Smoke

by Meili Cady

  LISETTE’S CONDO WAS ON THE top floor of her building. A heavy wooden door opened to a long entry hallway with a thin black table along the wall. Lisette tossed her bag of new clothes onto the table as she passed and hit a switch on the wall, bringing dimmed light into the condo. The kitchen at the end of the hallway was full of dark wood and stainless steel appliances, with a few bottles of wine sitting around on the polished granite countertops. “Do you live by yourself?” I asked.

  “No,” she said. “My boyfriend lives here too. He’s at work.” He was one of the owners of an upscale wine and spirits store on the West Side.

  She added, “Don’t worry, he won’t be home for a few hours. We can have girl time until then.”

  Everything in Lisette’s home was clean, as though a maid had just been in. Gold-striped curtains were drawn shut in the living room, blocking out the afternoon sun. “Should we let some light in?” I asked. “No,” Lisette said. “I’m a vampire.” The wall color was one of the only elements of her decor that wasn’t dark. There were shades of gray in it that appeared almost lavender in the right light. I followed Lisette into her master bedroom. Her king-sized bed frame was covered in mirrors, as was the vanity next to it. Lisette sat down and looked at her reflection. I stood behind her a few paces, watching her in what appeared to be something of a routine. She opened a drawer and pulled out a makeup compact. I recognized the signature Chanel emblem on the front of it. She dabbed her face a little, then put the compact back in its place. She let out a breath and turned to me, looking suddenly excited. She clapped her hands together and said, “Okay! Drinks!”

  Back in the kitchen, Lisette assured me that she was about to make me the best Bloody Mary I’d ever had in my life. I sat at her granite countertop while she poured Belvedere vodka and pulled olives and pepperoncinis out of the fridge. The refrigerator was largely empty, with only a bottle of champagne, a few Fiji water bottles, and a small collection of jars and hot sauces on the inside of the door. Lisette saw me looking.

  “I can pour a drink like a pro, but cooking, not so much,” she said. “I’m barely here anyway. I have dinner meetings almost every night, so this kitchen doesn’t see a lot of action.” She shot me a coy smile and shrugged. “It functions more like a bar, really. I spend most of my time at the main house in Bel Air when I don’t have to run around for Samsung or be at a photo shoot. Trust me, having an afternoon off like this is a rarity. I just needed a break from work today.”

  Her parents owned a massive home in Bel Air, and though they were usually out of town for business, whenever they were in Los Angeles they lived there. Lisette’s mother was Korean and the granddaughter of the founder of Samsung; her father was Japanese and ran casinos in Japan. She told me that he was a respected, if not feared, businessman who had a significant hand in “making Sony what it is today.”

  She had Sony on one side of the family and Samsung on the other—my ability to comprehend or relate to any of her life was nonexistent. I just listened in amazement. I’d never met someone who so readily gave me a full, and almost unbelievable, story of her life. Everything she told me was so outrageous that I felt I could either choose to believe nothing she was saying or everything she was saying. After all the other oddities I’d heard about her from Daniel, a trusted friend, I couldn’t help but be absorbed in her stories and captivated by the charisma with which she told them. If they’d come from a perfect stranger whom I had no prior introduction to or reason to believe, I’d have been skeptical. But Daniel’s reassurance backed up everything she was saying.

  Lisette handed me a Bloody Mary. “Ready?” she asked. I took a sip. “Wow. You weren’t kidding.” I raised my glass to clink with hers. She clinked back and sat down at a dining table. I joined her.

  There were a few dozen books on a shelf near the table. I didn’t see anything I’d read, but I recognized some of the titles, including The Prince and The Art of War. “Have you read all of these?” I asked.

  “Oh, a million years ago,” she said. “I think everyone has read the classics.” She told me about her education: how she skipped two grades when she was in a private prep school called Buckley in Beverly Hills, how she went on to finishing school in London (which I decided was an acceptable explanation for her hint of an accent) before studying criminal law at Harvard University. She added that there was a fountain on the Harvard campus that was dedicated to her family. “I was only sixteen when I went, and it was pretty boring,” she said. “I left after two years because my dad told me that I didn’t need a degree to make money.”

  After two Bloody Marys, Lisette announced that her boyfriend would be home soon and that I ought to leave. We made plans to see each other again soon. Less than an hour later, I got a text from her:

  MEILI~ YOU TRULY ARE A DIAMOND IN THE ROUGH. I CAN SEE THAT AFTER MEETING YOU ONLY ONCE. TODAY WAS SUCH A WELCOME CHANGE FOR ME. I THINK YOU’RE EXACTLY WHAT I’VE BEEN NEEDING IN MY LIFE. TODAY IS THE FIRST TIME I’VE LAUGHED IN OVER A MONTH, I SWEAR TO GOD. WE OWE DANIEL A DRINK FOR INTRODUCING US. I CAN’T WAIT TO SEE YOU AGAIN SOON SWEETIE. XO

  After our first outing, I visited Lisette at her condo whenever her busy schedule permitted. She told me that she was one of the highest-paid models at the Elite Modeling Agency in Beverly Hills, and that she spent a great deal of time going back and forth from the agency. But mostly, she said, her life was consumed by answering to family obligations for Samsung, living under constant expectation to be present at local meetings to represent the family. Lisette was the only person I’d met whom I could imagine holding her own at board meetings for one of the biggest companies in the world. She assured me that I wouldn’t recognize her demeanor when she sat in those meetings, that she always kept a “business face” when she was there, that some of the executives thought she was “scary” and didn’t dare question her because they knew her connections to the family. She seemed to almost begrudge her obligation to dedicate so much of her life to serving Samsung and what her parents expected of her.

  I felt terrible for her because she seemed so sad when she talked about it, like she never had a choice about how she wanted to spend her life. She told me that she didn’t even want to be with her boyfriend, and that she only went out with him in the beginning because someone dared her to. “I was rebelling against my parents,” she said. Now, it had been almost four years and she was still with him, living with him. “They’ve never approved of him, never even met him.” She said that once she moved in, she felt locked into it.

  “Why don’t you leave him if you’re not happy?” I asked.

  “Babe, it’s a lot more complicated than that,” she told me with sad eyes. “Sometimes it feels like you’re the only bright spot in my life now.”

  “Do you think that your parents would like me?” Lisette asked after a thoughtful moment.

  “Of course they would! They would love you,” I assured her. “I’ve already told them all about you.” My parents thought it was wonderful that I’d found a friend in Los Angeles, and they were happy to see me so excited. They found the stories I’d told them about Lisette to be fascinating, though they said, “We’ve just never heard of anybody who lives like that.”

  Lisette and I were bonded into an intense friendship within weeks. She didn’t like to go out and be around people much because “most people are so goddamn boring.” So we usually just hung out at her condo. When her boyfriend was out of town for work, we stayed up all night in her kitchen drinking yummy cocktails and talking about anything and everything we could think of. We shared jokes and funny stories we’d heard since last seeing each other. We never stopped talking. It was like a girly, childhood sleepover, only with fewer pillow fights and a lot more vodka.

  Lisette said it was “kismet” that we’d found each other; that we were like yin and yang, seeming opposites in nature, yet beautifully compatible. She told me, “You’re friendly and outwardly nice, and people will take that kindness for weakness. They’ll believe that you’re
stupid. But I know that you’re not. And people think I’m just a coldhearted bitch, but you see a different side of me. People don’t understand our friendship because they don’t understand us.” Maybe Lisette was exactly right. I wondered if it was possible that she knew me better than anyone ever had, though we’d only known each other a short time. I wondered if she knew me better than even Cate, my dearest friend since first grade.

  One night, after a few drinks, I confided to Lisette that I used to be bullied when I was in elementary school, that some of my closest friends had a part in it. It was difficult and embarrassing for me to admit, but I wanted her to know me. “Where was Cate during all of this?” she asked. “These people make me fucking sick. They were never your friends. I would never do that to you.”

  “We were all just kids,” I told her. “It’s okay.”

  She was not as forgiving. “If I ever see any of these so-called friends of yours, I’m going to clock them in the fucking face. No one messes with my girl.” I asked her not to speak unkindly about my other friends, though her defensiveness was somewhat endearing. She looked at me and said, “Listen, I don’t play second fiddle to anyone. Ever. If we’re going to do this, I need you all in. I will never hurt you like they did. If I say I’m going to do something, I do it right.” I felt conflicted, defensive of the friends I’d grown up with and whom I still loved like sisters through thick and thin, but Lisette’s argument for my defense was something I’d longed for my entire life. I fantasized about her having been there with me in grade school, how she would have protected me. From her words, I knew that she would have come to my rescue if she’d had the chance. And though she wasn’t able to do so then, she was coming to rescue me now. Lisette and I vowed to be “Best Friends Forever.”

  I was delighted to know that I understood Lisette in ways that no one else did. She didn’t want to have her guard down and let people see how secretly wonderful and kind she was. She was more comfortable letting them think she was a bitch who ought to be feared. I felt like I was the safekeeper of an incredible secret, as though I was the only one who got to turn the key and see that side of her. It was hard not being able to see her often due to her busy work schedule, but sometimes she texted me at the last minute and told me to come over for drinks.

  BABE, I CANCELED MY MEETING! COME OVER ASAP! XO.

  If ever I had plans with another friend and Lisette became available, I felt torn. She’d sound defeated and say, “Can’t you just cancel? I’m your best friend, and I never get to see you.” I even called off work at the production company to see her sometimes. She loved it. “Ha! I won!” she said. I knew that she would do the same for me. My family and friends, including Cate, said that our friendship sounded strange, but I knew that it was the best thing that had ever happened to me. I’d never felt a part of something this special in my life. No one, not even Cate, could possibly understand what Lisette and I had together.

  Lisette continued to insist that cocaine could help me lose the small amount of weight that I’d been struggling to shake off. She said that the experience would be fun and meaningful for us to share because it would be my first time—“And who better to do it with than your best friend?” she asked me. “Just try it once. See if you like it. And if you don’t like it, fine. Then you never have to do it again. Life is too short, babe.”

  Stress eating had made it especially difficult for me to stay trim recently. I had become financially unable to continue with regular classes at Bonnie Chase’s acting studio. I hadn’t heard from my agent in months, and my self-submissions on casting websites weren’t attracting many auditions. When I did get the odd audition for a commercial for a product I’d never heard of or for a movie that seemed entirely without financial backing, I felt self-conscious when I went in. I’d been eating my feelings lately, and I was afraid it was beginning to show. Those feelings had come in the form of various pints of Ben and Jerry’s, large pizzas for one, and hefty bags of fast food, all of which was usually consumed in solitude and seasoned with shame. The actresses here were so thin and “bikini ready.” It affected my confidence at auditions, which killed any small chance I would have had of booking even the most nominal part. Maybe it was because I was holding on to an old childhood image of myself, but the last ten pounds seemed to be stubborn, and I binged to compensate whenever it felt like I might be on the verge of losing weight. It was a damaging cycle that I was desperate to break. I told Lisette my frustrations. “Coke eliminates hunger,” she swore. “I’ll barely eat for days, and at the end of it I’ll have lost almost five pounds. Works like a charm.”

  I decided to try cocaine for my first time, with Lisette. She was bubbling over with excitement when I arrived at her condo. She told me to get to her place early so that we would have plenty of time to experiment before her boyfriend arrived home in the evening. As ever, every curtain in Lisette’s condo was drawn shut, hiding us from the outside world. She opened a bottle of sparkling dry rosé and filled two champagne flutes with pink bubbles. She held up her glass and said, “To trying new things, to us, and to you, my beautiful girl.” We tapped glasses and shared a giddy hug. “Okay!” Lisette jumped up from her seat and disappeared into her bedroom. She returned a moment later looking happy and holding something in her hand. She set it on the table. It was the smallest plastic bag I’d ever seen, at about one inch by an inch and a half. It was a little more than half full of a white powder that looked fine like flour, yet slightly more crystal-like. Lisette grabbed the bag off the counter and smelled it. “Babe, this is some of the cleanest coke you can get in L.A. You know I don’t fuck with anything but the best.”

  Lisette placed a black Chanel hand mirror on the kitchen table. “You can never do it on wood. You have to have a dry, flat surface,” she warned. She took the plastic bag and poured a nickel-sized amount of the powder onto the mirror. It looked like a tiny pile of baking soda, with much of it sort of clumped together into mounds. I watched with fascination as Lisette worked on the mounds with a small razor, breaking up the chunks, then cutting them into loose powder. She divided the coke into six thin lines, spaced about half an inch apart from one another. She took a cut-off straw about two inches long and bent down. “What you want to do is plug one side of your nose and put the straw just barely inside of the other nostril. Then move the straw directly over the line and breathe in through your nose. Like this.” In one quick and smooth motion she leaned over the mirror, inhaled, and the line of powder was gone. “Make sure you don’t breathe out through your mouth though because the coke will blow everywhere. Your turn.” She handed me the straw. She put her finger on a small amount of excess cocaine on the mirror, then rubbed it on the inside of her mouth, onto her gums. I did the same. My gums instantly began to feel numb. The coke had a chalky, slightly acidic taste, but it wasn’t repulsive. It was strong and shocking to my senses. Lisette studied me intently as I tried to mimic what I’d just seen her do with the straw. I leaned down to the mirror. I could see the reflection of my face between the lines of coke. My green eyes stared back at me. I breathed out a little and accidentally blew a bit of the powder around, messing up the straightness of the lines. “Careful,” Lisette said.

  “Sorry, sorry,” I said, breathing in and then turning my face away from the mirror to exhale as much as I could. I plugged my nose and tried to hold the straw steady as I moved it jaggedly over the line, then popped up and touched my nose to prevent some of the powder from spilling out. Very messy work compared with Lisette’s experienced woofing minutes earlier. She sat forward on her chair and stared at me like Dr. Frankenstein at his new creation, eager to see the effects of this experiment. “I don’t think I got much,” I confessed. We both looked at the mirror, where the line I’d been aiming at had been partially consumed, though mostly just scattered around the mirror as though I’d ripped through it with a leaf blower.

  “No shit,” she said. We both laughed.

  Lisette coached me more on how to properly do a li
ne. The next one hit me. My head felt light, like a balloon. My lips were dry and pouted out from contact with the drug. My gums were numb all over. There was a bizarre current running from my nose, inside my head, and all around my body. I tried to straighten my posture. My heart was racing. My arms were up, elbows lifted above my chest like I was about to clap or do a squat. Lisette marveled at this. “What the fuck are you doing?” I looked at her, then at my elbows.

  I swallowed and thought for a long moment. “Um,” I said. “Ha, I don’t know. I can’t put my elbows down.” I took another line and caught my reflection again in the mirror. I paused for a moment over the glass. My pupils were huge now, making my eyes appear dark. I looked away and I sat back in the chair. Over the next two hours, Lisette sipped sparkling rosé and enjoyed my unusual behavior. She said she’d never seen anything like it. My arms were sore from holding them up, but the impulse to keep them there was more powerful than my will to lower them. Lisette was thrilled by my reaction to the drug.

  “Babe, you are a fucking drug lightweight.” She laughed. After we’d gone through about half of the bag, she looked at the clock and announced that it was time for us to stop because her boyfriend would be returning soon and I’d best be on my way. “Are you okay to drive?” she asked.

  “Uh, yeah,” I said. “I think so. I mean, is it weird to drive on this?”

  “You’re good,” she said. “I wouldn’t let you drive if you weren’t.” She offered me a Valium to take before I went to bed. “It’ll help you sleep,” she told me. She gave me a tight hug at her door. “Text me when you’re home safe,” she said. “Love you.” I left the privacy of Lisette’s condo and wandered off into the evening to find my Jetta.