by Lola West
4
Lua
The news crews were there for me. It was clear as soon as Joe and I strolled up. We were pretty casual in our approach. We didn’t snoop around or try to talk to anyone; we just kind of strolled by them, but one guy, a youngish straggly looking dude in a dirty red baseball cap was leaning against the back of one of the vans. He had his legs propped out and his butt resting against the bumper. At first, he didn’t notice us, because he was lighting a cigarette, and then when he looked up, I saw his jaw tighten and his eyes fix on me. It was creepy, particularly because I felt exposed strolling by him in my bathing suit. Joe spotted him too.
“Eyes off, douchebag,” Joe snapped as we passed. I kept my gaze straight ahead.
The guy popped off the bumper and fell into step with us. “Lua, right?”
Startled by my name on his tongue, I turned to look at him, confused. My glance confirmed his guess and a knowing smile spread out across his face.
“Welcome to the party, sister,” he whispered. Super creepy. Backing away from me, he hollered to the others, “I got her.” In response to his call there was commotion, the picking up of gear and movement toward me. I was frozen by my bewilderment. Why were they turning their lenses on me?
Joe slipped his hands around my waist and turned me toward my front door. “Move, Lua. Inside.”
My father opened the door as we approached and ushered me through. Susan and Michael, Joe’s father, were on the couch in our living room and there was a cop in my dad’s reading chair. He stood, offered me his hand, and introduced himself as Sergeant Cross. I shook his hand but was at a loss regarding his presence. Still holding the sergeant’s hand, I looked to my dad.
“What’s going on?”
It was the sergeant who answered. He dropped my hand, cleared his throat, and said, “Apparently, your interaction with Senator Scott’s son has drawn some media attention.”
Still baffled, I looked at him. “I’m sorry?”
He seemed put off by my confusion. “The reporters outside would like to talk to you about Drew Scott.”
I looked to Joe to see if he had any clue to what the cop was talking about. Nothing. I returned to the sergeant’s gaze. “I’m sorry, but who is Drew Scott?”
Susan laughed. “I told you. She has no idea this is going on. We don’t watch TV. We don’t keep up with empty bullshit politics.”
Joe groaned, and I glanced at him. He knew something.
“Shit, Lua-cake.” He laughed.
“What?” I pleaded.
“The guy, Lua, literal dickhead, he’s Drew Scott.”
My laptop was on the coffee table. Joe popped it open and did a google search. In a few clicks, we were all watching a video of me. Well, sort of. My butt was on it. It was a news segment. They were showing a clip of a shaky video, clearly shot on a camera phone. It was that night at Bonnaroo. I was crouched down in front of him, literal dickhead guy. The camera was zoomed in, focused on his face and my left butt cheek. One of those assholes must have filmed it as they were walking away. The headline across the bottom of the screen read: “Senator Scott Seeks to Ban Music Festivals.” The video cut to a newscaster who explained that Senator Scott’s son claimed to have been doped while attending Bonnaroo, and then it cut again to a podium. A gray-haired man, tall, stately, definitely a politician, spoke briefly and then ushered him, my intoxicated suitor, literal dickhead guy, forward.
He looked different. And not just because he no longer had “dickhead” scrolled across his face. He was put together, systematically. His thick hair was slicked back and tidy. He was wearing a dark suit, a pale-blue shirt, and a red tie. Everything about him was clean. He parted his lips and even his teeth seemed to glow. There was a little American flag pinned to his lapel. All the emotion I saw in his eyes the night I met him was gone, replaced by something beyond empty. Empty has a quality. This look was just blank. It was creepy, like I was watching the robot version of the guy I helped. He placed a card on the podium and spoke. Everything he said was garbage. Cameras flashed; hands waved. He looked at the politician who was standing to his right. The politician leaned into the podium. There would be no questions.
Once the video stopped playing, my father dove in, quizzing the sergeant about my options. Did I have to talk to the press? Could I get their questions beforehand? What were my legal rights, considering they were on private property? Stuff like that. As far as I could tell, we could chase the press off the thrive, but they could sit just outside the property and wait for me forever if they wanted to. The sergeant seemed to think that my best option was to answer their questions. He thought there wasn’t much of a story here. Michael wasn’t so sure.
“She’s a teenager who was raised on a liberal commune, and he’s the son of a conservative republican senator. It sounds like a story to me.”
The sergeant looked at him. “Maybe, but I think they would have to be lovers for that to matter. And they’re not lovers, right?” He looked at me.
I swallowed. “Um…” Were we? Were we lovers? Did anyone have pictures of those fleeting moments when he pulled me to him?
My dad answered for me. “They’re not lovers. She didn’t even know his name.”
Right. I looked at Joe. He dragged his fingers across his lips like he was zippering them shut. I couldn’t do this. I needed to think. I stood up.
“I need to shower,” I said.
My dad eyed me. “You need to figure this out.”
Susan stood and put her hand on my dad’s shoulder. “Give her a few minutes, Gabe. It’s a lot.”
I didn’t stay to hear him answer. I headed to my room to grab a towel and clothes and then made my way to the bathroom. My mind was reeling. All I could think was that he was an asshole. Literal dickhead guy, Drew Scott, was the asshole son of some right-wing conservative senator. I climbed into the shower and let the hot water pelt my skin. How was that possible? How could he be someone like that? How could he think Bonnaroo was at fault? He didn’t seem like someone who blamed others. He seemed like someone who blamed himself. He thought he deserved what those assholes did to him. He stood in front of me and said that you reap what you sow. Right?
But maybe it was all a mirage. I didn’t really know him. Maybe it was just the drugs. Maybe he was just an empty asshole who fucked with people’s lives because he could, because he was rich and privileged. Maybe I saw what I wanted to see, projected my own desire onto him.
I pressed my face against the tile wall. It was cool against my cheek. I was hurt. He hurt me. It hurt like when Lucas hurt me. I didn’t know how or why. I hardly knew him, but those fleeting moments with Drew Scott were real for me. He wasn’t just some random guy I ever so briefly hooked up with at Bonnaroo. I cared for him. I opened myself to him. I let him in, made a stranger part of my story. That’s why I couldn’t stop thinking about him. That’s why it mattered to me. But he didn’t deserve that. He wasn’t trustworthy. He was part of the mainstream, the world outside of the thrive, and I forgot. I forgot to be wary; I forgot that the real world, the world outside the thrive, made people assholes. I was an idiot.
Pushing away from the wall, I took a deep breath and turned my face into the shower spray, trying to get the water to ease the tension that was rising in my cheeks. Someone knocked on the door and I heard it crack.
“I’m almost done,” I hollered, my voice shuddering a little bit.
“It’s me,” Joe said. “Can I come in?” Joe often sat on the toilet while I showered. The curtain wasn’t transparent, so it was not a big deal. When I didn't say anything, he took it as a yes and shut the door behind him. “Are you okay, cakes?” There was sympathy in his voice.
“Yep.” I was anything but.
“Do you want to talk about it?” he asked. I didn't answer, so he offered his opinion. “I think you should talk to the press. Get it over with.”
I turned off the water. “I don’t want to,” I said to the wall more than to Joe.
“Ok
ay, why not?”
“Because I don’t want to.”
He pushed because he always does. “Not good enough, Lu. Let me help you. You don’t want to because you don’t want to start college at Hamilton as that girl who was mixed up in that senator’s kid’s scandal.”
I hadn’t thought of that yet, but it was true.
He continued. “You don’t want to because you never pictured yourself on the news, well, maybe as a face in a picket line, but never the leader, the singular voice for justice. And while you know you can handle their questions, it’s not who you ever wanted to be.”
Again, not what I was thinking, but right. I pictured myself as a behind-the-scenes organizer, not the face of a cause.
He still wasn’t done. “You don’t want to because you are worried that they will drag the thrive through the mud, and when people talk about us like we’re crazy or stupid or delusional, you go insane.”
Honestly, he was doing all my thinking for me.
“But let’s be honest, all of these reasons pale in comparison to how you’re feeling right now.”
Why did he always know?
“Right now, you hate him. You hate that you let him in, which is why you should talk to the press.”
I pulled back the curtain and stuck my head out to argue with him, but I was thrown off by his appearance. He was sitting on the sink counter, his bare feet resting on the toilet, wearing my nightgown. He smiled at me and winked. I couldn’t help but laugh.
“Jesus, Joe.” I shook my head. “Hand me my towel.”
He tossed the towel over the shower curtain rod and it landed on my head.
“Thanks, Joe,” I said sarcastically and then went to work drying my body. Once I had wrapped the towel around me, I threw the curtain back and said, “Okay, Joe. Tell me how talking to the press is going to help me with how I’m feeling.”
He sighed. “I’m sorry, Lu. I’m sorry that literal dickhead guy is actually just dickhead guy.”
I flinched and closed my eyes.
“But you cannot let him win. Not this time. Bonnaroo has nothing to do with what happened to him. The festival’s policies are sound. Be who our parents taught you to be. Stand up for the truth and show this guy he’s an asshole.”
It was so infuriating when he was right.
Once I made it clear to my father, the sergeant, and Joe’s parents what I had decided to do, I just walked outside. I didn’t prepare anything. I wasn’t armed with a statement like Drew had been. I was just me, sun-kissed from an afternoon at the lake, barefoot, in an olive-colored, nothing special sundress. Joe came with me. He stood a few feet behind me with his arms crossed; he’d traded my nightgown for a pair of jeans and a t-shirt that said Visualize Whirled Peas. The cameramen and people with microphones swarmed, hollering out questions. I put up my hand to quiet them and took a deep breath.
At first my voice was a little shaky, and all I said was, “Hi.” Then I laughed, and they laughed with me. “Um… Listen, I’ve never done this before so… could you ask your questions one at a time?” They immediately started calling out questions all at once.
“How do you know Drew Scott?”
“Did you give Drew Scott drugs?”
“Are you and Drew Scott lovers?”
“Do you know who doped Drew Scott?”
Since it worked the first time, I put my hand up again. They quieted down. “How about this? Let me tell you some stuff, and then if you still have questions you can raise your hands and I’ll point to you. Does that work?” There were some smiles and a giggle or two. I smiled back. I could feel it, I was charming them.
“Okay, um… I met Drew Scott at Bonnaroo. When I found him, he was passed out and being attacked by a group of jerks. They were writing profane things on his body with a permanent marker. I didn’t like how they were treating him, so I scared them off by threatening to call security. Once they backed off, I tried to help Drew. He looked disoriented. I have no idea how he got that way. We talked briefly; I gave him some water. He was pretty agitated, clearly upset. If I were to interpret his behavior, I would think that it could make sense that he was doped because he seemed really affected and shocked by what had happened to him. I hugged him to try to console him. He was inconsolable. And then he left. That’s all I know about Drew Scott. I didn't even know his name till today.”
I paused. Hands shot up, but I wasn’t quite done yet. “Ah, just a few more things. Okay?”
Some of the journalists nodded, and I continued. “I’m not sure if you care about my opinion, but Bonnaroo is a pretty amazing music festival, and they take great precautions when it comes to protecting attendees. The idea that somehow Bonnaroo should be blamed for what happened to Drew is absurd. He could have bummed a cigarette from anyone, anywhere. He didn’t have to be at a music festival to get doped by a stranger. Clearly, if you could find the perpetrator who gave Drew drugs, then that person is responsible. That person is at fault, not the people who put on the music festival that both Drew and I attended of our own free will.”
I was done, and the journalists looked kind of stunned. Maybe they expected me to cower.
I smiled. “Does anyone have a question?”
It took a minute, but a hand shot up, and then one by one I answered their questions. But the focus had shifted. They weren’t asking me about my relationship with Drew Scott. They were asking me about why I thought that Senator’s Scott’s take on music festivals lacked substance.
5
Drew
“Fuck this dirty little hippie.”
The senator was pissed. He was pacing back and forth in front of the television in yet another hotel suite. He’d run his hands through his hair so many times that he was starting to look like a mad scientist. Lua had first spoken to the press eight days ago, and so far they were eating her up. The senator detested her. If he could legally and politically get away with it, she would have definitely disappeared. Her unintentional brand of genuine honesty was undeniable, and the senator was hard-pressed to find a way to compete with that. It was nine thirty p.m., and I had been trapped in the suite for hours, listening to my father and his team brainstorm strategies for dealing with the force that was Lua Steinbeck.
She was fierce. Even better than I could have imagined. I couldn't stop watching the clips, despite the fact that the boyfriend was always standing behind her, just off to the left, solid and unflinching, like a bodyguard. I wanted to be thankful for him, glad that there was someone who loved her and wanted to stand by her, but I couldn’t. I fucking hated him. Every time I saw him, I wanted to punch something, but still, I couldn’t stop watching.
I had to see her. I had to see the way her little green dress pulled against the roll of her belly and the swell of her hips. I fantasized about how the fabric laid against the curve of her ass. I daydreamed about pressing my fingers into her skin, feeling the softness of her. I wanted to stand behind her with my hands on her hips and just press her against me, know her to be mine, deserve her. I wanted to fall asleep with my face buried in her chest. Her breasts were so full and round—Jesus, that green dress. There was some kind of off-white lace that framed the neckline and a little magenta rose, positioned just at her cleavage, like you normally see on a fancy bra. I wanted to bite it, amongst other things.
Beyond her sex appeal, she was also just beautiful to watch, her face lit up with laughter and concern so easily. She had amazing hair; it wasn’t auburn, it was brown, but there was something about it that glowed red, like it was so healthy that the sun was drawn to it. She didn’t style it; it was just long and thick and flowed as it wanted to. Now and then while she was talking, she would tuck it behind her ear, but seconds later it would fall free, framing the soft cut of her chin. Every inch of her was warm. She had inhumanly long eyelashes, huge deeply brown eyes, a button nose. And her lips, well, her lips were both sex and beauty, pouty and alluring. She bit her lip when she was thinking. She wore some kind of very light red gloss; it wasn’
t much, but if I looked at her mouth too long, my breathing would quicken. It was insane. Looking at Lua made me insane. I wanted to talk to her, listen to her, devour her, lick her, suck her, fuck her, until I forgot my name, and then I wanted to cry in her arms. Twisted. So twisted.
When I could get past my own dick, I’d remember what I was drawn to most, what I saw in her eyes at Bonnaroo. Lua was kind. Lua was free. She wasn’t jaded and contained. She did interviews with national media outlets barefoot. She didn’t prepare or read from a cue card. She didn’t have to. She knew what she believed. God, I loved everything about how she handled the press. I loved that she walked out of her house giggling, that she wasn’t ashamed to show her nerves. I loved that she gave them the facts about our exchange without being salacious and that she somehow supported me without agreeing with what the senator had me saying. I loved that she got them to forget that she was my father’s polar opposite so a connection between her and me would be scandalous news unto itself and instead had them focused on the legitimacy of the senator’s claims against Bonnaroo. Who does that? What random citizen could have the press at their knees?
The press loved all these things about her too. They loved that she was real. They also really got off on her background. I wouldn’t be surprised if she was getting requests to do interviews that entailed walking around her property, showing off a modern commune to some media bigwig like Katie Couric or Anderson Cooper or whatever, but so far, she hadn’t done anything like that. She answered questions when they wanted her to, but maintained that she lived a quiet, peaceful, and private life and she wanted to keep that as untouched as possible. I mean, she literally said that, looked at the press, and said, “Sorry, guys, I don’t really feel like bringing this media circus into my home or infringing it on my family and friends. So if you have questions about my thoughts on banning music festivals, or my interaction with Drew Scott, then that’s cool, but my everyday life is mine.” And so far, they respected that. I mean, they were digging up everything they could about the community she was from, but they didn’t ask her to talk about it.
