The Luckiest Girls

by Nathalie van Walsum Fuson

  The lounge is entirely decorated in blue and black, and dimly lit, like a nightclub. Large glass display cases contain faceless mannequins wearing some of Jason’s iconic costumes from previous shows, as well as a few of his autographed guitars. Platters of chicken tandoori skewers and hamburger sliders, stacks of cupcakes and bowls of M & M’s and Jolly Ranchers fill the tables, while a fully-staffed bar occupies the corner. There are about thirty other people there, in a range of age and attire, and the crowd gets thicker toward the back of the room where it blocks our view from the group seated on an L-shaped sofa and armchairs. That’s where Jason and his bandmates are. I start to walk toward the crowd, but Sophia stops me.

  “Slow down. We don’t go to them. Let them come to us.” She leads me to the bar and we sit down and order drinks. I’m already a little buzzed from the champagne in the car, so I order a Diet Coke.

  “Don’t be a baby,” Sophia hisses. “Get a grown-up drink.”

  Sophia orders a vodka tonic and I order the same, “heavy on the tonic and with lots of ice, please.” The bartender gives me an amused look. I’ve seen Sophia put away more drinks than I could keep down and still keep her perfect poise, but I’m going to have to be careful.

  “Whatever happens tonight, let’s stay together, okay? Promise we won’t leave each other alone?” Sophia says, and I agree.

  It takes about five minutes after we sit down for the room to start to shift in our direction. First a murmur goes through the edge of the crowd. “Is that Sophia Thompson? Oh my God, that’s Sophia Thompson!” I even hear my name in the undertone. Sophia’s willowy body is draped like a curvy siren as she sits with her legs crossed and her elbow propped on the bar. Her presence has a magnetic effect, destabilizing the whole room. It’s as though the floor just tilted in our direction and everyone rolls like marbles toward us. Despite a big sign that says “No Photographs Backstage” people point their phones at us and snap pictures, risking being thrown out of the most exclusive room in the city.

  Jason elbows his way through the crowd toward us. He looks like he’s a combination of pleased and annoyed — after all, this little eighteen-year-old chick just stole his audience. He kisses her hello and she smiles at him as though he’s the only person in the room.

  “C’mon,” he says, looping his arm around her waist and leading her away, and Sophia grabs me by my hand, pulling me off my bar stool through the crowd.

  Jason introduces us to the other band members. There’s Reid, who plays bass and sings backup. He’s about thirty years old, has a light beard and blue eyes. Then there’s Bobby, the drummer who also sings harmony vocals. He looks a little younger than Reid, and he has long hair and a fat belly. Jason, of course, is the lead vocalist and plays acoustic guitar. He’s the band’s front-man, photogenic and charismatic. He’s also the youngest member of the group at twenty-three. Jason and Sophia sit together in an armchair, his arm around her. I sit next to Reid, who moves over to make room for me. Bobby sits across from me, with a bleached blonde girl wearing heavy black eyeliner sitting on the armrest of his chair whose name, believe it or not, is Bambi. There are a handful of other young women hovering about, but none of them have been invited to sit down, and they stare at us full of envy.

  On my other side sits the band’s manager, Cyrus. He’s a lot younger than I expected. I think he’s in his late twenties. He wears jeans, a T-shirt and a baseball cap, and he has one of those soft-featured faces that looks younger than its age, but when he beckons someone to do something, people move fast. Even Jason listens to him.

  “This your first Viper concert?” Cyrus asks me.

  “Yeah. I was supposed to see them when they played at Constitution Hall in DC, but I had to go to Milan to work. I gave my tickets to my sister.”

  “This’ll be so much better. You’re sitting in the VIP section with me. It’ll spoil any future concerts for you.”

  He’s not kidding. Our seats are smack in the middle of the third row of the orchestra level. Sophia and I sit between Cyrus and one of the executives of a soft-drink company that sponsors the group. The show is, as expected, terrific, especially because I’ve never had such good seats at a rock concert before. We spend most of the time on our feet, dancing. At the end of the show Cyrus whisks us out of the crowd and backstage again.

  The band members reappear to cheers and applause, and Jason, dripping with sweat, takes Sophia’s face in his hands and kisses her. Soon the security staff part the crowd for Jason, and with Sophia and me beside him, we leave the room to a barrage of camera flashes and fans clamoring for autographs. It takes about twenty guards to hold everyone back, while we’re bustled out of the building the same way we came in and into a waiting limo.

  “Where’s the party?” Sophia asks.

  “At the hotel,” Jason answers. “The others will meet us there. Wasn’t that fun? How’d you like your seats?”

  We arrive at the Pierre Hotel, and I try to appear as nonplussed as Sophia but man, this place is gorgeous, it’s even more understatedly beautiful than the Plaza which is where Alexandra and I stayed with our parents when we first came to New York as kids.

  The party, it turns out, is on the thirty-ninth floor. It’s a huge suite with a corner view of Central Park, a living area decorated in gold and silver tones in an Indian fusion style, and two bedrooms. When we arrive, there are waiters putting the finishing touches on a table of food and drinks including stone crab claws and roast tenderloin and various bottles of whiskey, wine and vodka. Music is playing and everything is perfect, except for the fact that we’re the only ones there.

  “The others will be here soon,” Jason says as he pours us drinks. “See? Here they are.”

  The door opens and Reid and Bobby walk in with Bambi from backstage giggling and hanging onto Bobby’s neck, staggeringly drunk.

  “Awright,” Bobby cries. “Let’s get this party started!”

  “Wheee!!!” cries Bambi. She lets go of Bobby’s neck and collapses to the floor.

  “Oops-a-daisy,” says Bobby, pulling her to her feet, and she gives a shrill laugh. Bobby plonks her onto a chair like a giant rag doll. The wait staff exits, shutting the door behind them. It becomes clear to me that we aren’t expecting anyone else.

  Three guys. Three girls. I’m not an idiot, I got A’s in math, and I know what Bambi, Sophia and I are here for. But Sophia isn’t in the least bit worried. She’s letting Jason give her a tour of the suite, of the big porcelain bathtub, of the luxurious four-poster bed. Bobby leads the drunk rag-doll into the other bedroom and shuts the door. I want to tell Sophia that this is turning into a weird scene, so I go and look for her, but when I spot her and Jason in the bedroom I see that Sophia has the font of her dress unzipped to her belly-button and Jason is snorting a line of cocaine off of her breast, and I just really don’t know the protocol about how to interrupt people when they’re in the middle of that particular activity. So I turn around and walk away.

  That leaves me with Reid, who sits beside me on the sofa, places down his drink and puts his arm around my shoulders. He’s much too close to me and he smells of sweat and I don’t want his arm on me. I don’t want to make small talk. I don’t want to look at the view. I want to leave. But then the door to Jason’s bedroom closes behind him and Sophia, and I hear the lock click shut.

  Damn Sophia. We promised each other we’d stay together, and I’m not leaving her behind, but now Reid is getting frisky as well. He leans in for a kiss, and next thing I know he’s trying to shove his tongue down my throat.

  “Wait, stop,” I say. “That’s not what I’m here for.”

  “What are you here for, then?”

  “I’m here because Sophia doesn’t want me to leave her alone.”

  “You sure about that?” Reid jerks his head toward the bedroom. “I don’t think you and your friend are in synch.”

  “Well, we promised each other. Look, I don’t want to make out, okay?” I scoot over to the side. “We can just talk, if
you want to.”

  Reid rolls his eyes. “Yeah, okay, talk, whatever. Will you at least have a drink?”

  “Sure,” I say.

  He gets up and brings me a drink. I take a small sip. Reid turns on the television, surfing channels for a while, but he keeps glancing at me sideways.

  “What?” I ask. He shrugs and looks away.

  I’m feeling awfully sleepy all of a sudden, which is strange. I must be terrible company, because I can’t keep my eyes open. At one point I open my eyes halfway and Reid’s face is right in front of mine. Something is wrong, but I’m having such trouble opening my eyes…

  The realization what happened gives me the strength to force my eyes open. That sick son of a bitch put something in my drink. Reid is on top of me now, he has one hand on my breast and the other is in the waistband of my pants, and in another moment he’ll have me undressed. I have to stop him but I’m too weak to move. There’s only one thing I can think to do, and it takes every ounce of energy I have. I bring my finger to my mouth and jam it down my throat. With a lurch I vomit, right onto Reid’s chest.

  “Jesus Christ!” he yells. He jumps away from me, groaning and swearing. “You disgusting whore.” I lie in my own vomit, too weak to move, and hear him stomp out of the room. A flood of relief gives way to oblivion as I fall into a deep, dreamless sleep.

  “Maya! Oh, God, Maya, wake up!” Sophia shakes me. “What happened?”

  “He drugged me,” I croak. Outside the sky is just starting to take on the sheen of dawn.

  “Oh, no,” Sophia whimpers. “Maya, did he…did he hurt you?”

  “No. I don’t think so. No.”

  Sophia soaks a hand towel in the bar sink and tries to wipe my dress clean. I take the towel from her and try to do it myself, but I move like a zombie. Sophia looks like she’s about to cry.

  “I’m so sorry,” she says.

  “Where’s Jason?”

  “Asleep. Should I wake him? Tell him what happened?”

  “Why? What difference will it make?” I answer. “Can we go now? Can we please, finally, fucking go?”

  I stagger to my feet and we leave the hotel, Sophia holding me up like a sad, pathetic drunk. Fortunately it’s four in the morning and there’s nobody in the lobby except for one receptionist and a doorman. We take a taxi home, each of us scrunched against opposite sides of the cab, not saying a word.

  20

  Campbell

  Filming started last week! They’ve been working on Griffin’s scenes at NYU, and even though I’m not in any of these scenes I got to hang out and watch. They closed down a section of one of the streets in the Village and they got a bunch of college students to work as extras. Jane has asked me if she can come watch when I start filming my scenes. She’s still working on that school film of hers. Emily told me, though, that I shouldn’t be in Jane’s film anymore. “It’s an amateur film,” she said, “and you’re a professional now.” But Jane is one of the few people in the house who has always been nice to me, so I’m going to let her come to the set one of these days.

  A lot of the cast arrive at work in “street makeup,” so they won’t be caught outside looking anything less than perfect, and then when they arrive on set the makeup artists wipe it off and apply their film makeup. But I don’t usually bother with street makeup. In the morning I just tie my hair in a ponytail, rub moisturizer on my face, put on a little lip gloss and a pair of sunglasses and I’m done. Well, today I was halfway to work when my face started itching. As soon as I scratched at my face I knew I was making it worse. By the time the train arrived at my stop the itching was unbearable, and my face felt like it was burning. There was a public bathroom at the station but no way am I going into one of those places, who knows what kind of people are lurking in there, so I couldn’t wash my face until I got to the makeup artist’s trailer at the set.

  “Geez, what’s up with your face?” Lola, the makeup artist, asked. “It’s all blotchy.”

  “I don’t know! It just started a few minutes ago.”

  “You think it’s an allergy?”

  “I can’t think to what,” I replied. “I’m not wearing anything other than the same moisturizer I’ve worn for years…”

  “Your skin is a mess. I don’t know how I’m going to cover that up.”

  Then I understood. My moisturizer. I keep it in my toiletries bag in the bathroom, in plain reach of anyone. Somebody put something in my moisturizer, something harmful. I knew they were capable of being mean, but this is sick. My eyes fill with tears. I splash water on my face, rub it with soap, and rinse, and repeat the process, but if anything the itching is getting worse.

  “Does it hurt?” Lola asks, alarmed.

  “No, but it itches,” I answer. It’s not the itching that’s making me cry, or the blotchiness. It’s the thought that someone hates me enough to do something like this to me. “Does it look any better?”

  “I wish I could say it does, but…” Lola cocks her head, frowning. “The blotches are getting darker.”

  “Dammit,” I cry. “Damn them!”

  “Who?” Lola asks, but I don’t answer. Lola pulls out her phone and steps out of the trailer as she makes her call. A minute later she returns with Alan.

  “Let’s have a look at what’s going on here,” Alan says. I lift my red-eyed, tear-stained, blotchy face to him, and he raises his eyebrows as he exhales with a whistle. “Whew. Are you sick? You look like you have the measles or something.”

  “No. No, I’m fine, it’s an allergic reaction to my moisturizer, I’m positive,” I assure him. “It’s not serious.”

  But it is serious. The itching gets worse, even though I’ve washed every trace of product off of my face.

  “I think it’s spreading.” Lola says.

  She’s right. I feel it spreading down my neck, and the spaces between my fingers are itching now, too.

  “It’ll go away in a little while. It’s just a rash. I can still work,” I say. “Please don’t send me home.”

  Alan puts his hand on my hair and tilts my head to the side, examining my face. “Home?” he says. “I’m going to send you to the emergency room.”

  I bring my hand to my searing face, and gasp. The blotches have turned to patches of blisters, tiny fluid-filled pustules that burn like fire.

  “Oh, God!” I cry. “What’s happening?” I dissolve into panic. Locked doors, torn scripts, wrong directions are one thing, but this is my face, my fucking face, my livelihood! And as I watch, my face gets worse, the colors darkening to almost purple, the blisters growing and spreading. It has to be a nightmare, but it’s not, the pain in my face proves it’s not.

  One of the production assistants, Russell, pulls up to the trailer in a car and Alan and Lola bustle me down the steps and into the car.

  When we arrive at the hospital, Russell takes my health insurance card, my SAG membership card and my driver’s license and signs me in at the reception desk while I run into the bathroom because the itching is excruciating. I want to layer wet paper towels on my skin to cool the burning. But when I see myself in the mirror I almost faint. I don’t even recognize myself. My face is a dark-purple mass of blisters, and some of them are oozing.

  A nurse brings me in to a curtained-enclosure and tells me the doctor is on her way. The speed at which a doctor will see me is both a relief and worrisome, because it means my face is alarming even to New York City emergency room staffers. Soon the doctor arrives. Dr. Hilton takes my temperature, checks my throat, my blood pressure and my lymph nodes.

  “You’re not sick, at least,” she says. “Yu have a severe case of contact dermatitis. Have you put anything unusual on your skin?”

  “No. Just the same moisturizer I’ve used for years.” God, even my voice sounds funny, because with the swelling around my lips I can’t move my mouth properly.

  “What about plants? Have you come in contact with any plants recently?”

  “No. Not at all.”

  “
Not even accidentally? Brushed against a bouquet perhaps?’

  “No, why?”

  “Well, it’s very strange, but this looks like the kind of reaction caused by urushiol oil.”

  “Uru…what?”

  “It’s the toxin in plants like poison oak and poison ivy. But I’ve never seen a reaction this severe. I’m going to give you an antihistamine injection and put you on prednisone right away. It’s a steroid, and should help prevent any long-term scarring.”

  Scarring. This can’t be my life. I close my eyes, praying I’ll wake up from this nightmare when I open them, but I don’t. I catch my reflection in the stainless steel of the cabinet on the wall and an unrecognizable monster freak looks back at me.

  They keep me at the hospital for the whole day, to monitor my condition. Once they start shooting me up with antihistamines and medicating me, the rash at least seems to stop spreading, but by now my hands are almost as badly blistered as my face. The itching is a little less severe, too. But even though it isn’t getting worse, it’s not getting better, either.

  “You said something about scarring,” I say to Dr. Hilton when she checks on me again. “Do you think that’s likely?”

  “It’s hard to say. It depends on how much of the toxin has been absorbed by your skin. For most people it takes as little as twenty micrograms of plant oil, or less than a millionth of an ounce, to cause a reaction. But in your case it looks like you’ve been exposed to a lot more. Don’t worry,” Dr. Hilton says, petting my hand. “We’ll see how you do on the medication. If it doesn’t clear up in a couple of weeks we’ll decide what our next steps should be.”

  A couple of weeks! I can’t be out of work for a couple of weeks. The film is on a twelve-week filming schedule. There’s no way they’re going to wait a couple of weeks for me. I close my eyes, tears streaming down my face, and let my head fall back on my pillow. It’s over. They’ve won.