Just Like Me, Only Better

by Carol Snow

  The day I’d gone to school with my new blond hair, she’d done a double take in front of the boys’ classroom.

  “Oh. My. God. Britney Spears!” She came over, mouth and eyes wide, and touched my hair.

  I looked at the ground. “It was—you know. I thought—maybe a change . . .”

  “I like it!”

  “Really?”

  “Maybe not forever, but it’s sexy. Strong. The new you. Not that there was anything wrong with the old you.”

  “Hank liked it.”

  She scowled. “Tell me you’re not doing this for Hank.”

  “Of course not!”

  “For Ken?”

  “No!”

  “Because I heard that the two of you were pretty chummy at the Cub Scout thing.”

  “Who told you that? Terri?”

  She shook her head. “Holly Wert. You don’t know her.”

  “How does she know who I am?”

  She shrugged. “She knows Hank, and you’re Hank’s ex-wife.”

  “Oh.” That made me uncomfortable. “Ken and I are just friends. Seriously.”

  “If you say so. But the blond hair’s hot. I mean it.”

  “Thanks.”

  “You want to do something this weekend? I feel like I haven’t talked to you in forever. I still owe you a dinner. Maybe we could check out that new Mexican place on Harbor?”

  “I can’t,” I said quickly. “I have . . . there are things I need to get done.”

  “Oh.” Her whole body tightened. “Maybe some other time, then.”

  “Sure.” I forced a smile. “That sounds fun.”

  Haley’s refrigerator offered a better selection than her pantry: baby greens, bottled peppers, barbecued chicken, smoked salmon, a drawer full of cheeses. I toasted a couple of slices of multigrain bread and made myself a chicken sandwich.

  I was sitting at the counter when Jay came through the garage.

  He blinked at me. “Veronica,” he said finally.

  “Did you think I was Haley?” I put my half-eaten sandwich on the plate.

  He shook his head and then tilted it to one side. “No. I was just trying to figure out why your hair looks uneven.”

  “Because it’s not finished.” I touched a long bit. “Haley came down while Stefano was working on my extensions, so it just seemed, like, well, she wanted to get her hair done, and Stefano . . .”

  “Gotcha.” He peered at my plate. “Esperanza make that?”

  I shook my head. “She’s not here. You want me to make you one?”

  “No!” he said, appalled by the thought of food that hadn’t been produced in a commercial kitchen or by a domestic worker. “So Haley’s . . .?”

  “In the guest bathroom.”

  He nodded and crossed the kitchen. At the door, he turned and said, “Are you doing anything tomorrow?”

  For a moment, I thought he was asking me out. “No,” I said, surprised to realize that I kinda, sorta liked the idea.

  “Because I’d love to get you and Brady together. For breakfast or coffee—something casual.”

  “Brady Ellis?” Was he serious?

  “Nothing romantic,” he elaborated. “Just a photo op to show that Haley’s over him. That they’re friends.”

  “Brady Ellis,” I repeated.

  “Yeah. You know—Haley’s boyfriend. Ex-boyfriend. Whatever. He’s my client, too, and I’m pretty sure he’d be happy to help Haley out. I just need to talk to him first, get him up to speed.”

  “Breakfast with Brady Ellis,” I said, as if the words could make it real.

  “Or maybe just coffee. That okay with you?”

  I grinned. “Anything to help Haley.”

  It didn’t even occur to me to wonder how Haley would feel about my “date” with Brady until she caught me going through her closet.

  “Oh, sorry,” I said. “I hope you don’t mind that I’m, uh—I like your hair.”

  It really looked good: long and gold and sleek.

  She rolled her eyes up toward her layers and shrugged. “Yeah, Steven’s awesome.” It wasn’t modesty she conveyed so much as recognition that the hair wasn’t really hers.

  “So, I guess he’s ready for me then?” I asked.

  “He said to tell you to give him fifteen. Esperanza just got back. I think she’s making him something to eat.”

  “Okay. Thanks.” I started to back out of the closet.

  “Did you need something to wear?”

  “Well, yeah. Just . . . Jay wants me to go out tomorrow. So I need something casual. But cute. I mean, so you look cute in case anyone takes pictures.”

  She bit her lip and squinted at the mass of clothing.

  “It’s with Brady,” I blurted. “Just breakfast or coffee—something really platonic.” My cheeks burned. Haley’s face was a complete blank.

  I turned my attention back to the overstuffed racks. “Most of these probably won’t fit me,” I said. “But maybe if you’ve got some more of your fat clothes?”

  That got a reaction. “Simone is such a bitch. Here.” She pulled a simple denim sheath off a hanger.

  The fit wasn’t perfect (my butt was bigger than Haley’s), but it was close enough, and Haley dug out a pair of pink cowboy boots that I fell in love with immediately. They hardly hurt at all, at least as long as I didn’t try to walk in them. She let me dig through her drawer of costume jewelry. I picked out a silver lariat necklace, dangling earrings, and a chunky pink bracelet.

  Haley offered a final touch. “Take Pookie.” Pookie was a fuzzy pink koala backpack.

  “You think?” I said, reluctantly reaching out.

  “Oh, definitely. It’s totally me—just sort of fun and goofy, not all boring and grown-up.”

  “Right,” I said. “Sure.” Even the girls in Ben’s first grade class would think Pookie too juvenile, but what did they know.

  Stefano (Steven? I wanted to ask but didn’t dare) took about an hour to finish up my extensions, and then he gave me the rundown on their care. I could wash and style them like my regular hair, as long as I was careful. In a few months, they’d have to be readjusted for hair growth. Would I still be pretending to be Haley in a few months? Well—why not?

  Stefano acted the same as always: glib, giggling, and adoring. But for me, things had changed. After hearing him gossip about Haley and then seeing the way he fawned over her, I couldn’t help but wonder what he really thought.

  Was that how Haley felt about everyone?

  Chapter Fourteen

  When I climbed into Rodrigo’s little car Saturday morning, he said, “It’s early—you want me to find you a Starbucks?”

  “Thanks, but I had coffee at home.”

  He moved his sunglasses from the back of his head to the front and pulled into traffic. “That’s so excellent that you get to meet Brady.”

  “Yeah, it is. Though I’m kind of, um—” I stopped myself before I could say “freaked out.”

  Rodrigo caught my blush. “There’s nothing to be nervous about. Brady’s a genuine person. It’s too bad he and Haley couldn’t make the relationship work.”

  “Why’d they break up?” I asked.

  He shook his head. “She won’t talk about it. I’d actually be really curious to hear his side of the story. Love your hair, by the way. I’m not sure I told you yesterday.”

  I touched my head. “It feels weird—all these little clumps where the extensions are attached. I got my comb stuck in one this morning.”

  “Ouch.” He turned the radio to an R&B station and hummed along.

  Had Rodrigo been stealing some of Haley’s happy pills?

  I adjusted my trucker hat and slipped on the aviator shades. They’d gotten scratched since the last time I’d worn them, making everything out of my left eye the slightest bit warped.

  And then I remembered. “How did your meeting go yesterday? Weren’t you talking to somebody about your script?”

  He sighed with pleasure. “It was phenome
nal. Finally, someone gets me.”

  “That’s wonderful!” It just went to show: if you work hard and you hold on to your dreams, anything can happen.

  Eyes on the road, Rodrigo said, “You know, I haven’t told anyone this, but I was thinking of just quitting the whole Hollywood scene and going home. That’s how bad everyone had made me feel about myself.”

  “Well, thank goodness you didn’t! Does this mean someone bought one of your screenplays?”

  He tilted his head this way and that. “We haven’t signed anything yet. Which does cause me some anxiety. But they really, really liked the second screenplay. They just want me to modify it a little bit, kind of play up some of the minor characters.”

  “I’m happy for you,” I said.

  He looked away from the road three times to check my face for sincerity. “Thanks,” he said finally.

  As long as we were such good friends, I asked him about something that had been puzzling me. “Why does Jay dress like such a slob?”

  “It’s his way of showing people that he’s too important to bother with a little thing like personal grooming. Usually it’s the writers who dress that way—I never will—but Jay identifies with the creatives.”

  “Is he really that important?” I asked.

  Rodrigo snorted. “Jay’s only important for as long as he has Haley.”

  I thought I’d have a good hour to get dressed at Haley’s house before heading out for my hot date—oops, I mean “brief platonic encounter”—but when I walked in the front door, Jay looked up from his laptop and said, “The spray people just called. They should be here in five minutes.”

  “The spray people?”

  “Yeah. So you should probably get changed. There’s a bikini waiting for you in the guest bathroom.”

  I blinked with confusion. “Aren’t I going to meet Brady this morning?”

  “Yeah, later—that’s why we have to get you sprayed now. I pushed breakfast back to noon, by the way. So I guess it’s lunch. That should give you time to dry.”

  Finally I understood. “Are we talking about a spray tan?”

  He poked at the keys on his laptop. “What else would we be talking about?”

  “But Haley’s kind of . . . pale.” On her early magazine covers, her skin was always a smooth and even brown, but I’d never seen her looking anything other than sallow.

  “I know.” Jay hit a final key on the computer as if marking the end of a crescendo and stood up. “And Simone says that’s got to change, especially if Haley’s going to insist on wearing pastels. And that means you have to match. We’ve never used this tanning crew before—hope they’re okay. I’ve got the usual company coming to do Haley later.”

  “Why not use the same company for both of us?”

  His phone rang (sang). He pulled it out of his pocket and frowned at the display.

  “Because it would be hard to explain why Haley Rush was pale in the afternoon when she’d been sprayed in the morning. I’ll call them back.” He hit a button on his phone and stuck it back in his pocket.

  “But what if she comes downstairs while I’m getting tanned?” He snorted. “Sure. That’s going to happen.” It was nine o’clock in the morning.

  “Anything special I need to know?” I asked.

  He considered. “Just smile politely—a little shy, a little warm, but not too warm—and don’t say anything.”

  I raised one eyebrow. “What? You don’t want me launching into a discussion of the importance of tanning to society?”

  His eyes popped open. “Whoah!”

  “What?”

  “That thing you just did with your eyebrow—raising it. There was a director that wanted Haley to do that for a movie, and she just couldn’t make it work. She spent hours in front of the mirror. It’s just weird to see you do it.”

  I flushed with pride. Haley could sing, act, and dance better than I could. And as Simone would never tire of reminding me, she was thinner. But I was the eyebrow-raising champion of the world. Go me.

  Jay said, “Just make sure you don’t do that around the paparazzi. Or around the spray-tanning people. Or in public. Or . . . anywhere.”

  I raised my eyebrow again, higher this time. “I’ll try to remember.”

  It’s hard to say which part of the spray tanning was most unpleasant. To start off, there was the bikini issue. I was expecting to find one of Haley’s castoffs in the bathroom, but no: the suit still had its Target tags attached. Unfortunately, the tag said, “Size 2.” After feeling flattered for about a tenth of a second (“Someone thought I was a 2!”), I had to admit that, one: the suit had been bought for Haley and, two: it was going to be way too revealing in an entirely non-sexy way.

  The suit was all white and just the tiniest bit see-through. It rode up so far and was cut so low, it bordered on obscene. There’ve been gynecologist appointments where I’ve felt less exposed. Plus, it was still February—not bikini season at all—and let’s just say I have some issues with unwanted body hair.

  The spray tan people set up a curtained station on a concrete patch in Haley’s backyard, off by the pool equipment. Swathed in an oversized beige towel, I scurried out the bathroom, through the house and across the pavers. At least Jay stayed in the house: that was one thing to be thankful for. The thought of exposing my soft flesh to Jay was too mortifying to contemplate. Rodrigo, stationed with his laptop on one of the pool chaises, was a little too close for comfort, but I didn’t care as much what he thought about me. Not that I cared so much about Jay’s opinion, just—you know.

  There were two “tanning therapists.” One was male, the other female, and both were extremely buff and incredibly—surprise!—tan. They wore form-fitting black pants and white T-shirts that said EVERGLOW. Their teeth were bright white, bordering on fluorescent. They both had light eyes, his hazel, hers green, which looked almost spooky against their dark skin. The tan boy was called Matthew. I couldn’t quite catch the tan girl’s name, but it sounded kind of like Couch.

  Matthew said, “It’s an honor to meet you, Miss Rush.”

  Couch said, “Hey, girlfriend, we gotta get you some color.”

  I blessed them with a half-smile and looked at the ground.

  “If you could just remove your towel, Miss Rush.”

  I nodded but continued clutching the terry until the very last moment, when I was surrounded on three sides by black vinyl curtains. I took the towel off and chucked it beyond the tanning station, onto the concrete, taking care not to meet Matthew’s or Couch’s eyes.

  Couch stepped into the semi-enclosure and wrapped my big blond hair with something like Saran Wrap. Or maybe it was Saran Wrap. Then she stepped back and studied me (which was mortifying). “Straps, girlfriend.”

  “Huh?”

  “We don’t want you havin’ no tan lines.” She reached around my neck and undid my bathing suit tie.

  I managed to catch the top just in time.

  “Now turn around,” she instructed, after which she tied my top straps below my arms. It almost (almost) would have been better to go topless and just admit that everyone could see everything, anyway.

  Matthew was in charge of the application. With a hose and nozzle attached to a bottle of dark liquid, he reminded me of the Terminix guy who sprays the Motts’ yard for bugs every three months.

  “Just spread your legs a little there . . .” God, that sounded obscene.

  He started with my shoulders and worked his way down. I must have looked tense because he said, “Nothing to worry about. We’ve got moisturizers in the tanning solution, some alcohol and plant extracts. All natural—there’s even walnut extract for a more natural brown.”

  I thought: natural if you’re a tree.

  Next to me, the pool pump, which was on a timer, switched on, emitting a loud whirring noise. I tensed.

  “Relaaaax,” Couch said from just outside the curtain.

  Shut uuuuuup, I thought.

  I liked Matthew better. “What
makes your skin change color is DHA. That’s a natural sugar.” He spoke loudly to be heard over the pool equipment. His voice had a singsong quality, as if he had memorized this “here’s what we’re doing” speech. Which he probably had.

  He said, “The DHA reacts with the proteins on your outermost layer of skin. It’s that reaction that causes the color change. The DHA works with your natural pigments. So, it’s all natural. You can put your arms down now.”

  I did.

  Matthew examined my arms with a puzzled expression. “You did exfoliate this morning, didn’t you?”

  Huh? I shook my head. I’m not sure I’ve ever exfoliated in my entire life. I certainly hadn’t done it this morning.

  Matthew froze. “This is not—maybe—didn’t you read—you were supposed to—I guess someone didn’t tell you—” So much for the singsong tones.

  “The tan might be blotchy,” he said.

  Clearly, that required some kind of response. “Ugh,” I grunted.

  “No, it looks good!” Couch piped up from the outer confines of the stall. “Just from looking, I would have guessed you had exfoliated!” She was a terrible liar.

  The spraying felt okay, like a slightly damp tickle. The only pain was psychological. Matthew did my shoulders and back, arms, torso, and face (I held my breath). And then it was on to the nether regions.

  “In the future?” he said to my hip. “You should probably shave or wax twenty-four hours before your treatment.”

  Oh, my God. Could I be any more humiliated?

  Actually, yes.

  “What’s really cool about the tanning?” Couch said. “Well, it makes you look all, like, healthy, but you already knew that. But it also minimizes any imperfections. Like blemishes. And, you know. Cellulite.”

  For once, I was earning my money.

  When Matthew was finally, finally done, I lunged for the towel, but he stopped me. “No! You’ll ruin your tan!” Remembering his place on the food chain, he added, “Miss Rush.”