She's Faking It

by Kristin Rockaway

  Dishes were passed around family style: warm flatbread and sharp cheese; herbed salad with seared tuna; the most tender charbroiled steak I’d ever tasted. This meal was undoubtedly the highlight of the trip, a welcome change from my steady diet of ramen and protein bars. I savored every morsel, detaching myself from my surroundings. The conversation around me faded into an incomprehensible din. Though more than a few times, I did hear Natasha mention her business, her book proposal, how she was looking for a publisher.

  While the waitstaff cleared our dinner dishes away, I wiped my mouth in anticipation of dessert. The crowd around me grew a bit louder, raucous but in a reserved kind of way. One woman a few seats down from us had clearly had more than her fair share of rosé, though, and her subtly slurred voice surged above the rest.

  “I just want to say how amazing it is to be here with all of you strong, fierce, warrior women this weekend!” Wine sloshed over the top of her glass as she raised it above her head in a wobbly toast. Natasha and I shared an amused glance as the woman continued her drunken soliloquy.

  “When I’m at home, I don’t feel seen, do you know what I mean?” A couple of women murmured in agreement here. “I have dreams inside of me that are unmanifested and my husband just doesn’t understand. But you ladies do. Because you’re my tribe!”

  There was sparse, halfhearted applause. Natasha kicked me under the table to silently ask, Can you believe this is happening? But I couldn’t take my eyes off this woman, addressing complete strangers as if they were her closest friends. It was fascinating.

  The longer I looked at her, the more familiar she became. Did I follow her on Instagram? No, I’d seen her in person before. Maybe I’d done a HandyMinion job for her. Or had I delivered her chicken?

  It hit me at once, like a tidal wave. She had her hair down instead of in a messy bun, and she’d traded her No Excuses T-shirt for a peasant dress, but there was no mistaking it. This was Andrea T.

  Eddie Trammel’s wife.

  My first instinct was to shield my face, not wanting to be recognized as the ditzy delivery girl whose piece-of-shit car broke down in her driveway. The woman who’d forgotten the chipotle ranch dressing, much to her husband’s dismay. So I ducked down behind a large centerpiece covered in succulents.

  “What are you doing?” Natasha whispered, not wanting to attract attention to my odd behavior.

  Ignoring her, I peered at Andrea through two fleshy aloe leaves. She wasn’t looking in my direction; she barely registered my presence. And it occurred to me that, even if she did, she wouldn’t have recognized me. The rare customer who actually committed the face of their delivery person to memory could never place it out of context.

  For example, I once ran into a regular Chicken Coop client at the beach—someone who ordered the same six-piece and biscuits every Friday night, like clockwork—and when I greeted her by name, she looked at me like I was a serial murderer, then ran in the other direction. It was like we existed on their doorsteps, or not at all.

  A sad state of affairs, for sure, but in this moment, it brought me great relief. I sat up, just as the waitstaff brought around dessert: grilled stone fruit shortcakes topped with fresh whipped cream. Under normal circumstances, I’d be in heaven. Now, I barely tasted it, my mind too consumed with the past, the present, my failures, my all-consuming mediocrity. How a weekend in the desert wasn’t going to change any of that.

  The woman to my left released a heavy breath, clearly tired of listening to Andrea T.’s boozed-up babble. In an effort to rein in the conversation, she said, “Has anyone else seen this video that’s all over Twitter?”

  Most everyone shook their heads, and someone asked, “What video?”

  “Ugh, yes, I saw it!” Andrea groaned. “And I wish that girl would crawl back in the hole she came out of.”

  “What video?” Natasha asked this time, ever fearful of being out of the loop.

  With a look of disgust, the woman next to me explained. “This girl was ranting about lifestyle gurus and how they’re scam artists and how Demi DiPalma is, like, a fraud.”

  My ears pricked. “Are you talking about, ‘Self-Help Guru or Scam Artist?’”

  “I don’t remember the name of it, but she spent, like, a ridiculous amount of time bad-mouthing the jade egg. But it’s like, how can you judge something you’ve never even tried? So uneducated.” She shook her head, deeply disappointed.

  On the one hand, I was thrilled that Mari’s video had gained enough momentum to be described as “all over Twitter.” On the other hand, the women at this table didn’t seem to understand what it was really all about.

  “I think you’re missing the point.”

  As soon as I opened my mouth, Natasha kicked me under the table again—this time, as a plea to stay quiet. But I couldn’t.

  “Actually,” I continued, “she was probably trying to comment on how our desire for self-improvement makes us easy targets for people who want to take advantage of—”

  “Demi should sue her!” Andrea piped up. “Take her for everything she’s got!”

  More furious kicking. My shins would be bright purple in the morning.

  “Technically, she didn’t mention Demi DiPalma by name,” I said, “so I don’t think there would be much of a case there. But I do think her perspective has merit, and it might be worthwhile to consider before we dismiss it out of hand.”

  The woman next to me seemed to be chewing on this thought, but Andrea snorted wetly, her mouth filled with a heaping scoop of shortcake. “Whatever. I’m not gonna take advice from that stupid loser.”

  That stupid loser?

  At once, I lost all feeling in my lower legs and all sense of ladylike decorum.

  “Her name is Marisol Vega, bitch, and she’s more brilliant than you could ever hope to be.”

  Scandalized gasps erupted at the sound of the B word. Someone broke a wineglass at the other end of the table, and it was possible a vinyl record scratched somewhere in the distance. A beat of stunned silence, then another. Finally, Andrea spoke up, in a calm yet condescending tone. “You know, you’re giving off a lot of negative energy right now, and I don’t appreciate that.”

  Natasha launched herself off the bench and grabbed my wrist. Through her teeth, she snarled, “Let’s go.”

  We marched back to the tent, my sister leading the way in stony silence. I couldn’t recall her ever being this mad at me. When we were safely inside, she lowered the flap, tossed her purse on the bed, and spun around. “I can’t believe you did this.”

  “Did what? Called someone out for insulting my friend? She was talking about Mari, you know that, right?”

  “I know who she was talking about.”

  “And do you know who that woman is? Eddie Trammel’s wife.” At her blank stare, I said, “My old physics professor. The one who—”

  “Oh, enough. I’m so tired of hearing about him. He’s not the reason you dropped out of school, and you know it.”

  “What?”

  “You dropped out because you can’t make a decision to save your life. You’re so afraid of making the wrong choices that you make no choices at all. You give up before you even get started. And then you wonder why your life is in the state it’s in.”

  The words fell on me hard, like a brick being tossed out a twelve-story window. They left me dumbstruck and disgruntled. They hurt because they were true.

  Five majors in three years. A complete inability to commit to a path. Afraid to try, afraid to fail. Opting for a swift emergency exit as soon as I had an excuse.

  I wasn’t mediocre, I wasn’t passionless. I was afraid.

  There was nothing to say in response. Natasha was right. But she wasn’t finished.

  “You’ve had opportunities I haven’t, Bree, and you don’t even appreciate them. You got into a great college, and you quit for no reason. I boug
ht you all these followers for your Instagram account, and you’re not even taking it seriously.”

  “That’s different,” I said. “This Instagram idea was totally misguided. It’s not at all what I thought it was gonna be.”

  “So you’re giving up on it.” It wasn’t a question, so I didn’t give an answer. “Right. Fine, give up on another dream if you want to. But you’re not the only one who has dreams, Bree. This is my dream. This—” she threw her arms wide, indicating the tent, the desert, maybe the whole world “—is my opportunity. I’m trying to make a good impression at this retreat, to get my ideas in the hands of the right people. Don’t ruin this for me. Not again.”

  Again.

  Her face flushed and she turned away, digging through her dresser drawer while I stood there trying not to cry. Never before had Natasha given any indication that dropping out of college to take care of me had ruined her life. But there it was, out in the open: Natasha saved my ass by sacrificing her dreams. And she resented me for it.

  My insides felt shredded and raw. Silently, I pulled my pajamas from the LeSportsac tote bag—another prime example of Natasha saving my ass. I didn’t wash my face or brush my teeth. I just changed and slithered under the covers, careful not to take up too much space.

  Clinging to the edge of the mattress, I rolled over onto my side, facing away from my sister, a million light-years away from the days of us snuggling close together in my tiny twin bed.

  Chapter 25

  I slept horribly that night. Not only because of the silent tension in the air between Natasha and me, but because there was a new moon manifesting ceremony going on somewhere outside. People were chanting and singing, there were chimes and bowls and gongs. If Natasha heard it, she gave no indication. She barely moved the entire night.

  After the ceremony, as the first light of dawn was breaking, I finally drifted off. When I awoke, Natasha was already gone, her side of the bed neatly straightened as if she hadn’t been there at all. I glanced at my phone on the nightstand and saw it was already 10:30. According to the Synergy Summit program, I’d slept right through breakfast, which was a huge bummer, since lunch wasn’t for another two and a half hours. I perused the schedule, searching in vain for snack breaks, and saw the book publishing workshop was going on right now. That must’ve been where Natasha was.

  Hopefully, she was making good connections and would come away from this retreat with a book deal. Hopefully, I hadn’t ruined things for her. Again.

  The memories of last night were like a lead weight in my belly. We had never, ever argued with such vitriol. Sure, we’d had sisterly spats over the years, like that time she tried to surprise me into decluttering my apartment. By comparison, though, they were relatively inconsequential. The fight last night got to the meat of our relationship. It cut right to the bone.

  Part of me wanted to pack up and go, to let her enjoy the rest of the weekend without me hanging around, mucking things up with my negative energy. But that would be needlessly dramatic, and actually make things worse. She’d worry, then come chasing after me, and wind up missing the rest of the trip she’d been so looking forward to. Which was essentially the story of our entire sisterhood. Best to stay here, lay low, keep my mouth shut.

  Not that I regretted what I’d said last night. Andrea T. had it coming; the words “that stupid loser” still echoed in my ears. I scowled just thinking about it. Mari was smarter, more thoughtful, and more ambitious than anyone at that ridiculous retreat. Myself included.

  But I was glad to hear her video had garnered some attention from the Twitterverse. Grabbing my phone, I pulled up YouTube to check how many views she’d gotten in the past two days and was completely blown away.

  Over five hundred thousand. That was way more views than any of her other videos had ever achieved. Even ones that had been out for months rarely got above twenty-five thousand. And this had happened in less than forty-eight hours.

  I texted her.

  Just saw your view count for

  the self-help vid and... HOLY SHIT!

  I know. I kind of can’t believe it.

  YouTube put it on the Trending page!

  I guess it struck a chord?

  Definitely! Some women here

  were talking about it last night!

  Apparently it blew up on Twitter?

  Yeah a really popular comedian RT’d it!

  Where are you btw?

  Okay, don’t laugh and don’t be mad.

  ???

  I’m at a Demi DiPalma retreat in Palm Desert.

  Instantly, my phone buzzed in my hand with a call from Mari.

  “I’m sorry,” she said. “I know you hate talking on the phone, but I need more information and texting is not gonna cut it.”

  I told her the whole story: how Natasha had bought us these tickets, how I’d felt bad saying no, how I’d stayed awake all night listening to women screaming affirmations at the moonless sky. “Anyway, at dinner last night, a few women were...let’s just say, less than enthused with your take on things. But there were a couple of others who seemed like they were giving it some serious thought.”

  “If I’ve convinced only one woman to refrain from putting an overpriced rock in her vagina, then I’ve done my job.” I laughed, and she asked, “Hey, what was that funny-slash-horrible Rob story you wanted to tell me?”

  The mention of Rob’s name made my stomach cramp. “It’s not funny anymore. Now it’s just horrible. He’s back.”

  “What?”

  “Yeah, he showed up on my doorstep after I texted you Thursday night. He told me he wanted to get back together.”

  “I hope you told him to kiss your ass.”

  “I did, but it was a little complicated, since he caught me in the act of selling his stuff.” Mari started to cheer, but I quickly added, “He actually threatened to sue me. Said he’d tell his dad and they’d see me in court.”

  “Oh, please. Like his father would waste his time on that. The man does multimillion-dollar deals, he’s not gonna care that his son’s ex-girlfriend sold his Xbox or whatever. It’d be cheaper and easier for him to just buy Rob new shit.”

  Mari made a good point. His parents seemed to express their love not so much with investments of time or effort, but with money.

  Then again, they had cut him off.

  “Well,” she continued, “that explains what happened with the camera drone.”

  “No, actually. After you and I got into that fight, I realized how selfish and ridiculous I was being, and I wound up giving it away to this homeless couple I always see hanging out on the beach. I figured they could sell it for cash or something.”

  “Oh, that’s Pete and Yasmin. They always come into The Bean House for free day-old pastries. Then I usually take whatever they don’t eat down to the Community Resource Center on Mission Bay Drive.”

  “Wow. That’s nice of you.”

  After a pause, she said, “Well, you know. They provide food and clothes and books to a lot of organizations in the neighborhood, like women’s shelters and stuff. Sometimes when you’re stuck in a place like that, a chocolate chip muffin can make your whole day.”

  “Of course.” I often forgot that detail of Mari’s history, the thirty days she’d spent living in a safe house with her mom, back when she was in kindergarten. She rarely spoke about it, and she was so well-adjusted, you’d never have known she had such a traumatic early childhood. But it was clearly something she’d never forget, something that inspired her to help the kids that were going through it now.

  Maybe that was why she devoted her life to making other people laugh. Because her childhood was so devoid of laughter.

  “Listen, let me know when you get home,” she said. “Let’s hang out. I miss your face.”

  “Miss your face, too. I’ll be back in PB on Monday.”


  We hung up, and I hoped against hope that Rob would be gone by the time I got home. I didn’t want him hanging around, filling my apartment with pot smoke and Cheetos dust. And I definitely didn’t want Trey to see us together.

  I considered texting Trey now, a quick “just saying hi” or something, but then decided that would be awkward in light of the way I’d rushed him off the phone yesterday. Thinking about it made my head hurt. I’d sort it all out later.

  For now, I tossed my phone to the side, angry that we lived in a society where a rich kid from Brentwood got endless second chances and a storage unit full of untouched electronics, while the highlight of the day for a poor kid from an abusive home was a day-old chocolate chip muffin. Trey was right: the world was an unfair place.

  And I was part of the problem, supporting charlatans like Demi DiPalma by lying around in a ramshackle luxurious tent-yurt that cost two grand a night.

  What could’ve possibly justified the exorbitant cost of these lodgings? I supposed the private double-wide porta-potty wasn’t cheap, even if it did make the whole space smell like a sewer. Still, we were posted up in a plot of dirt in the middle of nowhere, and nothing about this decor screamed “expensive.” If anything, it screamed “appropriated,” with a dream catcher over the bed and Tibetan prayer flags draped across the ceiling and a statue of the Lord Ganesha sitting on top of the dresser.

  At least the food was good.

  Just as I considered rolling out of bed to face the portable toilet, the entry flap to the tent flung backward and Natasha strode in, a stack of papers neatly tucked under one arm. Her face was a stone. She crossed the room and began rearranging items in her luggage. At no point did she acknowledge my presence.

  I sat up and asked, “How did it go?”

  She jammed the papers she’d held in her hand down into her bag, thrusting them with what seemed to be unnecessary force. Without looking at me, she said, “It wasn’t what I thought it would be.”

  Uh-oh. If my big mouth got her in trouble, I’d never forgive myself. “Did you get a chance to chat with Demi DiPalma? What did she say about your book?”