Smoke

by Meili Cady

  “The Samsung heiress? As in Samsung electronics?” I asked.

  Daniel pulled out his phone and showed me a picture of a beautiful young Asian woman. She had dark, long hair and big, almost catlike eyes that stared out from the image as if to challenge anyone who dared to look at it. Though she looked anything but friendly, there was something intriguing about her. She exuded a kind of rare, regal confidence. Still, she appeared entirely unapproachable. I saw nothing in her of the fun-loving friends I’d known back home.

  “She’s . . . really pretty,” I said. I decided not to share any of my negative impressions of her with him. I thought it was odd that Daniel thought that I would have anything in common with this person. She was the Samsung heiress, and I was an actress from a small town who drove a used Jetta and hunted for sales in the produce section at Ralphs. I told him that I didn’t think we’d be a good match, and that a meeting probably wasn’t a good idea. Daniel put his phone away as we started to walk again.

  He shrugged and said, “Ya know, think about it. I think you two could get along.”

  CATE WENT BACK TO WASHINGTON, and I again felt the absence of any close friendships in my new city. I existed in a haze of isolation and Del Taco binges. I signed with a small talent agency, which led to a hair commercial and a few student films. I booked the lead role in an independent comedy movie, but after filming, arguments among the producers stopped it from getting a theatrical release and the film was shelved indefinitely, right along with my deferred paycheck. I quickly learned that the term “deferred payment” meant no payment, ever. It was exciting to be getting some work as an actress, but it was harder to get than I’d expected. Much harder. Most things didn’t seem to pay anything, and my agency wasn’t sending me out on many auditions; unless you had a scroll of credits and an established agent, it was difficult to get doors to open. After spending a few thousand dollars on new photos for headshots and acting class five days a week, the money I brought to L.A. had all but evaporated. I’d managed to stay somewhat afloat with the twelve-hundred-dollar monthly allowance from my parents and a series of part-time jobs, but with the constant cost of trying to make it as an actress, the money didn’t go very far.

  I took a job as a salesgirl at the Guess Marciano store on Rodeo Drive. I hated it. My feet hurt from standing in heels all day long, and the pretension of the customers was nauseating at times. I quit after three weeks and moved on to a job in the client service department of a well-established postproduction company in Santa Monica, making cappuccinos and ordering lunches for celebrity clientele.

  My time outside of class and work at the production company was spent at Trader Joe’s and talking on the phone to my parents and Cate in Washington for hours at a time. Daniel and I still spoke often.

  One night after studying at Bonnie’s studio, I left feeling in need of some real, human social interaction that didn’t involve a phone and a thousand miles of separation. I called Daniel to see if he was awake and up for chatting.

  “Lisette has been asking about you,” he told me, completely out of the blue. “She wants to meet you.”

  “Who?” I asked. It had been months since he’d told me about her, when I’d dismissed his suggestion that we meet as bizarre and unwarranted. All he’d told me was that she was an heiress. That, combined with the stoic expression in the cell-phone photo he showed me, was enough for me to rule out any possibility of ever being able to relate to her.

  “Remember, I showed you her picture before?” he said. “The Samsung girl.”

  “Oh, right,” I said. “Yeah, I remember. Wait, how do you know her?”

  “She’s a friend,” he said. “I met her when I was working for that director. She likes to say she stole me away from him. I work for her from time to time.”

  “What kind of work do you do for her?” I asked.

  “Oh, you know, whatever she needs,” he said. I marveled at how people seemed to have the strangest forms of employment in this town. “I told her about you, and she wants to meet you,” he went on. “She thinks you sound like a cool girl.”

  “Really?” I asked. “I didn’t think that she even knew who I was.” I was shocked to hear that Lisette wanted to meet me. She was an heiress; she could meet anyone. How could she possibly think we would have anything in common?

  “She’s looking for new friends too, kiddo,” Daniel told me. “She said she wants someone who isn’t jaded by Hollywood. I told her I knew the perfect girl, someone who’s FOB.”

  “What’s FOB?” I asked.

  Daniel laughed. “My point exactly. Fresh Off the Bus. You could learn a lot from Lisette.”

  Though I thought it might be exciting to meet this mysterious heiress, I found it all very strange. It felt like I was being set up on a blind date with someone who was way out of my league. I’d heard of an arranged marriage, but never an arranged friendship. Maybe it was an L.A. thing.

  3

  THE HEIRESS

  My MySpace profile had a flowery background and a Jack Johnson song that played whenever someone opened my page, and it featured photos of my family and friends from Washington. With the exception of the occasional bogus profile for a marketing ploy, I rarely got friend requests from people I didn’t know.

  On a lazy morning in November, not long after my last conversation with Daniel about his heiress friend, I logged in to MySpace to find a new friend request from someone under the username ~Royal*Princess*007~. The profile was set as private. The user picture looked like an ad from a magazine. I recognized a familiar face. It was a young Asian woman modeling in a black tank top and holding up a hand to touch her windblown hair. She wore makeup with shades of pink and deep purple, and two beauty marks were barely visible against her porcelain skin, one on her cheek and one next to her pouted pastel lips. I accepted the friend request and opened up the profile belonging to Lisette Lee.

  She’d chosen a hard-core rap song to be the sound track of her page, much in contrast to the slow strum of beach music on mine. Where I had photos of my family and friends on my profile, she had glittery Clipart of diamonds and cars that had been animated to sparkle in motion on the computer screen. There were modeling stills of Lisette all over her site, and her online photo albums showed pictures of her in what looked like various modeling campaigns. No photos of friends or family. No photos of anyone, actually, except for Lisette. I returned to her main page and noticed one Clipart icon that seemed to stand out among the others—a bejeweled pink handgun. This struck me as more than a little different, but then again most things I’d heard about this heiress were quite a distance from anything I’d considered normal. She seemed to be an outlier in all regards.

  I looked through the comments that had been posted on her wall, more like love letters from fans rather than notes from friends. Many of the comments addressed Lisette as “Princess” and “Darling.” They all seemed to hero-worship her. I wondered why Lisette would seek out a new friendship with an outsider who knew nothing about her when she already had a pool of sycophants at her disposal. Just as in the first photo Daniel showed me of her on his cell phone, Lisette was stoic and unsmiling in every one of her pictures on MySpace. Seeing her profile here only added to my initial concerns about her, but I still didn’t have any close girlfriends in Los Angeles yet and I had to admit that Lisette Lee was a fascinating creature.

  A few hours later, Lisette sent me a message on MySpace to introduce herself. I opened the message in a hurry, eager to see what the “Princess” had to say.

  Her message read:

  Meili, I understand that we have a few things in common. We share Daniel as a dear friend, and I believe that we also share a desire to spend time with someone who isn’t typical of this Godforsaken town. In that, you and I apparently share common sense. I’ve grown up in Beverly Hills, but I’ve been lucky to do my fair share of jet-setting around the world with my family. I’m sure that Daniel has already told you a little about me. You’ll get to know me and find out
for yourself that I’m not what you might think. People misjudge me simply because I’m an heiress. Unfortunately, my former schoolmate Paris Hilton has given heiresses a bad name. We are not all like that. I don’t only like to hang out with other rich people, and I care about more than just money. I’m tired of being around people who think that way. From what Daniel has told me, you sound like a true breath of fresh air. I can’t wait to finally meet you.

  XO,

  LL

  I reread her message. I hadn’t expected Lisette to be so charming and nice to me. I felt a little guilty for assuming that she would be a total snob. I was just another person judging her. I told myself that I ought to be more open-minded. How could I expect to make genuine friendships here if I didn’t give people a chance?

  I wrote her back, and she suggested that we go shopping together. I was slightly anxious at the thought of going to Rodeo Drive to watch her drop thousands of dollars on designer clothing, while I wondered if I’d have enough money to buy a latte if we stopped for lunch, but I was excited to meet Lisette and willing to do so on her terms.

  I DROVE TO LISETTE’S CONDOMINIUM in West Hollywood, making sure to arrive early. I wore my only pair of expensive jeans, uncomfortable but new-looking heels, and a black lacy T-shirt. My hair was curled tight and my makeup had been carefully applied. It had taken me an exorbitant amount of time to get ready, but I wanted to feel confident and try to make a good first impression. I stopped at the address Lisette gave me and waited in my freshly washed Jetta for a few minutes, next to a corner building that looked like a fitting place for a young heiress to live. The neighborhood was moderately upscale, but her building was by far the nicest one on the block. It reminded me of a small French villa.

  Suddenly a long purple Mercedes cruised down the sun-soaked street toward me. I could see that the driver was a woman with long dark hair and large sunglasses that hid much of her face. Beneath her sunglasses, pastel lips pulled up into a confident smirk and Lisette waved at me from behind the steering wheel. She seemed giddy to see me. I never would have imagined that the woman Daniel showed me in that cell-phone photo months ago would have been capable of giddy. I waved back at Lisette, mirroring her excitement.

  She pulled her shark of a car up to the parking entrance of the building and motioned for me to follow her into the structure. The garage was small and full of Range Rovers, Porsches, and other Mercedes. Upon Lisette’s instruction, I pulled my Jetta into a guest parking space. I got out of the car and walked toward her. She was thin, a little taller than me. Her hair was very long, down to her waist and full. It looked as though she’d just come from the salon, as every thread of hair was perfectly styled into loose waves. She wore a lavender velour lounge suit of drawstring pants and a matching tank top with tiny straps that looped over her petite shoulders. Her pedicured feet were lifted by Chanel wedges with tiny logos on the buckles.

  As I walked to greet her, I noticed glints of jewelry around her neck and a massive rock of a ring on her right hand. She paused outside of her car for a moment and took in my appearance. She had a smug, approving smile that gave me the confidence to walk a little taller and let go of some nerves. Lisette suddenly let out an ingratiating shriek of enthusiasm as she threw her arms out to welcome me in a hug. She pulled back from the hug to look at me again. “Well, well. At last, I get to meet the girl Daniel has told me all about,” she said, surprising me with her voice; feminine, yet spoken from a lower octave than most women. I detected a hint of a British accent.

  We settled into the pristine leather seats of Lisette’s Mercedes. She started the engine and turned up the radio, playing hip-hop. “So, Meili, sweetie, the Jack Johnson tribute on your MySpace page was cute, but please tell me that’s not all you listen to,” she said, shooting me a playful grin. “No, I like this,” I said. “I mean, I like all kinds of music.” A throwback Tupac song rumbled through the speakers. She nodded her head to the beat in perfect rhythm. To join her and show her that I wasn’t exclusively into campfire music, I nodded my head to the music also. My rhythm was terrible at best, but Lisette didn’t comment. She just laughed and said, “All right! That’s my girl! I have a feeling we’re going to get along just fine.”

  Lisette drove us to Melrose Avenue and parked at a meter in front of a generic-looking storefront. Melrose was known for its shopping, but what it offered was a far cry from what a shopper would find on the marbled streets of Rodeo Drive. People went to Melrose for cool vintage apparel, quirky smoke shops, and secondhand stores. There was only a short stretch on Melrose that could accommodate serious upscale shopping. I assumed that was where she was taking us until we flew past Fred Segal, marking the last chance to stop for designer labels and overpriced T-shirts.

  “I just want to get a few things,” she said. “You don’t mind, do you, sweetie?” She turned off the car. “Not at all,” I said. At this point I was equally surprised and curious about what we were doing here. It appeared that, in fact, she didn’t always have to shop at the “best of the best” after all. Perhaps I’d been wrong again about this mysterious heiress.

  I followed Lisette into the store. It was far from fancy, but cute, a place I could see myself stopping in to look around if I found myself with any spending money. The small boutique had a modest selection of clothes and a few accessories. Some of the styles were a bit too glittery for my taste, but they were fun to look at. I noticed a variety of velour pants much like the pair that Lisette was wearing and I wondered if this was where she usually shopped.

  A friendly salesgirl approached Lisette. “Can I help you with anything?” I held my breath for a moment, afraid of what Lisette might say to her. I remembered vividly how rude some women were to me when I worked in sales on Rodeo Drive. Some of the clientele seemed to feel that just because they had money and I had a name tag, it was okay to treat me like I was beneath them. Some customers would act like I didn’t exist at all.

  I’d been worried that Lisette might have similar behavior, a deal breaker for me.

  Lisette looked up from browsing to acknowledge the salesgirl, gave a warm smile, and said, “No, we’re fine. Just looking. Thanks, sweetie.” Lisette was different. The girl I thought I saw in all her pictures was not the girl I found myself spending the afternoon with. She wasn’t dry and unlikable at all, as I’d thought she must be from her photos; she was one of the most charming people I’d met. I felt special knowing that she had actively sought me out as a friend, though I couldn’t grasp her reasons for doing so. There was something almost disarming about her; she was beautiful and poised enough to be intimidating to most people, and though her MySpace page suggested that she might use that to her advantage, that didn’t seem to be the case. I wasn’t sure exactly what she’d seen in me that drew her in, but just the idea that she’d seen it and deemed it worthwhile was enough for me. After feeling invisible in a town where everyone wanted to be seen, I found myself a little smitten with her. I felt like a freshman in high school who had been befriended by the senior prom queen.

  As Lisette and I perused a rack of colorful tops, she held up an especially revealing tank top and said, “This one would look good on you.” I looked at it and cringed, imagining myself wearing it, and the image of a large sausage wrapped tight with butcher string came to mind.

  “Ha, no,” I said. “I don’t . . . think that one’s for me.” Lisette looked struck by what I’d said. I went on. “I just think it looks a little . . . um, small.”

  “You don’t think it would fit you?” she asked. I confessed that I’d like to lose a few pounds for acting. She nodded. “Well, you don’t have much to lose. It shouldn’t take long. If you want to lose it fast, I can tell you how.”

  I perked up. “How?”

  She walked around the clothing rack, stood a little closer to me, and spoke quietly, almost in a naughty whisper. “Blow.”

  “What’s that?” I was desperate to know what this secret weight-loss tip was.

  She looked surpr
ised, then amused, and said, “Yay? Nose candy?”

  “What?” I was confused.

  Lisette got a little closer to me, glanced around the store, then whispered, “Coke. You know, coke? Like cocaine?”

  “Oh,” I said. “I got it now. Yes, duh, sorry. Yeah, I know what that is.”

  Lisette took the material on a furry-looking sweater and casually rubbed it between her thumb and forefinger as she talked to me. “Well. Have you done it before?” Her eyes focused on the sweater.

  “No, I’ve never done any drugs,” I said. “I mean, I’ve smoked pot, but only a couple of times. I don’t think I’ll ever do any other drugs. I don’t judge anyone who does, but I personally don’t want to try them.”

  I was taken aback by her suggestion; Lisette didn’t seem like the sort who did heavy drugs. Then again, I’d never been around drugs, so I was a little out of my depth. She’d grown up in a whole different world than I had, and maybe coke was common here in the way that pot was common where I was from. I supposed there must be quite a difference between a “cokehead” and someone who only dabbled occasionally, especially if the person was doing it for a specific purpose like losing weight. Lisette seemed savvy enough to know where to draw the line. I held my breath a moment, hoping I hadn’t offended her. She turned away from the sweater to face me.

  She studied me and said, “Well, that’s fine if you don’t want to try it, but if you want to lose weight quickly, I’m telling you I do it every time and it works like a charm.”

  “It really makes you lose weight that fast?” I asked.

  “Oh yeah.”

  After we finished browsing, Lisette bought a pink velour pantsuit almost identical to the one she was wearing. Back at her car, she proclaimed, “I think that drinks are in order to celebrate us finally meeting!” She stopped. “You do drink, right?” I told her there was no need to worry about that one. “Thank God,” she said, looking relieved.