Fake Plastic Girl Read online

  “They do not,” I protested.

  “Oh yeah?” She took out her phone and opened Instagram, then handed the phone to me. “Just scroll through the comments. Take your time.”

  I couldn’t believe what I was reading. I didn’t want to see these horrible things people were writing, but I also couldn’t look away:

  @MiMiKaye: You think you’re so pretty but you’re legit #forgettable.

  @JonesSoJones: Ew. My cat is a better actress than this wannabe.

  @Freestyle4miles: Eva-Kate Kelly should probably be dead. The world would be a better place.

  @Billybob_Dylan: Eva-Kate Kelly is an actual whore. I hope she chokes on a dick and dies.

  @Lisa_Martina: What a sick excuse for a female role model. I swear this girl has bubble gum for brains. And she thinks she’s this smart, interesting activist or something—shut up, bitch, no one cares what you think!

  @MaddieMad: Haha look how much weight she gained! So fat now. That’s karma for just overall sucking.

  @ZephyrBitch: How ironic that EKK was the poster girl for ending teenage suicide, when she’s the one who should actually kill herself.

  @Robin6060: Eva-Kate Kelly doesn’t deserve to be alive.

  @Honey_SugarSugar: Eva-Kate Kelly should die, am I right? Talentless loser. LOL.

  @THEXtinaFox: Does anyone else think this whore has a pig nose? Lmfao.

  @ChillinVillin: It’s not that she’s even that bad of an actress, sometimes I think she’s actually kind of good? But the thing is her face and her personality are so annoying they make me want to gouge her eyes out. Or my own eyes out. Or both.

  @Katy.Kat2012: Why do all the good celebrities die while ppl like Eva-Kate Kelly get to live?

  @These_prohibited_pieces: I hope you die, ya Barbie.

  “This is awful.” I passed the phone back to her. “Some people are so…”

  “Pathetic. Sad. Desperate losers.”

  “I don’t know how you deal with it.”

  “I barely can. The effort it takes to keep shaking it off is just…” She popped her eyes and let out an exasperated whistle. “Sometimes I think it could kill me.”

  “It would kill me.” I nodded vehemently. “You’re so strong.”

  “Eh.” She shrugged off the compliment. “I don’t know about that. I remind myself that haters are a quality problem, even a luxury. I try to think of them as accessories.”

  “That’s brilliant.”

  “How’ve you been dealing with it, by the way? The Insta trolls. Surely you’re acquiring some.”

  “I don’t look. I can’t.”

  “Then you’re much smarter than I am. And stronger. Just like I suspected.”

  “You could ignore them too.”

  “Sometimes I think I’m addicted. Sometimes hate can feel like love.”

  “Well, I don’t know how anyone could hate you.”

  “They don’t really hate me, I’ve had to learn that over the years. They hate themselves and they project that onto me. Some of them are jealous. Some of them are just lonely. A lot of them don’t see me as a real person, they think I’m larger than life, untouchable, so I couldn’t possibly be hurt by what they say.”

  “But you are hurt. You’re…”

  “It’s not even them I care about, they’re idiots, they don’t know me. I care about the people who know me, the people closest to me. It’s their respect that I want.”

  “But don’t you have that?”

  “HA!” She threw her head back like it was the most absurd thing she’d heard in her whole life. “Of course I don’t. My entire family hates me, and I hate them. My friends are only my friends because they think hanging around me is good for their careers, but soon they’re gonna realize they’re wrong. They’re gonna realize I’m falling off the radar and they’ll disappear. Rob realized it and look what happened to him. Someone told him it wasn’t good for his image to keep dating a starlet famous for some dumb sitcom that no one even liked—”

  “Oh please, everyone loved Jennie and Jenny.”

  “Sure.” She finished off her drink. “The moronic masses did, they’ll eat that shit up. Don’t know any better. But the critics, anyone who really matters, they all know Jennie and Jenny was trash. Sugary, overlit, oversaturated trash. And what have I done since then? Nothing. The fans are waiting for a second act. My managers tell me if I don’t have my second act soon, the world will lose interest. They’ll forget about me. I’ll be a fixture of the past.”

  “That’s not true! You were in Summer Solstice … you were nominated for a People’s Choice Award. And then you did that other movie, uh, the remake of … was it The Breakfast Club?”

  “It was Pretty in Pink and it practically ruined me. Nobody saw it. The PAs all leaked stories about me being a nightmare to work with. No one will hire me after that. So, what now? Modeling, music video appearances. Party appearances. Nothing to take seriously. I’m uneducated, homeschooling was a total joke. The last book I read was Lauren Conrad’s autobiography. And I didn’t even finish it. I have no talents. I’m not special. I’m just a child star burning out. This is not the second act they’re expecting from me.” She got up and went to pour herself another drink.

  “That’s absurd. But even if it were true, you’re a human being, you don’t have to be … entertainment. You don’t have to be impressive. You can just be you.”

  “But that’s the thing.” She looked scared then, carrying her glass back to bed and bringing the whiskey bottle along. “I don’t think I have a ‘me.’ Not anymore.”

  “What does that mea—”

  “I’ve been Eva-Kate for so long, this persona, this character, this … doll, that I can’t find the real me. She got lost under all this plastic. I buried her, and I don’t think I can dig her out.”

  “Okay.” I sat very still to try to counter her spiraling. “I know that’s not true. You’re being too hard on yourself. Let’s…” I laced my fingers together and shifted my weight back and forth the way my mom always did when she was about to give an unsolicited psychological analysis. “Let’s figure this out. Who…” I was timid but driven by a fierce curiosity. “Who is the real you? Who is the buried girl?”

  “You sound like such a therapist,” she said solemnly, looking up at the ceiling, then back at me. “Evelyn Kathleen. That’s who I was before the auditions and the beauty pageants. We were Evelyn Kathleen and Elizabeth Jane McKelvoy. Then Liza quit and almost ruined my whole fucking life. But she didn’t, and that’s when I decided I was going to be a star. And if I was going to be a star, I couldn’t be Evelyn Kathleen McKelvoy. I had to have a star’s name. I had to be Eva-Kate Kelly.”

  “And what was Evelyn like? What are the qualities you buried with her?”

  “I don’t know,” she snapped. “She was only seven. I have no real memories of her, it’s like she never was. I’ve been a fantasy of a person for literally as long as I can remem—do you know the song ‘Fake Plastic Trees’ by Radiohead?”

  I nodded, trying to recall the lyrics.

  “That’s me,” she said. “Especially the third verse. The third verse has always made me so sad. Because that’s all I am.”

  She looked at me expectantly, like I should know the third verse and be consoling her by this point, telling her it wasn’t true.

  “I … how does the third verse go?” I asked finally.

  Eva-Kate closed her eyes and sighed.

  “She looks like the real thing, she tastes like the real thing, my fake plastic love.”

  “Oh.”

  “I seem real, I can make you think I’m real, but I’m just a fake plastic girl. And that’s why Rob can’t love me. He craves the real deal and he always will. Someone with a pulse, not some fraudulent human his agent hitched him to.”

  “Can I be honest? I’m so sick of this ‘real’ bullshit. Why do guys get to decide what it means to be a real girl? No one can tell you you’re not real. That’s not right.”

  “Peop
le should have substance,” she lamented, ignoring what I’d said. “People shouldn’t improvise who they are from moment to moment. Rob said Liza is honest about herself, unafraid to be herself, he says I am the way I am out of cowardice. He says I’m too empty to love.”

  “Then he’s an idiot,” I said, feeling my cheeks get hot. I hated that she made him a god in her mind when he didn’t deserve even a fraction of her. “He’s blind and ungrateful, and if he really thinks you’re a fake plastic girl, then he doesn’t get it. He doesn’t know you.” It felt good to hate him, it made it easy to believe everything he’d said outside the Roosevelt was bullshit. He has it all wrong; he doesn’t understand who she really is.

  “But you do?” she said, more curious than irked. She reached again for the Lagavulin and poured what was left of it into her glass, then got to work emptying the glass.

  “No—I don’t know. I know you enough to know you’re a living human girl at your core whether other people see it or not. I don’t buy this plastic story you’re telling yourself. Evelyn exists even if you’ve only been letting people see Eva-Kate.”

  “Maybe.”

  “And who is Rob to say what you are? I’m so sick of guys thinking they can define us with one word. Like, am I supposed to be flattered when a guy tells me I’m a ‘tough’ girl or a ‘real’ girl, as if the other girls he knows are weak and fake? It’s just a way for them to feel powerful by pitting us against each other, and then against ourselves. And guess what?” The alcohol was alchemizing into liquid courage. I spoke with more conviction. “There are no such things as basic bitches. Only bitches you haven’t gotten to know yet.”

  She thought this over quietly with a stone-cold stare, then broke into a giggle.

  “Ruby says I can cast a spell to make him love me. I tried it but it didn’t do anything. Of course.” She rolled her eyes. “Don’t ever tell anyone I even entertained the idea, it’s beyond embarrassing.”

  “You know I wouldn’t.” If she had heard any of what I said, it was water off a duck’s back now.

  “Do you want to see it?”

  “See what?”

  “The love spell Ruby taught me.”

  “Oh. Sure.” I didn’t want to see the spell. I had a sinking feeling that something bad would happen if I did. If I tallied everything I’d had to drink that day, it added up to too much and I was getting a little dizzy, realizing I’d forgotten to eat.

  “Naw.” She smiled slyly. “Only if you really want to.”

  “I really want to,” I said.

  “Yay!” She sprang up and dragged a footstool to her bookshelf, then stepped onto it, barefoot and on tippy toes. She reached for items one by one and stored them in the crook of her elbow, then hopped down and brought them back to where we were sitting, hiding them dramatically behind her back.

  “These are the ritual gloves,” she said, slipping her hands into two supple leather gloves. “And thiiiiis is the crystal ball,” she said in a mock-spooky voice, producing a transparent sphere about the size of a Magic 8 Ball and placing it onto the white duvet. It sank into the fabric, making a deep crater.

  “Here we have…,” she announced, setting down a gold-plated wine goblet, “the chalice!” She took out a ziplock bag of salt from the goblet and set it to the side.

  “It’s … pretty,” I said, noticing a hint of rust forming along the rim.

  “And last but so very not least … drumroll, please … badum-ch! The athame!” From behind her back she whipped out a five-inch dagger and grinned wildly at it. The handle was painted white with tiny cornflowers and tied with a green tulle bow. “Oooooooh,” she cooed, waving it around like a wand, “so shiny.”

  “What’s that for?” I asked, leaning away. She had a loose grip on the handle and I didn’t want to be an accidental casualty.

  “For blood!” She licked her lips.

  “Wait, seriously? Whose?”

  “No, not seriously. I’m just kidding. It’s for, like, direction or … symbolism … I don’t really know.”

  “But it’s part of the spell?”

  “I think so.” She squinted at the sacred objects laid out on the bed, then at the athame, then back at the objects. “There’s a sliiiight chance I may have forgotten how to do this.”

  “You don’t have to,” I told her, relieved, wanting to see her safely tucked into bed and for this day to be over. “Let’s go to slee—”

  “Blood of a lamb!” she recalled excitedly. “No matter the spell, my mom always used blood of a lamb.”

  “Your mom?”

  “My mom is a practicing witch. The bad kind. Once upon a time, this athame was hers. Wasn’t hard to get emancipated after I could prove that. Little-known fact: She got Liza into it too. They’re both all about their rituals and enchantments and curses. Much darker shit than love spells. Here, hold it, feels really empowering.”

  “Okay … but you just said you were joking about the blood.” I let her take my hands and guide them around the handle.

  “Did I?” She kept her hands wrapped around mine and held them there.

  “Uh, yeah. You did.”

  “Weird.” She bit her bottom lip. “I must have meant human blood. The coven never used human blood—at least that I know of—but there was definitely lamb blood. Lots and lots of lamb blood.” She giggled uncomfortably and sighed, drifting into the memory.

  “No,” I snapped then, pulling my hands out of her grasp so that the dagger fell to the bed. “This is ridiculous. I can’t listen to this anymore. You don’t need spells, okay? You’re … you’re completely perfect as you are, and if Rob doesn’t see that, I swear to God he’s—”

  “You think I’m perfect?”

  “You know what, yeah, I do.” I was wasted. She was too. I hoped too wasted to remember any of what I was about to say, because once I’d started it felt like a crime to stop. “I think you’re from another dimension. I think you’re light-years too good for Rob and he doesn’t deserve to date one fraction of you let alone all of you. I don’t think you’re a fake plastic girl, I think you’re the realest girl I’ve ever met, and anybody who thinks you’re fake just can’t handle the fact that your spirit is … larger than life. Those people want the girl next door but you’re so much more than that.”

  “Oh my God,” she whispered, completely stunned, reaching for my cheeks and stroking them lightly, fingertips just barely touching my skin. “You understand me. You’re the only person who—” She leaned in and pressed her lips to mine, kissing me desperately. I stiffened and held on to her hands, which had moved down to my collarbones.

  “Eva-Kate, we’re really drunk,” I said as gently and steadily as I could.

  “Doesn’t matter.” She shook her head. “You understand me and I need to show you how much that means to me. If I were sober I’d want the same thing. Promise.” She looked me directly in the eye without blinking and I knew she was telling the truth.

  “Okay,” I acquiesced, letting her kiss me again, this time slipping her hands under my dress.

  “Justine,” she whispered, “I’m gonna give them a second act they never forget.”

  “I know that,” I said, shivering. Her hands were cold as metal, just like the blade of her athame. “You don’t have to prove yourself.”

  “Wait.” She pulled away and a light went on in her eyes as if she’d just returned into her body. “Have you done this before? Have you ever been with a girl?”

  “No…” I wiped the back of my hand against my mouth and sat back, embarrassed. “I’ve never been with—”

  “You’ve never been with anyone,” she remembered. “That’s right. I’m sorry, that was dumb to even ask.”

  “It’s okay, I don’t mind.” I shrugged and kept my shoulders lifted, too tense to know what to do with myself. “Have … you? Been with a girl.”

  “Tons of times.” She put her hands on my cheeks, then moved them down so that they cupped my jawbone. “But always just for fun. Not like this.�
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  I couldn’t ask what she meant by not like this because she was kissing me again and I wanted so much more to kiss her than to ask any questions.

  She tasted like grenadine and her lips were softer than seemed possible or human, as if the tiniest bite would cut right through, unraveling spools of tightly wound silk, leaving the toothy socket of her mouth open and exposed. So I was gentle. And passive. I let her take the lead and played the role of the first timer, the shy but open-minded student, obediently taking whispered directions, making my body lithe and pliable to her brazen hands.

  As an actress herself, I wondered if she could tell I was acting. And if acting was a form of lying, could she tell that I was lying? The truth was, I had been with a girl before. Many times. And it was something I’d never told anyone. Her name was Annabel, and her room was on the same floor as mine at Bellflower. Long black hair, dark, frightened eyes. At just fourteen she was bipolar and paranoid, convinced the government was controlling us through chemicals they put in our food. At night when the nurses switched shifts, there was a brief moment when no one was keeping guard. We were expected to be in bed with the lights out, but Annabel used this narrow window of time to slip into my room, nimble and evanescent as a black cat in the night. She wasn’t gentle with me, so I wasn’t gentle with her. We clawed at each other, wanting our clipped nails to leave a mark, both of us trying to help the other feel something. We bit each other’s lips hard, drawing blood. We slapped each other’s faces, gripped our hands around each other’s necks, all of it without making a sound. Getting caught was one thing we couldn’t risk. And for this reason we never took our clothes off. A nurse could help herself to our unlocked door at any moment, and we had to be prepared.

  So, when Eva-Kate lifted my dress up over my head, she became the first person to see me naked. Every muscle in my body cringed with an awful blend of dread and exhilaration. My mind wanted me to hide, but my body needed to be seen, and I hated it for that. Without her clothes on, Eva-Kate was a goddess cut from marble, and beside her, underneath her, I felt too real, more real than I’d ever wanted to believe. Inescapably real and crazy-stupid vulnerable. With Eva-Kate’s body so fresh and current and tangible, the memory of Annabel felt tenuous, even false. I’d never told anybody about her, and she’d been dead for … What was it, three years? A painful lump formed in my throat when I realized I might never be able to prove to myself that she’d existed. I worried that when I fell asleep, this night with Eva-Kate would fade into the past and also become impossible to prove. I watched her fall asleep and then stared into the burgundy void of her canopy, willing my eyes to stay open, my eyelids heavy as two anvils. It became a competition, me against sleep. I thought as long as I kept my eyes open I could stay awake forever and set this moment as the new default present, safe from the smoke and mirrors of memory. But even with eyelids forced open, sleep snuck up behind me like a tidal wave and pulled me under.