by Paul Rudnick
“It’s yoga,” Heller whispered to me. “They all look like that. They’re supposed to be like the healthiest, most centered people on earth but they all look ten years older than they really are and like they haven’t slept for months. It’s probably from all the brown rice and urine.”
“Namaste,” said the woman. “I’m Razen and I’ll be leading the group today in my signature blend of power yoga, gentle yoga, urban pilates and something I’ve invented and trademarked called muscle-medulla flesh-meld. It connects your mind with your body by drawing on your reserves of lactic sense memory.”
“Catey?” Heller whispered. “Do you have any heroin? Like, on you?”
“Pay attention,” I whispered back, and Razen asked me, “Is there a problem? You’re the cousin, right? Are you ready to do some important work in and on your mind-body electrosphere?”
I had no idea what Razen was talking about and if her name hadn’t been printed on the schedule I would’ve thought she was called Raisin. As usual Heller had just managed to get me into trouble, so I decided to become the nicest, most hardworking and most cooperative person in the class. “I’d love to work all over myself, Razen,” I said. “Thank you so much for helping us today.”
“Namaste,” Razen repeated.
“Namaste means stop being such a little suck-up ass-kisser, in Hindi,” Heller whispered, “or maybe it means look at Razen’s camel toe in her flesh-colored yoga pants,” which made me snort, which made Razen look at me again even more sharply.
“All right,” said Razen, “I’d like everyone to begin with a downward-facing dog.”
I copied Heller, who was dragging herself into this position, with her hands and feet on the floor and her butt in the air. Actually, I’m never sure what to call that part of the body because all of the different words people use are so embarrassing, including “bum,” “keister,” “booty,” “buttocks” and “rear end.” Personally I think that God deliberately put that part of our bodies in a place where we wouldn’t have to see it or think about it.
“Get your ass toward the ceiling, Catey,” Heller told me and once I’d done this I was looking through my legs directly at Mills and Billy, who were both doing the downward-facing dog and smiling at me upside down, as if they were having a contest to see which one could be the cutest even with the blood rushing to their faces. This made me so flustered that I collapsed, although luckily I was wearing my usual exercise outfit, which was a clean, sturdy, gray sweatshirt and matching sweatpants with no emblems of any kind.
“That’s a really flattering ensemble,” said Heller. “You look like a vacuum cleaner bag.”
“Let’s all move easily and gracefully into a side plank,” said Razen.
A side plank, it turned out, meant that I had to balance on one hand with my legs stretched straight out and my feet stacked and I ended up facing Mills and Billy, who were both doing side planks. Mills winked at me and Billy saw him do it, so Billy used his free hand to nudge Mills in his lower back, which made Mills fall onto his face, which made me gasp because Mills had such a handsome face and I didn’t want his face to get smushed or damaged in any way, so I said, “Billy! Don’t do that!” Which made Billy look really sorry, like a little boy who’s just been punished and who knows that if he makes his lower lip quiver then he’ll be forgiven for anything. Which was when Mills nudged Billy’s stacked feet and sent him toppling over too.
“Back row?” said Razen. “Is there a problem? Are you having trouble with your mind-body flow?”
“We’re good!” said Mills.
“We’re flowing!” said Billy.
“We’re going to transition into a headstand,” said Razen as she effortlessly stood on her head with her legs shooting straight into the air and her fingertips barely touching the mat for balance. While I know that yoga people are supposed to be peaceful and serene, just at that moment I was starting to feel like Razen was showing off, and I wondered if her last name was Bran.
“I’ll spot you,” said Heller as I struggled to get anywhere even close to a headstand. Heller stood up and held on to my ankles as I wobbled. I was now looking directly into Billy’s incredible brown eyes as he was managing a pretty good headstand, although I think he was holding his breath from the effort. Out of the corner of my eye I saw Mills, whose headstand was even better because I think Mills had been a gymnast in high school. Both boys were trying to hold perfectly still and as I watched them I knew: They were trying to impress me, just like how in the Angel Wars books, Myke and Tallwen battle over Lynnea.
As the blood filled my head I wondered: How did I get here? I’d never been on a date and I’d barely even talked to any boys except for my brothers and here I was, standing on my head while two of the cutest boys ever, the boys who so many other girls from all over the world were swooning over, those boys were both trying to make me smile at them.
“Look, Catey, no hands,” said Mills, who took his hands off the floor so he was now balancing only on his head.
“He can only do that because his head is flat,” said Billy, who had now lifted himself into a handstand and was walking back and forth balanced only on his hands.
“Catey, you’re doing great,” said Mills.
“You even look pretty upside down,” said Billy.
I farted. Only it wasn’t me! It was Heller, who’d hidden her face behind my feet and then made an especially juicy and revolting fart noise, and I could tell from the looks on Mills’s and Billy’s faces that they thought I’d done it, when I hate farting more than anything! Once when I was praying, I’d promised God that I would seriously think about joining the Peace Corps or a convent if only God would help me to never make any farting or burping or other embarrassing noises in public ever again and now here I was, and then Heller made another even louder and more completely disgusting fart noise! Heller was trying to sabotage me not only in front of Mills and Billy but before God!
“Jesus, Catey,” said Heller, now using her hand to fan the air in front of her face. “Mexican breakfast?”
Mills and Billy both collapsed onto the floor, rolling with laughter.
“That wasn’t me!” I insisted, and I tried to stand right side up, only Heller wouldn’t let go of my feet.
“Flatulence is completely natural,” said Razen. “It’s a healthy release of sulfurous toxins and stored gastro-related tension.”
“And guacamole,” said Heller, finally letting go of my feet.
I am going to kill you!” I told Heller after I’d run back to our hotel suite in shame and humiliation.
“Oh, calm down,” said Heller.
“I can’t believe you did that! In front of Mills and Billy!”
“It was pretty fabulous …”
“It was HORRIBLE! It was DEVASTATING! Now I can never see them ever again! It’s all your fault!”
“Jesus Christ! It was a joke!”
“Heller! Once and for all, you must stop taking the Lord’s name in vain! It degrades your spirit and it hurts my ears!”
“I know.”
Heller said this in a genuinely sad tone of voice, looking at the floor. She seemed sincerely upset, which made me deeply suspicious.
“You need to make an effort to stop using such terrible language!”
“You’re right. It’s a disgusting habit, and I really need to improve.”
“Do you know what I do? When I’m hurt or angry and I’m on the verge of using—one of those offensive or blasphemous words? I substitute the name of a town in New Jersey. For example, if I stub my toe, I might say, ‘Oh, Lake Hopatcong!’ If I’m cooking and I burn myself, I’ll say, ‘Weehawken!’ ”
“That is a seriously great idea. Let me do one.”
“Very good. Let’s imagine you’re caught in the rain without an umbrella. What do you say?”
“Um … Trenton?”
“Why not? That’s excellent. You’re at the beach, and a jellyfish stings you.”
“Hackensack!”
> “You’re getting it!”
I was feeling good about this. I’d taken the yoga class trauma and transformed it into a teaching tool.
“You’re at one of your filthy nightclubs, or at a degenerate Hollywood party. Someone approaches you and offers you an illegal substance. What do you say?”
Heller thought about this, furrowing her brow.
“Go Teaneck yourself, you Dunellen piece of motherfucking Mount Kittatinny!”
“HELLER!”
* * *
Soon Heller was standing in one of the suite’s four bedrooms. She’d showered and was wearing her first interview outfit of the day, which was a blue-and-white-striped minidress with matching boots made out of the softest possible leather. Heller’s stylist, a tiny woman named Nedda, was on her knees with pins in her mouth, hand-stitching the hem of the dress, while Kenz, Heller’s hair and makeup expert, was removing the coffee-can-sized rollers from Heller’s hair and back-combing. “This look is very flight-attendant-from-the-future,” said Nedda, although her words were muffled by the pins, “with nautical accents. Mallory, I need the ruby anchor necklace from Cartier!” Mallory was an assistant who could move like lightning on very high heels.
“Heller,” I said, “I’m supposed to be an authority figure and people are supposed to listen to me and they won’t do that if you keep making farting noises! Mills and Billy think I’m some sort of—fart machine! With no manners!”
“Oh please,” said Heller, who was now holding her arms straight out as Nedda fussed with her sleeves. “I have no idea why, but Mills and Billy are both totally hot for you. They loved hearing you fart. It was like a rectal symphony.”
“Look up,” instructed Kenz as he began to outline Heller’s eyes with eyeliner.
“Mills and Billy are not hot for me!” I insisted, and everyone in the room, including Heller, Nedda, Kenz and at least five assistants, all said, “Oooo …”
“But they’re not!” I said. “No one’s hot for me! I’m … I’m … I’m from Parsippany!”
“Was that a curse word?”
“No!”
“Catey, are you a virgin?”
Everyone was staring at me and I turned bright red even though I had no reason to be ashamed.
“Of course I am!”
“Catey, listen to me. I love Mills and Billy, and we totally bonded while we were making the movie, but you have to understand something about both of them—they’re actors.”
Everyone in the room said “Uh-huh” and Kenz added, “Sing it, sister.”
“Of course they’re actors,” I said. “That’s why they’re in the movie.”
“Here’s the deal,” said Heller. “There are only two types of people in the world: regular people and actors. Guy actors are the worst because they’re so adorable. That’s why they become actors in the first place, because everyone in their tiny little Omaha town kept telling them, ‘You are so adorable, you should be a movie star.’ They’ve known since practically before they were born that they’re adorable, even when they try to act all macho or geeky, which they secretly know only makes them more adorable. All of which makes you want to slap them, only then they smile, or ride a horse, or take their shirt off and show you their abs, which only makes them more mega-off-the-charts-stop-that-right-now adorable.”
“I hear you,” said Nedda.
“There oughta be a law,” said Kenz, “you can have a killer smile or a killer six-pack, but not both.”
“Guy actors have only one goal above all else,” said Heller.
“What?” I asked.
“They want to make you fall in love with them. They want to make the whole world fall in love with them. That’s their job, on-screen and off. They can’t leave a room until everyone in that room is willing to sign a notarized affidavit saying that they’re in love. If you don’t fall in love or if you hesitate because you’re, oh, I don’t know, reading a book or saving a baby from a forest fire, they get frustrated and try even harder. When you showed up, this innocent little homeschooled geekster space android from the planet Parsippany, it was like Mills’s and Billy’s brains practically exploded. You’re like the entire global viewing audience poured into one God-fearing, wide-eyed, sometimes-I-wear-three-pairs-of-panties-to-muffle-my-farts Singleberry who doesn’t use a speck of makeup or pluck her massive bloated caterpillar unibrow.”
“I can help with that,” Kenz murmured.
Maybe Heller was right, but she was still being so snarky and condescending and besides, the most I’d ever worn was two pairs of underwear.
“What you’re saying,” I decided, “is that I could be anyone, and Mills and Billy just want to make sure that I join their fan clubs and scream and cry whenever I see pictures of them.”
“Bingo,” said Heller. She paused and then, grudgingly, as if it was killing her to admit it: “Fine. Jesus. Fuck me. Newark me. There is one more thing. Mills and Billy are probably tired of hot girls and top models and neurotic actresses. Of needy, please-hold-my-purse, ultra-high-maintenance, motor-mouthed girls like me. You’re the opposite. Of course they’re both falling in love with you. At least a little bit.”
“With me?”
Heller smiled and said, without sneering, “With you.”
Wyatt stuck his head into the bedroom and announced, “We’ve got Tally Marabont from Heads Up, America. Are we ready? Nedda and Kenz, can we do something with Caitlin? In case she’s ever on camera we don’t want anyone to say, ‘Oh my God, there’s a terrorist with one big eyebrow and a blazer! She’s going to force Heller to make a birdhouse out of Popsicle sticks and sell it at a Christmas bazaar!’ ”
* * *
Kenz coaxed me into trimming an inch off my hair and parting it on the side. He added a tiny swipe of blush and dabbed on a very natural-colored lipstick. I allowed him to shape my eyebrows but when I caught him reaching for some eye shadow I yelled, “Stop!” I’d never worn makeup before and I could feel it on my face. I’d never understood why anyone would want to wear makeup because I considered it a form of lying. The Bible says that harlots wore kohl around their eyes and I’d always wondered if Aunt Nancy had considered naming Heller Harlot instead, which would have been perfect.
Kenz told me, “Get over yourself, baby doll. Eye shadow isn’t a lie, it’s just a higher truth. If God didn’t want you to have longer and fuller eyelashes then why did he give us this amazing new twenty-four-hour latex-luster volumizing liquid mascara with fiber-optic micro-beads?”
I could tell that Nedda was itching to get me into a designer outfit, but we finally agreed on a simple dark skirt and a striped blouse along with my Singleberries blazer and a fresh pair of navy-blue kneesocks, although Nedda groused, “You still look like the loneliest girl at boarding school. In Nebraska. In 1957.”
When I stepped into the suite’s main living area it had been transformed into a TV studio. Heller was sitting on a couch in front of two huge Angel Wars posters, one of which featured her in flight, with her wings, and the other a close-up of her face with the halo, which glowed as it floated over her head. There were large industrial-looking lights on metal stands with complicated reflectors, all aimed at Heller. There were men with video cameras strapped to their chests and balanced on their shoulders and Heller was wearing a small microphone clipped to the neckline of her dress. She looked beautiful, with perfect hair and makeup. She looked like a flawless gorgeous movie star playing the role of Heller Harrigan. She looked like a very expensive lie.
“What?” said Heller, who caught me staring at her.
“Nothing! It’s just—you look different.”
“You mean I look like they found my body yesterday and they’ve been embalming me all night.”
“Yes! No!”
“I’m a movie star. This is how people expect me to look.”
A way-too-skinny, way-too-tan, way-too-blonde woman, probably my mom’s age, was seated near Heller. “That’s Tally Marabont,” Wyatt whispered to me. “She’s th
e most popular entertainment-show host in the country and she’s a bitch on wheels.”
As I was about to ask Wyatt if he could avoid using the b-word, and as I was wondering how you’d attach wheels to a B, someone counted, “Five … four … three … two … one, and we’re live! Tally?”
“Hi, I’m Tally Marabont,” said the way-too-everything woman, looking into one of the cameras. Wyatt turned my head toward a video monitor, where I saw that the on camera Tally looked perfectly nice and ten years younger, instead of like a puddle of melted crayons. “It’s called lighting,” Wyatt whispered in my ear. “When she’s off camera Tally scares children.”
“We’re here today with the hottest young star in America,” said Tally, “and possibly on the entire planet, and she’s about to get even hotter, because she’s starring in one of the most anticipated movies of all time. Let’s say hello to the popular and gifted and at times wildly controversial Heller Harrigan!”
“Did she really need to say ‘wildly controversial’?” Wyatt muttered.
“Hey, Tally,” said Heller, with a grin, which made me notice something. In real life whenever Heller grinned, it was as if she couldn’t help herself because she was having such a great time and because she’d just come up with some horrifyingly wicked idea and couldn’t wait to share it. Now her grin looked more careful, as if she’d practiced it and as if she knew that millions of people, and especially Tally, were demanding to see it.
“There’s that billion-dollar grin,” said Tally. “I bet that everywhere you go, people want to see that movie-star smile.”
“That Angel Wars smile,” said Heller.
“Good girl,” Wyatt murmured. “Sell the movie.”
“But, Heller,” said Tally, “you’ve now reached a very highly pressured and potentially nuclear moment in your life. The Angel Wars books have sold more than a hundred million copies all over the world, and when you were first cast as Lynnea, while many fans applauded, there was also a huge public outcry. There are still websites called everything from We Hate Heller to Boycott This Movie, and worse. Far worse. How do you feel about so much hate?”
