Vagablonde

by Anna Dorn

  Ellie looks like an angel sent from heaven in the back of a a gray Kia Soul. I spot her hair before I see the car. It’s golden and bathed in streetlights.

  “Ride’s here,” I shout in Jake’s direction, and reach for the door handle. It’s still locked. “Open up, M. Night Shyamalan.”

  I refuse to look at him as I jangle the door handle. He says nothing.

  “Open up,” I say again. The door opens and I sprint toward the Kia Soul, something I never thought I’d do.

  “You seem fine,” Ellie says when I sit down beside her, ensuring no inch of my body touches any inch of hers, despite how badly I want it to.

  “Thanks again,” I say. Ellie is wearing her typical tortoise-shell glasses and oversized T-shirt over a leather skirt and black tights.

  “I didn’t have much of a choice,” she says.

  My stomach drops. I ruined our relationship, I cheated on her, and now she’s back in LA and I ruined her night. I try to recall when she left, whether her time in New York is up or whether she just happened to be in town for my show. I doubt she would fly back just to see me. Maybe she came back for Dead Stars, or for work.

  I remember that mean butch from Nora’s, the one who made Ellie all scared and flustered.

  “Did you meet someone else?” I ask.

  “Prue,” Ellie says. “Are you fucking kidding me?”

  My body collapses in on itself. Averting my gaze from her, I stare at passing buildings on Wilshire, sparkly and empty, just like me. Turning back toward her, I try to make my face serious. For a second I think she’s going to hit me.

  “You have been terrible to me,” she says. “And you have the nerve to rely on me in a time of crisis, when you know well that I struggle with saying no to people in need.” My self-hatred flairs. “Have you ever heard of a boundary?”

  I slink back. We once did this exercise in law school to see if everyone had healthy boundaries with their clients. It was this checklist, and I didn’t see any real issue with anything on there, so I checked them all. I can’t believe Yumiko doesn’t have a smartphone.

  “I’m worried about you,” she says finally, the corners of her eyes becoming wet. “You don’t look like yourself.”

  I hope she isn’t talking about my hair. I reach for my split ends, give them a little tug, then turn toward her. But she’s looking away again.

  “I’m sorry,” I say, because I don’t know what else to say. The only thing I can think of is to downplay my crisis, make her feel angry again instead of sad. “I think I just overindulged… given the nerves.”

  She says nothing but cracks open her window a little. Wind hits my face in a cold sheet.

  “I didn’t know who else to call.” I’m speaking without thinking, my mouth just doing its own thing, and I’m coming down too hard to protest. “Jake wouldn’t let me call my own car. Yumiko doesn’t have a car or a smartphone. I couldn’t possibly take Jax from Wyatt.”

  “Nina?” she says with a pointed tone.

  A feeling wells up in my chest. The pills must be wearing off.

  “I’m not speaking to her,” I say. I hope this makes her feel good. I want Ellie to know she’s special to me, more so than Nina, more so than anyone. What I’d give to take back the past few months, to be back on my SSRIs, writing briefs alone in my bedroom, spending my nights with the sweetest girl in the world. The idea of being a viral musician was much nicer when it was just an idea. The idea of anything is nicer as an idea.

  “Because of the article?” she asks. I still haven’t read it.

  “No,” I say, bringing my head in the car. “Because she’s a loser.” I say this to the back of Ellie’s head. Then I turn back toward the window.

  The driver exits the highway, begins creeping around Echo Park Lake while Ellie and I sit in silence with our heads turned away from each other.

  “Thank you,” I say to the driver when he pulls in front of my building.

  Then I turn to Ellie. Before I can speak, she says, “I’m glad you cheated on me with someone you consider a loser.”

  I have no response to that. She’s right. I’m terrible. I took advantage of her savior complex, mistook it for genuine connection, then emotionally bulldozed her.

  “Thank you again,” I say to her before I get out, but she isn’t even looking at me.

  TWENTY

  I wake up feeling the worst I’ve ever felt in my life, like a rhinoceros is lying on my chest and a sinkhole is about to suck me into the earth’s core. But I won’t die. There will be no release.

  I grab my phone as an instinct. I have lots of texts.

  From Pilar: You KILLED it. But you’re alive, right?? Haha. I hope.

  From Jax: VAGAAA WE DID IT. I heard you fainted? You okay??? Need me to bring you some soup? Jk I would never do that… Get better soon!!!

  From Yumiko: The curly hair girl said she got you… I hope you’re feeling better my STAR!

  I stop reading and aimlessly scroll through Instagram for several minutes while Ennui screeches. When I can’t take the sound anymore, I hurl myself out of bed and go into the kitchen to feed her. I remember I’m out of cat food but find a yogurt in the fridge that’s only a week past the expiration date. Yogurt is basically milk, and cats love milk, right? I put it in a bowl and Ennui stares at it with confusion. Then she looks back up at me with an expression that says, What the fuck is wrong with you? I wish I could tell ya, kitty cat!

  I walk into my bathroom and open the shiny gold pouch and take out the bottle of Adderall and throw it away, just like I did with my Celexa a few months ago. Then I decide to go on a walk, without my phone. I empty the trash in the dumpster on the way out.

  Walking in circles around Echo Park Lake, I try not to think about the previous night, which inevitably makes me feel dissociated and afraid. I refocus my attention on the future, which also scares me. So then I just stare at the shifting light on the water.

  On the third loop, I think about how it might be nice to go to therapy. Then I remember Barbara Lumpkin, that awful woman who looked like she wanted to kill me—or herself— whenever I spoke. I don’t blame her at all, my problems are objectively annoying and hardly qualify as problems at all. Barbara Lump-kin was not my first therapist, and she will not be my last. I make a note to ask Dr. Kim for a recommendation when I get home. Then I continue to walk and stare at the geyser in the center of the lake.

  “Vagablonde?”

  I’m jerked from my meditation. In front of me stands a stranger. A cool teen in all black. I remember that I’m semirecog-nizable now and panic. I hate any kind of social interaction I’m not expecting. I think, What would Wyatt do? I imagine she would give a weak smile and continue walking, which is exactly what I do.

  I stop at Walgreens on the way home to buy cat food. I jet in and out, head down, without taking off my sunglasses. I don’t even look at the pharmacy section.

  When I get home, I check the mail and there’s an envelope from Wicked Ice. I open it and it’s a check. The first money I’ve made from music. Inside, I take a picture of the check and send it to my parents.

  They don’t respond.

  The next day, I get an email from my supervisor about my draft in Yumiko’s case. She tells me that her comments are “nitpicky” because she thinks I have the “skill to be an exceptional appellate attorney,” which makes me depressed as hell. I address the edits quickly to get them over with, then file the brief, taking only enough care to ensure it’s the correct one.

  Afterward, I listen to MF Doom and try to write raps. Not long after a few songs have played and I’ve written nothing, a text from Nina floats in on iMessage.

  Hi.

  This morning, Jax lit up the Kingdom thread about a “first show” party. I ignored it, tired about the idea of another party. I think about Kanye saying, No more parties in LA, and feel him deeply. I threw away my Adderall and can’t fathom socializing without it. That said, someone at the party will probably have amphetamines or another
upper. I decide my new rule can be my old rule: I don’t do drugs; I’m offered them.

  I close iMessage, ignoring the text from Nina. I pick up my phone and call Ellie.

  “Hi,” she answers on the third ring.

  “Hi,” I say. “I’d love to see you if possible.”

  “I’m back in New York,” she says.

  “Did you come to LA to see me?” I ask, then immediately want to take it back. I imagine the words being sucked back in through a tube, and in the empty space she tells me she misses me. Per usual, reality unfolds less pleasantly.

  “I went because it’s my job.” Ellie has never been this cold with me. I’m not shocked or even surprised. She should hate me. People are typically unpredictable, but one thing you can always count on is that they’ll eventually hate you. Especially when you’re me.

  “Right,” I say. “Well, I wanted to apologize in person, but I guess the phone will have to do.”

  “Apologize for what?”

  “For being a monster,” I say.

  “You aren’t a monster, Prue,” she says. “You’re just immature.” Then she hangs up.

  Inside, I fire up my laptop and type “Shiny AF Fader” into the Google search bar. Time to “face my demons,” I think with a smirk as the article pops up. I click the link and begin reading.

  It begins on the fire escape. Nina paints the scene well. The damp air, the swaying palms, the indigo sky. Yumiko is lighting candles while I stare at small gray clouds and take pensive drags of my cigarette.

  “You know, Yumi,” Prue says.

  “Yes, dahling?” Yumiko turns to face Prue, parka swinging in the wind.

  “I love you,” Prue says with a sincerity I had no idea she possessed. “You’re the only person who doesn’t need me to be a certain way.”

  Yumiko walks over and plants a maternal kiss on Prue’s cheek. “You’re perfect as you are, doll,” she says.

  I stop reading and smile, then feel my eyes water slightly.

  I have no memory of this conversation.

  I keep reading.

  Yumiko and I return to the party, where Jax and I dance to Aaliyah as though our bodies are “quantum entangled,” a “mechanical phenomenon whereby when one particle is acted upon, the other necessarily reacts.” Nina describes the gold tray and the white lines and the “rapid velocity at which Jax’s nose can inhale things.”

  At the end, it’s not as bad as I expected. I don’t bite anyone or say anything racist. Yes, portions frighten me. Particularly those describing my “vacant drug glare” and “near-pathological need to avoid reality.” But there are also good things. Nina describes me as very beautiful and very talented. And she calls my hair Warhol-esque.

  The worst thing I did when I was blacked out was tell someone I loved them.

  I turn on Dead Stars’ first EP and pick which tunic to wear to the Kingdom and think about what I said to Yumiko on the fire escape, the tender conversation I don’t remember. That’s why I dose myself. To be kind. To be vulnerable. To access my subconscious.

  The only problem is it might be killing me.

  The Kingdom is glowing teal when I arrive, and I recall the first time I walked down this hallway. It was a month and a half ago, which is insane. So much has changed. I have almost ten thousand Twitter followers now.

  Jax wraps me in a huge hug when I enter the main room. “My star,” he says. The exchange makes me uncomfortable. I think about having to go back onstage and feel ill. What am I doing?

  I sit timidly on the edge of the couch beside Yumiko. Maybe sensing my discomfort, Beau hands me a beer.

  “You killed it, Vaga,” he says. “You all did.” He holds up his camera. “I got some great shots.” I think about how this very lens has maybe seen my naked body and feel no real way about it.

  “Thank you,” I say. I look over at Nina, who is predictably rolling a joint on the table. As she looks up, I quickly look away. No one is talking and there is no music playing. I take a very loud sip of beer. It’s hard to swallow, my throat is too tight.

  Yumiko puts her hand on my knee and says, “Fire escape?”

  It’s cold and windy out there, probably in the 50s, but the air feels good. Yumiko makes a tent with her hands over my Parliament and I make one with my hands over her blunt and we smoke in silence. After a few puffs, Erykah Badu’s But You Caint Use My Phone mixtape floats out the window. I peek inside and see Jax dancing over a gold tray covered in white lines and blue pills. I get excited by the Adderall, then feel depressed. Can I handle one party without uppers? Do I only like these people on stimulants?

  Back inside, I immediately take a blue pill from the tray and put it on my tongue without thinking. I feel it so fast it must be the placebo effect, and I immediately start chatting with Pilar about our skincare routines. I’m just yapping, making sounds, saying “marula oil” and “hyaluronic acid,” words I’ve seen on Twitter. I’m suddenly very interested in how much things cost.

  “If money runs low for me I think I’ll be an escort,” I’m soon telling Pilar. I’ve never thought this before, but at this moment it feels like the best idea. Lame straight men love my blonde hair and emotional distance. They’ll pay me loads of money to be dismissive and withholding, to turn courtship into a game they’ll never win. I’ll have to fly to New York—on their dime, of course—because the coked-out Wall Street bro is my audience. Technocrats are too needy. They didn’t get laid until they were twenty-five and therefore need to be coddled. I become nostalgic for when the banks had more power than tech. They’re all evil, but at least the bankers were unapologetic about it. I’d rather be dead at Dorsia than alive at Burning Man. The possibility that I could end up murdered would make it all that more exciting.

  By the time I need a cigarette, there are more people in the room. I wade through bodies to get to the fire escape.

  “How are you feeling?” Yumiko asks.

  “Much better,” I lie. “Oh,” I say. “I filed your brief. My supervisor thinks we might win.”

  “Cool,” she says. I know I’m just talking about the case to avoid talking about my feelings, which is perhaps why I got into the law in the first place. Same with Adderall, which is doing a fantastic job of keeping my emotions nowhere near me. But I know I’ll need more soon or else experience profound despair.

  Unsure what to say, I offer Yumiko a sip of my beer. She shakes her head. “I gave up drinking.”

  I look back at her, confused.

  “I only do plant-based drugs now,” she says. “I’ve gotten really into Terence McKenna.”

  Yumiko is full of surprises.

  “Alcohol isn’t quite as bad as some other stuff, like Adderall and Xanax.” She raises an eyebrow at me, and I feel ashamed. “Pharmaceuticals are made up of, like, ten different toxic compounds. Also they’re created by publicly owned corporations that only care about profit.”

  “But they feel so good,” I say as I drag my cigarette.

  “Only for one to three hours,” she says, “then you feel bad for the remainder of the twenty-four. Psychedelics don’t have the same comedown. I’m usually happier after a trip, because I see the world as more wonderful and the future as less bleak.”

  Unsure what to say, I take another drag.

  “Also, you should smoke organic tobacco,” she says. “Those things are filled with pesticides.”

  “Okay, Mom,” I say. I throw my cigarette on the ground. I don’t feel particularly disturbed by what Yumiko is saying because the Adderall is peaking and nothing could disturb me.

  Back inside, the dance floor is picking up. Future starts playing and Nina sways alone under the disco ball. She spots me and slinks up, starts grinding against me. I back up. I don’t want to be sexual right now. Maybe sensing my discomfort, Nina places an Adderall in my palm. I look at the pill and note how artificially blue it is, then think about Yumiko’s admonition about “toxic compounds.” Sweat from Nina’s hand smudges blue onto my palm. It disgusts me. She di
sgusts me. I give it back. And then I leave.

  When I arrive at my house, there is a familiar feline figure at my doorstep. It’s Missy. I start to cry, mainly because she looks significantly healthier than Ennui, which means she was better without me. And, yet, she came back.

  I spend the next morning inside an internet rabbit hole about SS-RIs, leading me to wonder whether I should be microdosing LSD instead. I miss a few phone calls: one from my dad and three from the downtown office. I don’t listen to my dad’s voice mail, but I do call him back.

  “Hello, Prue.” My dad’s voice is robotic.

  “Hi, Dad,” I say.

  “I have speakerphone on,” he says. “Your mom is also here.”

  “Hi, Mom,” I say. I fantasize about hanging up “accidentally.”

  “Hi, Prudence,” she says.

  Prudence? My body feels heavy, a phantom pushes down on my shoulders.

  “What’s up?” I ask

  “I guess there is no easy way to say this,” he says.

  I start to wonder who died. All my grandparents are dead. I have no siblings. Maybe a cousin or family friend. A thin layer of sweat forms on my palms and I wipe them on my jeans.

  “We received a letter from the California Appellate Project that was meant for you,” he says.

  Ugh, I keep meaning to change my address with the California Bar Association. I was living in DC when I got my bar results, and it still lists my parents’ address. But I’ve worked at this job for three years—they should know where I fucking live! Jesus, the California government… giving a new meaning to incompetence every day.

  My dad’s voice yanks me from my rage. “Your mother opened it by mistake, and, well, she was frightened by what she saw.”

  I swallow hard.

  “First, they’ve terminated your employment,” my dad says.

  “What?” I ask. I’m legitimately confused. They fired me? “My supervisor just told me my argumentation was ‘exceptional.’”

  “It’s not for poor performance, Prue,” my dad says. “We’ve always known you are very bright.” He pauses, seems to swallow. “They wrote that they were alerted to an article in a music magazine by an intern that depicted you in a troubling light. You were fraternizing with your client and engaging in rampant illegal drug use.”