by Alexa Martin
I shrug. “I just haven’t looked. I’ve been taking business cards instead. It’s so much easier than punching everything into my phone.”
“Ew.” She shudders a bit. Nobody can say Spencer isn’t dramatic. “That’s so nineties.”
The business card thing is new to me. She’s not lying when she says I’m always glued to my phone.
I’ve just been avoiding my mom since the launch party. And even though I keep telling myself that it’s okay for me to take a break from her so I can gather all my thoughts and get my emotions under control, each time I intentionally ignore her call, my stomach twists into knots, and guilt causes my throat to tighten. Sure, technically, keeping my phone in my purse with the ringer off is to avoid answering her phone calls, but it still absolves me of some of the guilt.
“Whatever. Look how pretty they are.” I pull one of my cards out of the front pocket of my purse and hand it to her. “Plus, they make me feel mad fucking professional. You should see how some of the execs act when I pull the cards out.”
That gets her attention.
“Really?” She inspects the heavy-weight card with gold-foil lettering. “These are really nice.”
“Right? And I worked out a deal with the printing company to do three mentions for them and got them for free.”
It saved me about three hundred dollars. Whoever thinks influencers are dumb clearly hasn’t been around us. We work smart and we work hard . . . well, some of us.
“Damn it. Now I want some. Anyway . . .” Spencer shoves my card in the back of the pouch on her lanyard with all of her credentials in it. “Wanna skip out of here really fast and go grab a martini or three?”
Okay.
So where Lauren is the angel on my shoulder always telling me to make good decisions? Spencer is the devil.
I was lucky. My mom didn’t go batshit crazy until I was an adult. Spencer’s mom ran away with their family accountant when Spencer was nine. Her dad did steroids during his time as a fitness celebrity and is majorly fucked up from it. She grew up in dysfunction, while I’m just trying to avoid it.
I’d never admit this out loud, but sometimes it’s nice to be around someone else who is also fucked up. Sure, Lauren’s situation sucks and fuck Ben until the end of time. But Lauren still has a serious job, she’s a great mom, and even though Mrs. Turner is a bitch, at least Lauren can depend on her. She still has support.
I’m out to drift and it’s fucking lonely.
Spencer gets it because it’s the same for her.
I check my watch and see how much longer until my panel. “Fuck, I have to be at my next panel in thirty minutes.”
“What panel?”
“Poses and Yoga Pants.” I try not to cringe at the name. I’m ninety-nine-point-nine percent sure a man came up with it. “We’re doing the Growing Up Boss panel together, right?”
“Yup. We can both talk about our wonderful parents and how lucky we are to benefit from their wealth of industry knowledge.” Her voice drops to a whisper. “Meadow Blake is on it, too, which means we’ll have to listen to her baby voice cut us off every two seconds.”
“She is?” I try to suppress my shudder, but I can’t stand Meadow. “I didn’t see her name on the list.”
“Yeah, Jasinda pulled out for some reason and they replaced her with Meadow.”
I get along with most people in this industry. Meadow is the exception.
Her dad is this vegan chef on one of those cooking channels. He basically just goes around appropriating cultures and profiting off them. Like, no, Hank—which is his real name, not fucking Ziggy like he says—we know you didn’t discover fucking turmeric, ya jackass.
And Meadow is worse. Can you say white savior complex? She’s always traveling to Black and brown countries, feeding them vegan foods, and posting pictures of children too small to consent to their images being plastered all over the internet. I tried to gently explain to her how problematic her content was after I met her a few times. Of course, when I did, she cried and turned herself into the victim. A few days later, every sponsor we had in common dropped me.
So yeah, fuck Meadow.
“I feel like I have to be sober for that panel, otherwise I’ll say some stupid shit that’ll make me lose sponsors.” And I’m not losing more money at the hands of Meadow fucking Blake. No way, no how. “But after I’m going to need more than a couple of cocktails.”
Spencer raises her hand in the air and keeps it there until I slap it. “That’s my fucking girl.”
* * *
• • •
September in Los Angeles is still blissfully warm. As Spencer and I wait outside for our Lyft to pick us up to take us to our favorite happy hour, we’re not coated in sweat like we would’ve been if it was still August or July.
Fall is for sure my favorite season. I’m basic AF. Give me all the pumpkin-spiced goodies, oversized sweaters, and UGGs you have. I want them all. Standing outside and feeling the chill start to come at night gives me a little boost that I don’t usually have when looking toward the future.
“The panel wasn’t too bad,” Spencer says, but her words lack conviction.
“Are you messing with me?” I look around me to make sure nobody is lingering nearby, and when I see the coast is clear, I let it out. “It was a total fucking shit show! Who in the actual fuck does Meadow think she is? And did you see the look she gave me when I talked about consent? I still don’t understand how people just give her free pass after free pass to post pictures with these kids who have no authority in their faces being plastered all over the internet to make her look good. Plus.” I lean in closer to make sure nobody hears my good gossip. “You know she hired one of my photographers for one of her trips? He told me that they stayed in a five-star resort and only left once, purely for picture purposes. She’s gross and so transparent.”
Spencer was nodding along while I was talking but breaks into laughter as soon as I stop.
“I was just messing with you!” She wipes away the nonexistent tears on her cheeks. “It was a total disaster! I just love it when you get worked up over her. Your face gets all red and your hands curl into a ball, it’s fucking hilarious.” She throws a toned arm around my shoulder and pulls me into her side.
“God.” I shake my head but can’t help laughing along with her because she’s right. “You’re such a bitch.”
“Takes one to—” she starts, but doesn’t finish when a voice that sounds more childlike than Addy’s cuts her off.
“Hey, girls, so that was fun, don’t you think?” Meadow Blake appears next to us. She’s wearing her typical look of a maxi skirt paired with a crop top with billowy sleeves. She’ll say it’s from some small village she found on her travels, but I’d bet money she bought that shit at Anthropologie. Her handwoven purse falls off her bony shoulder like it, too, hates being this close to her lying face.
“Yeah, it was great.” Spencer smiles politely, not giving it away at all that we were just talking about her. “Robyn was a great moderator. I had fun.”
I, on the other hand, used all my phoniness sitting onstage with her and can’t be bothered. So I just roll my eyes and mutter, “Meadow,” before pulling my phone out of my purse, hoping to the god I’m pretty sure abandoned me years ago that our Lyft is almost here.
Of course, thanks to LA traffic and whatever curse has been placed on me, it’s still fifteen minutes away.
“So, Jude,” Meadow says to me even though I’m clearly not interested. “I feel like you were trying to say something to me onstage tonight, but I’m just not sure what. I figured I’d ask. I met with a healer on my last trip to Mexico and she really stressed the importance of good, clean energy and I just feel, like, a really dark vibe coming from you.”
I could not hate her more.
The deep sigh my body emits is enough to make me go light-heade
d. “Seriously, Meadow?”
“Of course.” She tilts her head to the side, tucking a piece of her extra long, wavy brown hair behind her ear. “I really don’t understand why you seem to have such problems with me. I would really like to be friends.”
Maybe she hit her head and has amnesia or something? That’s the only reason I can think of that she would be out here asking me this question she already knows the answer to.
“If you wanted to be friends, maybe you would’ve thought twice before you went crying to the sponsors we had in common and getting me dropped.” I look down at my phone again, needing to escape, hating how I just let this bitch suck me into whatever drama she has planned.
“I have no idea what you’re talking about. And I don’t have the power to get anyone dropped, so if they let go of you, that was probably more to do with you than me.” Her voice goes even softer and I want to scream. If that was really her voice, fine. But before we had our falling-out, I was around her at parties and this is not her voice. “I really think you need to look within.”
I really, really try not to fall into her hands. After last weekend with Jennifer, I promised myself I would start checking my reactions and not let people get me worked up. It’s just so hard.
“Whatever, Meadow.” I take a few steps away from her. “You can leave now.”
She doesn’t.
Instead she closes the space I just created.
“If I was able to forgive you for the things you accused me of, you should be able to get over whatever this imaginary grudge you’re holding is.” She looks at me with a grin on her face that lets me know exactly what she’s doing.
I take the advice I give to all my friends. I close my eyes and take a few deep breaths. She’s so lucky I decided to wait until after our panel to drink.
But that still doesn’t mean I won’t put a bitch in her place.
Just quietly and with a bit more discretion this time.
“I didn’t accuse you of anything, I let you know the things you post scream white savior and are problematic. That’s not an accusation, that’s an opinion. An opinion a lot of people seem to share considering people are always discussing the way you delete comments criticizing you for this very thing.” She opens her mouth to respond, but I talk over her. “What I said on the panel wasn’t directed at you”—it totally was—“and if you felt like me stating that consent, especially concerning minors and vulnerable youth, was targeting you? I think you really need to examine why that is.”
Could I say more? Definitely. I could be here all night listing my problems with her. But considering her eyes are already starting to well with tears, I know nothing I say will get through to her.
“There’s nothing wrong with me posting pictures of children and gaining attention to help them.” The tears start falling down her face, and instead of feeling bad, I just want to slap her more. “Just because I’m white doesn’t mean I shouldn’t help people who don’t look like me.”
“I’m white too!” I yell. Damn it. This is why I can’t deal with her. “I’m just self-aware. And the fact that you’re crying and making yourself the victim . . . again . . . is another reason on a long list of why you’re problematic as fuck. You should stop antagonizing me, go home, and educate yourself. Maybe then you can actually help the people you say you want to help instead of just helping yourself.”
I know I’m not a perfect person or a perfect ally. It’s almost impossible to be one. But because Lauren is my best friend, I listen to the things she tells me, even when it’s hard for me to hear. Growing up as one of the few Black girls in our elite private school, she dealt with things that were invisible to me. But over the years, especially in college, she opened up to me about the challenges she’s faced and woke me up to some of the things I did that I didn’t even realize were racist. White-women tears, like Meadow is so apt to do, were one of the things. It was hard to hear, and even though I wanted to be defensive, I knew I had to listen. One of the things I know I can do is call out the racist things I see—whether it be with Meadow, Jennifer, or anyone else who crosses my path.
Meadow’s wet cheeks turn fire-engine red, and even though she always gives me the stink eye, this is another level. I’m almost curious to hear what she has to say. But by a stroke of luck I don’t often get, my phone starts to vibrate in my hand.
“Oh.” I hold a finger to her almost cartoonishly angry face, sounding as unbothered as I can. “Let me get this real fast.”
I swipe open my phone without looking at the screen.
“Hello!” I might sound a little too cheery, but really, I’m just so fucking pleased with how the tables turned in this situation that I can’t help it.
“Ju-ju!” my mom says from the other end. “I’ve been trying to get in touch with you all week.”
Damn it.
I knew this call was too good to be true. But because Meadow is still watching, I make sure I keep up appearances even if I really want to tell my mom I’m busy and hang up.
“I’m sorry, I’ve just been so busy.” I stress the words, loving the way Meadow is getting more angry by the second. “How are you?”
“I’m great, which you would know if you answered your phone more often.” She chides me again, and I should get some kind of trophy for the way I manage to not only keep the smile on my face but keep my eyes from rolling to the fucking heavens. “Anyway, I’m having Jonathon set up a brunch for us at the Ivy this Sunday. The car will pick you up at ten.”
I love the way she completely ditches me and then demands my presence without even acknowledging that she might have hurt me.
So fucking typical. She can’t see past her own nose.
“Sounds perfect! I can’t wait,” I lie, my acting skills still so on point.
I’m about to hang up when her voice comes over the line again. “And make sure you wear a dress, no jeans and definitely no yoga pants.”
Forced brunch and a dress code, just your average mother-daughter outing.
“Can’t wait.” This time, the words are kind of forced out. I can’t help it. My mom manages to get under my skin like nobody else. Even Meadow is a walk in the park compared to her.
I hang up the phone, thinking the call wasn’t as lucky as I thought and knowing after even the shortest call with Juliette Andrews, I don’t have the energy or patience to deal with Meadow’s ass.
“Why are you still here?” I ask her. “Go read a book and learn something.”
When I turn my back on her and move closer to Spencer, her smile is the biggest I’ve ever seen it. “That was fucking awesome.”
That’s debatable.
I’m almost certain that Meadow won’t listen to anything I said and will, in turn, post even more problematic, racist content.
Finally, before Meadow can gather her wits and come back over, my phone buzzes in my hand, and a notification that our Lyft driver is pulling up lights up my screen at the same time a red Camry comes to a stop in front of us.
We slide into the back seat, buckling our seat belts and leaving a red-eyed Meadow alone on the sidewalk.
I lean forward, poking my head between the front seats. “I will tip you twenty dollars if you can get us to happy hour in the next ten minutes.”
Our driver doesn’t say anything, but he does peel away from the curb so fast that his tires screech against the pavement.
I couldn’t be more grateful.
Because a margarita or two with extra tequila is exactly what I need.
TWENTY
• • •
Lauren
I get to Adelaide’s school thirty minutes before the final bell rings to make sure I get a spot in their tiny parking lot. The other parents started filling up the pickup lane soon after I arrived, so I didn’t feel too crazy for my enthusiasm.
She’s been going to after-school care all
week, which, thankfully, she loves. It was the thing I was feeling most nervous—and guilty—about. It seems like such a long day for her, but they play and do crafts and she always sprints to me, showing me her latest creation. Plus, because she’s a kindergartner, the older girls in after-school care have seemed to swoop her up as their own little sister. She loves the extra attention. But none of that is to say she hasn’t been practically jumping out of her skin for our night together.
I mean . . . I might have hyped it up a little bit—or a lot.
I glance at the clock on my dash and even though I still have fifteen minutes, I decide to close the app on my phone and make my way to the door she’ll be coming out of. I emailed her teacher to make sure she’d walk her outside instead of taking her to after-school care today, but I want to be the first person she sees.
Remington Academy is beautiful. The landscaping is perfection with lush green grass that if I didn’t know better would think never grew because it’s always cut low. Window boxes overflowing with bright flowers line every window. In the back of the school, there’s a garden complete with lemon, avocado, and plum trees. The students help maintain it, and once a week, the cafeteria provides a meal using the literal fruits of their labor.
I’m the first parent to stand in front of the kindergarten exit. I’m pretty sure most parents just use the carpool lane, but it intimidates me. Every morning, my heart rate increases, my blood pressure skyrockets, and my shoulders tense as the teacher volunteers blow their whistles at us and yell to “hurry, hurry!” I’m pretty sure they want the kids to jump out of moving cars. It’s intense. And of course, Adelaide giggles through it all.
I lean against the fence blocking off the bushes and preventing the kids access to the flower boxes and pull open my email. I’ve really enjoyed all aspects of the podcast, but the newsletter has become my second baby. I’m not sure why that is, but I love it so much. I still obsess over every email—too many exclamation points? Not enough exclamation points? No emojis . . . or maybe one emoji? Do I sound uptight and will it turn people off?—but it’s still so satisfying every time someone emails us back, letting us know they relate to everything we’re talking about.