“Yes,” Evie muttered.
“What,” Jan continued icily, “is it?”
Evie winced. “It’s a Revlon logo.”
“Exactly,” Jan hissed. “Because Revlon sponsors the Arzners. And what is Revlon?”
“Do you mean, like, metaphorically?” Evie asked.
“They’re a makeup company,” Kelly answered.
“And not just any makeup company,” Jan continued, her voice sounding almost manic. “The biggest makeup company in America. They don’t just advertise with Salty, they advertise with twenty-five of our titles. Or should I say, advertised.” Her voice was a tight hiss. “Past tense. Funnily enough, the world’s biggest makeup company didn’t take too kindly to the message of ‘Don’t wear makeup,’ because, you know”—and now Jan started shouting—“they’re a fucking makeup company!”
Kelly groaned and dropped his head into his hands.
“Don’t you have something to say?” Jan asked Evie.
Evie almost laughed. “Do you expect me to say I’m sorry? Because I’m not. I don’t give a shit if your capitalist empire crumbles around you because I did something constructive for women.” Evie stood up. “You know the video’s gone viral, right? You should be thanking me.”
“Oh my god,” snorted Kelly.
“Don’t you walk out on me, Chloe,” Jan said. “Don’t you dare walk out on me.”
“Watch me,” Evie said, eyes glittering. Every cell in her body was vibrating, phoenix-strong, a fountain of light. She pulled Jan’s door open, sucked in a deep breath. “I. Quit.”
A wild-eyed Ella-Mae shoved Evie out of the way, hurtling into Jan’s office. At the end of an outstretched arm, an iPhone. Her voice was a strangled, banshee shriek. “Tristan McKell has a micropenis!”
67.
Tristan’s micropenis broke the internet.
It had taken the extra who snapped the picture 3.5 seconds to post it to Twitter, a decision she, and her parents, came to regret only because its asking fee would have been seven figures. It was the tweet that was heard around the world. Within four minutes, it was one of the most retweeted pictures in history, momentarily collapsing the site’s servers. By day’s end, Tristan’s people released a statement confirming the picture was real, a move equally lauded and laughed at. Production on Funderland ground to a halt. This time, Krista didn’t bother giving Gillian the satisfaction. She just packed up her stuff and took a car home. For the past few days, she’d been a prisoner in her own apartment. Paparazzi swarmed across the street like giant cockroaches. They’d even found the fire escape. Her phone would not stop ringing—Cameron, Gillian, Lana Lockhart, even Greg. The only person she wanted to hear from, Tristan, wasn’t returning her texts and calls. The feeling that clung to her like a persistent black mist was unfamiliar, and refused to dissipate no matter how much whiskey she drank or pot she smoked. Eventually, she named it. Regret. And not just because she was fired (again) from Funderland. She had really hurt Tristan, she legit couldn’t be with him, all because he had a tiny dick and most guys didn’t. It was almost impossible to believe that puppy-dog-pretty Tristan McKell suffered from the same sort of ideals, or maybe standards, that she did. And while dick size and prettiness weren’t totally the same thing—after all, Tristan hadn’t suffered from any prejudice until now—a relationship existed between the two. Didn’t it? Krista wasn’t totally sure, but what she did know was: She felt like crap about it all.
So when she’d turned back to being Regular, she didn’t feel like she deserved to take the Pretty again. Penance. Plus, she really needed a day or two where she could leave her apartment without being hassled by a million flashing cameras. Krista Kumar, she who absorbed attention like a sponge, was officially over it. Could someone please turn the spotlight the fuck off?
She tried to let the whole thing go and think of Tristan like any one of the past boys she’d hit and quit. After all, he wouldn’t even recognize her as Krista Kumar. But she couldn’t let it go. She needed to apologize. In person. Which was why she found herself anxiously hunched at one of the three tiny tables at Dr. Wei’s Magic Juice Bar in Connecticut, at 6 a.m. It had taken three hours to get there.
At 6:15 a.m., the door swung open and Tristan came in.
Krista felt like a string that’d just been plucked. Every part of her—heart, stomach, pussy—thrummed at the sight of him. His confusing status of former lover and current celebrity mashed into an odd feeling of tender longing and fan-girl excitement. He ordered a green tea and kale smoothie.
“Just the one?” asked the old Chinese guy behind the counter who might or might not have been Dr. Wei.
“Just the one,” Tristan repeated. He took a seat, glancing at Krista perfunctorily.
She sat bolt upright. “Hey.”
He gave her a mild nod. “Hey,” he said, pulling out his phone.
Krista drummed her hands on the plastic tabletop. “I hear you’re working on a new movie.” Her voice sounded a little too urgent. “Funderland.”
He flicked a gaze at her. “Yeah.” He looked back at his phone: a polite rebuttal.
Krista said, “That must be . . . hard—”
“Green tea and kale smoothie?” the guy behind the counter called.
Tristan got up, handed over some money, told the guy to keep the change. Krista rose too, mind now whirring. Say something! Talk to him!
Without looking back at her, Tristan headed for the door.
“I know Lenka Penka!”
Tristan paused. He spun, eyebrows furrowed. “What?”
“I know her.” Krista took a step forward, nervously jamming her hands into her jacket pockets. “She told me you’d be here.”
Tristan regarded her with an expression that recalled the first time they’d talked in his trailer: suspicious yet intrigued. “How do you know Lenka?”
“College. We were on a competitive eating team together.” Krista was better at detecting lies than telling them. “She’s really sorry, Tristan. She’s really, really sorry.”
She was half expecting Tristan to roll his eyes, tell her to get lost, tell her Lenka Penka ruined his life and he’d have nothing to do with her ever again. But instead, the former pop star just seemed to soften. “Is she?”
Krista nodded. “Yeah.”
Tristan’s eyes grew distant. “I miss her. She was fun.” Krista stared at him forlornly, painfully aware of the chasm between them. She wanted to say she was sorry for rejecting Tristan for his body, and how angry she was that she felt that way in the first place, how frustrating it had been not to be able to turn her expectations off. And she felt like he wanted to tell her that Lenka was more than just fun. But they were strangers to each other: strangers for whom intimacy and truth were not permitted. Tristan blinked, seeming to reorient himself in the here and now. He said, “I should go.”
Krista followed him outside. A pristine black town car idled by the curb, its door open invitingly. She could almost feel the butter-soft black leather seats under her thighs, hear the crystal-clear sound system, taste the free snacks. She’d be getting a series of subways back to Brooklyn. Her best-case scenario would be not getting sneezed on by a stranger.
Tristan paused by the open door. For a second, Krista thought he was going to ask her to get in. “I never got your name.”
“Krista.”
“Huh.” He smiled. “Krista and Tristan. We should be on a kids’ show.”
She sighed, wistful. “Or fall in love.”
“What?”
“Nothing.” Krista shook her head, reddening. It was over. “Good luck on the movie. I hope the new Dream Girl means as much to you as Lenka did.”
Tristan smiled. A sweet, boyish, serene smile. “That would truly be a blessing. Bye, Krista.”
The town car rumbled away quietly down the empty street. She didn’t start walking until it had disappeared.
68.
While Krista was avoiding the internet, Evie was basking in it. Clips from her i
nterviews at the Arzners had been picked up by both feminist and pop culture sites around the world. Thoughtful opinion pieces were written on red-carpet interviews. Vicious debates sprang up about “mandatory makeup.” Revlon released three statements. Trolls went nuts. She had as many detractors as she had supporters, equally passionate if not equally articulate.
It was like tossing a match into a house soaked in kerosene and watching it explode. She surprised herself by how much she enjoyed the controversy. The idea of being a public commentator, and suffering the inevitable sexist backlash any woman with an opinion seemed to endure, had always frightened her. That was why Something Snarky had to be anonymous. Chloe’s lovely mask made a public persona possible. But plenty of people still hated her. To some she was a hypocrite, to others she was a hero. There was literally no way, Evie was realizing, to please everyone.
After all, it wasn’t as if everyone was pleasing her.
Evie was dreading Willow’s opening with an apprehension usually reserved for socializing with her workmates. She had to go. Willow was family. Which was why it was okay to feel several emotions simultaneously: love, annoyance, and worry. “I’d forgotten how she can just . . . disappear,” Evie muttered, tucking the hem of a gold tank top into some skimpy black hot pants. “She’s like a human hermit crab.”
“Can we not talk about things disappearing?” Krista sucked on a cigarette, blew smoke out Evie’s window. “Or anything, like, tiny?”
Evie spun away from the mirror, grinning. “Tell me again what it was like.”
“No.” Krista stubbed out the cigarette. “Let’s just go.”
Gray clouds the size of stadiums rolled overhead. The air was thick with humidity, inspiring a light sheen of sweat. Even though it was only 7 p.m., it was almost dark.
Krista looked up at the sky doubtfully. “Do you think it’s going to rain?”
Evie laughed and pulled her close. “It’s going to storm.”
They hurried down Wythe toward the gallery, hoping to beat the downpour. Evie let Krista’s chatter about The Fallout of the Micropenis wash over her, only half listening. After the opening, she was spending the night at Velma’s. Their first summer storm. She pictured them lying in bed together, listening to the rain pour down over a misty city. They’d open a bottle of the good wine, the dusty French ones Velma kept in the back of her pantry, and drink it from generously sized glasses. They’d giggle, and kiss, and sink deeper, exquisitely deeper, into this wonderful drowning, this dopey paradise.
She was also looking forward to an in-person compliment from Velma about the Arzners. She’d been expecting Velma to text about it. She didn’t. Evie reasoned someone like Velma Wolff must be too highbrow to have seen it. So she sent her the YouTube link. Hours later, Velma texted back. Just three words.
You’re so cool.
It was an elegant response: understated and casually flirtatious, but Evie felt disappointed. Maybe Velma was just so cool herself that she could never be impressed by anyone. Or maybe this was her version of going game-show-contestant crazy. Evie wasn’t sure who had to change: her or Velma. Did she have to adjust her expectations, or just make them known?
“Whoa.” Krista’s voice pulled her from her reverie. “Looks kinda . . . packed.”
At Willow’s last opening, a sum total of five people had been out front. Now, easily a hundred billowed from the entrance. If art was the thinking person’s sport, this was game night.
“Someone got popular.” Evie exchanged a glance with Krista. “Here goes nothing.”
Inside was just as crowded, the humidity milkshake-thick. Krista said something about needing a drink and disappeared. People were practically shouting, clutching cups of champagne with black or orange or blue fingernails. Evie pushed past women with undercuts and men with ironic mustaches. She felt a few stares of recognition, and someone she didn’t know warbled, “Chloe, you’re brill.”
But Evie wasn’t concentrating on the well-dressed throng. She was concentrating on the artwork.
Giant photographs of Caroline in various stages of distress filled the gallery’s white walls. Her sea-green eyes were rendered silvery-black in the prints, bloodshot, brimming with tears. In some, her face had fallen into her hands. In others, her mouth was open in a silent cry.
It was a hall of horrors. A shrine of sadness. Evie’s blood began to curdle. Something was horribly, horribly wrong with Willow.
The crowd parted momentarily, revealing a photograph on the far wall. This picture was the largest, ten feet high, six feet wide. Evie pushed her way toward it.
In it was Willow herself, not Caroline. She was completely naked, floating in water, arms spread wide, eyes open but sightless. Dozens of hands from unseen owners were holding her afloat, their fingers white, black, and brown against her pale skin. Evie read the placard. Rebirth. The woman in the photograph looked dead.
“Jesus,” Evie muttered. “We are in the bell jar.”
“Willow!”
It was Meredith, gesturing toward a stunning blond woman in a long black dress and bloodred heels. It took Evie a full five seconds to recognize Willow. She came to stand arm in arm with Meredith, posing with a glassy-eyed smile for pictures being taken by three different people. Her lips were painted scarlet, her eyes rimmed with black. Willow never wore makeup. The long dark dress clung to her frame, accentuating her thinness, which seemed unnatural. She looked beautiful. In the worst possible way.
Evie took a few dazed steps toward her. Willow caught her eye. She whispered something to Meredith, then drifted over. The two women stood in front of each other, silent and uneasy. Someone squeezed Willow’s arm, breathing, “Congratulations.” She ignored them.
Evie wrapped her arms around herself. “I thought you hated high heels. Too painful.”
Willow’s gaze dropped dully to her shoes. “I really can’t feel my feet right now.” A small, sad smile twisted her mouth.
“Is that supposed to be funny? Because it’s not.”
“Oh god, Evie.” Willow sighed. “Just don’t.”
Evie whipped her eyes around the room, checking for Velma, wishing Willow hadn’t used her real name. She stepped closer, and lowered her voice. “Don’t what? Care?”
“Exactly,” Willow said sourly. “Why start now?”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” Evie exclaimed at the same time Velma appeared at her side, brushing her cheek with a kiss and saying, “Hey, you.” Velma glanced at Willow, missing the tension. “Hi, I’m Velma. Willow, right?” She extended her hand. Willow shook it limply, her eyes not leaving Evie’s. “Congratulations,” Velma added. “Your work is incredible.”
“Incredibly disturbing,” Evie muttered.
“Why is it so hard for you to accept that I’m a good artist? That I have a voice, I have something to say?”
“What is it you’re saying, Will? That it’s so cool to see women suffering? In pain? I hope you invited Lars von Trier,” she added. “This is so far up his alley he’s basically living on this street.”
“Hey, Chloe.” Velma slid a hand across Evie’s back. “Easy.”
“Yeah, Chloe,” Willow said. “Easy.”
Evie bristled. She doubted Willow would blow Chloe’s cover. But she really wouldn’t put anything past Willow right now. “Can you get me a drink?” Evie asked Velma.
Velma ticked her eyes from Willow, back to Evie, hesitated, then nodded, disappearing in the direction of the bar.
The crowd was swelling, feeling as if it was pushing in closer. It would be all too easy to record their conversation and turn it into click bait: Chloe Fontaine rips into Willow Hendriksen’s hot new show! Evie spoke in a low hiss. “I don’t know what’s more disturbing: the fact you’re hiding something from me or your newfound love of hipster sexism.”
Willow looked at Evie for a long beat, her eyes cold. “It’s not hipster sexism. It’s what I’m going through. I’m sorry if that doesn’t conform to your worldview.”
“Wh
at are you going through?”
Willow huffed air and shot her gaze to the ceiling.
Evie tried to speak calmly. “Willow, talk to me, please. I’m your friend, I care about you.”
The sentiment seemed to land. Willow stopped darting her eyes around angrily, and instead let them settle on Evie. When she spoke, it sounded less accusatory, more resigned. “I’m just having some realizations.”
“About what?”
“How the world really works. What people are capable of. What I’m capable of.”
Evie exhaled, her throat tight. “What does that mean?”
Willow stared at Evie, as if Evie was either dumb or naïve or maybe as if she was trying to protect Evie, and it was at this moment Evie noticed Mark, standing a few feet behind them. He was looking at the walls like he was afraid of them.
“Mark!” Evie breathed. Maybe he could help.
“Oh my god.” Willow looked dumbfounded. “How did he find out about this?”
Evie stared at Willow. “I invited him. He told me you guys broke up, but . . . Whatever’s going on, you can fix it, right?”
“You invited him?” Willow gaped at Evie.
“Why is that so crazy?”
“Because I’ve been sleeping with Mark.”
Evie blinked, her confusion growing. “Good. I’m glad you guys are—”
“No.” Willow’s lips were bone dry. “Caroline has been sleeping with Mark.”
He was behind them both, face aghast.
“Mark.” Evie grabbed his arm. “Mark, I . . . I . . .” But she couldn’t form a sentence. Her mind whirred viciously. Willow had been sleeping with . . . Mark. As Caroline.
Mark stared at Evie in confusion. “I’m sorry, who are you?”
She was Chloe. Not Evie.
Willow had frozen, as if suspended in a block of ice.
“I don’t know who I am,” Evie said hoarsely. “I don’t know who anyone is anymore.”
69.
The Regulars Page 31