Like Me

by Hayley Phelan

  SÃO PAULO—To Fernanda Silva, headmistress of Santa Maria College, an international all-girls boarding school located in the upscale neighborhood of Alto da Boa Vista, it looked as though the flu season, which typically gets underway in June, had begun early this year. Then, an alarmed classmate reported that her friend, who had been one of the dozen students taken ill following the school’s May 1 Labor Day celebrations, was acting strangely. When Ms. Silva and the school’s nurse visited the young woman, fifteen, she did not appear to recognize them. Confused and disoriented, the student asked where she was. When told, she said she had never heard of the school. Ms. Silva’s student is one of eighty-five known cases of a bizarre new disease the Brazilian government is racing to identify. The sickness, which—

  MILEY CYRUS’S HOT GIRL SUMMER HEATS UP. It’s Miley’s party and she can do what she wants. The pop songstress continued her so-called “hot girl summer” campaign on Instagram, showing off her toned physique in a racy two-piece—

  MILEY CYRUS’S DIET & EXERCISE ROUTINE REVEALED. Miley Cyrus has been in the headlines recently for her romantic shenanigans following the sudden split from her ex-husband. But, here at Star Daily, it’s her bod that’s really caught our attention. Below, how she got her “hot girl summer” physique. Miley is an avid yoga fan—

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  Outside my door, I fiddled with my keys, dropping them in front of a homeless man who was sitting on two pieces of cardboard, passed out. His palms were open, facing up on his thighs, his legs splayed out in front of him. I thought he looked dead.

  When I got into bed, I opened up Instagram again. It was then I noticed the familiar sight blaring in the upper right-hand corner of my screen: a smooth red bubble signifying a new message. I clicked on it with no particular urgency, not expecting anything. The night had been so overshadowed by my encounter with Gemma in the bathroom, and I was so tired and drunk, that I had momentarily forgotten that I’d DMed her. After all, I’d figured the chances of her replying were slim. So when the screen slid by and I saw her name at the top of my DMs, bolded, 1 new message, my heart stopped. She had actually written back! Gemma Anton wrote: Funny, must have been a mirage ;)

  The words on their own could have meant anything. But the winky face suggested mischief, complicity. An admission. Gemma knew that I knew she had lied. It was no big deal. Just a bit of fun. Still, it was something. A connection.

  I thought for a moment, then typed out a response: musta been. I added a winky face, the mirror image of Gemma’s.

  It was past five in the morning. I knew Gemma wouldn’t reply until later, if at all. In gray script, my screen informed me she had been active 1h ago. But I was unsatisfied and wanted more. I visited her profile. She had no new posts, so I placated myself by poring over her tagged images. There she was, sitting cross-legged on a dock somewhere, smile-squinting into the sun, freckled nose under one of those cool-again bucket hats, a child who will twist her body away from her parents as they apply sunscreen, a loved child, a spoiled child, long, glorious limbs glistening in the sun, compact waist, and those incongruous breasts, soft fruits blossomed from that ascetic tree branch. A whiff of fresh grass mingled with a milky, sweet smell, a cooking smell—she used extra-virgin coconut oil in place of lotion, I knew. Ralph Lauren campaign. Paid nearly a million, I’m told.

  Gemma was eating a plum, somewhere outside it seemed, though it could have been in a studio, properly lit; her face, that newborn face, took up nearly the whole frame. Her lips pressed against the pulpy flesh of the plum; I could feel the slight resistance as her teeth pierced its skin and her tongue pressed against its insides. Juice dripped down her fingers. Her eyes were mischievous, guileless, as if she were unaware of her beauty.

  Gemma was walking down the street in New York City; faded Levi’s, a men’s button-down, long, bushy blond hair, air-dried, obviously. This was her, the real her, as captured by paparazzi a few months ago. Her arm was wrapped loosely, carelessly, around the neck of Benoit, who was scruffy-faced, tired-looking. They looked serious, cool, like they didn’t care about being famous at all, like they stayed up late reading to each other—she had a book in one hand, I couldn’t see which one—and shared their dreams in the morning.

  Gemma was sitting in a café, wearing wire-rimmed glasses, reading Joan Didion, absorbed and studious; croissant (one bite out of it), café au lait. Gemma was on the beach, a surfboard balanced on her head, her body bathed in the clear, golden light favored by certain photographers. Gemma was at a dinner table, covered in white cloth and littered with fine wineglasses. She was laughing with another young woman, another model with dark-brown hair, full lips; her elbows were on the table, her hands clasped as if in prayer. Gemma was wading into the ocean. Gemma was in church, dressed as a nun. Gemma was walking out into the sky, clouds so puffy they could hold you up.

  Gemma was

  Gemma was

  Gemma was

  I’d fallen asleep.

  * * *

  —

  The next day, I put up an Instagram of me wearing a Forever 21 Tie-Dye Cross-Strap Bra Top and Zara Tie-Dye Leggings, both knockoffs of Outdoor Voices’ Tie One On tie-dye collaboration with graffiti artist Ha-Ha. Caption: Repent for the sins of your forefathers, Grey Goose and Patron.

  In it, I’m standing in my bathroom, looking bored and casual and good-looking. It was the fifteenth one I took, and I chose it because I’m arching my back just enough that you can’t actually tell I’m arching my back, but my ribs still protrude slightly and my thigh gap looks bigger.

  With today’s energies, dear Aquarius, it may be a better time to decompress and regroup. Fourteen Likes. Netflix announced it would allow users to stream videos at 1.5 times the regular speed, a more efficient way to binge-watch as long as you considered efficiency to mean the attenuation of the time and effort required to complete a task, and as long as you considered finishing a series a task that needed to be ticked off, rather than something to be milked and enjoyed. Kylie Jackson Defends Pole-Dancing Video: “It’s Art.” Seven Likes. Comment, from @LaurenKombi: hi, can I have your body, pls & thnk u. Gas prices jumped thirty cents. A decision had been reached in the Eric Garner case: no charges were to be filed against the police officer who choked Garner to death. Sixteen Likes. A comment from my mother, who once came close to winning Miss New Jersey and who always takes great pride in my appearance: Gorgeous! Next to the word she put a smiley face with hearts for eyes. See you in a few! Love, Mom.

  As per our arrangement, my mother came into town every other Thursday from Newark, where she’d taken over her older sister’s empty apartment, since Auntie Joey and her husband had recently moved to Florida. The apartment in Newark was a considerable downgrade for her—the spare bedroom was nearly as big as her former dressing room. But I knew she was happy to get out of Illinois. In Newark, no one’s heard of the Heffernans. But in the country clubs and department stores and fancy grocers up and down the North Shore, the name still slithers on people’s tongues. My father had “misappropriated” the $30 million his real estate development company had raised to build condos in the area, defrauding his investors, many of whom were our neighbors—his drinking buddies, the parents of my school friends. Of course, I’d hated him long before this awful disclosure. He was a drunk, and while he had his magic—drunks often do—and could be impossibly charming, by the age of ten, I’d decided I could no longer ignore or forgive his rages, his philandering (I occasionally came across a Polaroid of a seminude woman, tucked into the papers in his briefcase), the bruises that every so often appeared on my mother’s body. When they would fight, I would hide out in the apartment above the garage, which belonged to Inna, our “live-in,” as they were called, and collapse into a fit of such grandiose, self-righteous pity as only a spoiled teenager
could summon. If Inna was there, she’d fill me a glass of tap water from the sink, stroke my back, and let me watch whatever I wanted on her small TV that looked like it was from the 1980s. I didn’t know it then, but I loved Inna. She had three grown sons back in the Philippines that she hadn’t seen in nearly fifteen years. She probably thought I was crazy. Of course, we had to let her go when my father got arrested. I haven’t spoken to her since.

  My mother and I had agreed to meet at The Coffee Shop in Union Square; she’d already seen my apartment, and I knew she was not eager to return to it. It was a reminder of how much we’d lost, the physical manifestation of how small we’d become. The day I’d moved in, when we’d finished unpacking, I remember her saying, in a strenuously cheerful voice, that minimalism was coming back in, that it had better feng shui, as if the space’s depressing barrenness were an aesthetic choice instead of one of necessity. We’d christened the apartment by cracking open a bottle of gin (her drink of choice) and, a little tipsy, she’d looked around the apartment and said, “It reminds me of the little place I used to live in in Jersey City.” She never spoke of her youth in New Jersey. “I was probably about your age.” She sighed. “Well, it’s only temporary.”

  “What?”

  “This apartment.” Then she had glared at me. “Your age.” When she left there were tears in her eyes.

  There was still no response from Gemma. I kicked myself for not writing something wittier, or more interesting. She might have read my message and thought I didn’t even care to keep the conversation going. It was so blah. I should have asked a question, made a joke, something. I took a deep breath and began typing. Woof, so hungover. How are you feeling this morning? I bit my nail, deleted what I wrote. I went to her profile, looking for clues. She had 1,324 posts. 468K Followers. 881 Following. Beneath her name was a series of symbols and phrases; they were obscure in meaning on their own but, taken together, created a certain effect. Two miniature flags hung just below her name, announcing her national identity: French and American. The text beneath read Esprit Universel, which I knew from Google Translate was the French word for jack-of-all-trades. Then there was a procession of shooting stars, nine in total, followed on the next line by the words love, love, love, always love. Next to Gemma’s handle at the top was a small circular mark, simple in design—a white check mark on a blue background—yet deeply significant: this was Instagram’s hallowed verification badge, signifier of the Followed vs. the Follower. It meant the social platform recognized a need to authenticate the account, separate it from the fakes and the copies. It anointed only the truly influential and famous, and seeing it again on Gemma’s page only reinforced the gravity of my missed opportunity last night. Fleetingly, I imagined a blue check next to my name, and felt myself swell with the importance and authority it conferred. I went back to our DM thread. Everyone knows that blue checks beget blue checks. I thought for a long time and then typed out what I thought was a perfectly charming message. Question: Do mirages get hangovers? Cuz I am definitely *feeling* it this morning. I threw my phone onto my bed and tried not to think about it again.

  * * *

  —

  I had a few hours to kill before I had to meet my mother, so I took off the yoga gear and put on Brandy Melville Molly Denim Shorts in Faded Blue, a vintage t-shirt I’d stolen from Julia that said The Specials on it, Topshop Porto Buckle Sandals in Tan, and Thomas James LA Tiny Hexagonal Furious Sunglasses in Gold. The man was still there on the broken-up cardboard, his hands resting on his thighs, palms up. I got a coffee, black, at Think Coffee, even though Dunkin’ Donuts was closer and cheaper. I couldn’t be seen walking around with a Dunkin’ Donuts cup. Then I went to the Duane Reade on the corner, my favorite place to float.

  Growing up, my mom and I always went shopping together. It was “our thing.” My mom said it was like sports, but for women. We’d drive back from the city at dusk, the back seat heavy with shopping bags and a sense of accomplishment. My mother really blossomed when she shopped. Around the house, she was like a nervous ghost, constantly walking up and down the halls but never really doing or saying anything. She had few friends in Barrington but all of the sales girls at Neiman’s knew her and loved her. Walking in with her was like walking in with a celebrity. Now she avoids the place like the plague. Even though she can still afford to buy some of the cheaper brands in there, she can’t show her face. It’s not like she’d be recognized by other shoppers or something, but the sales ladies—they know. We tried window shopping in New York a few times after I moved, but I could tell it just depressed her. So now we just do lunch.

  Walking through the automatic doors of Duane Reade immediately calmed me: the bright lights, the antiseptic white floors, the shelves and shelves of colorfully packaged products, the frisson of possibility. It’s the only place I can really afford to shop, so I go every so often just to relax. I wandered through the hair aisle. Gemma washed her hair every other day. She used an all-natural brand, and a shampoo for dandruff. I ran my fingers over the bottles, smooth as pearls. Inside, the goo would be pearly, too, white and uniform. Gemma doesn’t really wear makeup, but once, when she put up a picture of herself from the bathroom, I zoomed in and looked at all the labels on the bottles. I couldn’t afford any of them, but after some research, I found out that L’Oréal makes a pretty good dupe of the Clé de Peau she uses. Almost everything has a dupe nowadays, thank god: if a product is popular enough, it’s bound to get knocked off, the developers at other beauty brands can just buy it right in the store, distill it down to its most essential components, then repackage and sell it. Two bottles of foundation, under two different labels and with a fifty-dollar price differential, can look nothing alike from the outside, but inside: they’re exactly the same. There was something about this that I found poignant and beautiful. When I found the foundation I was looking for in the makeup aisle, I squatted down, furtively unscrewed the cap, and squirted some of it into my hand. It smelled like baby powder. I closed my eyes and spread it over my skin. Still squatting, I looked all around. Then I slipped it into my purse.

  On my way out, a pimply girl standing in the acne aisle, wearing a Brandy Melville dress I had tried on and rejected, looked at me forlornly. I knew she envied me, as I envied Gemma. Life is sometimes too funny and too cruel.

  * * *

  —

  When I got to The Coffee Shop, my mom was already waiting for me, as I knew she would be, sitting in a tucked-away booth at the back, examining her nail beds. She was wearing a lightweight camel coat, even though it was eighty degrees out, and her hair was blonder, almost platinum, and frizzy in this heat, puffing out around her shoulders like cauliflower florets. Her face lit up when she saw me. I leaned in to kiss her on the cheek, and she put her hand around my neck and clutched me there. I had to wrench myself away before sliding in.

  “Oh, honey, you look beautiful.”

  “Thanks.”

  “Is that a new shirt?” It was the threadbare vintage band t-shirt I’d stolen from Julia. Neither of us knew who the band was.

  “It’s Julia’s.”

  Her brows furrowed. “Who?”

  “Friend.” She should have known who Julia was. She should have remembered that.

  “I went blonder,” she said, as if it were a major disclosure.

  “I see.”

  She waited.

  “It looks really good,” I said.

  “You think?” She touched the ends self-consciously. “It’s not too blond?”

  “No. I like it.”

  “Single process. Upkeep is easier.”

  “How’s Alison doing?” Alison was my mother’s longtime hair colorist and stylist. My father, who was nominally an Irish Catholic and liked to remind us of it every once in a while, as if to claim some moral high ground, called Alison my mother’s priest and confessor. Mom countered that she had nothing to confess, and the sad thing was, I di
dn’t think she did either. What she and Ali mostly talked about, I suspected, was other people. Other people was my mother’s favorite topic. When I got old enough I started seeing Alison too ($250 for a teenager’s highlights, thank you very much), though we never became close, and I sensed that secretly pleased my mother. She had so few true friends, I think she wanted Alison all to herself. All throughout my father’s never-ending court proceedings, my mom never once missed her monthly appointment.

  “Actually, I didn’t go to Alison.”

  I pulled a face. “Why?”

  “I thought it was time for a change,” she said breezily, suddenly becoming fascinated by the menu. “Oh! The omelet looks good!”

  “Who’d you go to then?”

  “Actually, I did it myself,” she said nonchalantly. “It was easy! There’s this new company that makes salon-quality dye—you order it online. It’s better for the environment, too. And it only took fifteen minutes! Which is crazy when you think of how many hours I’d spent in that chair, not that I regret it—” My mother prattled on but I was so depressed by the image of her bending over the sink in her pink bathrobe and those awful plastic gloves, biting her lip while the peroxide stung her scalp, that I could hardly follow her. I know it’s difficult to pity her. Hadn’t she gotten what she deserved? When the people began showing up outside our house—it was a mansion, really—in the North Shore, carrying signs like PONZI SCHEME FRAUD! and The 99% Say: Guilty, they sometimes yelled things at my mother. Once, when we were inching out of our driveway, reporters and photographers crowding around our car—my mother refused to honk, she thought it was undignified—a man with mad-scientist hair and a rumpled business suit yelled at her to “Get a job.” But what could she do? She wasn’t qualified for any kind of job, and who would hire her—wife of the famous Peter Heffernan—anyhow? Even if she somehow managed to get one, the truth is my mother couldn’t work a job. She wouldn’t know how. It’d be like asking a monkey to drive a car.