘Style,’” she says, “is generous.” Even though this hurts my feelings, a small part of me feels proud to be descended from such a scathing critic.

  A text pops up on my phone. I hope it’s Nina, but unfortunately it’s from Walgreens. My refill is due. Suckers. I don’t need it anymore! Thriving, I almost type as a wet Cobb salad burp rises up in my throat.

  The next day I hang out with Jake Perez at Echo Park Lake. We bring a bottle of wine and a joint and a loaf of bread and chill.

  A large bird approaches us, making weird sounds and frightening me, when a text from Nina pops up.

  Jake Perez lets out a dramatic sigh. “Venus conjunct Pluto problems,” he says, then throws some bread at the bird. I’m mad at him for encouraging the bird to approach. More birds follow. I scoot back, feeling paranoid. Birds really scare me, as do most living things. />
  “You’ve been single for like a day and you already have a new girlfriend,” says Jake. He puts the rest of the piece of bread in his mouth. I’m scared for him, worried that the birds will lunge at his mouth.

  “I do not,” I say. I look at my phone and see a text from Jax, calling a meeting for the EP that evening at the Kingdom. I look up at a tall palm tree swaying in the wind and feel lucky I live in California and my parents are gone, far away on the other side of the country.

  “Your Aquarius moon gives you strong powers of rationalization,” he says. “Strong defense mechanisms.”

  “I never should have given you my birth time,” I say, and I mean it. I don’t think Jake Perez actually believes in astrology, nor does he understand it. He uses it only to read people to their faces, to rip into my personality in particular. And who am I kidding? I love it for the same reason.

  “Can we talk about something else?” I watch two birds fight over the last piece of bread and feel lucky they’re focused on something other than us.

  “Sure,” says Jake. “I checked that Ixland Prinxexxa post again.” God. Out of the flames and into the fire. “It has a lot of reblogs, Prue.”

  I know he wants me to feel concerned, but I’m flattered and try to suppress a smile. “How many?”

  “Your lack of concern concerns me,” he says.

  “Why should I be concerned?” I ask. “I look good.” A goose starts waddling toward me and I back up. “And they’re tasteful.”

  “What about your bar license?”

  “I’m going to quit law soon, anyway,” I say. “And besides, I don’t think being naked online violates any ethical rules.”

  “Well, you’ll have to get another job, right?” he says. “Nude pictures of you plastered all over the internet doesn’t exactly scream ‘employ me.’”

  “I don’t want to scream ‘employ me,’” I say. “And I wouldn’t exactly say my photos are ‘plastered all over the internet.’ It’s one dumb Tumblr.”

  Jake shakes his head. “Well, aren’t you concerned about who took them? It’s wild to me that you don’t even know and don’t seem remotely interested in finding out.”