Like a Love Song

by Gabriela Martins

  The second I ask her for a new phone, she tells me to please wait a second, then calls an intern to go buy me one. Just like that.

  “It’ll be here in a second,” she says, her attention returning to her computer.

  It’s not here in a second.

  My leg starts going up and down, and I look around for something to do, but everyone’s busy and I don’t want to interrupt them.

  I stare down at the floor.

  Maybe I should work, too?

  “Excuse me, Linda? I’m sorry to bother,” I say, getting up from the black velvet couch. “But do you have a piece of paper or something? And a pen. Or pencil. Or something.”

  She hands me a blank notepad and a pen that looks expensive. “Here you go.”

  “Thanks,” I murmur, leafing through the pages as if there were a story they could tell.

  They can’t. But maybe I can.

  I sit cross-legged on the couch again and pull my hood up, so I can pretend to be invisible. I think back on the memes comparing me to telenovela stars in overdramatic crying scenes, mixing up my name with typical Mexican names. What’s a word that rhymes with xenophobia?

  Frowning, I let the pen flow in tiny circles at the margin.

  I think of the pictures of me crying, and the humiliation I felt, with the caption someone’s just broken a nail.

  I write:

  Do they hate me because I’m a girl?

  Do they hate me because I’m seventeen?

  Do they hate me because I’m Brazilian?

  I tap the paper with my pen. My words aren’t lyrics yet but merely ideas. And do I really want to write about any of this? Do I really want to make this even more of a big deal than it is?

  I cross out all three sentences.

  “Hm.”

  Closing my eyes, I rest my head against the back of the couch until I’m facing the ceiling. I open my eyes and stare at the white. Write about what’s on your heart, Natalia.

  But maybe don’t go too far.

  …Do I miss Trent?

  I suppose I miss Trent. I suppose anyone would. Doesn’t everyone love him?

  I flip to a clean page and keep trying to write lyrics, but none of my thoughts are poetic or linear. I end up drawing stick figures that can’t sing.

  When the intern comes back, I have no idea whether it’s been five minutes or fifty. He hands the sealed box to Linda instead of me and is out of the room before I can thank him. Linda gives me her signature impersonal smile when she hands me the box, and then her phone rings, and I don’t think she even hears my thank-yous.

  In a few minutes, I have my new phone working again. The phone updates my apps, including Instagram and Twitter. I stop Twitter in time—I’m definitely not ready to go back to cyber-stalking Trent—but it’s too late for Instagram, and my notifications start appearing.

  I have another app that works with Instagram and only sends me notifications of people who have been verified by the app, so I’m not drowning in fan accounts and end up missing it when someone industry-important follows me or comments on one of my posts.

  That’s how I know that William Ainsley followed me on Instagram.

  As in, the boy from the awards ceremony, who told me it was all stupid.

  Who would have thought he’d be verified?

  It makes me pause. I ignore the other notifications from pseudo-friends wishing me well and oh my God you must be devastated, and click on his account.

  His profile picture is what can only be described as his attempt to become a tree, with several animals climbing their way up. Only the several animals are children. And he seems to be trying his best to accommodate them all on his arms and legs.

  I count five children.

  I frown. Is he a teen dad or something?

  His bio reads: Londoner. Actor. Sock enthusiast.

  My frown deepens.

  His profile doesn’t look very much like that of an actor, or even what I would imagine of a regular Londoner, though admittedly I don’t know many Brits. It’s not very…fancy. It’s mostly pictures of him with an unholy number of kids, a few pictures of cats, a couple of badly framed sunsets, and, yes, pictures of socks.

  Unusual socks. Pictures of him sitting down or standing, with his pants riding a little high and colorful socks appearing. Patterns, cartoons, all sorts of things.

  I quickly swipe to Google his age. Seventeen, like me. Technically, a month older.

  I shake my head, a little horrified at the most unprofessional Instagram account I’ve ever seen. I go back through his pictures—too many by industry standards, since most publicists will tell you to keep only the most liked pics. A few behind-the-scenes shots on set, a few from actual plays, and no more than four red carpet pics, one of them from the day we met.

  William looks different from what I remember, standing tall with his chin up and a charming yet slightly crooked smile. Also slightly crooked? His nose. But he has a birthmark on his right cheek that makes him almost…cute. He’s wearing a black suit with a white shirt underneath, and there they are: the colorful socks. I zoom in on the image as best as I can, and the big pixels show me it’s some sort of cartoon.

  I zoom out.

  He has a nice smile, I suppose.

  I check his tagged pictures.

  There are so many pictures with friends that actually seem like friends. Non-famous friends.

  I click the face of one of the young girls who’s in a lot of his pictures. Her name is Louise Ainsley. She’s nine. She’s also, apparently, his sister. I don’t have any siblings, and all my cousins are about my age or older. After a little cyber-stalking, I find out that William is the second oldest of six children. He has an older sister, who has a son. And apparently they all like each other very, very much, based on how often I see their faces in each other’s accounts.

  The youngest ones don’t have accounts, but everyone else has a public account. Louise is the one with the most posts. She even has a picture of them all on the beach, and a few videos from that day.

  I fish the earbuds from the box and put them on as I hold my breath, like I’m a detective doing some very important digging. Then I click on the video.

  “UNCLE WILLIAM! Look at the crab!” says a little boy, excitedly pointing at what cannot be a crab and mostly resembles a snail.

  William has Louise on his back, so he sits down heavily on the sand and she lands in the water, laughing hysterically. “It’s not a crab, Pete. Mum, Pete doesn’t know what a crab is!” she says.

  William laughs and the video cuts out. I let it play again.

  I swipe to the next video of the post. It’s a continuation. William turns around to see Louise, at this point happily running into the water, and yells, “It’s a different kind of crab, that’s all. Pete made a discovery, Lou!”

  The camera shifts to the front, and an older woman with wet hair shakes her head with a loving but knowing expression. The video ends, and then it starts again.

  There’s something there. The moment he turns around. His bright green eyes laughing into the camera. His back exposed like that. He’s skinny, but his shoulders are broader than I expected.

  He’s not going to be nominated for Hottest Actor of the Year like Trent was four times in a row—he won last year—but he’s…There’s something charming to his lack of build, I suppose. I could see why someone might find him attractive. Not me, but someone out there surely might.

  I smile to myself.

  What are you doing, Natalia? Stalking a nine-year-old on IG?

  I roll my eyes. I want to follow him back, just because. But I also know that there are fan accounts that track everything I do and post screenshots on Twitter. And I don’t know if I want them to know that I’m online again.

  Now, this is something I should’ve
done already: assessed the situation by checking those accounts. I can always count on them to tell me where I’ve been and what I’ve done.

  I leave Instagram open on Louise Ainsley’s account—more specifically, paused on William’s back—and go to Twitter. I download it again. As the little image loads, that logo bird stares back at me like it’s a challenge. Even without eyes, that bird has a powerful stare.

  I tell myself I’m not here to check Trent’s outings and who he’s been talking to or what memes he’s been liking. I’m not here to check William’s Twitter profile, either, because that’d be too stalkery. (Mostly because I have a tendency of accidentally liking things on Twitter. Its layout is not stalker-friendly.)

  I am only here to check my fan accounts and see what they’ve been up to.

  I know the one to go to as soon as the app updates. I ignore the notifications and tap on the search bar. I click @WeStanNat.

  The latest tweet reads:

  BUY NATALIE’S TOGETHER FOREVER ON ITUNES

  @WeStanNat:

  OFFICIAL ANNOUNCEMENT: i don’t care who you are, if you’re using the hashtag #NataFlop to talk trash about our queen, unfollow me right now. let’s burn that hashtag!!! who’s with me to start #NataQueen?

  I stare at that tweet for a second too long. There are two hashtags I could click. I know what will be in the second—pictures of me onstage, GIFs of my music videos and shows. But the first hashtag…it’s a mystery.

  One that I’m dying to uncover. Even if I know it won’t be good for me.

  I close my eyes and click the hashtag.

  I’m prepared for the worst. At least I think I am, anyway.

  It turns out I am not.

  Someone has made a drawing of me, but they weren’t a fan, because I’m crying copiously while Trent smacks a kiss on some hot model—who I assume is meant to be Reese—by his side. The second-most-liked tweet is a GIF of me pointing my finger at his chest and screaming at him. The caption is crazy ex-girlfriend got a remake.

  Then they get meaner.

  I click the first video.

  It’s me receiving my award, right after Trent dumped me. I’m walking onstage with a forced smile and panda eyes, my makeup all but gone. The presenter awkwardly hands me the small trophy. I raise it and, holding back sobs, say, “I’d like to thank…everyone, really! Thank you so much!”

  Speech gone. All dignity gone, too, apparently.

  When the video ends, a white girl with perfect makeup appears onscreen, laughing hysterically. For thirty seconds straight. Then she stops, shaking her head, saying, “I can’t, I can’t! Thank you so much!” When she mimics my voice, it sounds strangled and whiny.

  The eight-year-old in me with fists balled and jaw clenched wants to respond. She really, really wants to respond.

  I thought…I thought I could handle this. I thought it would go away.

  I don’t want to cry in Bobbi’s office, so I bite the insides of my cheeks as a reminder that I can bite it all back and be who everyone wants me to be. Still be good. Still be graceful. Still be…something.

  As I glare at my notepad—which is essentially blank—the weight in my chest gets heavier, and my vision blurs.

  I force-close Twitter. I force-close Instagram, too.

  Linda probably doesn’t notice me rubbing my eyes with the backs of my hands, but if she does, she’s nice enough to let it slide.

  The door opens, and Ashley and Christopher emerge. She gives me a parting smile as they head for the exit.

  I fumble to stand up.

  Now they’re both looking at me.

  “I—” I clear my throat, straightening my shoulders. “Ashley, Christopher, I’m sorry, but can you please stay for another half hour? I…I changed my mind. I’m in.”

  “You don’t get it,” I tell Mom for what feels like the thousandth time.

  We’ve just pulled into the parking lot of my favorite nail salon, but I know we’re locked in this car for as long as Mom wishes. She rolls her eyes at me, saying something in Portuguese that I don’t quite catch. Tomorrow I’m going back to the office to sign the final papers, and I want to look my best. Then we’ll set up the first date, and…if I have my nails done, I’ll be more confident in this. Everything this is—my attempt to restore my reputation, my fake boyfriend…

  “Nati, you can still say no to this.”

  “To the boyfriend or the outfit?” I ask, gesturing at my cute polka-dot dress. “This is vintage fifties!”

  Mom lets out an exasperated laugh. At least I still know how to push her buttons.

  “Both.” She presses her lips together, then shakes her head. “We’re going for mani-pedis! You didn’t need to come dressed up like this.” I cross my legs, self-conscious. “And the boyfriend? There’s definitely still time. You don’t need this.”

  “That’s where you’re wrong. Double wrong.”

  As soon as I say it, I watch her face change. It doesn’t matter how many albums I’ve sold, how many awards I have on the living room bookshelf, or how much money I’ve made. You don’t say your Brazilian mother is wrong. You may imply it, but to say it so boldly?

  I backtrack.

  “It’s not that you are wrong, per se,” I start. “It’s just that maybe you don’t have a very broad perspective on this. You still think that I’m beautiful in whatever I wear, and you also think I’ll be famous forever no matter what I do. Neither of these things is necessarily true.”

  Her face softens.

  Nailed it.

  She runs her hands through her hair, letting out a little breath of frustration.

  “Filha, you’re unique the way you are. I don’t get why you straighten your hair.”

  I frown. That? I’ve been doing it for forever. I touch my hair, a dark curtain cascading over my shoulder. I try to mimic her and run my hands through it, but it’s already difficult, too many knots. “I—I like it this way.”

  “Hmm.”

  We look at each other for a moment.

  Then I break into an awkward smile, full-on ignoring what she said before.

  “Plus the boyfriend thing, you shouldn’t worry. Bobbi assured me that it’s legal and that there’s no way anyone will find out. She’s done this before a thousand times or whatever.” I shrug.

  She hesitates for a moment. I wonder if she’s trying to pick her battles.

  “It’s not you getting sued that I’m worried about. Do you at least know this boy?”

  “God, no.” I laugh. “That’d be a nightmare. It’s so much better that it’s someone I don’t know. Less embarrassing that way.”

  She flashes me a strange look. “You prefer to date a stranger? Trent was your first boyfriend.”

  She doesn’t get it. She just doesn’t.

  I part my lips to say for the eleventh time that it’s not really dating, when she stops me, putting up a hand. “I know what you’re going to say. But it’s weird that you’re going to pretend to date someone you don’t know.”

  “In case you don’t know, Mom, my reputation isn’t at its best right now. I don’t even know anyone famous who’d date me at this point.”

  She groans. “Fake-date.”

  I nod. “Fake-date. So they found someone from France, I think? This guy who’s super desperate to be famous in the States, so his agent practically begged them for the opportunity or something. Really sad.”

  I inspect my nails. They’ve seen better days. I’m wondering how black will look on them. Too goth?

  “Really sad,” she repeats with a funny tone.

  “Really sad,” I agree. “That he’d go to these lengths just to get famous, you know.”

  She snorts. I don’t see why.

  “One more thing before we go in the salon, baby.” She uses her serious tone. The tone for one of two
things: business that she’ll forbid me to do, or family. I hope it’s the first. “Vovó called. She invited us to spend Christmas in São Paulo.”

  I clear my throat, keep staring at my nails.

  “Oh. You don’t want to stay in LA, the two of us? It’s our tradition.”

  “Just like you want to spend Christmas with your mother, I want to spend Christmas with mine. Vovó is getting older. And she hasn’t seen you outside a television screen in too long.” Mom opens the car door, signaling the end of the conversation. “We’re going.”

  I get out of the car, too.

  But I’m already thinking of how I can plot my way out of this.

  * * *

  The next day, there’s a hush when I enter Bobbi’s office. Bobbi, Ashley, and Christopher all stop and do a double take, taking in Natalie, the pop star. Not Natalia Rocha, the ruined social outcast whose dignity has gone down the drain. No, I can tell they see the reason why I became so famous. On top of my songwriting, that is.

  My smile, my charm, my confident stride, my perfectly manicured nails, my favorite pantsuit by Valentino, all white, but we don’t call it white. We call it ice. The color is ice. I love that.

  “Good afternoon, friends,” I announce, and keep on smiling.

  Because it’s a good day to be alive. It’s a good day to have my reputation restored, too. Ashley clears her throat and looks away, visibly jealous of my spark. She elbows her assistant.

  I’m smirking when Bobbi approaches me and whispers, “You have something in your teeth, Natalie.”

  …Oh.

  “It’s next to your left upper canine. Did you have salad?”

  I nod, trying to scrape my embarrassment away with my nail. When I show my teeth to Bobbi, she nods that I’m successful, then kisses my cheek.

  “All right,” Bobbi announces, then points at the white couch so I can take a seat. I do, still smiling, because nothing will bring me down today. “Rumors have already been planted, all the tabloids are speculating. Ashley has pulled several strings.” Bobbi pauses, almost like she’s going to raise an imaginary glass to Ashley, but ends up giving her a thumbs-up. “Your boyfriend will arrive here tomorrow. We’ll have a car pick him up and you two will meet in a café immediately after that. Ashley has a team who will photograph you and then sell the pictures to the tabloids.”