She's Faking It

by Kristin Rockaway

  “Demi DiPalma wasn’t there. They said she had a scheduling conflict and would only be available for the fire ceremony tonight.” She took a deep breath, then smacked the top of her luggage closed. Finally, she looked at me. “Seems wrong, though, to plan a whole weekend for your followers and then not have the courtesy to show up when you said you would.”

  I nodded, hearing Mari’s voice in my head. It’s because she’s a scammer!

  “Anyway,” Natasha continued, “she’s supposed to do a meet and greet before the ceremony, so hopefully I can catch her then.”

  “Hopefully.” I said it to be encouraging, but I wasn’t optimistic. At this point, it wouldn’t have surprised me if Demi DiPalma appeared only as a holographic image.

  Natasha made her way back to the entrance to the tent. “I’m headed out to a demonstration on juice cleanses now, so I’ll catch you later.”

  “Sure. See you at lunch?”

  Natasha paused at the threshold but didn’t answer. Then she walked out, dropping the tent flap behind her.

  I flopped back down on the bed, staring at the prayer flags on the ceiling, trying to tamp down my rising nausea. So much for a special sisterly bonding retreat. I would’ve done us both a favor if I’d just stayed home.

  * * *

  Lunch was served buffet style, and it did not disappoint: chilled tomato-basil soup, miso-glazed salmon, portobello mushrooms stuffed with avocado and goat cheese. I searched the crowd for Natasha’s face, but couldn’t find her, so I took my plate of food back to the tent and ate in blissful silence in the middle of the bed.

  That’s where I stayed all afternoon. Even though I would’ve really liked to attend that journaling workshop and possibly check out that hot tub I’d heard so much about, I didn’t dare leave the safety of the tent. It wasn’t worth the risk of further aggravating the rift between me and Natasha. If I said the wrong thing to the wrong person, she might never forgive me. And given my current state of mind, I was definitely inclined to mouth off.

  Shortly before dinner, Natasha returned to the tent. I pretended to be asleep while she got dressed and did her makeup because I couldn’t bear the thought of another fight. When she left, my stomach rumbled, and I realized that as much as I wanted to continue to hide out all night, eating was a necessity. So I threw on my still-slightly-rumpled maxidress, grabbed my purse, and returned to the scene of last night’s crime.

  The tables were arranged with the same beautiful settings, sprigs of creosote replaced with sprays of peppergrass. At once, I heard the unmistakable cackle of Andrea T., already hitting the rosé and halfway to hosed.

  Eager to avoid another run-in, I quickly turned away, only to spot Natasha already seated at a different, full table. She was perfectly primped and pretty, as always, but there was something slightly off. All this conversation was going on around her, and while she was making eye contact and nodding along, she wasn’t talking as much as she normally would in situations like these. It was like she was dialed down a notch.

  Be that as it may, she obviously didn’t want to hang out with me tonight, since she didn’t save me a seat. So I found an open spot at a far table and slid into it without saying a word.

  I didn’t talk at all during dinner. I barely even heard what other people were talking about, either. Instead, I chose to focus entirely on my food. With the exception of tomorrow’s breakfast, this was the last meal being offered at the retreat, and I intended to enjoy it. After this, I had a long life of ramen awaiting me.

  Once we’d stuffed ourselves with caprese salad and mushroom risotto and grilled asparagus, the waitstaff came to pass around dessert. While waiting for my strawberry tartlet to be delivered, I tuned back in to the conversation around me.

  “What are you burning?” one woman asked, referring to the fire ceremony scheduled to take place directly after dinner.

  “My size 12 underwear,” another woman replied. “I’ll never be that big again!”

  Considering I was a size 12, it was a struggle not to launch my dessert fork clear across the table like a trident and hit this lady right between the eyes.

  “What about you?” It took a second to realize the woman to my left was directing the question at me. “What are you burning?”

  “Oh.” Despite my growing skepticism of the whole DiPalma movement, I was still drawn to the symbolic beauty of watching my old body-con dress go up in flames. “A reminder of my ex-boyfriend. The dress I wore on our first date, actually.”

  She smiled in solidarity. “I’m burning a gift from my ex, too.”

  As I devoured my tartlet, I wondered what Natasha was planning to burn, what kind of negative energy she saw standing in the way of her success. Aside from me and my negative energy, of course. I had a terrible vision of her tossing an old photo of us into the fire, and the very thought of it made my eyes prickle.

  When the waitstaff appeared to clear away the tables, the group rose as one and started filing out toward the field where the fire ceremony was to take place.

  It was dark. Not quite the blackness of midnight, but the sun had recently set, and with the absence of a moon to light the sky, the desert felt murky and ominous. Still, it was easy to see where we were supposed to go, because the fire glowed orange in the distance like a guiding light. As I approached, it grew brighter, more intense. The smoke was thick, and the scent clung to my hair and my skin. Wasn’t a fire of this magnitude a hazard in the middle of an arid zone, with so much dry, flammable brush around?

  Whatever. If these people wanted to burn down the desert with their fire ceremony, there was nothing I could do to stop them. Though it did make me think twice about chucking my dress on it. This thing was so cheaply made, it could serve as a fire accelerant.

  A nervous energy buzzed among the crowd. Women clustered in small groups around the fire, clutching items to their chests, presumably their personal pieces of kindling. Natasha stood by herself, gazing into the fire. I walked up to her. “Hey.”

  She looked right at me, her eyes filled with something like sorrow. “I’m so sorry for what I said last night.”

  “It’s okay, don’t worry about that now.” I rubbed her arm wrapped tightly around her book proposal. It trembled under my palm. “Demi DiPalma is gonna be out any minute, right? Just focus all your energy on talking to her about your book.”

  “Right.” She breathed deeply, then choked a bit when the ash hit her lungs. “Right, that’s what I’m here for.”

  “Exactly. We’ll sort everything out later.”

  Truthfully, I didn’t want to sort anything out. I wanted to pretend she’d never said what she’d said, to return cluelessly to the world we’d created where I was the screwed-up little sister and she was the responsible big sister who took pride in her role as the caretaker and didn’t have a single regret about her choices in life.

  That wouldn’t be fair, though. To either of us.

  A woman in glasses and a headset power walked through the crowd, yelling, “Can I have everyone’s attention, please? Please quiet down for a moment so I can give instructions on how the fire ceremony will transpire.”

  The raucous chatter quieted to a hush, and the woman with the headset continued. “In a moment, Demi DiPalma will be joining us.” A cheer erupted, then settled down immediately when the woman in the glasses raised her hands. “To ensure she has time to speak with everyone, we’re going to form an orderly line. You will each have your moment to get a picture with Demi—remember to hashtag it #synergysummit and #dipalmatribe—before releasing your negative energy into the ceremonial fire. Please be considerate of your fellow Tribe members and keep the line moving at all times. Thank you.”

  After that touching and inspirational speech, several staff members began herding the amorphous group of women into a single row that snaked around the circumference of the fire. In front of me was Natasha; behind me was a
woman so overcome with emotion, there were tears streaming down her cheeks. She clutched a rolling pin in one hand, holding it like a billy club. I hoped it was for burning and not for giving beatdowns.

  Then, from the darkness, Demi DiPalma appeared. In her white-linen palazzo pants and matching tunic, she looked like some sort of goddess, radiating light and hope and comfort. Her black hair was stick-straight and sleek, her eyes blue and piercing, her skin glowing with the power of injectable fillers. She walked barefoot on the dirt, her hands clasped solemnly in front of her.

  The crowd broke out in wild applause. Natasha clapped softly around her armful of papers. The woman with the rolling pin was sobbing uncontrollably.

  Demi held up one hand, and silence ruled. “Hello, sweeties.”

  In unison, like well-trained schoolchildren, “Hello, Demi.”

  “I’m so honored to be here with you today, walking with you on this journey toward your truest selves. I hope this weekend has been an opportunity for you to connect with your Tribe and elevate your spirit, to dwell in possibility and inspiration. I hope you’ve spent time sending your desires out into the universe. Because now is the time to clear away the negative energy that is getting between you and your dreams.”

  “I love you, Demi!” The woman behind me held her rolling pin high, like a flashlight at a concert. Demi smiled with closed lips and nodded once to acknowledge her. Then she muttered something to the woman in the headset, and the line began to move forward.

  Silently, we inched forward. I touched Natasha’s shoulder in support, but she shook me off. “Sorry,” she said. “I just need to concentrate. I’m rehearsing what I’m gonna say in my head.”

  “No problem.”

  This was unlike Natasha to be so nervous, but then again, she did hold Demi DiPalma in high regard. Meeting your idol, the person you’ve credited with changing your life, was a big deal. Even the most stolid person would probably freak out.

  I watched as Demi greeted each person with a hug, a soothing pat on the back, and a smile for the camera, before directing them over to the fire. It didn’t feel like they were meaningful encounters. In fact, it felt more like an assembly line. I bet the photos would look great on Instagram, though.

  Finally, Natasha was up. Before she stepped forward, she turned to me, her face as vulnerable as I’d ever seen it. “Do I look okay?”

  I took her in from head to toe: her wavy hair, her subtle makeup, her embroidered dress that was somehow both boho and professional at the same time. She was a work of art, my sister. A treasure.

  “You look perfect,” I said. And with the hint of a smile, she spun around and moved confidently toward the woman who changed her life.

  Chapter 26

  Demi DiPalma was close enough to touch. If the woman with the headset weren’t creating a physical barrier with her body, I probably could’ve done it with ease. Not that I would have, because Natasha was standing beside her, beaming. I wasn’t going to do anything to interrupt this moment.

  “Hello, sweetie.” Demi held out her arms and Natasha leaned tentatively into her embrace, holding her paperwork awkwardly off to one side. “How are you this evening?”

  “I’m great.” Her voice was wobbly and didn’t sound very convincing. She cleared her throat and tried again. “First of all, I want to tell you that I’m a huge fan of your work and The Aspirational Action Plan literally changed my life.”

  She smiled and nodded, unsurprised by this outpouring of devotion.

  “Anyway,” Natasha continued, “I was wondering if—”

  “Would you like a picture?”

  Natasha flinched, totally thrown off by the request. “Um...sure.”

  “Saffron will take your phone.” Demi pointed to the woman who’d helped us at the registration desk and was now standing at the ready as the event photographer. Natasha hesitated, then reached in her purse and handed it over.

  “Say ‘choose happy,’” Saffron said, snapping a photo of Natasha looking confused beside a beatific Demi. Then she handed back the phone and gestured to the fire, indicating that it was time to move along.

  But Natasha wasn’t giving up so easily. “Demi, there’s something else... I have this book idea and I’m really interested in trying to get it published.”

  There was a momentary lapse in Demi’s tranquil smile, the smallest slip in her blissful demeanor. A moment later, all was right again. “That’s amazing, sweetie. Have you been following the manifesting process?”

  “Yes, to a T. I created my vision board, I practice my affirmations every day, and I’ve opened my heart to receive the abundance.”

  “That’s so perfect.”

  “Right.” Natasha glanced nervously at the woman with the headset, then gestured toward the papers she was holding. “I was wondering, though, if you’d be willing to take a look at the proposal, just to let me know what you think.”

  Her eyes fell to the printed pages. With a laugh, she said, “I can’t manifest your dreams, sweetie. Only you can.”

  “Yes, but since you’re such a successful author, I was simply hoping you might—”

  “Did you attend our publishing workshop earlier today?”

  “I did. And I have to say, it was a little disappointing. They didn’t talk about any of the practical steps you need to take to get from proposal to publication.”

  “Aha!” Demi’s blue eyes widened, and she pointed a finger in Natasha’s face. “That’s the problem. You’re too hung up on practicalities. Forget the practical, focus on the magical. Pretend your book is already published, and the universe will make it so.”

  “Well, I’ve written it in my manifesting journal and I’ve visualized it a million times. But it’s not like a book deal is going to descend from the heavens, right? I need to actually do something to make it happen. So, I’m asking you, what did you do?”

  “I wanted it. And that’s what you need to do, too. You don’t need to worry about the ‘how.’ You just need to want it more than you’ve wanted anything you’ve ever wanted in your whole life.”

  “I do want it.” There was a tinge of annoyance to Natasha’s voice. The pages of her book proposal trembled in her hands.

  Demi shrugged, resigned, tired of this conversation. “I don’t think you want it enough, sweetie. Because if you wanted it—truly wanted it, truly believed you deserved it—the universe would provide. Try my Prosperity Oil & Crystal Package, we’re selling them at the marketplace this weekend. They’ll help to anchor your energy and raise your vibrations so the universe can hear your desires more clearly.”

  With that, she cast a meaningful glance toward the woman with the headset, who approached Natasha with a, “Let’s be respectful of our other Tribe members and allow them each to have their moment with Demi.”

  Before Natasha could lift her feet off the ground, the woman hustled her off to the side, crowding her out of the space so abruptly that her papers went flying out of her arms. The seconds slowed down as they went airborne, suspended against the night sky. And then, just as quickly, time sped back up, and the desert breeze swept them directly into the ceremonial fire.

  Let’s get real: this was by no means a tragedy. After all, these pages were merely printouts of documents Natasha had stored safely on her hard drive back at home. (Also, backed up in the cloud because she organized not only her physical spaces, but her virtual ones, too.) Still, it was hard to ignore the symbolism here. Her words, her sketches, her hard work, her original ideas. All of it instantaneously reduced to ash because she’d been strong-armed by one of Demi DiPalma’s hired goons.

  There was no question Natasha wanted to achieve her dreams, and in my eyes, there was no one who deserved it more. She was smart and determined. She tried, she strived, she hustled. And she always stayed positive and productive in the face of adversity. So if something she wanted was out of her reach, it wa
sn’t because she lacked drive or desire or the right combination of crystals and oils. It was simply because we can’t always get what we want, when we want it.

  Sometimes, the cards just don’t line up in our favor. Sometimes, we get dealt a shitty hand. Sometimes, luck never happens because there are no opportunities to prepare for. And choosing happy isn’t always an option.

  But for me, from that moment on, making a choice—any choice—was a necessity. Even if I wound up making the wrong choice, even if it didn’t lead me on the path toward happy, it was better than giving up and allowing someone else to make my choices for me.

  The woman in the headset motioned for me to step up, her arms flailing impatiently, while Demi’s face remained serene, smooth, expressionless. As I moved forward, I reached into my purse and pulled out my copy of The Aspirational Action Plan.

  “We’re not doing book signings right now, sweetie.” Demi gazed at the book in my hands, contempt burning through those Botox-frozen eyebrows.

  “I don’t want it signed,” I said. “I just have a quick question because The Aspirational Action Plan was such an inspiration to me.”

  That was the truth. The book had been inspirational. It made me aspire to goals I’d never dreamed possible. It made me believe in magic, at least temporarily.

  She nodded, an invitation to proceed which I quickly accepted. “You say no dream is too big for any one person, and that the greatest obstacle to realizing that dream is your own negative energy. That if you want something enough, it’ll be yours. Is that right?”

  “Absolutely.” Her voice was stiff and cold. “It’s all laid out in the four-step manifesting process.”

  “Well, I was wondering, how can we harness this power to help people who really need it?”

  She shook her head. “I don’t understand the question.”

  “There are a lot of people who can’t afford to come to a retreat like this who could really benefit from this sort of magical thinking. For example, there’s a homeless couple in my neighborhood. Would you be willing to donate a Prosperity Package so they can manifest themselves an apartment?”