by Sloane Tanen
“Yes, Eve,” Joe said. “That’s fame.”
“No, no,” she pleaded. “It’s worse. It’s so much worse than that, Joe. I notice every facial expression on peoples’ faces when they see me. People are nothing to me but mirrors. If they squint, they’re jealous. If they smile too much, I look fat. It’s like I’m going crazy. People are objects of indifference to me, Joe. All I care about is the way they respond to me. That’s all that matters. Isn’t that sick? I’m so paranoid. Sometimes I think I’m losing my mind.”
“You’re an actor. It’s in the genes. You’ll grow out of it a bit as you get older,” Joe said. “I hope.”
“I won’t,” she cried. “I’m a horrible person. I tell you, the only person who cares about me is my agent…and she takes thirty percent.”
“I care about you,” Joe said. He sounded like he meant it too. I was getting choked up. I was also wondering if I didn’t have more in common with Eve than I thought.
“You do?” she cried.
“I do.”
“Then stop yelling at me, OK?” she laughed through her tears.
“OK,” he said sweetly.
“And don’t tell anyone I, you know, made a pass at you?”
“Never.”
“You promise?”
“You don’t even have to ask,” he said. I noticed I was dripping in sweat. I suddenly, desperately missed my dad. My pre-Chandra dad.
“God, I’m a loser,” Eve sighed.
“You’re not a loser. I’ll help you, Eve. I promise. “Se prendre d’amitié?” Joe rattled off in a near-perfect French accent. Impressive.
“OK,” she gushed, bursting into what sounded like a real slop fest of tears and snot.
After about thirty minutes of listening to Eve cry on Joe’s shoulder, I couldn’t stand it anymore. I was done. The moment had been lovely, but now that I’d taken care of business, I had to get out. Let them move their therapy session outdoors. I flushed the toilet.
“Pardonez-moi,” I said, as I opened the bathroom door and slid past their astonished faces.
Who Put the “Us” in Narcissus?
At least he didn’t take her up on it,” Jonah whispered as we huddled together under an itchy green blanket. It was the only one Cisco and Milan had left. Jonah’s arms were wrapped around my shoulders as we both stared into the licking flames. It was late by now, and I was fighting the waves of sleepiness that kept crashing over me.
“I know,” I yawned.
We both looked up at Joe and Eve, who had come out of the house and were talking to each other out of earshot.
“He looks so paternal all of a sudden,” I said, noticing their body language.
Jonah didn’t say anything, and I got nervous that maybe I’d done something wrong.
“I mean, I know he didn’t treat your mom very well,” I stammered, snapping myself awake, “and there’s no excuse for that, but at least he’s been faithful to his wife since, right? And he’s a good dad to his other kids. I mean, that’s something. Most of these old guys would jump on the opportunity to be with a nineteen-year-old girl…even Eve.”
“I guess,” he said. “It’s just different being the casualty. It’s hard to be the one left.”
“But you weren’t left. It sounds like he was never even there.”
“That’s some comfort, Francesca.”
“I don’t mean it like that. I just get the sense you blame yourself, and it obviously had nothing to do with you.”
As I said this, I couldn’t help but think of my own dad. It was so easy to say the words and so hard to believe them.
Nonetheless, by this time I knew Joe was a decent man. I knew this to be true. Listening to him talk to Eve helped me understand something. My own dad left because he wanted to leave—not because he was driven out by my mom. He made the choice. If he still loved my mother, he would have gone back to her, like Joe went back to his wife after he had his affair. But my dad was never going back to my mom. And maybe that was OK. I knew now that I had been wrong to blame my mother. It wasn’t her fault at all that my dad left. She was who she was. And in some ways, it wasn’t my dad’s fault either. Could I blame him for falling in love with somebody who made him happy if my mother didn’t anymore? It wasn’t a crime. It was just the state of the union.
It then struck me that my mom wasn’t actually in love with my dad either. She was angry, not heartbroken. Her ego was hurt that my dad was the one who ended things. But most of all, I think my mom was sort of sad that he had found somebody else. Somebody who made him happy. After so many years of marriage, she was suddenly alone. I never thought about how scary that must be for her. My dad was gone, Emily was leaving for college, and I wasn’t exactly a grand comfort. I felt a sharp pang of remorse at how terribly I’d treated my mother. I’d really been a monster bitch. I felt grateful to Emily for her kindness. At least my mother had one nice daughter. I’d been so busy collecting injustices and feeling under-appreciated that I never even considered how my mom or Emily must have felt. I mean, it’s not like I was the only one who had been left. Was it possible that it wasn’t about me at all?
It was ironic. I’d spent the last few days secretly feeling morally superior to Milan, Cisco, Chaz, Joe, and Eve. I wasn’t any better than them. It’s not like I had such a magnanimous disposition. The only difference between us was that I got grounded for bad behavior, whereas they ended up on the cover of Star.
“What are you thinking about?” Jonah asked, interrupting my train of thought.
“You,” I lied. If nothing else, I wanted to help Jonah understand about Joe. It seemed important, and it felt like something I could actually do to help repair their tattered relationship.
“It’s just that I wasn’t even a factor,” Jonah continued. “That blows my mind. He just didn’t care.”
“But, Jonah, he wasn’t in love with your mom. He loved his wife. He messed up and panicked, I’m sure. It wasn’t about you. It was about saving his own ass.” I paused. “You know the story of Narcissus?” I asked.
“Sort of.”
“He was a Greek hero who hated everyone who loved him. He disdained them. He fell in love with his reflection, and when he realized he couldn’t have himself, he killed himself.”
“I’m not following you. You think I’m like that guy?”
“It’s just that I think we’re all a little married to our reflections. To the way we see the world. Sometimes, it’s not about us, you know?”
“I guess, but when Joe looks at me, I can see that he hates me. That he wishes I was never born.”
“That’s not true,” I protested, disappointed that Jonah was too big a narcissist to heed the story of Narcissus. I decided on a different approach. “You know what I think, Jonah? I actually think Joe’s in awe of you. Like, the first time he heard you sing, that second night we were here, I saw his eyes fill up with tears. I think he’s proud of you. And I think he’s ashamed of himself.”
“There’s a thought,” Jonah said, disguising his obvious emotion with sarcasm. “It doesn’t really matter one way or the other. The world just sees my mom and me as the rejected ones. No matter what I do, or how much success I have, I will always be Joe Baronstein’s bastard.”
“You’re nuts. I don’t even think people make the connection any more. It’s like Billy Ray Cyrus and Miley. I mean, do you automatically think of Billy Ray when you see Miley Cyrus?”
“Nooooo.” Jonah smiled as though he thought Miley Cyrus was hot…which was weird. I elbowed him in the rib.
“Well, there you go. You need to get over it,” I said. “Maybe you should give your relationship another try?” I felt his body tense around me and then relax. I was feeling like a fixer, and I liked it.
“I do try,” he sighed, looking up at the stars. “It’s just the bitterness that sticks around like a bad aftertaste. And everyone acts like it’s something I should just get over and move on with. But every time my mom comes home in a rage about some p
remiere he went to with his real family or a vacation he took with his real kids, it starts again. It’s hard to explain without sounding self-indulgent. It’s just this idea that I was an accident and an embarrassment. That’s hard. I pray on it a lot. More than I’d like to admit.”
“My dad left too.”
“Yeah, I know,” he said, tightening his grip again. “I’m sorry,” he said earnestly. “I’m so, so, so sorry.”
“It’s OK. Really. I’m fine,” I said, puzzled by his tremendous empathy.
He sighed deeply.
“Here I am going on about my dad and my problems, and your dad is dead. I mean, that is…”
“Who told you that?” I interrupted him, horrified.
“Cisco.”
“Oh.” I felt a cold sweat collecting around my temples.
“I hope you’re not sorry he told me.”
“It’s fine,” I said, hoping to put an end to the conversation. He tucked a stray hair behind my ear gently.
OK, I swear I really did consider telling him the truth, but c’mon, the moment wasn’t right. Everything was going so well, and I couldn’t help but remember how telling Cisco the truth about my virginity had gone so splendidly awry. I just didn’t want to deal with it. I wanted it to go away. Maybe I wasn’t so evolved after all.
Jonah squeezed me tighter, and I was beginning to hope we’d never get rescued. If I could just freeze time, I could bury my lie.
“I don’t want to talk about it, OK?”
“Whatever you want, Fran. I’m here if you need me. Just know that.”
“I do,” I nodded. I wasn’t totally sold on the idea of Jonah and me, but I was enjoying the feeling of having somebody on my side for a change.
Just as I turned my head for a kiss, Chaz plopped down next to us with an open bottle of vodka.
“Who wants to play Would You Rather?”
Not now, I thought to myself. Can’t you see I’m cuddling with my potential boyfriend?
“I wanna play!” Milan shouted, walking toward us swinging Cisco’s hand. “Hey, are you guys together now?” Milan smiled, taking in the sight of me leaning up against Jonah.
“Yes,” Jonah announced before I could say anything. Cisco looked at me, and I immediately looked away.
“That’s cool,” she laughed. Her tone was patronizing, but I decided to let it go.
Milan pulled Cisco down next to us, and they immediately began an annoying game of footsie.
“Okaaaay,” Chaz began, savoring his question like a late night doughnut. “Would you rather be on the cover of US looking like you do right now,” he asked, pointing to Milan’s hair, which had really taken on a life force all its own, “or never, ever get out of this place?”
“Are you kidding? I’ve already been on the cover of US looking worse than this. What do I care?”
We all laughed. It was true. There was the cover of her passed out and drooling in her car, the one of her on steroids after she’d mistakenly inhaled Morton’s salt, and the one of her puking on a float in the pool at the Viceroy Hotel. She really didn’t care. On some level she cared less than anyone I’d ever known what other people thought of her. It was a good quality in anyone and quite extraordinary in an actress.
“What about you, Eve?” Chaz asked.
We cackled again. I think we all knew the answer to that.
“With the rash or without?” she asked. It was the first time I’d heard Eve make an attempt at humor.
“With!” we said in unison.
“I’d rather stay,” Eve snorted, burying her face in her hands. She actually looked quite beautiful just then. It wasn’t just that the rash was going away. She looked relaxed and unaffected. She looked happy. I wondered if maybe Joe had gotten through to her. We played Would You Rather until midnight. It was fun. I was really beginning to enjoy myself.
PART THREE:
LORD OF THE FLEAS
“The curious consequence is that I have become a minor celebrity.”
—Edward Tufte
What Are You Doing in a Place Like This?
Wake up,” I heard a strange voice say.
I was soaking wet, staring up into the barrel of a glaring, white flashlight. It must have been raining. I was alone.
“Put it down,” I begged, shielding my eyes from the blinding assault. My head was throbbing. “I can’t see you.”
The light shifted, and I saw the silhouette of a tall, slightly stooped male figure staring down at me. He had on a rain slicker, was carrying a radio and a duffel bag, and had a large pair of earphones resting around his neck.
“Who are you?” I asked, frightened. Where was Jonah? Had they all just left me asleep in the rain?
He directed the flashlight on his face so I could make him out. He was wrinkled, with a long, black moustache, cropped gray hair, and little dark-rimmed glasses. He looked oddly familiar.
“Who am I? Who are you?” he said in a thick British accent.
“Francesca.”
“How old are you, Francesca?”
“Sixteen.”
“Sixteen? What are you doing here? You’re American?”
“Are you part of the rescue team?” I asked, wiping the water off my face.
“Rescue team?”
“Our plane crashed a few days ago.”
“Plane?”
“It sank.”
“Sank?” he said, worrying the word like a dog bone. “It sank? Are you hurt?”
I shook my head.
“Where did you come from?” I asked, not entirely sure I wasn’t dreaming.
“I flew in on a sea plane,” he answered, kneeling down so he could get a better look at me. That would explain why I hadn’t heard a jet engine. The tequila hangover might explain it too.
“You smell a little boozy.”
I nodded. Tears started leaking from my eyes. I don’t know why. Relief or exhaustion maybe.
“What time is it?” I asked. He pushed up his sleeve without taking his eyes off me.
“It’s two twenty,” he answered. “You’re here all by yourself?”
“I’m not alone, mister.”
“Where are the others? Is everyone alive?” He suddenly sounded panicked.
“Yes.”
“Is the pilot alive?”
I nodded.
“Where?”
I had no idea, but I assumed they were in the house. I pointed. He helped me stumble to my feet before following me into the house. I was focusing on walking in a straight line.
He lit the indoor lamp with a familiar ease. They were all inside, dry and asleep. Thanks a lot, Jonah! I was pissed.
“Is this everybody?” he asked loudly. I counted six bodies to be sure.
“Yes.”
Milan poked her head out of the sheet she was wrapped up in with Cisco.
“Can you shut up, Francesca, we’re trying to sleep,” she muttered. “And turn off the light, for Christ’s sake, my head is pounding,” she moaned, plopping back down.
“Bloody hell,” the man next to me gasped. He took a small step back. “Is that…is that…that horrible girl?” he asked.
I nodded.
“The dead one? The starlet?” His face was white as Wonder Bread.
“Milan Amberson,” I added, trying to be helpful. “She’s not dead.”
“Oh, God. And the others?”
“Alive.”
“Who?” he asked, voice trembling.
“Cisco Parker, Eve Larkin, Joe Baro….” But before I could finish he’d cut me off.
“Jesus fucking Christ!” he screamed. “Wake up you filthy pigs!” he yelled so loudly I almost peed my pants.
Everyone did. Their astonished faces traveled between the guy and me.
“Oh, this is just fucking perfect!” the stranger yelled, scanning the sea of famous faces in disbelief. “This has got to be a bad joke, folks.” He threw his duffel halfway across the room.
Needless to say, he didn’t sound so hap
py to find us alive.
Although this is humiliating to admit, I was so busy obsessing on the fact that Jonah had left me in the rain that I was hardly registering the hugeness of the occasion at hand.
“What’s going on?” Cisco asked, a sleepy, dumb look draped all over him.
“We’re being rescued,” I said flatly, suddenly annoyed with this whole group, but especially Jonah. How could my “boyfriend” leave me in the rain?
“It took you long enough,” Chaz said, untangling himself from a mess of sheets. “You people can find a senile grandma wandering around the San Fernando Valley, but you can’t manage to trace five celebrities and a lost plane?” At least he hadn’t counted himself as a celebrity.
Joe, who was lying next to Chaz and between Jonah and Eve, only managed to stand up with some assistance from Eve. He looked seriously hungover.
“Ned?” he asked in disbelief, squinting his eyes to adjust to the light.
What the? Did Joe actually know this guy, or was he still drunk?
“’Allo, Joe,” he said, spraying a ferocious wad of spit halfway across the room. He then rammed his palms into his eye sockets.
I’d spent many hours over the last few days imagining our rescue, and this was most certainly not the reception I’d envisioned.
“Ned,” Joe explained, as if perhaps Ned weren’t getting it. “It’s me, Joe. And look,” he said, waving his hand with a wizardly gesture. “Cisco Parker, Jonah Baron, Milan Amberson, Eve Larkin, Chaz Ric—”
“I know who you bloody well are. You’re supposed to be dead somewhere off the coast of Madagascar, eh? But you’re not dead. You people never go away. You’ve never made a graceful exit in your life. You’re right here, going through my things…on my fucking island.”
“Your island?” Milan asked incredulously. “Who would want to live in this little shithole?”
“This ‘little shithole’ is my writing retreat, miss.”
