Fake Plastic World Read online

  “And expose yourself to the paparazzi again? The reporters? Not to mention the legions of parasitic teens with their camera phones. I know what they can do, Justine; they can ruin you. I’ve seen it. Too many times.”

  “If I don’t go…,” I said, knowing how I’d convince her. “If I don’t go, I’ll look guilty. All her other friends will be there. Tell me how you think it will look if I’m not.”

  She bit down on the inside of her cheek and looked diagonally away from me, down to the floor, where Princess Leia was gnawing fiercely at her own paw.

  “Yes, fine, you’re right,” she conceded finally. “But you need to dye your hair back first. This blue is … disturbing.”

  I rolled my eyes. Of course she thought it was disturbing. Anything I did without her permission was disturbing.

  “I’ll go pick up the dye,” I said.

  “Nice try,” she acknowledged, standing up and plucking her computer off my wilderness of blankets. “Anything else you need at Walgreens?”

  If you see my old life, I thought, the one where you weren’t here and Eva-Kate was still alive.

  “No, thank you.”

  “If you think of anything, text me.”

  “I don’t have a phone,” I told her. “It broke.”

  “What happened to it?”

  “It broke,” I said again, remembering how I’d smashed it to pieces the night Eva-Kate died.

  “Well, you’ll need a phone,” she said uneasily. “You can have my old one. I’ll stop by Verizon on my way home to have them program it.”

  I didn’t know how to tell her I could afford my own phone, nor did I want to. Having my own money gave me power, and keeping it a secret multiplied the power exponentially. If I let her know about it, I’d be giving some of that power away. They say you’re only as sick as your secrets, but sometimes your secrets keep you safe.

  When I was sure she was gone, I padded out into the living room. I took an unopened bottle of Seagram’s and hauled it back to bed with me. I looked around for a glass but gave up easily and drank from the open neck.

  Oh, thank God, I thought, swallowing. I would have said the words out loud but chose to keep my mouth shut to savor the burn of whiskey pouring down my throat. It was my first drink since they’d dragged me from the Ace, since learning Eva-Kate was gone, and it felt heaven-sent. I drank until I felt a sweet and merciful relief from the grip Eva-Kate had on me. She held me tighter than ever now that she was dead.

  From my window I could see the scene outside her house with a few people starting to gather again. Maybe my mom was right that I shouldn’t have gone over there, but I was glad I had. It’s almost always the boyfriend, Josie had said, or in this case, the ex-boyfriend.

  She was right, of course, and I should have thought of it on my own. Rob Donovan. Eva-Kate had been blackmailing him, that was as good of a motive as there’d ever be. I knew where he lived. Too bad I’d found myself under house arrest. And even if I were free to go, was I ready to see more of my face speckled across digital tabloid pages? It’s what I used to dream about, what I’d always wanted, but not like this. So I’d hide from them, keep my head low. I prayed Rob was stupid enough to be at the funeral.

  CHAPTER 4

  JUSTINE CHILDS ATTENDS EVA-KATE KELLY FUNERAL … WEARING BLUE

  The morning of the funeral I woke up early with a bad feeling. I wanted her back, and I couldn’t have her. Knowing she would soon be six feet under made the whole thing official, irreversible. There was nothing to be done and I panicked, just like I panic whenever I think about how there’s nothing to be done about the inevitability of my own death.

  The doctors and counselors at Bellflower would smile and say things like, There’s nothing you can do about it, so there’s no point in panicking! I don’t know what planet these people were living on, but on my planet, helplessness is in no way a good argument for a laid-back mentality. They’d say it as if it were good news, as if I could finally choose to relax, as if I had that choice.

  My panic is inhuman, with a mind and a plan of its own, and when it rolls in, it constricts my throat, it constricts my chest, it constricts my veins so the blood can’t flow and my vision so that all I can see is a tunnel of white light sucking me away from myself. I popped half a Xanax and swallowed it with a swig of Seagram’s. According to the pink Kit-Cat Klock, it was barely six in the morning.

  In the bathroom I found a box of Garnier Nutrisse hair dye waiting for me on the sink counter. The box read: Nourishing Color Creme, #413 Bronze Sugar. Lazy and impatient, I put on the recommended rubber gloves and streaked the chemical compounds through my hair. The smell of hydrogen peroxide and ammonia made my eyes water. It stung the inside of my nostrils every time I inhaled. But I didn’t hate it. I almost liked it, like if I inhaled deep enough that radical sting could clean out my brain with a swish.

  The shower water turned brown when I rinsed out the dye, a rusty brown like dried-up blood. Peering down at it gave me vertigo. My knees wobbled. I turned the tap off and wrapped myself in a towel. Then the towel, once a pure vanilla white, was smudged with that ghastly shade of brown. Oops, I thought, wrapping myself tighter. Nothing I can do about it, so why worry? That was the Xanax talking.

  Knowing the paparazzi would be at the funeral, I decided this could be my second chance. When they’d caught me outside Eva-Kate’s arguing with Josie I had on a black hoodie and no shoes. My Kool-Aid–blue hair hadn’t even been brushed. I’d looked feral and cartoonish. This time, I promised to nobody in particular, it would be different.

  I spent an hour blow-drying, dragging the dryer through my hair following the curve of a conical brush until my newly bronze sugar hair hung in soft but structured waves. I don’t know how long I stood there staring at my reflection; it could have been a minute, it could have been hours.

  I became transfixed, examining the brutal myriad of my flaws. Up close in the foggy glass my pores looked cavernous. I imagined ants crawling across my face and getting stuck. The scars from long-gone zits left a discolored trail along my left jaw. I found milia spreading on the skin around my eyes, dead cells clumped together to form little white dots like sentences in braille. Inadequate, they read.

  I locked the door and unearthed my mother’s supply of makeup from drawers beneath the marble counter. Rejects, I assumed, otherwise they would’ve gone along for the vacation. I smoothed Clinique Buttermilk liquid foundation over every inch of my face and blotted it with Lancôme Translucence setting powder. I looked like a ghost. I dabbed Laura Mercier Pink Rose blush onto my cheekbones. Then I looked like a clown. Hot tears sprang to my eyes.

  A knock on the bathroom door made me jump.

  “Justine, are you in there?”

  “Yeah, uh, one minute.” I shuffled the makeup back into the drawers and shoved the stained towel into the sink base cabinet, then pulled my bathrobe on and unlocked the door.

  “What’s wrong?” my mother asked when she saw my face. I didn’t know if she was referring to my tears or to the frightening makeup job I’d done on myself. It could have been either. Or both. I cried harder then. I couldn’t stop.

  “I look awful,” I gasped between sobs. “I can’t believe this is what I look like.”

  “Honey, honey.” She snatched two tissues from a box with a practiced flick of her wrist, used them to wipe my tears. “It’s fine, we’ll just take it off.”

  She meant the makeup, but it was my face I wanted off. She unscrewed a jar of Pond’s Cold Cream, appraising me out of the corner of one eye.

  “I don’t have anything to wear to the funeral,” I sniffed, realizing anything cute I owned was now lost to the crime scene of Eva-Kate’s mansion. I let her clean my face. I didn’t have it in me to resist, especially not with the sunny Xanax buzz settling in.

  “That’s ridiculous. Wear the black velvet dress Aunt Jillian got you.”

  “That dress is from Old Navy,” I said, my voice becoming hollow and a little dazed. “I’m not wea
ring Old Navy to Eva-Kate Kelly’s funeral.”

  “Nobody will be able to tell where it’s from, Justine.”

  I laughed.

  “Right,” I said, “influencers in couture can never spot low-quality off-the-rack.”

  She just didn’t see me as part of that world. The last time she saw me I was in Gap jeans and angst-graffitied Converse. To her I was still the girl kept outside while she mingled with A-listers, tending to them like potted plants. Maybe she wanted that world to herself, but soon she’d see it was too late for that, that I’d infiltrated and been gifted my own territory. The hair on my arms bristled.

  “Maybe I have something,” she said. “But it would probably be too big on you.”

  “Worth a try,” I reluctantly admitted, knowing I didn’t have any other options. I was out of time to go shopping and even if I wasn’t, she’d insist on going with me. I figured the only thing worse than getting photographed at a crime scene was getting photographed with your mother.

  Her closet was smaller than your average mother’s, no more than fifteen square feet, dresses and pantsuits of all colors and fabrics—though mostly beige and mostly linen—wedged in tightly against each other, draped over wire hangers above a pile of shoes arranged without rhyme or reason. I sat on the bed while she rifled through the dresses and pulled one out. It was navy-blue twill, knee-length, embroidered with pink and yellow flowers with blue leaves and stems. It had a halter top and a flared skirt.

  “This was a gift from a patient,” she said, handing it to me. “It’s Kate Spade, but I could never wear it. Just not my style.”

  “I guess navy is close enough to black,” I said, taking it from her and holding it against my body. It looked like it would fit, even if it was a little loose and a little long.

  “Thanks,” I said, genuinely. “This will work.”

  Back in my room I slipped it off the hanger and read the label. Kate Spede. I smiled. A knockoff, I thought, even better. Eva-Kate did love knockoffs, after all.

  * * *

  Eva-Kate was buried at the Hollywood Forever Cemetery on Santa Monica Boulevard just like she’d always wanted. It was in her will, along with every detail of her funeral, including who should be invited. Most seventeen-year-old girls don’t have a will written up, but then most seventeen-year-old girls don’t own property. Most girls aren’t Eva-Kate, are they?

  Right from the beginning the event was riddled with imbalances and contradictions. The guest list was tiny, while the flower arrangements were extravagant, more bouquets of white roses than there were seats in the chapel, each one resting in a Tawa vase by Humble Ceramics. There was no picture of her up front, but there was an open casket, and every guest received a one-page letter-pressed program with her name in black, looping calligraphy imprinted at the top. There was no priest or hint at religion, but a row of coin-sized crystals of all colors lined the stage for guests to place into Eva-Kate’s casket as a send-off gift. The paparazzi, media, and fans were barred from entry to the cemetery but swarmed the perimeters in droves.

  As soon as I walked in, my heart plummeted. Of everyone in the room, I was the only one not in black, and the only one with arms exposed. Against the crowd of black, my navy dress read as neon, and the halter tie barely covered my neck, let alone my back. I felt people looking, their glances lingering a moment too long. How had I let this happen? After all the thought I’d put into my appearance, I’d failed. My skin hummed. The fact that I had miscalculated so terribly, that I had planned and plotted and still missed the mark by so much, made me queasy.

  The guests formed a long, crooked line snaking up to the front of the room where a casket lay propped open, Eva-Kate’s corpse resting inside. The casket was a glossy periwinkle, just like her car. I got in line and tried to keep to myself, dreading my turn to approach.

  Josie, London, and Olivia huddled together toward the front of the line. London saw me come in and whispered to the other two, who turned to stare. I thought I saw a smirk sneak across Josie’s matte red mouth.

  I spotted Liza, the surviving twin, sitting in the pews, her silky blond hair tied with a black bow. She had Eva-Kate’s face. It felt unfair that she could keep that beautiful face while Eva-Kate had to give it up. Next to her was a middle-aged woman wearing a dress too small for her voluptuous frame, breasts spilling out like two overstuffed goose-down pillows. But when it came to her face, the resemblance was unmissable. She was Liza’s mother. And, therefore, Eva-Kate’s mother too. Debbie McKelvoy. Even from far away I could tell she’d drugged herself for the occasion. Her body had that blissfully limp slump you get from taking a little bit too much Valium. I wanted to go back in time and do more to take the edge off.

  To distract myself I counted the famous faces. Dove Cameron, Jennifer Lawrence, Bella Thorne, Millie Bobby Brown, Finn Wolfhard, Miley Cyrus, Emma Roberts, Emma Watson, Emma Stone, Ezra Miller, Camilla Belle, Joe Jonas. It was a game of I Spy I played with myself. Then there was the older generation, the actors who had either played Eva-Kate’s parents or had themselves grown up in child stardom: Drew Barrymore, Brooke Shields, Natalie Portman, Reese Witherspoon, Jodie Foster. They had escaped, but she never would.

  Ruby showed up alone, without her boys, wearing a black velvet gown. I glanced back at the door three or four times, checking to see if Rob would show. He never did.

  When it was my turn to see her, I held my breath. My fingers curled up involuntarily like two frightened roly-polys. Her skin was so white, a heavy magenta gloss melted onto her lips, and a holographic iridescence brushed onto her high cheekbones. Shocking blue powder settled on her closed eyelids. She wore a Juicy jumpsuit encrusted with hundreds of Swarovski crystals. She’d been bidding for it on eBay, I remembered, the Juicy suit that cost twenty-five thousand dollars. I liked knowing that she’d won it in the end. It was just like Eva-Kate to be even cooler, more victorious, dead than she’d been alive.

  “We’re gathered here today to remember the life of Eva-Kate Kelly,” said a woman who’d appeared at the podium. She wore a long black dress that trailed to the floor, with loose, bell-shaped sleeves. She had tattoos and rings on every finger. “And what a life it was.”

  Nods of agreement bobbed through the room. I heard the heavy chapel doors clang shut behind me.

  “My name is Frances Joy,” the woman went on, her voice airy and soft and too sweet. “I had the pleasure of knowing Eva-Kate through our friend Ruby Jones. I only knew her for a year, but in that time, watching her grow and cultivate her own spiritual practice was one of the most beautiful things I’ve yet to witness. It is a great honor and privilege to have been asked to lead this service here with you today. Eva-Kate, both in life and death, was a young woman who knew what she wanted, and she has asked that we begin her memorial by reciting the following poem by Edgar Allan Poe. It’s printed in your programs so that you can follow along.”

  Frances Joy was too old to be a friend of Eva-Kate’s. I couldn’t tell exactly how old, but by the way her skin was just losing some of its elasticity, I put her in her mid-forties. If Ruby was Eva-Kate’s “crystal healer” and “spiritual adviser,” then Frances must have been Ruby’s. As far as I knew, no healing had been done. And now, in Eva-Kate’s case, nor could it ever. I closed my eyes as Frances Joy’s effervescent voice poured over the words like water over rocks:

  It was many and many a year ago,

  In a kingdom by the sea,

  That a maiden there lived whom you may know

  By the name of Annabel Lee;

  And this maiden she lived with no other thought

  Than to love and be loved by me.

  I was a child and she was a child,

  In this kingdom by the sea,

  But we loved with a love that was more than love—

  I and my Annabel Lee—

  With a love that the wingèd seraphs of Heaven

  Coveted her and me.

  And this was the reason that, long ago,

  In this king
dom by the sea,

  A wind blew out of a cloud, chilling

  My beautiful Annabel Lee;

  So that her highborn kinsmen came

  And bore her away from me,

  To shut her up in a sepulchre

  In this kingdom by the sea.

  The angels, not half so happy in Heaven,

  Went envying her and me—

  Yes!—that was the reason (as all men know,

  In this kingdom by the sea)

  That the wind came out of the cloud by night,

  Chilling and killing my Annabel Lee.

  But our love it was stronger by far than the love

  Of those who were older than we—

  Of many far wiser than we—

  And neither the angels in Heaven above

  Nor the demons down under the sea

  Can ever dissever my soul from the soul

  Of the beautiful Annabel Lee;

  For the moon never beams, without bringing me dreams

  Of the beautiful Annabel Lee;

  And the stars never rise, but I feel the bright eyes

  Of the beautiful Annabel Lee;

  And so, all the night-tide, I lie down by the side

  Of my darling—my darling—my life and my bride,

  In the sepulchre there by the sea—

  In her tomb by the sounding sea.

  At the last word, Debbie McKelvoy let out the agonized wail of a small hunted animal. She jumped up and hurried out the back doors, Liza chasing closely after her. Others, too, started to cry, though they kept it light, dabbing their eyes with the corners of sleeves. I thought I should be crying too, but I couldn’t. I thought about Annabel. Had I told Eva-Kate about her? I raced back through my memories and found electric-purple and black smudges where conversations should have been. I wanted to search the document of my time with Eva-Kate for mention of the name Annabel, but there had been too much drinking, too much Xanax, too much enchantment. That combination fogged the page. Had I told her about Annabel? Had I? Was this some kind of message?