The Regulars

by Georgia Clark

  “Oh please, spare me the Oprah Winfrey special.” Krista rolled her eyes. “Fucking man arms, remember? If this works—”

  “What?” Evie challenged. “You’d what? Be happy? Get laid? You’re already having more sex than the two of us combined and she’s dating someone.”

  “Evie.” Willow’s warning was gentle, but her tone just pissed Evie off even more.

  Krista stared at Evie. “Why are you getting so angry?”

  “I’m not getting angry!”

  “If this is true—” Krista continued.

  “Which it can’t possibly be,” Evie interjected.

  “We could be freakin’ supermodels,” Krista said. “Like the girls in magazines.”

  “The girls in magazines are airbrushed,” Evie said.

  “Not Penny,” Krista said. “The difference between her and her”—she held up the photo on her phone—“would be like airbrushing Seth Rogen and making him into James Franco.”

  “Jesus, Krista!” Evie spat the words. “I can’t believe you actually think this is real! What’s wrong with you?”

  “Evie!” Krista thumped the sofa. “Don’t you get it? This could change everything for me!”

  “Oh, does the magic potion make you get to auditions on time?”

  “No, it’d help me actually get them.” With a jab of surprise, Evie realized Krista was fighting back tears. “I’m so sick of being so fucking anonymous. Casting calls with a million girls all hotter than me.”

  “I’ll try it,” Willow said.

  “And if I do manage to get something, I’m expected to break out an Indian accent, mid–Bollywood dance. I’m always too Asian or not Asian enough, and when I explain I don’t speak any fucking dialect, they just want me to ‘make it up.’ Do you realize how insulting that is? Like I’m a goddamn sideshow—”

  “Guys.” Willow raised her voice. “I want to try it.”

  Silence. Evie stared at Willow, horrified. “Are you joking?”

  “No.”

  “But you’re—” Evie swallowed her words, but she was sure both girls knew what she was going to say. But you’re the prettiest of us all.

  Willow shrugged. “I want to try it.”

  Evie shot her eyes from Willow to Krista, then back to Willow. She couldn’t tell Willow what to do in the same way she did Krista, and Willow knew it. “But why?”

  Willow shrugged, deliberately petulant. “One drop?”

  “Yeah, there’s a dropper,” Krista said before being silenced by a death glare from Evie.

  “What, here? Now?” Evie asked.

  Willow’s voice was cool. “According to you, it won’t work anyway.”

  “It will.” Krista scurried to sit right next to Willow, tears forgotten, face suddenly alight.

  Willow unscrewed the bottle, then lifted it to her nose and sniffed. “No smell,” she told Evie before offering it to Krista. Her eyes were fastened on Evie. “One drop?” she repeated softly to Krista, who nodded with the sort of happy excitement usually invoked by open bars or surprise snacks.

  They watched in silence as Willow depressed the dropper carefully, sucking up a line of purple into the clear glass tube. She stuck out her tongue and positioned the dropper over it. Her eyes never left Evie’s, as if daring her friend to stop her.

  If Willow thinks she should be prettier, then, fuck, what must she think of me? Evie thought.

  Evie said, “What are you waiting for?”

  Willow squeezed the dropper. As if in slow motion, the girls watched a single brilliant purple drop of liquid fall toward Willow’s outstretched tongue. It landed without a sound, instantly disappearing.

  Willow winced, swallowing. “Sour.” She passed the little bottle back to Krista, who obediently screwed the top shut, staring at Willow expectantly.

  A moment passed.

  Then another.

  Evie realized that, ludicrously, she was actually waiting for something to happen. She almost started to ask if it was supposed to work straightaway or not, but caught herself: that would imply she actually believed Krista. The only noise came from the kitchen, the very faint whir of a dishwasher. Evie felt her shoulders relax. She exhaled. “See? It didn’t work.”

  Krista’s face fell. It looked like she might cry. “Yeah,” she muttered. “That woman must’ve been batshit. Let’s order—”

  Willow let out an enormous, barking burp. The girls stared at her. Willow clamped her hand over her mouth.

  “Dude.” Krista giggled, before it happened again. A man’s burp; long and deep.

  Evie slid closer to her. “Are you okay?”

  Willow’s hands moved to her stomach. She squeezed her eyes shut. “I don’t feel well.”

  “Oh shit,” Evie said. “Krista, what the fuck was that?”

  “It just says Pretty, that’s all it says.” Krista held up the bottle. A white sticker with smeared, handwritten black lettering.

  “Evie, I think I’m going to be sick,” Willow whimpered.

  “Let’s get her to a bathroom.” Evie grabbed Willow’s arm. It was clammy. “Fuck. Should I call a doctor?”

  “No! No.” Willow got to her feet unsteadily. “I’ll be okay—” There was a loose, ripping sound. Willow’s eyes went wide. The smell of shit filled the room. Willow’s voice was pale. “Oh my god.”

  Krista’s jaw dropped. “Did you just shit yourself?”

  It only took a second to confirm that she had. Poop was dribbling down the backs of both ankles and onto the white carpet. Willow moaned, sounding more in pain than embarrassed.

  “Bathroom!” Evie shouted, and the two girls began half carrying, half dragging their friend in the direction of a small guest bathroom. They were only one or two steps inside before Willow began retching. She stumbled toward the toilet, but was unable to contain a Technicolor wave of puke that arrived seconds too early. Vomit splashed over the bowl, the wall behind, soaking a white basket stacked neatly with toilet paper rolls.

  “It’s on my hands, Willow’s shit is on my hands.” Krista thrust them out in front of her in alarm.

  “Fuck that, call 911!” Evie yelled. She was panicking. Manslaughter! Evie’s brain shrieked, manslaughter!

  Willow was sick again, coughing a bucketload of vomit into the once-pristine bowl. The smell was unbearable; the ripe, pungent odor of feces mixed with the sickly sweet smell of vomit.

  “Where’s your phone?” Evie yelled at Krista.

  “I don’t know, I don’t know, oh god, Willow, what’s happening, I’m sorry—”

  “Find it! Call 911!”

  Krista zoomed for the sink, switched on both faucets, and shoved her hands under them.

  “Leave it!” Evie screamed hysterically. “Call 911!”

  “Don’t yell at me!” screamed Krista.

  “I’m sorry,” Evie screamed back. “I’m freaking out!”

  Willow sat back on her haunches, panting. She moaned; a strange, high-pitched sigh. Evie and Krista snapped their heads in her direction . . . and froze.

  Everything stopped. Evie was no longer conscious of the smell, the sickness, the panic.

  It wasn’t Willow in front of the toilet.

  It was someone else.

  The girl in front of the toilet wiped her mouth with the back of her hand and groaned, turning to gaze at Evie mournfully.

  Evie stared back at a stranger.

  Her brain snatched for meaning, for order, but came up empty-handed. Oddly, she flashed back to last spring, where a bad date had taken her to a surprisingly good magic show in the East Village. A guy with a thin mustache and red suspenders turned a cigarette into a Sharpie, right in front of her. She knew logically that it was sleight of hand, but the effect was extraordinary. It really looked like magic, a rip in reality. This felt like that, but a million times more pronounced. I’m going mad, Evie thought faintly. I have a brain tumor and I’m going mad.

  Both faucets were still running, hissing loudly. Evie switched them off. The bathro
om was silent.

  Confused, the girl shifted her gaze from Evie to Krista and back to Evie. The movement was enough to cause Krista to draw behind Evie. Evie took a step back, hands outstretched, instinctively protective.

  “Oh my god,” Krista whispered, peeking behind Evie’s shoulder. “It worked.”

  The girl said, “What?”

  Her eyes. Evie couldn’t stop staring at the girl’s eyes. So wide-set they were almost unnatural. And that color. A brilliant, intoxicating sea-green, made even more shocking by a rim of thick, dark lashes.

  “Willow?” Evie croaked.

  The girl looked back at the toilet. “Maria’s going to kill me. Oh god, I’m so embarrassed.”

  “Willow?” Evie repeated.

  The girl looked back up at Evie and it was that second turn of her head, revealing a face so lovely, a neck so long, that a fresh wave of adrenaline burst through Evie’s system. Without thinking, Evie lunged for her, cupping her by the shoulders and pulling her upright.

  “Hey,” protested the girl weakly. Evie shoved her in front of the bathroom mirror, panting.

  The girl met her reflection. A jolt of fear visibly ricocheted through her and she bolted back a few steps. Krista came to hover on one side, and it was only then Evie saw the girl was at least two inches taller than Willow; slender and graceful, like a ballerina or a wisp of smoke.

  Krista was grinning, crazed and victorious. “Dude, it worked, it fucking worked. It. Fucking. Worked.”

  The girl—and Evie realized she’d have to stop thinking of her that way because impossibly, impossibly, the girl was Willow—was standing stock-still, locked into her own reflection’s gaze. Evie couldn’t stop staring either, noticing now her rose-blond hair, warmer and thicker than Willow’s thin, ash-blond locks. The even tan of her skin, the round end of a cute snub nose. The full, Cupid-bow lips that were parting slowly in astonishment. Her hands found her face, and she began pressing her cheeks, her forehead, tugging at vomit-flecked hair. She opened and shut her mouth a few times before turning to Evie, eyes wide, pupils dilated. “Evie? Is this really happening?”

  Evie stared back at the new creature, birthed from her friend, covered in shit and sticky fluids, standing on unsteady legs. “Are you okay? How do you feel? Should I call someone?” It felt like asking questions in a dream: silly, pointless.

  “Hello?” A woman’s voice rang out. “Oh my god . . .”

  Willow’s eyes bounced from Krista to Evie. “It’s Claire.”

  Before Evie could begin to formulate anything close to a plan, Claire Horowitz, Matteo’s thirty-nine-year-old girlfriend, appeared in the doorway to the guest bathroom. She was wearing a gray T-shirt with an NPR logo and baggy jeans. Her dark hair was swept back into a damp ponytail and she had a gym bag slung over one shoulder. Her expression landed somewhere between concern, confusion, and disgust. She covered her nose with her hand, instantly reminding them all of the godawful smell.

  “Evie,” Claire said, then, recognizing her, “Krista. What’s going on?”

  Evie stared blankly at Claire. Her brain, usually a reliable and well-oiled machine, had collapsed, shattered, temporarily malfunctioned. There was still a distinct possibility that none of this was real—brain tumor—but somehow, Evie knew that it was. Claire’s eyes moved to take in the vomit, the smears of shit, and the stranger in her home.

  “Evie?” Claire’s voice dropped an octave. “Have you guys . . . taken something?”

  “No!” Evie exclaimed, too loud, too panicky. “No.” She forced herself to start talking. “This is my . . . cousin.”

  “Oh.” Claire glanced at Willow in surprise.

  “She . . . is . . . sick,” Evie continued, each word an effort.

  “Food poisoning,” piped in Krista, glancing at Evie for approval.

  “Yes. Yes!” Evie exclaimed. “Food poisoning. She just flew in from . . . Idaho. Plane food. Bad plane food.”

  “American Airlines,” Krista added, nodding then shaking her head.

  Claire’s expression softened. “Oh, you poor thing,” she said to Willow, who still hadn’t moved a muscle. “That is the worst. Do you think you’re well enough for a shower?”

  Willow glanced at Evie before looking back at Claire in confusion and saying, “Yes?”

  “Okay, why don’t you do that,” Claire said. “You can borrow some clothes off Willow.” Then, glancing around behind her: “Is she here?”

  The girls exchanged a series of alarmed glances.

  “Um . . .” started Evie, but thankfully, Claire was already pulling out her phone.

  “I’m going to call our housekeeper, see if she can help clean up.”

  “I’m sorry,” Willow whispered, but Claire waved off the apology.

  “Don’t worry,” Claire said. “Honestly. I had food poisoning in Thailand. Worst night of my life. It was like every orifice in my body was a faucet switched on high.” Then, into the phone, “¿Hola, Maria? Es Claire. Perdón por llamarte en tu día libre—”

  Evie ran to shut the bathroom door. All three started shout-whispering at once.

  “Dude, I told you it’d work. I told you!”

  “How are you feeling? I can still call 911.”

  “A bit nauseous. But I think I’m fine.”

  “This is so fucking cool, I can’t believe it worked!”

  “How is this happening? That’s not my face.”

  “I don’t know . . . Some kind of . . . I don’t know, Will.”

  “Who cares?” Krista spun Willow’s shoulders so she was facing the mirror. “You look like a supermodel.”

  Evie watched Willow absorbing her doll-face reflection, her expression blasted apart and wondering, familiar and alien, all at once. Nothing about it was comforting, but Evie couldn’t look away.

  Krista was right.

  The Pretty had worked.

  Ten minutes later, Willow was showering in her own room while Evie shoved clothes from Willow’s floor into a tote.

  “What’s that for?” Krista was perched on the end of Willow’s unmade bed, clutching the bottle of Pretty she’d found under the coffee table, contents still intact.

  “She’ll have to stay with us.”

  “What? Why?”

  “She’s not Willow Hendriksen anymore, is she?”

  There was a knock at the door.

  Evie straightened, pushing her glasses up her nose nervously. “Yeah?”

  Claire stuck her head in. “She okay?”

  “Showering.” Evie nodded at the bathroom door. “Soon as she’s done, we’ll get out of your hair.”

  Claire nodded, as if to say, no rush. “Where’s Willow?”

  Fuck. Evie’d meant to think of some clever explanation, but once again her brain had experienced a critical error. She glanced at Krista, who was staring back, wide-eyed; no help. “She’s not here,” Evie began. “She’s . . . going to stay with Mark for the week.”

  “Brilliant,” whispered Krista, which Evie ignored.

  Claire looked unwilling to leave the boundary of the doorway. “For a week? Why?”

  “Why? Why?” Evie repeated. “Good question. The truth is . . . The actual truth is . . .”

  “She resents you,” Krista announced.

  “What?” Claire and Evie chorused.

  “She resents you for moving in,” Krista said.

  “But I moved in a year ago.” Claire’s hand moved to her throat. “We talked about it. She said she was fine.”

  “Dude,” Krista said. “No offense, but you’re, what, more than twenty years younger than her dad? That’s pretty messed up.”

  “Krista,” hissed Evie, but Claire wasn’t listening.

  “I knew it,” Claire was muttering to herself. “I knew it was too much.”

  The bathroom door opened.

  Willow wore a pale yellow dress, low-cut enough to reveal two full breasts straining against the material. Her hair was combed and damp, falling just above her shoulders. She was grinn
ing. The effect was momentarily breathtaking, like seeing a full rainbow or a wild horse. All three women gazed at her, each experiencing a mash of mixed emotions: giddy excitement, sour insecurity, expansive wonderment.

  Willow started giggling manically, which knocked Evie back into gear. “Right, we’ll go. Sorry again about all the shit. And I’m sure Willow will be fine, she just needs time.”

  “Huh?” Willow’s ears pricked, but Evie was already guiding the precious bird girl toward the door, tote bag of clothes over one shoulder.

  “I hope so.” Claire stepped aside to make way. “I hope you feel better. And I’m sorry, I never got your name. I’m Claire.”

  Willow stopped midstep. “I’m . . . Caroline.”

  “Caroline?” repeated Krista, but Claire was shaking Willow’s outstretched hand and didn’t notice.

  Evie led the charge to the elevator, trying to ignore the pungent odor of sick that now permeated the entire apartment. Once inside, Willow swung to face the mirror, to admire herself and whisper reverently, “My boobs. Jesus, look at my boobs.”

  The thick silver doors slid gracefully shut, cutting off the view of the gleaming foyer.

  Krista glanced up at Evie expectantly. “What do we do now?”

  Evie clutched the bag of clothes grimly, and said, “I have absolutely no idea.”

  8.

  The night sky was inviting the light gray of dawn before Evie finally fell asleep. Her previously nonfunctioning brain had been working overtime to answer the endlessly cycling question: how, how, how? By the time exhaustion finally won, the answer lay somewhere between military-grade nanotechnology and magic beans. No time seemed to pass before something pulled her from sleep. First thought: too light; late. Second thought: someone next to me. She jerked back with a shout, hands splayed. A girl giggled, kittenish. “Morning.”

  Evie fumbled for her glasses. The girl who used to be Willow came into complete focus. As blond and beautiful as a cliché. Krista leaned against the doorframe, eating handfuls of Lucky Charms in her PJs and grinning. Evie groaned. “What time is it?”

  “After ten.”

  “What?” Evie threw back her covers. “I’m late!”