Siri, Who Am I?

by Sam Tschida

  If you want me to give you the CliffsNotes version, let me know.

  Funny not funny.

  I love you.

  Funny not funny.

  I know. Too bad you’re bad at sex.

  OMG.

  I’ll check in with you once you have some time to recover.

  It’s nice having the lines of communication open again. #happysigh.

  I understand his relationship with Fay now, too. Even if her method was uncalled for, her point was strong. He didn’t truly know Fay or see her for who she was. He loved a chick who he thought was basically Marie Curie. Instead, Fay was a chick with a sick sense of humor and not that much commitment to science. Not to blame the whole breakup on Max’s caveman-level understanding of human emotion and women. Fay was complicit because she didn’t make herself known. I get it, though. She probably just figured it out. Been there, girl!

  I still don’t know if I love Max, but at least he doesn’t know my mind better than I know it myself.

  * * *

  While I’m texting everyone I know and straightening out my life, I text Kobra. The old Mia might have tried to finagle some money out of him to take care of the debt. It wouldn’t be hard. Hell, he threw ten grand at me last time he saw me. The new Mia is going to work things a little differently.

  Sorry about throwing all your in the street. My bad! Still wanna go out?

  You crazy bitch! But yeah, sure.

  I will text with time and place. Be there or be square.

  Kobra is such an idiot.

  I call Denise to fill her in on my game plan.

  “Denise, I assume you left me a message earlier about the check fraud,” I say like we’re talking about which Chinese restaurant has the best egg rolls. Great Wall, BTW.

  “Why yes, Mia, I did,” she says, obviously amused that I think I’m in control. (I am in control, BTW.) “In fact, if you checked your voicemails, you’d find one from me waiting for you.”

  “I hit rock bottom,” I say. “I don’t have enough cash for the bus. Would you meet me at the coffee shop on the corner of Ocean and Linden? I have an idea.”

  “Really?” she says.

  “I think you’ll like it.” My voice is chipper. “I know you like coffee. All cops like coffee. My treat.”

  “You’ve been watching too much Law & Order. And I don’t even want to know where you’re getting the money for my latte.”

  “See you there, Denise!” I say brightly.

  * * *

  When Denise arrives half an hour later, she looks like she’s already had a day. I put a coffee and a croissant on my tab for her and then launch into my plan like I’m giving a PowerPoint presentation.

  “I’m prepared to go to jail or do community service or probation—whatever. If that’s what happens, so be it, but I’d like to bargain my time down, preferably to nothing.”

  “That’s nice to hear,” she says, sipping her coffee. The tone of her voice tells me that she doesn’t care how I feel about the consequences of my criminal activity. She’s going to like Kobra on a platter, though. I know it.

  “I wrote some checks to a hot-air balloon company and Delta Airlines that I can’t cash. Kobra is a meth kingpin, which is a lot worse.” I describe what Crystal saw the other night and tell her I have a date with Kobra. “If I get you something you can use on him, will you let me out of the check fraud, or at least plea-bargain it down?”

  “Mia, you should really have a lawyer for this. And the lawyer is supposed to talk to the prosecutor. This is not how it’s done.”

  I shrug. “We can get it done this way, right?”

  She sighs. “I think the idea is fine, if you can really pull it off. We can get the prosecutor to agree.”

  I end up going back to the station with her and figuring out all the details. They’ll fit me with a wire, and some plainclothes officers will be on standby in case I get into trouble. I’m not scared. I’ve only been alive for real for a few days—the life span of a fruit fly. The stakes aren’t that high compared to someone with a real life. What have I got to lose? What has anyone got to lose if I die?

  Denise has me text Kobra.

  Meet at your place? Tomorrow?

  10 pm. I’ll pic u up.

  Gross.

  When I step out of the police department I know I’ve done the right thing.

  * * *

  I might not know who I was or what I wanted before, but I know who I am now. I was born last Tuesday, which makes me a Gemini. I can’t remember the whole Gemini myth—something about Castor and Pollux and one of them dying. At any rate, Old Mia is dead and New Mia is #indahouse, cleaning up all the shit that Old Mia left lying around. That bitch was messy.

  As for my love life…a part of me still thinks it’s nuts to give up on a relationship with the most forgiving billionaire in the world, but New Mia wants to be with Max. I know that with absolute certainty. He’s a little stupid, as Fay proved, and he might be bad at sex. But he’s also the kind of guy who helps a deranged stranger solve the mystery of her identity without (too much) fuss, he knows where the best tacos are, and…I feel like myself when I’m with him. My actual self. Whoever she is.

  I have a plan. I’m going to woo Max the same way I do everything: through Instagram, but with a radical new approach—at least for me.

  No filter. No editing.

  I take a selfie in front of the Long Beach Police Department. I look like hell and I know it. My face is shiny and my mascara is smeared. I’m still wearing my yellow dress. It is one of the hardest things I’ve ever done, but I use the first shot I take. I want to do another one at a slightly better angle, a picture where I’m making less of a dumb face, but I go with the first take.

  To me, I look really bad, but in reality, it’s how I look in this moment on planet earth. I look like reheated, six-day-old tater-tot casserole. That’s literally what I am. It’s not like I stick out. Most people look like warmed-up leftovers. That’s why Instagram invented filters in the first place.

  I type out my caption without overthinking it.

  I am @Mia4Realz. I’ve been online for years, but this is the first time you’re meeting me. Before, I was a fake. The new me is 100 percent honest, no filters, no Snapchat, no lies. Why the change? I woke up to find that I’m wanted by the police for check fraud, my bank accounts are empty, and someone tried to kill me. I’m a mess, but I’m going to get it back together. I will post pictures on my journey to figure out who I am and what happened to me. Follow along!

  I immediately get a bunch of likes and lots of comments. Most of the comments are sad emojis. But I see a few comments on photos from the weekend, too. OMG, @BlackEinstein314 is sooooooo cute. Heart eyes heart eyes!

  Good luck!

  Following along.

  I text Max with a link to my profile with an updated bio:

  Criminal charges and debt: in progress

  Love life: in progress

  The rest: Our father who art in heaven, hallowed be thy name.61

  Three dots appear and then they disappear. It’s not a rejection. It’s not approval, but I’ll take it. He’s thinking.

  58 It seems like every part of their relationship was “fine” and Max didn’t notice.

  59 For the sake of argument, let’s pretend I know my true self.

  60 Sorry, therapists everywhere!

  61 Definitely Catholic.

  CHAPTER

  TWENTY-FOUR

  As luck would have it, Denise is leaving the station at the same time as me and gives me a lift to GoldRush with a gruff “As long as I’m dropping you off at work.” She seems thrilled (relatively speaking) to support me in: 1) moving on from the boyfriend she didn’t trust, and 2) earning money at legitimate employment. When she sees where she’s dropping me off, she sighs, looking a little disappointe
d and very unsurprised. “Jesus, Wallace. Try to keep your clothes on.”

  I point at the Prada gown that I’ve never been out of and say, “They’d have to pay me a lot to take this off, obviously,” and she actually cracks a smile.

  Before I walk in, I take a selfie for my honesty project. The GoldRush sign is lit up behind me. I caption it: I work here. I do the books. I can’t imagine that “doing the books” is a full-time job. I tag Max. Now that I’m going full disclosure, I consider explaining how I stole the name and advertising materials, but it’s too much to get into.62

  Inside, I find Crystal. She’s wearing sequined lingerie and five-inch heels with the same level of comfort that a nurse wears scrubs. I wonder how she holds down two jobs, takes care of a baby, and still manages to keep everything shaved. Instead of inquiring about that, I ask how she’s doing.

  “Oh you know…” She shrugs. “Getting ready for work.” She looks seriously unenthused.

  “How’s it going with Jules?”

  “Mmm.”

  I take that to mean good.

  I kick back in a chair and put my legs up on a low table. Crystal slides a plate of cheese sticks closer to me for sharing. “Thanks,” I say. “I’ve been thinking about GoldRush. I’m really proud of it in some ways, but then again, it’s basically just a way to get sugar daddies for us.” I shake my head. “I don’t know. I’m thinking it’s missing something. Like…instead of marrying millionaires, maybe we should become millionaires.” I’m joking but not.

  Crystal laughs like I’ve said the funniest thing on the whole planet. “Girl, I can barely afford to get someone to sit for my kid while I’m working two shitty jobs. How in the hell am I going to make a million dollars?”

  “I know,” I say, “but still. It seems a little 1950s of us to just try to marry millionaires. Like maybe we should go to college or something.”

  “Whatever. I’m just sick of taking the damn bus. Fuck feminism.”

  The bus does suck.

  “What if I restructure GoldRush to be some sort of human capital investment thing? Like I could get the millionaires to invest in your ideas or something.” I take a bite of a cheese stick while I wait for her thoughts.

  “Ideas?” She laughs like it’s the funniest thing she’s ever heard. “I’m no dummy, but I ain’t sitting on the next big app or anything.” She locks eyes with me to communicate how serious she is. “Matchmaking is perfect. We got the booty and the ballerina credentials or whatever they want. They got the money. No one’s taking the damn bus. Bam!”

  I frown hard. There must be a better way, but she’s right—the bus sucks and it’d be nice to be with a guy with money.63 And Mia 2.0 might be friendlier than the original, but she doesn’t have any better ideas. “I got a few more guys interested, so our pool of sugar daddies is growing. All thanks to Jules. His posts have really blown up.”

  “Sweet. Maybe we can do some more posts. Really make it look like the ultimate party life. I’ll wear a bikini and splash in the water. Men love that sort of thing.” With a laugh she says, “I have to make up for the posts from last night. I wore a shirt with pit stains, and I didn’t have any makeup on. I don’t know why he wanted to go out with me or why anyone is liking these photos.”

  “It is subversive in an exciting way. I bet women liked it because you made it look like you were good enough as is.”

  “I am good enough, bitch.” She flashes a you wanna start something? look and I choke on a laugh.

  “Whatever. You know what I mean. We say we’re good enough, but not really.” We’re totally not good enough. Let’s get real. Actually…maybe that’s our only option.

  Crystal arrives at that conclusion at the same time I do. “Maybe we should just be more honest,” she says. “Like instead of saying that Tatiana is a Russian ballerina, you could just describe her as a rich girl with daddy issues who only strips to pay for her Amazon addiction.”

  I laugh at the idea. For the first time, Tatiana sounds like someone I can relate to. That ice queen look might be sexy, but the sexy ice queen schtick is not the stuff BFFs are made of.

  Crystal gets a spark of mischief in her eye. “And for Gigi—she’ll spend all your money on a weave, but don’t worry, it’ll be worth it.” Then, looking slightly more introspective, she says, “And I will be a single mother with two crappy jobs who recently moved back in with her own mom and doesn’t believe in love.”

  “You’re going to change your mind about the love thing, I think.” I have a feeling about her and Jules.

  “Maybe,” she says, a sparkle in her eye.

  “And to think, all you needed was a rich underwear model.” I shake my head. “Talk about a tall order.”

  We might be in a dingy club eating bar food but it’s a beautiful moment. Most of the time, the beginnings and ends of things blend into the rest and you never notice them. But this time, maybe because the world is so new for me, I can feel it. I know this is the moment we’re creating something. This is the beginning of something better than what we had. GoldRush was good in some ways, but it’s going to be better now. And I’m 75 percent sure I have a business partner in Crystal.

  I sigh happily. Who would have ever thought of an honest dating site? It’s the most counterintuitive yet most obvious thing I’ve thought of. “I really like the idea of making everyone’s bio honest. No more fantasy fulfillment. We’re real people. No more hiding it.”

  Come to think of it, that was what made me feel like a pimp before—not the matchmaking, but the false advertising. I’m only here to facilitate a match, not sell anyone a fantasy. I’m so excited about my new idea for GoldRush. Not lying probably isn’t revolutionary, but it’s the first time I’ve thought of it. I can’t wait to get online and change it all around.

  I head back to my office in the back of the club and go to work on the site. It’s going to be brand-new by tomorrow. It’s not like I have a life to distract me.

  I put up a sign on my door like I’m running conferences. I’m going to meet with every girl at the club and call everyone else. I’ll update all the bios and retake all the profile shots—no filters, preferably with no makeup. “Wear some sweatpants,” I advise the girls. “Whatever you look like on Sunday morning, that’s what I want on the site.”

  “So, hungover?” one of the girls says.

  “That’s fine. I want honesty.”

  She laughs. “Okay, hungover with false eyelashes glued to my cheek. You’ve got it.”

  Hers is going to be my favorite profile pic.

  While I’m digging through the drawers for a pen that works, I find a lockbox.

  I pull out my sparkly clutch. I have two keys—one to JP’s house and another that I’ve never found a home for. I fish it out of the bottom and insert it into the lockbox. It fits perfectly. When I open the box I find a Crown Royal bag and I know what’s in it. It’s the thirty-five grand Kobra paid for his match with Crystal.

  I scream.

  * * *

  When I’m cross-eyed from working all day as a business genius who just discovered a life-saving windfall, I come out of my office and sit on the stripper walkway, kicking my legs off the side and eating a fresh basket of fried mozzarella sticks. Life isn’t so bad.

  I check my Instagram and see a lot of love for my Mia 2.0 posts—and a lot of DMs from girls who are excited for me.

  That French guy wasn’t cute enough for you, girl! Love the new nerd!

  Has he called yet? Stay strong!!

  My phone rings. It’s a number not stored in my contacts, but I pick up anyway. “Hello?”

  “Mia?” It’s a feminine voice. Tentative.

  “Yes, who is this?”

  There’s a long pause before the woman says, “It’s your mother.”

  I almost choke on a mozzarella stick. “What?”

  “I’m sorry I wasn�
��t there for you that night,” she says.

  “Wait. You know what happened to me?”

  “I saw your picture on the MySelfie wall at the museum. I’m so sorry, sweetie. I wish I’d seen it sooner or been there for you.” I was doing great this afternoon, rethinking the business and finding money. But a mom? That’s next-level support. Yesterday I would have been full-out crying if she called. Not today, though. Just a few tears prick at the back of my eyes.

  Someone keeps buzzing in with texts, but I don’t answer. I’m not going to interrupt a reunion with my mom.

  “I lost my memory that night. I don’t know anything. I don’t remember you.”

  I can hear her gasp a little. She’s trying to hide it, but she’s crying. “Where are you, sweetie? I’m coming to you now.”

  “I’m at GoldRush, that strip club down on the PCH.”

  There’s silence on the other end of the line for a while. When she’s processed my location, she sighs. “Okay, honey. I’m coming now. Give me twenty minutes.”

  I hang up and run screaming toward Crystal.

  “CRYSTAL! My mom is coming! I know it might be a little weird, but…I think we’ve been estranged and now we’re going to reconcile? I can’t tell, but I didn’t have her number in my phone and I get the feeling that something happened between us.”

  “Well, things might get a little interesting.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Kobra just texted and said he’s on his way. Apparently he saw one of your Instagram posts. He knows we’re here.”

  “What the? What’s that dude’s deal? Why won’t he leave us alone?” I had crafted a leisurely takedown plan in which I would carefully extract a string of confessions from him and send him straight to jail.

  Crystal says, “Either he wants another date or he wants to kill me because I’m a witness to that one dude’s death.”