Fake Plastic Girl Read online

  I nodded, my cheeks still burning. I was relieved she saw it that way, but the subject felt distantly dirty and I wanted very badly to move off it.

  “So, what do you mean you come up here to ‘do crystals’?”

  “Oh my God.” She touched my forearm with the wilting Red Vine wand. “You must have thought I was talking about drugs. It sounds like drugs when you say it. But no, I don’t do drugs. Well, I mean, I don’t do crystal meth. Gross, could you imagine?” She cringed painfully and stroked her cheek like it was her most prized possession and she couldn’t bear the thought of losing it to a flesh-ravaging substance. I didn’t blame her, her skin was prize-worthy: naturally flushed and luminous with just the right amount of moisture, practically poreless. “I’m talking about, like, actual crystals. Rose quartz, amethyst, opal, onyx, tiger eye, tourmaline. Selenite. My healer has me lie naked in the sunlight with the crystals placed on different parts of my body. For healing purposes, of course, it’s nothing perverted, promise.”

  “I believe you,” I said, trying not to picture her naked body splayed out on the roof.

  “You have to try it sometime, it’s incredible. The sunlight magnifies and intensifies the crystal’s healing properties, so like every part of you feels sooo good afterward. They fortify your bones and organs and stuff so you just feel so alive, but also like very protected, you know? I mean, I don’t know if you believe in that stuff, but you’ll try it and then you’ll see: It works. Will you try it?”

  “Absolutely.”

  “I’ll introduce you to my healer. Her name’s Ruby and she just knows everything about crystals and astrology. She’s practically a witch. You’ll love her.”

  “Awesome,” I said, trying hard to sound casual, overly critical of every sound that left my mouth.

  “So, what’s your deal? Can I ask you that?”

  I glanced down at Princess Leia, whose eyes were starting to droop.

  “Me? What do you mean?”

  “No, the dog.” She rolled her eyes. “Yes, you, dummy. Who are you? Who do you want to be? Are you happy or sad? Are you lonely and if so why? Are you in love?” As she spoke, she walked to the far corner of the roof where there were two gray canvas lounge chairs and dragged them over to us. “Let’s relax a little, I’m not a gigantic fan of standing on my feet.” She stretched out on the chair and I followed her lead. I wondered if it was her fame and early-in-life money that attributed to her poised confidence, or if it was something she had developed before. Or could it have been something she was born with? Whatever the answer, it was something I didn’t have, something I coveted and marveled at as if it were Le Coeur de la Mer.

  “I don’t know where to begin,” I confessed. “I’m not sad, I know that much … but I’m not happy. I don’t think I really know what it means to be happy. And I’ve never been in love.”

  “What about your parents?”

  “What about them?”

  “Are they in love?”

  “Oh. No. They’re in the middle of a divorce. Well, no, not in the middle. They’re at the very beginning of getting a divorce.”

  “Is that why they’re never around? In the whole time I’ve been living here I haven’t seen them once.”

  “My mom is traveling. She’ll be back in a month. My dad moved to the Valley. He calls it North Hollywood, but it’s really the Valley. What about your parents, what do they think of—”

  “We’re not doing me tonight.” She shook her head. “I want to hear all about you.”

  “No, you don’t,” I assured her. “Your life is at least ten times more interesting than mine, I promise you.”

  “I’m a snooze fest.” She rolled her eyes and swatted at me violently. “I’m the worst. That’s why I throw these parties, because most days I honestly don’t have anything else to do.”

  “And you think I do have anything interesting to do? It’s summer vacation and my parents left me alone. Without a car, mind you.”

  “So you clean. Compulsively.”

  “Oh God. I forgot you’ve seen me.”

  “And you sleep.”

  “Uh-huh.” With crossed arms, I raised my shoulders up to my ears, as if that could make my head disappear.

  “And you walk around in your underwear.”

  “Oh my God, stop!” I hid my face in my hands, mortified.

  “Don’t be embarrassed, crazy! You have an amazing body. I wish I had that body.”

  “My body?”

  “Are you kidding me? I would kill for your boobs.”

  “Be my guest, they’re probably just weighing me down anyway.” Ever since they appeared in sixth grade, I’d felt that my breasts didn’t belong to me, like they were placed on me by mistake. When girls expressed their jealousy, I found myself wildly perplexed. And likewise when I caught boys staring during class with their tongues practically hanging out, thinking I wouldn’t notice. Back then, the entire boob phenomenon went right over my head; I couldn’t figure out what everyone was making such a fuss about. But maybe that’s because I had really good ones. I didn’t long for or lust after them because as far as tits went, I was rich. Is that what it feels like to be born into wealth? Everybody clamors for what you have but you just sit back, super bored in your in-home theater, and think, So what?

  “Oh my God, that’s perfect. We’ll go to Dr. Silver first thing in the morning. He’ll lop those babies right off and sew them onto me and then—well, what of mine do you want?”

  “Uhh…?”

  “On my body or my face. If you’re giving me your boobs I want to give you something.”

  “Um, okay, then I want…” She rotated so that her legs stayed on the lounge chair while her torso faced me completely, presenting. I studied her face, her opalescent fiber-optic eyes that, though mostly green, seemed to contain flashes of every color. Her perfectly sloped nose, her small mouth with those chubby lips … “I want your lips.”

  “Ah, I do have killer lips, good call. They’re not a hundred percent authentic, but they’re nice. Everything Dr. Silver does is nice.”

  “Your plastic surgeon, I’m guessing?”

  “I’m one of the only people he still sees, actually,” she said, half matter-of-fact, half proud. “He used to do surgery for girls in the eighties. Big-shot plastic surgeon, he did everyone’s faces back then. Every actress from like ’81 to ’99 who got work done, got it done by Dr. Silver. You ever hear the term silver lips?”

  “Sure,” I said, though I hadn’t.

  “Those big juicy Dominique Le Bon–style lips that suddenly everyone had around that time? They were all done by Dr. Silver. Hence, silver lips.”

  “Then I’m an admirer of his work,” I said, which seemed to please her.

  “He retired in 2012 but he’s been a darling about making time for me here and there. He’s the only one I trust not to fuck up my mouth.”

  “That’s quite the responsibility.”

  “It’s not like I’m a plastic surgery nut, by the way,” she added. “I’m not like your Heidi Montags or your Lara Flynn Boyles, I just like getting my lips touched up every now and then. It’s collagen injections so you have to get them redone every few months, otherwise they sort of deflate.”

  “You don’t have to explain,” I said. “Even if you were more plastic than human I wouldn’t be one to judge.”

  “Rob hated them.” She rolled her eyes in utter disgust. “That’s my ex. He hated my lips and my nail extensions and the dark makeup that I abso-fucking-lutely adore. He said it was witchy, like, as if that’s a bad thing. Just one of the many reasons I had to dump him.” She dumped him. I knew those Walgreens girls hadn’t known what they were talking about. He would have had to be crazy to leave her for another girl, wasn’t that obvious?

  “I’m sorry, I know breakups aren’t—”

  “Yeah, but I’m over it.” She beamed then, shivering the thought of him off her shoulders. “So we’ll call Dr. Silver first thing in the morning and he’ll take you
r boobs and put them onto me and take my lips and put them onto you. I think it’ll be a fair trade.”

  “Oh yes, definitely. Very fair. And very sane.”

  “Like a friendship necklace, only … surgical.”

  We locked eyes in a moment of quiet, then burst out laughing; the sound broke and scattered in echoes, getting caught and tangled in the trees.

  “A friendship necklace,” she said again, holding on to the ruby amulet around her neck. “I like that idea. Here.” She reached her hands around to unclasp the slender gold chain.

  “Oh no,” I tried to protest as she moved from her lounge chair onto mine, so there was only a sliver of night between us, “I couldn’t.”

  “But you have to!” she sang. “I insist.”

  I nodded, more than happy to acquiesce. She draped the amulet over my heart and leaned in to clasp the chain behind my neck. We were eye to eye for that quick moment of understanding, then her lips were pressing onto mine, cool from the night air, plump and hungry and tasting of champagne. Silver lips. For the first time in my life I felt like a very important person.

  “There you are!” Olivia whined. She had climbed up onto the roof and was pulling the ribbed black fabric of her dress down over her knees. “We’ve been looking everywhere for you.”

  “How long have we been up here, Justine?” Eva-Kate asked me instead of addressing Olivia. “Ten, maybe fifteen minutes?”

  “Sure,” I said. It could have been ten minutes, it could have been ten hours, I had no idea.

  “So then how could they have possibly looked ‘everywhere’ for me?”

  “Everywhere in your ugly house, fuckface.” Olivia scowled at her with impeccable cat eyes. Olivia was very catlike, I realized then, and it wasn’t just the eye makeup. Her skinny body moved like it was on the prowl, graceful and easy yet ready to pounce.

  “A term of endearment,” Eva-Kate assured me.

  “Oh, hey.” London climbed up behind Olivia. “You found your dog!”

  “Yes, yes,” Eva-Kate said before I had a second to reply. “Justine found her dog and you’ve found me. Now tell me, is there a good reason you’re interrupting an important conversation with my new neighbor?”

  “Josie said to come up here and make sure you weren’t doing anything you’d regret,” London reported, crossing her arms, sass and affectation levels spiking way off the charts.

  “She also said to not say it like that.” Olivia glared at her friend. “I think she just wanted us to make sure you’re okay.”

  “I love that psycho bitch, she knows me too well. However, I did tell her she only needed to make sure I didn’t do anything I’d regret when there were cameras around. So congratulations, you two, your work here is done.”

  FLASH!

  As if on cue, a flash went off from behind London and Olivia, momentarily blinding me.

  “Say cheese, bitches.” A voice spoke from within the flash. When I’d blinked enough times to regain my vision, I saw that it was a man in bright though bedraggled clothing, who looked too old to be spending time with high school–aged girls.

  “Great timing.” Eva-Kate’s sarcasm was lazy and noncommittal. “I was just relishing the rare pleasure of not having any cameras around.”

  “Yeah, well, those precious moments are long gone now, Queenie,” he said, pointing the camera at her again. “Your boy Flashbulb is here now.”

  “Flashbulb?” Olivia snickered.

  “It’s a name he’s trying out.” London stroked his arm. “It needs some work.”

  “Um, try a lot of work,” Olivia teased.

  “I kind of like it, to be honest,” Eva-Kate said to no one in particular. “It works for him. He’s not exactly a class act.”

  “Hey!”

  “It’s not an insult,” she assured him. “You’re a club rat, you’re king club rat. You own it and you should keep owning it.”

  From the look of him, she knew what she was talking about. He wore an acid-washed denim vest over a pink tie-dyed V-neck exposing a triangle of patchy chest hair, and a pair of ugly yellow sweatpants. Not that there is such a thing as good-looking yellow sweatpants, but this was a particularly nauseating shade. His white Nikes didn’t have laces and he wasn’t wearing socks.

  “I sure will keep owning it,” he said, noticing me sitting quietly in Eva-Kate’s shadow. “Who’s this?”

  “Spencer, this is Justine Childs. Justine, this is Spencer Sawyer.” Eva-Kate rattled off an introduction, then pointed an accusatory finger at him. “You cannot hit on her, Spencer, especially not in front of your girlfriend.”

  Spencer Sawyer. Photographer and curator of I Know What You Did Last Night. On one hand I was ecstatic, knowing that just by being in his presence I could end up featured on the website, a place I thought I’d only visit in my dreams. On the other hand, I couldn’t believe a character so prominent in the LA party scene looked the way he did. I’m not exaggerating when I say he could have been a crackhead wandering in off the streets.

  “I’m not his girlfriend.” London leaned her head on his shoulder. “We’re just friends.” The interesting thing about London was that she was the only one of the group who looked like she ate actual food. She was undeniably the shapeliest of them all, and she stood prouder than the others, as if her body was her greatest possession.

  “Yeah, friends with benefits,” Spencer added. “And I mean all the benefits.”

  “Please do not say ‘friends with benefits.’” Eva-Kate looked like she could throw up. “This isn’t middle school. If you have to talk like that, do it off my property.”

  “Queenie is being so queenie tonight,” Spencer said to London. “Don’t you think?”

  “Okay, you.” Eva-Kate pointed her finger back at Spencer. “I hope you realize my very dear friend here is way out of your league and if you fuck this up you will be lonely and sexless for a long time.”

  “Not really,” he said, snapping a picture of London as she twisted her silky red hair into a top bun. “I’m Spencer Sawyer; girls will do anything if they think it might get them on IKWYDLN. They’ll sleep with guys a lot uglier than me for a lot less, let me tell ya.”

  “Don’t bother.” Eva-Kate yawned. “I just realized I don’t care.”

  “Who’s thirsty?” Josie climbed up onto the roof with a bucket tucked under her arm. She set the bucket down, revealing that it was filled with ice and clear bottles holding something pink and fizzy.

  “Thank God,” Eva-Kate groaned. “Josie, as always, you read my mind.”

  Josie handed her a bottle and Eva-Kate took the top off, casually using her teeth.

  “Anyone have a bottle opener for those of us who aren’t on Eva-Kate’s level of savageness?” Olivia asked. Spencer slid a pair of Wayfarers out of his pocket and showed her how the arms were designed to double as bottle openers. She was impressed.

  “Justine, don’t you want one?” Eva-Kate took the bottle away from her mouth, exposing newly rosy lips.

  “Uhh…” I knew I wasn’t supposed to mix alcohol with my medication, but I wondered how much of an impact one drink could realistically have. “What is it?”

  “It’s called Reign.” Eva-Kate held one out to me. “It’s my absolute favorite.”

  “But what is it, like, what’s in it?” I took the bottle from her and liked how its neck felt in my hand.

  “It’s the same thing as an Irish redhead,” Olivia explained. “But in a pretty bottle.”

  I didn’t know what was in an Irish redhead, but everyone was staring at me and I didn’t want to make myself seem more out of touch than I already had.

  “I’ll open it for you!” London ripped the bottle from my hand and popped it open using what was evidently her new favorite toy, then handed it back to me. Bubbles fizzed up from the mouth.

  “Thank you,” I said, then took a deep breath and followed it with my first drink. To my surprise, I loved the taste. The harsh burn of alcohol was buried beneath many layers of bubbly s
weetness: a divine concoction of citrus and cherry and mint, not unlike a Shirley Temple.

  “Isn’t it the best?” Eva-Kate asked, going off my smile.

  “Amazing,” I said as the delicious taste became a delicious feeling.

  “I wanna get in the water,” Eva-Kate said, walking to the edge of the roof, looking down onto the pool and the people who still frolicked loudly in it. Somehow since last time I’d seen them they’d acquired two inflatable inner tubes, one a long-necked swan and the other a sprinkled doughnut.

  “Let’s do it,” said London, pulling her black dress off over her head so that she was standing there in nothing but gray Calvin Klein underwear.

  “Love the enthusiasm, Lo.” Eva-Kate tapped a finger against her lips. “But I’m not in the mood for all those randos.”

  “You mean your guests?” Spencer snapped a picture of us all as we looked down from our pedestal on the roof.

  “Are they really my guests if I didn’t invite them?”

  “If you didn’t invite them, then how’d they get in?” London asked, shivering a little.

  “Yeah, Eva-Kate,” Josie teased. “How’d that happen?”

  “Okay, fine, Josie, you were right. Happy?”

  “Happy about what?” I asked, speaking out of turn without thinking twice.

  “I was trying to be a normal person for once and not have a doorman or bouncers work the party. That’s how the randos got in.”

  “I told her it was a bad idea,” Josie boasted.

  “Well, excuse me for wanting to not live like a celebrity all the fucking time.”

  “You’re lucky the worst thing that happened was a few unwanted guests. Could have gotten a lot uglier.”

  “Thanks for the lecture, Mom.”

  “It’s your house, you can tell them to leave. Or better idea, actually, I’ll go down and tell them.”

  “That’s true.” Eva-Kate thought about it. “That is very true. I’ll take care of it.” She walked to the corner of the roof and bent down to open a wooden storage unit, then pulled out a dusty megaphone and brought it back with her.

  “What are you do—”