There wasn’t time for a shower. Evie pulled on some clothes while trying to brush her hair, issuing orders. “Get her to a doctor today. For all we know her insides are turning into radioactive goo. But don’t go to your usual one.”
Willow yawned. Somehow even that was impossibly cute. “I don’t really have a usual one.”
“Good. Get a checkup. Also, get the kitchen window fixed; it’s a miracle someone didn’t try and break in already. Deodorant, where’s my deodorant . . . And you’ll have to think of something to tell Mark.”
“Like what?”
“I don’t know . . . You’re going to see your mom. Shoes, shoes, shoes . . .”
“Ugh. Why would I want to do that?”
“I don’t know! Your stepdad broke his leg and she needs help around the house.”
“How did he break his leg?” Krista sounded intrigued.
“Guys!” Evie threw up her hands. “Make some decisions on your own, okay, I have to get to work.” Evie snatched her purse. “Don’t tell anyone what happened. Don’t do anything stupid. Got it?”
“Aye-aye,” Krista said, saluting. Willow giggled.
Evie narrowed her eyes. “Just . . . don’t, okay? That is our new family motto. What is it?”
“Don’t,” chorused the girls. They were grinning like Cheshire cats.
It was after eleven by the time Evie got to the Heimert Schwartz building. She skidded across the faux polished marble, shooting her arm into a set of already closing doors, Terminator style.
“Sorry,” she puffed, as the doors reopened. “Late.”
“No problem,” a woman’s voice replied.
Evie looked into the eyes of Velma Wolff.
For a second, Evie just stood there, stunned into stasis. Velma stood in the left corner, swiping casually through her phone. In a pair of black pants and silky white shirt, she looked effortlessly cool and relaxed, at odds with the sticky New York morning. Dark blond hair fell down one shoulder in a loose fishtail braid. The smell of lavender hung in the air.
Evie stepped inside the elevator. Why today of all days? She mentally catalogued her various failings: hair a disaster, frumpy skirt, no scrap of makeup to be seen. She was almost sure she’d forgotten deodorant.
It was only after the elevator doors closed that Evie remembered to push a button. They began moving up. Evie snuck another look at Velma. There was a boldness to her beauty: it was unconventional, unapologetic. The gap-toothed smile and the Roman nose could almost be seen as ugly, but somehow Velma made them iconic. She looked like the kind of woman who knew how to order wine, who never wore anything stained, who was always reading something better and more interesting than you were.
Say something, Evie commanded herself. She’s your favorite author, this won’t happen again, you’ll regret it if you don’t. Her mind moved feverishly through possible puns or witty openings, grabbing for a way to make a connection. “I just want to say I’m a really big fan,” Evie blurted.
Velma started at the sound.
Evie smiled in a way she hoped wasn’t creepy but almost certainly was. “I’ve read all your books.”
Velma’s voice was lukewarm. “Thank you so much.” She returned her attention to her phone.
“I’m in publishing too,” Evie added. “You know, so I get it. I get it. I do, I really just . . . I get it.”
“You’re a writer?”
The question was such an unexpected engagement that Evie almost yelled her reply. “Yes! Well, I have a blog. I actually work for Salty. I’m a, ah, copyeditor.”
She watched Velma’s minuscule amount of interest deflate, air escaping from the world’s tiniest balloon. Telling Velma Wolff the truth proved to be as successful as lying to Quinn. For the first time in her life, Evie prayed for catastrophic elevator failure.
The doors pinged open to the twenty-eighth floor. Home of the highbrow arts monthly Sheaf, the sort of publication that ran ten-page features that started with, “The overall feel of a dégustation with Damien Hirst is Germanic, satanic, and the opposite of the fashions of the Titanic.”
Velma looked at Evie as if to say, Well, Odd Face, our time is thankfully up.
Evie nodded once, twice, too many times. “I’m actually not going into Salty today, because, well—”
Velma exited the elevator, leaving Evie’s words to dissipate pathetically in her wake.
“Today . . . everything’s different.”
. . .
Evie got out on the thirty-ninth floor, where a handwritten sign read Extra Salt Casting. Awesome first impression, she scolded herself. Super keen to work on the show, Jan, as long as it doesn’t interrupt my demanding sleep schedule. And if I do manage to rise before noon, I like to embarrass myself in front of my literary idols.
She barreled around the corner. Thirty girls about her age sat in a large foyer. They all glanced up, then just as quickly looked away, carefully ignoring each other.
Evie was instantly intimidated, then annoyed at herself for being intimidated. You’re not here to audition. You’re here to help them look smart.
She picked her way through the sea of cheekbones as sharp as pocketknives. Was it bronzer? Or was it . . . magic? Were all the supermodels on Pretty? Were supermodels even a real thing? What about—
“Hi.” A boy with rimless glasses appeared at her side.
“Hi.” Evie jumped, refocusing. “I’m—”
He handed her some forms. “Fill these out, then give them back to me—”
“I’m not here to audition.” Evie handed the forms back. “Jan Stilton told me to come. I’m Evie, I work for Salty. Might be helping out with the show?”
“Oh. She must want you in the room. I’m Lukas,” he added. “Follow me.”
Lukas stopped outside a closed door, listened, then pushed it open. Half a dozen people sat behind a long white desk. Jan caught Evie’s eye and motioned for her to come in. “Everyone,” Jan said, “this is Evie Selby, Salty’s copyeditor extraordinaire. She might be joining us as a researcher. Evie, this is our director, Rich, and our producer, Kelly.”
Rich, also in his early twenties, sat slouching, engrossed in his phone. White as they come, no muscles to speak of, wearing black-rimmed glasses and a T-shirt that said Hello Newman with a picture of Paul Newman. He reminded Evie of the comedy nerds Krista used to do improv with: able to quote Louis C.K., unable to talk to women. Which made Kelly the guy in his late thirties/early forties, sitting with his legs spread, radiating an urban cowboy vibe. Thick blond hair was slicked off a tanned face. Entirely unsubtle sky-blue eyes. The kind of guy who’d get drunk in an airport, then hit on the flight attendant. “G’day,” he said to Evie, giving himself away as Australian.
The elegant woman in her mid- to late forties who exuded a distinct I’m-a-big-shot vibe was Laurel Flynn, the casting agent. Next to her was a smartly dressed Latina wearing lots of makeup, who Evie could tell was a “people person.” Carmen Lopez from Sales and Marketing. Carmen was the only panel member to beam at Evie, revealing bleached white teeth. Evie tried to beam back without showing her teeth, which she thought of as tea-colored pebbles.
“Hi.” Evie waved awkwardly at everyone with both hands, like a crab. She took an empty seat behind them.
“Let’s bring our next girl in.” Laurel nodded at Lukas. A glossy-haired brunette was ushered into the single chair facing them. Everything about her had been evened out, smoothed into symmetry. A bell curve in heels. Lukas handed the girl’s head shot to Kelly.
Laurel led a brief round of introductions and checked that the girl had the right script, which Evie noted she called “sides.”
Kelly pressed a red button on the side of the camera.
“Go ahead and state your name and agency,” Laurel instructed.
The girl flashed a big smile down the lens. “Brittany Bilsen, Tony Yuro Agency.” Her voice was a looping southern drawl.
“Great.” Laurel nodded. “When you’re ready.”
; Brittany tossed her hair back. “Lovely lips are a must all year-round, but which lipstick provides the longest-lasting coverage?” Her voice sounded as warm and inviting as caramel sauce. “We road-test your favorite brands to find out. Watch out—we do kiss and tell.”
“Great,” Rich said. His voice was sort of nasally. “Can you do it again, but try hitting the last line with a bit more sex?”
Brittany did the lines again, but this time she gave the camera a cheeky little smile for the last line, adding the slightest wiggle to her shoulders.
Jan’s arms and legs were both crossed. Evie could tell her editor was underwhelmed. “Did you have any ideas for stories you’d do?”
“I sure do.” Brittany recrossed her legs. “Online dating.”
Jan looked unmoved. “What about online dating?”
“Oh, you know.” Brittany shrugged. “How it’s not just for losers anymore. My best friend’s online and she’s a doll.”
Evie wondered if Brittany was being literal, and if the doll was getting better messages than she was.
“Right,” Jan said. “But what’s the angle?”
Evie knew why Jan sounded testy. Just like “30 Things to Do Before You Turn 30” and the word netiquette, online dating was tired, done. All the section eds knew not to pitch it, unless there was something new to say about it—a look at a popular new app or a good Real Girl horror story.
Brittany looked thrown. “Well . . . maybe I could go on an online date. I have a boyfriend,” she was quick to add. “But maybe I go on one and something happens.”
“Like what?” Rich asked.
“I don’t know. Something funny?”
“Like what?” Rich repeated, glancing down at his phone.
Brittany cocked her head, thinking. She brightened. “Like, maybe he shows up and he’s in a wheelchair! And I’m like, ‘Uh-uh! No way!’ ” She screwed her face into a look of mock horror. Evie had to look at her shoes to hide her look of incredulity.
Kelly gave her a wink. “Thanks for coming in, Brittany.”
Brittany thanked everyone and trotted out. The people at the table exchanged tired smiles.
“She had a great look,” offered Carmen. “I know the sponsors would love her.”
“It was the same problem as the last girl.” Jan sighed. “I can’t understand why it’s so hard to find someone with the right look who has a bloody personality.”
“We will,” Laurel said.
“What about stand-ups?” Jan looked at Kelly. “Could we send some scouts out to the clubs?”
Kelly shook his head. “We don’t have time. We need to find someone today, tomorrow at the latest. We start shooting Monday.”
“And we need to be online by next Wednesday,” Carmen reminded everyone. “The contracts are done.”
“We need someone with an edge.” Jan’s eyebrows hinted they might be frowning. “Someone with an accent. Or a hot lesbian—”
“Hot bisexual,” Carmen corrected. “We’d lose too many sponsors with a lesbian.”
“Evie.” Jan twisted around to face Evie fully. “Can you think of anyone we should get in?”
Evie could.
Herself.
She was bisexual. Maybe not a hot bisexual, but she’d definitely had her tongue in other girls’ mouths. She knew the brand, and she was used to coming up with interesting angles for stories, albeit for Something Snarky. She’d never been on camera before, but wasn’t it just elocution and confidence?
But she was sitting right there. And no one in the room had suggested her. She could imagine what would happen if she did. The awkward pause, the shuffling of notes, the collective chickening out of having to say, “Sorry, Evie. You don’t have the Extra Salt look . . . You’re just not pretty enough.”
“My roommate, Krista,” Evie said. “You could audition my roommate.”
The room perked up. Evie’s insides wilted.
If altruism was supposed to feel good, why did she feel so damn shitty?
9.
After three more equally disheartening auditions, Evie told Jan she needed to get back to the office. Jan confirmed the likelihood of “continuing the conversation” about working on Extra Salt for the first episode was high. Evie told her, “Great!” but her heart wasn’t in it. Willow and Krista weren’t returning her texts. She was worried.
Her afternoon’s work was a write-off. She couldn’t stop Googling neuroscience, cellular regeneration, and military experiments about beauty. She resolved to finish her pages after confirming Willow was still alive. At exactly 6 p.m., she bolted for the elevator. Two subways and one mad dash through Williamsburg later, and she was heaving for breath by the time she got home. It wasn’t until she thrust open the front door that she registered the sound.
Beyoncé.
Two lithe bodies shimmied like snakes in the middle of the living room. Sexy snakes; snakes on spring break. The coffee table was crowded with bottles of wine. The air smelled a little like bleach.
She recognized the first snake: Pretty Willow—Caroline—wearing the napkin Krista passed off as a dress last New Year’s. She didn’t recognize the second, a brunette who bounded over to turn down the music. She was wearing Krista’s favorite leopard-print hot pants. “Evie! Don’t be mad. But . . . I did it!”
Evie closed her eyes. Maybe when she opened them the brain tumor would transport her to Hawaii or outer space or a quiet white hospital bed with tightly tucked-in sheets. When she opened them, Krista—because, of course, of course, the second girl was Krista post-Pretty—was still in front of her, bouncing eagerly.
“I’m Pretty!” the girl screamed. “Look at me! Look at my ass!” She spun around to shake a rump as round as a beach ball.
Evie stepped back. “Did you take Willow to the doctor?”
The girl groaned. “Stop being so boring, Mom. Can’t you just have fun for once?”
Evie opened her mouth but was lost for a comeback. She had fun. She had fun all the time.
Didn’t she?
“Evie, we went.” Willow flopped down on the couch. She grabbed the wine and took a slug. “I’m fine.” She grinned sweetly. “Perfectly healthy.”
“Seriously, dude. This stuff is the bomb.” The girl—Krista—presented herself proudly to Evie for inspection. “Check me out.”
Like Willow, Krista was taller, but while Willow had only shot up a couple of inches, Krista had gained almost a foot. Her short choppy bob had been replaced with lustrous dark tresses that fell halfway down her back. Her features were sharper. Krista’s nose—which she hated, describing it as too big and too flat—was now straight. Her cheekbones were high, her lips graceful sweeps of dark pink. Her sleekly oval-shaped eyes were a vibrant emerald green, just as arresting as Willow’s. But the biggest difference was her skin. Krista’s real skin was chocolate colored. This girl’s skin resembled milky coffee. It twisted Evie’s stomach into a mess of nerves. “Your skin,” Evie said.
“I know.” Krista whipped her eyes to the mirror above the couch. “Totally Eurasian.” She struck a pose.
“The Pretty made you whiter,” Evie said faintly.
“Yeah.” Krista laughed. “Awesome, right?”
“No,” Evie said. “Not awesome. It’s such a dumb Western ideal.”
“What is?” Willow asked.
“White skin being pretty,” Evie said.
Krista didn’t look away from the mirror, but Evie saw a tiny flare of anger ignite behind her eyes. “You don’t get it, dude.” She spun around, her tone walking the line between joking and defensive. “I’m a hot ethnic cliché. I can get any commercial I want.”
Evie backed up a step. “That is so wrong.”
Krista huffed air, quick and hard. “Don’t even think about lecturing me about race stuff. You’re white, you’ll never get it.”
Evie blinked at the two girls staring back at her—gangly, unfamiliar renderings of her two closest friends. Anxiety drummed into her chest. “This is getting too wei
rd. We should call someone. Tell someone—”
“No, no, no.” The girls rushed forward.
“We’re fine,” Willow cooed.
“Totally cool,” Krista agreed, pulling Evie toward the couch.
“And we cleaned everything up—”
“So gross, but holy shit, the bathroom has never been cleaner—”
The girls deposited Evie on the couch.
“And we got you something.” Willow widened her eyes at Krista, who dashed into the kitchen.
Evie slipped her shoes off. “I’m just not sure what this all means.”
“Maybe it doesn’t have to mean anything,” Krista called from the kitchen. “Maybe it’s just fun.”
“Fun is a feminist issue,” Evie replied. “No wait, that’s fat. Fat is a feminist issue.”
“Ta-da!” Krista appeared in the kitchen doorway. She was holding a bottle of Dom Pérignon, two mismatched wineglasses, and an I ❤ NY coffee mug. “We’ve only got two glasses,” she said, nodding at the mug. “But still, ta-fucking-da.”
Evie sat up. “How’d you afford that?”
Krista nodded at Willow, who smiled blithely and shrugged. Krista set the glasses down and handed the bottle to Evie. “It’s your favorite, right?”
They were two puppies, dying for Evie to let them off the leash so they could cause chaos in the most adorable way. And while she was worried, Evie resented being cast as the boring one. The least she could do was pretend to have fun. Plus, if ever there was a time to get drunk on really, really, really expensive champagne, this was definitely it.
“Sure.” Evie accepted the bottle and the girls both squealed.
“I knew it!” Krista beamed, so proud of herself.
Evie eased out the cork and the girls whooped. She filled up her mug and slurped it. Yum. Krista put Beyoncé back on, and suddenly it was a party again. Evie settled into the couch, drinking steadily, watching the women her best friends had become dance like everyone was watching.
It was easy to understand Krista’s motivations. Nothing made the girl happier than a new pair of pumps, so naturally a new pair of legs would send her into overdrive. Evie knew her roommate was under pressure to get some real acting work, and Krista tended to approach challenges with a “by any means necessary” mentality.
The Regulars Page 6