Fake Plastic Girl Read online

  Wait, what? I stopped reading. What did “taking it to the next level” mean? And did someone know about what happened last night? Who could have known? We were the only people here.

  My phone vibrated, this time barely appearing on my radar. It was a text from Riley:

  I haven’t heard from you in a really long time. I hope you’re okay and safe. I don’t know how to reach your mom either.

  I clicked DELETE and immediately forgot the message ever existed. I didn’t have the bandwidth to get into it with Riley. I had to pack a bag for San Luis Obispo and choose a hair color by the time Eva-Kate’s colorist showed up at two thirty. I picked robin’s-egg and stuffed it into a pocket in my sweater and held it dearly like an amulet.

  Taking it to the next level? The question rattled around somewhere in the back of my mind. Was that what we were doing? I wanted to ask her but dreaded the answer, whatever it might be. She probably forgot that anything happened, I told myself. Or maybe nothing even did.

  CHAPTER 18

  RED VINES AND A CIGARETTE

  Nobody talks about how frequently Taylor Swift writes lyrics about cars. Most people aren’t really listening to the lyrics, and when they are, they’re not thinking about them. But I am. I hear her lyrics and have no choice but to contemplate them all, sifting through them to find meaning in patterns as if they contain clues to some cosmic truth only Taylor has access to, the source from which she gets her talent and courage and faith and immunity to haters and superhuman energy. I never find the clues, but I do develop overly involved theories and analyses of Taylor Swift lyrics. Mostly it’s the cars I’m fixated with; they’re everywhere.

  1.  In “Tim McGraw,” Taylor’s summer love drives an unreliable pickup truck that often gets stuck on back roads at night.

  2.  In “Fearless,” Taylor asks this love interest to drive slow until they run out of road, then she says she never wants to leave the passenger seat.

  3.  In “Fifteen,” Taylor’s first date is with a guy on the football team who very impressively has his own car.

  4.  In “You Belong with Me,” Taylor’s friend and secret crush drives to her house in the middle of the night.

  5.  In “Back to December,” Taylor recalls watching her ex laughing from the passenger side.

  6.  In “Treacherous,” Taylor notices headlights shining in the night, presumably on a car being driven by the treacherous love interest she knows she should avoid. But can’t.

  7.  In “All Too Well,” a boyfriend we’ve come to believe is Jake Gyllenhaal almost runs a red light because he’s busy looking over at Taylor.

  8.  In “Style,” the headlights are turned off as Taylor and boyfriend embark on a long drive that has potential to end in “paradise” OR in total destruction.

  9.  And on Reputation, Taylor tells her most epic automobile story to date in “Getaway Car,” in which she uses Bonnie and Clyde as an analogy for her escape from not one but two different relationships. In the second verse she hops into the passenger seat of a new man’s car and essentially tells him to step on it.

  A quick Google search will give you lists of Taylor’s car references, but what you can’t find is any talk of what all these lyrics have in common. They’re all about male, reckless drivers and/or about Taylor’s position as the passenger. Though most often it’s both: Taylor in the passenger seat of a car being driven dangerously by a man. You can look again if you don’t believe me, go ahead.

  Why is she so drawn to men who drive like maniacs? I can’t really know. Maybe it’s the element of thrill and danger that makes her feel alive, a feeling she’s lost touch with living up in her ivory tower. Second question: Why is she always in the passenger seat? Why, in her repeated use of car imagery, does she never take the wheel? Seems to me like, in spite of all her fame and fortune, Taylor Swift is still caged in by antiquated patriarchal values. But I’m not saying this in the “Taylor Swift isn’t a feminist” way that everyone loves to do—she is a feminist, and I could argue that to the death—I’m just observing that the code of the patriarchy is so deeply entrenched in the collective unconscious that even an unstoppable powerhouse like Taylor Swift hasn’t totally felt comfortable getting into the driver’s seat of her own life.

  * * *

  This is what I was thinking from the passenger seat of Eva-Kate’s Audi as she rocketed us north on the 101 freeway, Princess Leia asleep and softly snoring on my lap. Josie sat in the back seat, looking vaguely hungover with her bedraggled brown hair hanging heavily over waxy-white cheeks. She had her spidery legs pulled into her chest and she wrapped her arms around them, typing vehemently on her new iPhone X. I tried to read her face from its reflection in the right-side mirror. It said something like nausea and resentment. I felt a little bit bad for her and worried I was taking her spot in the passenger seat. I wouldn’t blame her for resenting me. But I also wasn’t going to offer up my seat. I finally understood that I belonged there.

  I swiveled my gaze to the side mirror and grinned uncontrollably, my face possessed by the unfamiliar feeling of satisfaction. Seeing my new mermaid-blue hair blowing in the wind would never get old.

  “Can we stop here for a minute?” Josie asked when we neared the exit to Solvang. “I need Red Vines and a cigarette.”

  “There are Red Vines under your seat and a spare pack of Parliaments in that console to your left,” Eva-Kate said. “We’re not stopping at those stupid fucking Danish windmills. I’m sick of redneck tourists telling me to go fuck myself whenever I won’t pose for a photo.”

  CHAPTER 19

  EMOTIONAL SUPPORT GIRL

  We made it to the Madonna Inn by 5:00 P.M., the sun still a painful, tingling blister in the sky. Eva-Kate sent Josie to get our keys, then pulled me in by my waist to take a selfie. I saw Josie roll her eyes at us before pulling open the door to the imitation Swiss chalet lobby and disappearing inside.

  “She gets grumpy,” Eva-Kate said, absently swiping through filters. “Forgets she literally begged me for this job.”

  I bent down to clip Princess Leia onto her leash and considered how to respond, but couldn’t think of anything. I was getting grumpy too; three hours in the car without stopping had me starving and carsick, too light-headed to know what I wanted, let alone how to ask for it.

  “She’ll be fine,” I said, squinting into the glare of sun bouncing off an entire lot of windshields.

  “Damn straight she will be,” she agreed, surveying the cars as they drove into the lot. “Let’s just hope she doesn’t take too long. I’m carsick as fuck and need to be poolside ASAP.”

  A wind picked up, blowing through Eva-Kate’s freshly flamingo-pink hair. She laughed, shaking the effulgent locks off her face, peeling away the strands that caught in her lipstick.

  * * *

  Our room was in a pseudo-Swiss alpine chalet with heavy storybook vibes and 1980s kitsch. To get there we had to climb three flights of white wood doily-patterned spiral stairs to the very top, Josie carrying our bags the whole way. When I insisted on carrying my own, Eva-Kate put her hand against my cheek and said:

  “Don’t be ridiculous. You’re my guest, and my guests don’t carry luggage.”

  I made a point of avoiding the look on Josie’s face then. I knew it would be devastating.

  The rooms at the Madonna Inn have their own unique themes. Ours was “Just Heaven,” a gaudy rendition of the afterlife decorated with French canopy chairs, golden cherub chandeliers, and white satin throw pillows looking like clouds on top of the baby-blue shag carpeting that climbed up a spiral staircase in the center of the room, leading to a stained glass spire with a view of the rolling hills of San Luis Obispo and the 101 freeway cutting through.

  Josie’s room was one floor beneath ours and called “Traveler’s Yacht.”

  “You don’t have to feel bad for her,” Eva-Kate assured me once we were alone our room. “She likes having her own space. And besides, our room only has one bed, so
where would she sleep, you know?”

  “Sure.” I nodded. But Eva-Kate had misread my energy. I didn’t feel bad for Josie. I felt bad about not feeling bad for her.

  * * *

  “I’m gonna need to see some ID,” the poolside bartender said as soon as he saw us approaching. He was scrawny with uneven facial hair, like he could have been a teenager himself, and wore a tie-dyed T-shirt that read: I’d rather be in San Luis Obispo.

  In LA we never had to use fake IDs, Eva-Kate knew all the bouncers (or they knew her), and I’d come to assume we could get in anywhere without batting an eyelash. Though if an eyelash had to be batted from time to time, Eva-Kate was more than happy to oblige.

  “It would be my pleasure,” Eva-Kate said then, opening her wallet and, with an easy flick of her wrist, produced two California driver’s licenses with our faces on them. She held them out to him in a two-card fan, standing with the confidence of knowing she had a winning hand, but a face that would never give it away.

  “Mary Martins and Scarlett Seyfried,” he read from the IDs, tilting them back and forth, checking for their holographic seals. “What’ll you be having?”

  “A strawberry daiquiri for me.” She accepted the cards back from him with a gracious smile. “And Scarlett over here will have the mojito.”

  “Also strawberry?” he asked.

  “Also strawberry,” she said, running the corner of her AmEx lightly against her bottom lip.

  We drank our strawberry concoctions poolside as the sun set. A handful of patrons lounged on chairs around us or sat perched at the bar beneath a rotunda gazebo. Aside from the occasional brief double take, nobody paid us much attention, which was both a relief and a disappointment. I was beginning to develop a love/hate romance with being stared at by strangers.

  “Stay right like that.” Eva-Kate, in a string bikini and silk kimono robe, took out her phone and snapped a picture of me reclined in my chair, a wide-brimmed sun hat casting my eyes in shadow. “What a fucking muse,” she raved, furiously typing out a caption. “You are the light of my life. And of my Instagram.”

  I smiled weakly, the compliment eclipsed by concern for what I looked like in the picture she was now broadcasting to her millions of followers. She’d put me in the same tiny bikini she had on, only I didn’t have a robe to cover up. I sensed that I was dangerously exposed, and had to suck down as much of the fruity rum as I could to feel at ease in my skin.

  Eva-Kate put her phone away and slipped herself onto my chair so that she was pressed up against me. My heart stopped so suddenly I almost wished she’d move away. I needed some tiny sliver of space between us to keep her electric magnetism from overpowering me. But I’d never tell her that. She had me caught her in tidal pull and the only thing I’d ever tell her was yes.

  “I don’t always have the best instincts,” she said, running her hand up my thigh. It felt unreasonably, unbearably sublime, like a pixie planting a million kisses, sending shivers from head to toe. “But I am such a genius for bringing you here. Everything is so much better when you’re next to me.”

  “Oh, stop.” I had to laugh. Though she had me undeniably spellbound, her imperfections were glaring, and that saccharine use of hyperbole was a big one. “I know you don’t mean that.”

  “What?” She looked hurt. “Of course I do!”

  “Wait, actually?” I saw something strikingly genuine in her face and swallowed hard.

  “Uh, yeah, actually.” She smiled, our faces so close together I thought I could taste her lipstick. “Why else would I keep you around? You’re my emotional support girl.”

  “I am so sorry to interrupt you!” A trio of twelve-year-olds appeared at our side, adorably jittery and blushing. The girl who spoke was the tallest of the group and wore a T-shirt with the Victoria’s Secret PINK logo emblazoned in college font.

  “Yes?” Eva-Kate smiled up at the girl but withheld her acceptance of the apology.

  “We just wanted to say hi, and we’re, umm, just, like—”

  “We’re huge fans and we love you!” another one of the girls blurted. She had on a silver one-piece and wore her rusty red hair in an endearingly neat ponytail.

  “Clara!” the third one scolded. “You said you’d be cool.”

  “Oh, but she is cool,” Eva-Kate assured them. “You all are. What are your names? I know this is Clara, and who are you two?”

  “I’m Elise,” said the tallest one, bursting with excitement. “And this is Jessica.”

  “Jess,” the third friend corrected her giddily.

  “Great to meet you.” Eva-Kate took the time to shake their hands. “And this is my friend—”

  “It’s Justine!” Clara squealed, seeing my face beneath the hat.

  “Obvi.” Jess gripped Clara’s arm and waved shyly at me.

  “You … you know who I am?” I had to bite down hard on my lip to keep from drowning out their giddiness with my own.

  “Are you joking?” Jess stared. “You’re Justine Childs, everyone knows who you are.”

  “You have one hundred and twenty thousand followers,” Clara informed me, making my list of top five favorite people of all time.

  “We all love your new hair,” said Elise. “Everyone is talking about it.”

  “OhmyGod, no one is going to believe we met them,” Clara said to her friends.

  “So true,” Jess agreed. “Can you believe we almost didn’t come down to the pool? This would have just never happened.”

  “Well, hey, why don’t we get a pic together?” suggested Eva-Kate. “Then your friends will have to believe you, right?”

  The girls glanced starry-eyed between one another like they couldn’t fathom what they’d done to deserve such luck. The luck of being in our presence, not just Eva-Kate’s but mine too. Elise ran back to their chairs to get her selfie stick and we huddled in together with me and Eva-Kate in the middle. Any insecurity I’d had about my bikini body vanished. I had fans. People who knew my name. People who wanted to take a picture with me. Sure, they were twelve-year-old girls, but twelve-year-old girls are the future.

  This was all I’d ever wanted. And it felt fucking good.

  CHAPTER 20

  BABY’S FIRST PAYCHECK

  What the fuck is wrong with you, Justine?

  We were sitting at a pink pleather booth in the Madonna Inn restaurant for 1:00 P.M. breakfast when a text came through from Riley. This time I bit:

  Excuse me? I typed back, half distracted by Eva-Kate and Josie, who I could see laughing out of the corner of my eye. The vague animosity between them seemed to have lifted. They were admiring the bedazzled hearts hanging from the ceiling and the tree trunks that grew through the room from floor to ceiling.

  “It’s like the Rainforest Cafe, but for love.” Eva-Kate giggled, getting out her phone.

  You haven’t responded to any of my texts but I know you’re getting them. I see you posting on Instagram. Why are you ignoring me?

  I wrote back: I’m not. I just need my space.

  Riley: I got through to your mom. Your parents got divorced? And you didn’t tell me? I don’t get it, what the fuck is going on?

  A lump formed in my throat. I didn’t like her throwing my own life in my face. That was my business and for me to regulate.

  Me: They didn’t get divorced. They’re GETTING divorced. It’s a weird time and I need some space, okay?

  Riley: No, it’s not okay. Why do you think you can just cut your friends out on a whim without bothering to give an explanation? Don’t you care at all about hurting people? Don’t you think we deserve to at least hear why you won’t return our calls or texts?

  Me: Honestly, Riley, I don’t know what you do or don’t deserve, but I know it’s not my job to explain myself to you. I don’t owe that to you or anybody else.

  A few minutes went by and I had almost begun to believe that was the end of it. But she came back with one more text, always having to get the last word:

  I’ve alw
ays suspected you never really cared about anyone other than yourself, but now I know it for sure. It’s called sociopathy, Justine, you’re a sociopath.

  I flipped my phone facedown so I could begin the process of forgetting this ever happened. You don’t care what Riley thinks anyway, I told myself. She’s never wanted you to be happy. That’s why you stopped responding to her in the first place.

  “Justine, you okay?” Eva-Kate lifted my chin with her finger, drawing my eyes to hers.

  “Yeah.” I forced a smile. “Just a dumb text from an old friend. What did I miss?”

  “We ordered enough cake to kill a small child,” Josie boasted. She seemed to think this was something to be proud of, though I couldn’t see how. “We’ll never eat it all, but we absolutely one hundred percent need it for the photo op.”

  “They’re called pink champagne cakes and they’re like a foot tall, sprinkled with big sugar granules that look like diamonds.”

  “And you always think they’re about to fall over but they never do.”

  “In the breakfast nook on the set of Jennie we had these pristine pancakes I used to absolutely drool over. They weren’t real, they were just plastic, but my mind must have never really understood that, because I craved them anyway.” She laughed at herself, then retreated into the memory. Though her eyes stayed open, they were glassy and blank. It was clear she had gone somewhere else entirely.

  “She gets trance-y like this,” Josie assured me. “It happens when she remembers shooting Jennie and Jenny. I think it’s a happy place for her, she feels safe there.”

  I know that, I wanted to tell Josie, feeling possessive. I’ve been living with her for over two weeks, remember?

  “I’m trance-y, not in a trance.” Eva-Kate blinked and took a big gulp of ice water from her chalice. “I can still hear you.”

  Our waitress appeared, balancing the towers of pink champagne cakes. They looked so amusingly cartoonish, and so did she in her traditional Swiss dress uniform with a white doily apron and her dirty-blond hair pulled up into tight Swiss braids on top of her head.