“Yeah, I know,” I say. “We all do shit we regret when we're desperate. I'm just glad we found another way out of this, okay?”
“Okay. Well, I need to fix my makeup before we go back in. Everyone's going to wonder what happened to us.”
I shrug. “I'll think of a lie before the elevator hits the second floor.”
***
We're just getting out of the elevator when my phone rings. I look at the caller ID and don't recognize the number.
“That could be Ms. Haines,” Tiffanys says, looking away from her compact long enough to see the number. “Yeah, that's it. You better answer before she decides you're a flake!”
“You're right. That's your job.” But I answer anyway. “Hello, Shade Stevenson speaking.”
“Shade? This is Stephanie Haines from GluedToYou. Did Tiffany tell you about our conversation earlier?”
“Yes, and I'm very happy to hear that you're interested in...us.” I put it on speaker so Tiffany can hear, too.
“Oh, yes, and I'm especially interested in you,” Stephanie says. She has one of those southern drawls that never quite leave no matter how long a person lives in California. “Your story is so exciting. In the last eight hours, we've had so much buzz about the fake rich girl! Your vids are gaining hundreds of viewers every hour and we expect that trend to continue!”
“Um...thanks,” I say. “But, uh, that story about my being poor...that wasn't true. Some old friends were just trying to make some money by making up a story about me. In fact, Tiffany and I are going to post a vid refuting it. “
“Oh, no!” Stephanie sounds panicked. “No, no, please don't do that. It would jeopardize your deal with the site.”
“I'm sorry, what did you say?”
“Our metrics show that viewers are most interested in you because of your faux-riche story. They want to know how you did it, mostly so they can do the same. The vast majority of your viewers are 18-34 year olds who make less than $30,000 a year, Shade. They don't want to hear that you're really rich – they want tips on how to live like they're really rich from someone of a similar financial background. If you refute that story, it'll make you less appealing to viewers. And then we might have to rethink the show with you. Do you understand?”
“Yes,” I say. “I understand perfectly.” I understand that it is the prerogative of the rich to make the not-rich jump through hoops for money. Reading that one loud and clear.
“I'm overnighting you some contracts to read, sign and return,” Stephanie continues. “Please have your lawyer contact us if you have any questions. The sooner you can get those signed, the better.”
I thank her for her confidence in us and hang up.
Tiffany stares at me. “What are you going to do?”
I shove my phone in my purse, because otherwise I'm afraid I'll squeeze it so hard that it breaks. “I guess I get to make a choice,” I say. “Between really having money and living like I have money.”
“Isn't it the same thing either way?”
I shake my head. “No, and that's the difference between you and me, Tiffany. It's not the same thing. I will be laughed at and ridiculed if I tell the truth, but damnit, I can have a chance at really being rich.” I sigh. “If it doesn't work out with the network, I'm screwed. I go back to living my shitty, low-income life.”
“No, you don't,” says a voice behind me, and I turn around to see Richard standing there.
“I was getting ice,” he says, holding up the ice bucket.
I groan. “I explained this to you yesterday. I can go back to buying purses on Feebay and selling stuff from dumpsters for money and living the same way I did before, but people will no longer treat me the same way.”
“They'll get over that if the show is a success,” Tiffany says.
“And if it isn't?” I ask.
“Then you say to hell with anyone who treats you differently,” Richard says. “That's what I'm going to do from now on. You don't have to worry about lying for me anymore, Shade. I'm going to tell everyone the truth. I realized, watching you jump through hoops to protect my and your own secrets, that people are going to treat you like crap whether you're rich or not. And even when I lied and said I was broke, I still couldn't trust anyone. People still wanted to use me to make themselves rich, just in different ways.”
“You're rich?” Tiffany's eyebrows shoot up, then she starts fluffing her hair and tugging at her t-shirt to show more cleavage.
“It's a long story,” Richard says. “But I'm willing to tell it.”
“It's different when you're broke,” I snap. “It's not just that people don't want to be your friend. It's more that when people are nice to you, or help you out, you always end up feeling like you owe them.”
Richard shrugs. “So deal with it. Or don't let anyone help you. Pay for stuff with your Feebay money and turn down anyone who offers to help financially. You can't feel like you owe someone if you never let them help you, and you've been doing that for years, haven't you?”
I sigh. “I think you're wrong, Richard, but I don't really have a choice. When you've spent your life deprived of money, you have to take the chance at having it, even if it means letting go of the comfortable pseudo-rich lifestyle you went to a lot of trouble to build for yourself. But if this thing doesn't really make me rich, I will never be happy until something else does.”
Richard shakes his head. “Shade, you are beautiful and talented and fascinating. If this thing doesn't work out, something else will.”
I wish I was half as confident as he is.
“If a double-helix can't make you a real brunette, then letting people know about your past shouldn't change the fact that you're a rich, spoiled prima donna,” Richard continues.
“Give me a minute,” I say, shooting daggers at Richard with my eyes, and he and Tiffany finally leave me standing in the hall.
Did you ever read the play A Raisin in the Sun? I had to read it freshman year, for my Intro to Dramatic Arts class. It's about this impoverished African-American family living in a crummy apartment in Brooklyn in the 1960s or 70s or some other ancient time like that. Anyway, the play opens with the husband and wife arguing. The husband says something to the effect that his wife has held him back all these years, that he'd be a successful businessman living on easy street if she hadn't stopped him from investing in various business opportunities over the years (I'm paraphrasing, but you get the idea). Then the wife says that if she let him invest in every crazy scheme he ever had, they'd be in even worse shape, they wouldn't even have this dump to live in, they'd be out on the street with their kids, all destitute and everything (again, I'm paraphrasing). And the argument continues in that vein for a while.
The professor for that class, K. Parker Trumbull (he said the K stood for something boring, so he didn't use it), had an Afro wider than his head, a colorful wardrobe featuring lots of animal prints and gold chains and a reputation for being an easy grader. He always spent the first ten minutes of class playing hip-hop music from his Ipod dock while he took attendance, and he cared a lot more about getting us to discuss topics related to the play than he did about getting us to memorize facts for a test. If you came to every class and made some effort to participate in discussions (meaning, you had to elaborate beyond “I agree/disagree”), you got an extra ten pounds added to your final grade. I got a B on every exam and still made an A in that class.
When we discussed A Raisin in the Sun, one of Trumbull's discussion questions was whether we thought the play would work with all white actors. I said yes, because the argument scene at the beginning reminded me of some white families I knew. It actually reminded me of my own parents, but I would never have admitted that in front of all my classmates. The truth is, when I first read through that scene, I thought the play was about my parents and the author just made all the characters African-American so no one would know who it was really about. Of course, my theory went out the window when I realized the play was written years be
fore my parents met each other.
The point is, I spent my childhood listening to my parents argue about whose fault it was that we were broke. And the second we got a few extra bucks, the arguments only escalated into a war over what to do with said extra bucks. As I've recently learned from Tiffany, even rich people use money to lord it over each other. I wasn't lying when I told her she's not stupid: She's smart enough to have figured out that the only real solution is to make your own money, and make a lot of it.
Richard is going to look down on me if I take the deal with GluedToYou. My friends at school will never see me the same way after they hear about my past. But I have to take the deal if I want a chance at financial fulfillment. Richard would probably say I'm being a slave to money, but I think he's wrong. Money is the thing that frees you from the control of other people.
So I do it: I make a vid, right there in the hallway, explaining everything I did and how I did it. I explain how I made money selling shit from dumpsters outside of my sorority house, and others on campus. I guess I can still do that even if people know – it's not like everyone at the sorority is going to stop passing out drunk every Saturday night just to avoid having their trash ripped off! I explain how I buy designer items cheap on Feebay, use them a few times, resell them and buy new stuff, all at a fraction of what my friends pay at the mall. I explain that being rich is a lifestyle choice, independent of the amount of money in one's bank account.
“People sometimes ask me if I'm a real blonde,” I say as I wrap up the video. “You know what I tell them? Yes, I'm a real blonde - I just have a genetic defect that makes my hair grow in the wrong color. Because that's the truth. I'm not dissing brunettes – I know lots of attractive people with dark hair. Hell, as fabulous as I am, I'm sure I'd rock the dark-haired look. But you know what? It just isn't me. I'm a blonde, and it doesn't matter what some double-helix strand has to say about it. That's just who I am, and so is being rich and spoiled, regardless of what the number in my bank account says. So I don't care what people think of me – I'm going to continue living life like a rich person, and I will not apologize for it. And I hope that my real friends continue to treat me the same way they always have – as a fellow fabulous rich bitch. Shade out.”
Chapter Forty-One
After the party, Morgan, Matt, Charlie, Tiffany and I celebrate for real – by moving out of our shitty motel rooms and into Richard's luxury hotel. In fact, Tiffany, Morgan and I take over Richard's suite, since we're paying for it anyway (well, Morgan's credit card is) and it has three bedrooms.
By two A.M., Tiffany is passed out in her room and Morgan is staying up until three writing a medical school admisisons essay (I told you she was an overachiever) and Richard has all his stuff packed into his rented Mercedes.
“You could stay here for the rest of the trip,” I say, as he comes back in the door to hand over the keycards. “I'm sure Matt and Charlie would be happy to have another roommate to help them throw wild parties in their suite across the hall.”
“You mean they'd be happy to leave me holding the bag when they get caught with hookers?” He shakes his head with a chuckle. “No, thanks. Besides, I may respect you guys, but I don't want to take up your lifestyle. No offense.”
I nod. “Listen, I'm sorry about what happened, about threatening to out you to the press...I wouldn't have done that if I hadn't thought you stabbed me in the back first.”
He nods, staring off toward the balcony doors. The moonlight pours into the room, making everything look shadowy and sad. “I understand. I told you, I know what it's like not to trust anyone. And I did extort you into helping me.” He looks back at me, as if he's just seeing me for the first time. “So what are you going to do? Can you lie your way out of this one?”
I flop down on the couch, and suddenly I'm really tired even though it's only two A.M. “It's fine. Tiffany's going to cover for me.”
He nods. “I was going to offer to cover for you if she didn't.”
“Really?”
He shrugs. “It's the least I can do. I did get you into this mess by bitching about the rich. And you did protect me.”
He comes and sits next to me on the couch. “I would like to ask you one question, though.”
“Shoot.”
“What you said the other night...that you keep telling me why we wouldn't work as a couple. What were you talking about? You only ever turned me down for a date once.”
I sigh. “You know, you're the only guy I've ever met, after three years on a college campus, who rufies women so he can talk to them.”
Shock hits his face like a lightning bolt. “What the hell are you talking about?”
“It's okay, I'm not going to blab that either,” I say quickly. “The truth is, I've known for a long time. And I get why you do it – you wanted to know if those girls were really interested in you - probably because you had girlfriends in the past who only wanted your money. And even though the money thing isn't an issue, you can never be sure if someone cares about you or if they're just using you for something else. Sex. Homework help. Putting in a good word with someone you know. Just because you pretend not to have money, the insecurity never goes away, does it? You can never be sure if a girl really likes you, so you give her what you hope is a truth serum. Am I wrong?”
He looks down, shaking his head. “I know that's not really what it does, but...”
“But it slows down the brain processes that allow people to lie convincingly. Yeah, I get it.” I reach over and take his hand. “You did it to me for a different reason, though.”
His head snaps up and he looks at me, his eyebrows pulling together. “No, I've never-”
“Every time, I ask you if you know how many times we've had this conversation,” I say, cutting him off. “And every time you say it's the first time, but it isn't. Because every time, you rufie me, so that if you tell me you love me and I say I don't feel the same, it won't wreck our relationship. Because every time, you rufie yourself afterward, with that little bottle of pills you keep in your bedside drawer with the condoms and the Star Trek fan magazines.”
He's shaking his head. “No...that can't be. How would you remember, if I rufied you?”
“It just doesn't work on me,” I say. “Oh, I get the tranquilizing effect, just not the amnesia thing. I don't know why. Maybe my mom smoked too much crack when she was pregnant. Although given how boring my mom is, I kind of doubt that. Probably it's genetic – I doubt anyone who lacked a high tolerance for drugs and poisons would have survived long in my family of backstabbers. Whatever the reason, I remember everything. But it's okay,” I add quickly, taking in the stricken look on his face. “As long as one of us doesn't remember, it's okay. We can still be friends.”
“Except that the other day I was upset, and I blurted out how I feel and neither one of us got rufied,” he says.
“Yeah, I know,” I say. “I'm hoping we can still be friends anyway.”
He shakes his head. “I do too. But it's hard, you know, when you feel that way about someone and they just don't return it.”
“You don't remember what I've told you before,” I say. “But it's always something along the lines of, 'I do feel something for you, but we are too different for it to work'.”
He looks at me, and I realize I haven't seen his dimples in a while. I miss them. “Opposites attract, right?”
I shake my head. “It's not about that. It's how you feel about money and how I feel.” I look down at the plush carpet. “After what happened with Cliff...I could never be with another rich guy. Not until I get rich.”
“But with the show-”
“There's no guarantee it'll be a big hit. I may only make ten or twenty thousand a year off it, based on what some of GluedToYou's shows make,” I say. “I need to be independently wealthy, and I need to be that way for a while, to get used to not feeling like a poor relation, before I can consider being with someone rich.”
One of the dimples gives the barest twi
tch. “And then...maybe you could be with me?”
“I don't know,” I say, very honestly. “We do have a lot in common. It's hard for me to trust anyone, and I don't know if I'll find anyone else who's as okay with that as you are. And the idea of being with someone who gets that – it's very intoxicating. I want to say that yes, we can see where this leads once I get rich. But,”I add quickly, and the dimple goes south again. “I really don't know if it will ever work, considering how you feel about what I want for my life. I am never not going to like money and the things it buys. You are never not going to hate your money. So even if we were equals, we might still clash.”
“But we can try, right?” Richard asks, reaching out to touch my face. His fingers trace an S down my cheek. “Once you get rich with this reality thing, we can try? If it doesn't work out, if there's too big of a personality clash, we can break up. I could never live with myself if I didn't at least try to be with the most fascinating woman I've ever met.”
“I guess if I get rich enough, yes, one day we can try,” I say. “But don't pop the cork on the champagne – I've been trying to get rich and famous for years. Failure has a way of following me like body odor follows that guy at Matt and Charlie's fraternity who hasn't showered all semester.”
Richard grins. “You'll succeed, Shade. I know you will.”
He leans over and kisses me, and his tongue is sliding over my misaligned upper teeth when-
“Oh my gawd, did you hear the news?” Morgan screams as she flings open her bedroom door and comes rushing out. Seeing us on the couch, she gets this shocked look like she just saw Kim Kardashian screwing Justin Bieber in a strip club. “Oh...my gawd.”
I pull away from Richard. “What is it, Morgan? Just tell us.”
“Oh.” She blinks and holds up her phone. “I just got a news alert. I have my phone set to get them about GluedToYou.”
“Did they put out a press release about our show? Before we even signed the paperwork?” I know as I say it that didn't happen.
Sorority Girls With Guns Page 27
