Vagablonde

by Anna Dorn

  Fuck.

  I open the email and realize the reply brief in Yumiko’s case is due in thirteen days. I completely forgot about the reply. I missed the government’s brief, so I’ll have to find that, read it, and write the reply. I try to calm myself down. The government briefs are normally shit, so it shouldn’t be hard to reply to. But Yumiko is my friend. The stakes are higher. I can’t let her down. Also, Nina said something about her being our “glue,” mainly from a performance perspective. My head hurts. The cat screeches again. I get up to feed it, but before that, I go into the bathroom and take an Adderall, just to steady myself.

  The Adderall makes me nervy, so I drink a beer and smoke a cigarette to steady myself. After that, I’m buzzed. Certainly too buzzed to read any kind of legal document. So instead, I spend the evening blasting Dead Stars, practicing my makeup, and trying on various “stage outfits,” which are all variations on all black—Wednesday Addams all grown up.

  After listening to Songs for JonBenét—their first EP, the least polished but my favorite—thrice, my phone rings, which is bizarre because I never keep my ringer on. Absentmindedly, I answer it without even looking at who it is.

  “Hellooo,” I coo. I put the phone on speaker because I don’t like the feeling of it against my ear. Also, this way I can still put on my eyeliner. I’m experimenting with extra dramatic wings, but I hope for the show I’ll have a makeup artist. Or maybe at least Pilar. I think she used to work at MAC.

  “Hi.” I recognize Nina’s voice and my heart does a little flutter. Her voice is all husky. I imagine her sitting on her bed in her underwear listening to some obscure record. A joint hangs from her lips and smoke fills the room. Her window is open and cars on Sunset zoom past.

  “What are you listening to?” I drag the liquid liner along my lid, then decide to put it down. The image of Nina listening to music got me excited and I don’t want to fuck up my eyes. Instead I hop over to my bed and collapse on my stomach. I pop up my legs and put my fist under my chin.

  The sound changes, and I’m hearing some ambient noise. At first I think the call dropped, but then I realize Nina wants me to guess what’s playing. I put the phone closer to my ear and listen. It’s kind of surfy rock. Loud and raucous. A shouty female voice. Definitely East Coast; too passionate for the West. Nina is waiting for me to answer and I feel pressure. But it’s the kind of pressure I like. Not the kind where I’m expected to entertain, but rather the one where I’m expected to identify a piece of knowledge. The sweet adrenaline of taking a test.

  “‘JJ,’” I say without even thinking. The nice thing about drugs is that they leave things to your subconscious, the most creative and knowledgeable part of us. The conscious mind is always getting in the way. “This was my jam over the summer.” The band, Priests, is from DC. But I don’t want to mention that because I don’t want to talk about DC because it’s a major buzzkill. I don’t care for the US government or blazers. When I wear something other than a T-shirt I feel like a police officer.

  “Well done, my freak,” she says.

  “I don’t like that nickname,” I say.

  “I’m sorry,” Nina says. She sounds earnest. I wonder what her underwear is like. Probably black and lacy. I picture her lying back on her pillow, her freckled legs open to the ceiling.

  “How was your day?” she asks.

  “I got served with a notice about a reply brief so I’m stressing,” I say. I look around my room, various items of black clothing strewn about. My laptop is conspicuously closed. “It’s due in thirteen days. I meant to work on it tonight, but I just couldn’t get in the zone. This is really unusual for me.” Ennui slinks in, sinewy and petite. She hops on the bed and I reach down to pet her. She dives away, then leaps as though my hand were made of acid. “But it’s fine,” I continue. “I have thirteen days.” I mentally begin planning. Thirteen days is a long time.

  “I didn’t realize you were a practicing lawyer,” she says. “I thought you were just a rich girl who went to law school.”

  This upsets me and makes me feel seen at the same time. “I practice,” I say. Ennui jumps back up on the bed, the little tease. I make a note not to reach for her, because I know it’ll make her come over and curl up.

  “Why?” she asks.

  “I don’t know,” I say. “Can you believe we’re opening for Dead Stars?”

  “Of course I can,” Nina says, and my cheeks heat.

  “So do you practice law?” she asks. I imagine the moon pouring in through her window and casting a bluish glow on her exposed brick wall across from her bed. I don’t think her apartment is earthquake safe. It’s interesting that she’s asking me this now for the first time. I realize we don’t really know each other.

  “Why are you always interrogating me?” I ask. Ennui curls up next to my rib cage just as anticipated. Our breathing quickly begins to sync up.

  “Excuse me for being interested in your life,” she says.

  “I thought you were just interested in a story,” I say, “and making out with drug addicts.”

  “I wouldn’t call you a drug addict, exactly… “ she says.

  “I was talking about Beau,” I say, offended.

  “Don’t do that,” she says.

  “What?”

  “Imply that I’m using you,” she says. “And condescend my life choices.”

  “Oh,” I say. I feel guilty, then I wonder if she’s gaslighting me. “I practice law because it’s the path of least resistance.”

  “You don’t hear many people say that.”

  “Well, I’m very unique.”

  Ennui jams her paw into my rib cage.

  “Do you want to come over?”

  Nina arrives at my door with a bottle of rosé under her arm. She’s wearing an oversized jean jacket and her hair is extra curly, like she used a new product or something. She’s wearing coral-red lipstick, which I’ve never seen her wear.

  “Who did you get all dolled up for?” I ask when I lean over to air-kiss her.

  She just rolls her eyes. “I assume you have glasses?” She saunters into my kitchen with confidence. She walks how she drives: masculine swagger with a feminine grace. It’s an attractive combination.

  I lie back on the couch and blow on my freshly painted nails. Aaliyah’s “More Than a Woman” comes on. Nina slides in next to me on the couch and swings a wineglass by my mouth. She tips the glass to my lips and I quickly cover my mouth with my hands. She looks at me strangely.

  “I don’t fuck with wine,” I blurt out. “It makes me ill.” Also, I think it’s tacky.

  She laughs. “Oh god. I’m a horrible guest.”

  “You should drink it, though,” I say. “I wanna get you good and liquored.” I say this in a way that sounds more creepy than seductive by accident.

  Nina shrugs, then laughs in a way that calms me. “I guess I should put this away,” she says about the empty wineglass, and begins to stand up.

  “No, no,” I say. “I’ll use it.” I stand up to get my Laphroaig. This is my fancy scotch I drink only on dates. It takes me something stronger than beer to get physical with someone. But as soon as I stand, I remember my nails. I don’t want to fuck them up.

  “Actually, can you grab me the Laphroaig from the cabinet above the sink?” I ask. “My nails aren’t dry.” I blow on them. “I’m a horrible host.”

  “We’re both horrible,” she says. “Also, Laphroaig. Fancy.”

  “You like it?” I ask. “Someone told me they think it tastes like Band-Aids.”

  “Luckily I’ve never eaten a Band-Aid,” she says, then heads toward my kitchen. Ennui prances out in front of Nina and she almost trips.

  “Who is this little one?” She reaches down to pet her.

  “These are my cats—” I forget that Missy, or Ennui, whichever one it is, has been missing for seven, or thirteen, or god knows how many days. “This is Ennui,” I say. I place the back of my hand on my forehead in a way that I hope expresses the na
me.

  “You said ‘cats,’” she said.

  “Did I?” I laugh nervously, wondering whether I should divulge the fact of my missing cat to Nina, worried she’ll judge me, decide I’m a sociopath, and never speak to me again. “They’re outdoor cats,” I say. Technically true. They climb the tree outside my balcony, and once one of them was gone for seven days, and now… whatever. “Missy is on one of her jaunts.” I try to make it sound glamorous.

  Nina’s stroking Ennui’s back. “She’s so… petite.”

  “She’s been depressed… “ I say, trailing off, realizing I sound mildly insane. A crazy cat lady, a potential animal abuser. I’m probably both of these things. “Anyways,” I say, “have some.”

  Nina locates the bottle. “We’re going to drink Laphroaig from wineglasses?”

  “Yes,” I say, then blow on my fingers.

  Soon my nails are dry and there is a noticeable dent in the Laphroaig bottle and my legs are draped on Nina’s thighs and we’re talking about Yumiko.

  “She’s my client,” I blurt out. Then I feel ashamed and stupid. I drink alcohol to let my guard down and I hate it because it lets my guard down.

  “What?” Nina says, eyes open wide.

  “Off the record,” I say in my serious lawyer voice.

  “You can trust that everything we’ve said tonight is off the record,” she says. “I’m ethical.”

  “Right,” I say. “Same.” That’s a lie. I wouldn’t know an ethic if it hit me in the face.

  I excuse myself to the bathroom, where I pull out my Adderall bottle from my shiny gold bag. I turn on the water in case Nina can hear me. A few days ago on the phone, Jake Perez and I were discussing smoking joints and I said I didn’t care for them. “Some people enjoy the ritual of smoking joints in social settings,” he’d said. “You know, like passing it in a circle.”

  “Yeah,” I’d said, then thought, And I enjoy the ritual of swallowing pills alone in a bathroom.

  I stare at the neon-blue ten-milligram Adderall and think about swallowing it, then I decide to break it in half. I don’t know exactly what time it is but it feels late, too late to be taking a whole Adderall.

  I break the pill in half, taking care not to crack my nail polish. The sides are surprisingly equal. Whenever I break a pill in half, I take the larger half. But this time I can’t discern the larger half, which makes me nervous. I worry that five milligrams won’t be enough. Maybe I’ll take one half plus a quarter of the second half, totaling 7.5 milligrams. That seems reasonable in my head. But just as I’m about to break the second half into a quarter I feel irrationally sad about the quarter that will be small and alone in the pill bottle. Then I mumble, “Fuck it,” and swallow both halves. I flush the toilet, then swallow some water from the sink. I stick out my tongue to make sure it isn’t blue. All good.

  “Did you fall in?” Nina asks when I return.

  I stick my tongue out at her, confident that it shows no sign of my bathroom infidelities. That should be the name of a song. I sit down and grab my phone from the table. “Hold on,” I say, “I need to text myself something.”

  “Inspiration hit?” she asks. I guess she took off her jacket while I was in the bathroom, or maybe earlier. The freckles on her shoulder twinkle under the palm tree’s neon glow.

  “Yeah,” I say, looking into her eyes briefly, feeling frightened, then quickly looking down to text myself.

  When I look up, Nina is rolling a joint. Ennui’s tail slaps me on the leg.

  “Perfect,” I say. “I could really use a mellow.” I laugh at myself, first softly, then louder, then almost hysterically.

  “You amuse yourself, don’t you?” she asks.

  “I work from home for a reason,” I say.

  “So how did Yumiko become your client?” She begins to lick the edge of the rolling paper and I feel a tiny throb between my legs.

  “Well, her real name is Rachel,” I say. The Adderall pulses and I prepare to unleash a monologue. I assure myself that Nina is a journalist with an apparent journalistic interest in me, so I’m sure it will appeal to her, the impending monologue. “Rachel Taften. I work for the State of California, I forget if I told you.” I look at Nina and she shakes her head, then licks the rolling paper again. “Okay,” I say. “So you know what a public defender is, right?”

  She cracks a condescending smile. “Yeah.”

  “So when an indigent criminal—someone who has a public defender—loses their trial, the state is constitutionally required to pay for their appeal. Pennsylvania v. Finley established that right sometime in the late eighties—1987, I think… the year I was born! Anyway, California has six appellate districts and a panel of available appellate attorneys for each district. I’m on the panel for the second appellate district, where Los Angeles lies. They say it’s the hardest one to be accepted to, but I don’t know who determined that or how—” I pause to look at Nina, who seems mildly impressed. She begins to light her joint, shooting me an expression that says, Is it okay to smoke in here?

  “Let’s go outside,” I say. “I could use a cig.”

  We get up and head to the balcony. Ennui follows. She’s been needy as hell since her sister left. Outside the air is cold and damp, but refreshing. Nina and I light up simultaneously. When she exhales, Ennui hops into a tree of smoke. The branches shake.

  I exhale and try to keep the smoke away from Ennui. “So Rachel Taften was appointed to me,” I say. I’m smiling, I think because of the combination of amphetamines and nicotine and whatever else. “Gun possession,” I say. “I have no idea why she has a court-appointed attorney because she seems rich. I’m surprised her parents didn’t pay for an attorney or something. She always alludes to being in the ‘gun trade,’ which I’ve found alarming. I mean, you remember that night.”

  “Kind of,” Nina says. “I was pretty faded. But I remember the gold handle.”

  “Right,” I say.

  “It’s not unethical, right?” she asks. “You being friends with your client like that? Embarking on a creative and, I guess, financial endeavor separate from the case?”

  I laugh nervously, then take a drag. As far as I know there is no rule about being friends with your client, but I hadn’t thought about the financial part. Jesus, how do nonlawyers always know more about the law than me? So embarrassing. I attempt to reason with myself. Nina is just a journalist asking a question; she doesn’t know anything. I make a note to look up the financial thing later.

  “It’s fine unless I sleep with her,” I say. Then I do a stupid wink, and Nina makes a face of mock disgust.

  Later we’re back on the couch and Nina lunges at me. She grabs my breast and jams her tongue down my throat. I’m not in the mood. Adderall kills my sex drive. It turns me into a sexy robot with no desires, which I love.

  “Hey,” I say, scooting back. “Wanna just keep chatting for a bit?”

  “We’ve been chatting for, like… three hours,” she says. She’s clearly hurt, which I understand. I’d be hurt if I were her. I know I should comfort her, but instead I go into attack mode—The Prue.

  “So what?” I say. “You put in a certain amount of hours of talking and you get full access to my body?”

  Nina just looks at me stunned, then laughs. “Full access to your body? Who do you think you are?” She pauses, licks her lips. For a second I want to kiss her, but the desire evaporates as quickly as it develops. “You aren’t exactly a Victoria’s Secret model.”

  I rise, belligerent. “And thank god, because Victoria’s Secret models are beyond tacky!”

  “Oh,” she says. “You’re on an upper.”

  I shrug.

  “I never should have given you that pill,” she says.

  “I have agency, Nina,” I say. I’m going into feminist-theory robot mode. “I can have my own drug problem.” I wonder for a second whether I do, in fact, have a drug problem. I suppose the average person would say I do. But I’m very careful with my dosages. And I need
to be medicated for my career and life in general. I have disorders.

  “I’m going to go,” she says.

  “Good,” I say. I spot Ennui by my foot and swipe her up. She tries to squirm away, but I hold her tighter and her body stills. I imagine I look like an old rich lady with this sinewy black cat in my arms. An unhinged old rich lady, one whose glamour and wealth are fading. Ennui flaps her tail in a way that reads as a power move.

  Nina shakes her head at me. “I don’t understand what you want.”

  I swallow. Ennui flaps her tail again. “I want you to leave.”

  SIXTEEN

  By the time I arrive at rehearsal the next day, I haven’t even typed a sentence of the brief. Instead I’ve been popping Adderall like mints and drinking lemon water and organizing my Spotify playlists.

  Jax greets me when the warehouse doors slide open. Today he’s wearing a ripped Fugees T-shirt over black mesh shorts.

  “Sporty Spice,” I say, eyeing his shorts.

  He laughs, and I loosen up. I’m excited to be out of my apartment to get onstage. A hand slaps my ass. I turn around to see Yumiko, hug her uneasily. I feel guilty about procrastinating on her reply brief. It’s very unlike me to procrastinate, but I suppose this is being an artist. My priorities are in this warehouse.

  Jax makes me practice my bars while running in place, a trick he “learned from Beyoncé.” My lung strength is decent, but it’s still hard. Luckily, I like a challenge. I recall studying for the bar exam, the way I studied twelve hours a day for three months, propelled by adrenaline and caffeine and pure fear. I never told anyone this, but I enjoyed the experience. I entered a fake universe filled with endless, useless knowledge and constant multiple-choice tests in which I could measurably track my progress, leaving my mundane daily worries behind. For three months, I never once spiraled about my hair.

  During a cigarette break I tell Jax I have a new idea for a song.

  “I wouldn’t expect anything less,” he says. “But do tell.” His nails are painted. Half black, half gold. Diagonal lines.

  “Bathroom infidelities.” I say this in kind of an eccentric, rich-woman voice. I imagine holding Ennui with her tail fanning the air.