The Liar, The Bitch and the Wardrobe Read online

“I know it’s way more fun than coke!”

  “They make that in meth labs, aka trailer parks in towns we’ve never heard of. I watched this documentary once. They take household cleaners and bleach and rat poison and dump it into a bathtub or trashcan. Then, when it evaporates, they scrape the residue into tiny baggies.” Bella hardly reacted. “It rots your teeth and makes your hair fall out. Promise me you won’t get in to that! Is that what Mot is in to?” I was very upset and not prepared to be introduced to any more drugs. Bella pulled my arm out from under me, forcing me to lie back down.

  “Relax, Mother Teresa. I’m not an idiot.”

  We slept the whole way home. I returned to my apartment happy to fall asleep in my own bed. The next day, I called Presley to fill her in on the rest of my trip. She didn’t answer her phone but text messaged an hour later: Hey, sexy. See you at Sasha’s house tonight—5647 Doheny.

  At only nineteen years old, for the past year, Sasha Hart had been the guilty pleasure of pop culture. Preteens idolized her and parents gladly added to the billions spent on her bubblegum movies and endorsed products. Sasha’s home was located in Beverly Hills. More than a dozen luxury cars were crammed into the driveway and along the street. I contemplated whether I should knock or just enter, when out came half of this morning’s Page Six mentions. The door was held open for me and I thanked them. The interior of the house did not reflect the lifestyle of a young Hollywood starlet. Plastic plants and ceramic ducks decorated the dimly lit living room. Two young dudes on a plaid couch were smoking from a bong. “Is Presley here?” I asked, assuming they knew that I was speaking of the one-and-only Presley Dalton. They pointed down the hall. I warily put my ear to a closed door, where I heard several voices. I knocked delicately.

  “Who is it?” I recognized Sasha’s raspy voice. She herself opened the door slightly.

  “Hi. I’m meeting Presley here.”

  “She’s my girl! Let her in!” Presley shouted from behind the door. Sasha opened the door to let me into her bedroom. It looked like mine did . . . when I was eleven. Presley was reclined on a floral Laura Ashley bedspread, sitting alongside pop singer Marisa Daniels, also a teen idol. All of the Disney Channel is here, I thought. Sasha hopped up on the bed. I sat myself on a corner. The bed was covered with tabloids, good, bad and ugly. “Where’s Bella?” Presley asked.

  “I’m not sure . . . Home, I think. Should I text her?”

  “Yeah!” they all replied as if it was the obvious thing to do. I hadn’t thought to call Bella given that Presley and her friends were about twenty years her junior. It was borderline inappropriate for me to be hanging out with teenagers.

  Presley held out an assortment of lollipops. I popped a purple one into my mouth. My text message to Bella read: Come to Sasha Hart’s house! 5647 Doheny. I assumed she would decline, thinking she’d be spending time with the twins after being away. Almost immediately, Bella responded: Be over ASAP! XOX BB

  “Bella’s on her way,” I alerted the girls.

  “Sweet. Love her,” Marisa piped in. I wondered what Bella could possibly have in common with these teens other than fame.

  The scene took me back to a high school memory: Just hanging with the girls at one of their parents’ houses, gossiping about boys and procrastinating on homework. Although instead of textbooks, these girls were studying the tabloids intently. Marisa held up an Us Weekly to Sasha. “Loving this Temperley top you wore to Urth Caffe.”

  Sasha flipped through In Touch Weekly. “I’ll trade you for the Ted Rossi clutch you wore to the VMAs!”

  “Eeew . . .” Presley put down OK! Magazine. “I was so not seen canoodling with that douche! Ick!” She flipped to the next page, taking the sucker out of her mouth. “Oh my God, Lucy! It’s you!” The girls leaned in. A photo of me with Bella, Jax and Mot exiting the hotel covered an entire page. Mot and I had been cropped in half, making it look like Jax and Bella were together. The headline read, “Isabella and Jax: Their Steamy Night at the Sanderson and Jessica’s Desperate Plan to Win Him Back.” My jaw dropped and I covered my face with my hands, peeking between my fingers.

  Presley said in a knowing tone, “It was your steamy night, right?” I nodded and grinned from ear to ear. “I knew it!”

  “What is this, Marisa?” Sasha held up an article showing a candid shot of Marisa dining with Jacob Reese, Sasha’s recent ex-boyfriend.

  “Please, it’s the Enquirer,” Marisa defended herself.

  “It’s a picture. You can’t fake pictures!” Sasha said, skimming the accompanying article.

  “I just stopped by his table to say hi. It was no big deal.” Marisa hid her face behind another magazine.

  “It says you left together,” Sasha blurted, continuing to read.

  “Oh, please, Sasha. We’ve been friends for how long?” Marisa said from behind the paper.

  Presley held up another magazine, not making a comment. There was a double-page photo of Marisa sitting in the passenger seat of Jacob’s car, trying to shield her face from the photographers with a scarf as Jacob held the collar of his jacket up in the same fashion. Both failed in their attempt to avoid the intrusive cameras. Sasha gasped.

  Presley and I looked at each other. Trying to break the tension in the room, I held up a pictorial labeled “Say Cheese.” It displayed various celebrities, highlighting their fat thighs, underarms and cellulite. “At least none of you are in this one!” Although they smiled, the tension remained. I decidedly pitied the girls. On second thought, this was nothing like my childhood. I couldn’t imagine what it would feel like being famous, having the world watch my every move. It must be awful to have your physical and emotional scars pointed out for all the world to see, especially as an insecure teen. I thought back to my school days when the yearbooks would come out and everyone devoured the book, scanning for pictures and quotes of themselves. Biggest Flirt. Class Clown. Best Dressed. Imagine those books being released weekly, except the labels were Biggest Floosy, Stumbling Idiot, Worst Dressed. I couldn’t handle that kind of pressure.

  The door flew open and Bella pounced onto the bed. “Girls! Having a party without me?” She flailed her arms and legs to push the tabloids off the bed in disgust. “What is this crap? Trust me, do not read this poison!”

  The girls hugged Bella and greeted her with adoring eyes. Bella reveled in their adoration and it was made clear why she would spend time with them. They idolized her.

  “What’s new with you?” Sasha asked Bella. “I hear you just got in from good times in London.”

  “Lucy and I both! What are you guys doing in here? You know, there are like fifty people in your house, right?”

  “Yeah, it’s cool. We were just hanging out. Do you have anything? We were going to make a call.”

  Bella opened her clutch, removing two small plastic bags. “Sure do!”

  “Great!” Presley beamed.

  Marisa put an issue of Dazzle in the center of the bed. The cover was a close beauty shot of Brooke Sands, Marisa’s reported archenemy. Bella dumped two piles of powder onto Brooke’s face. Sasha took a black American Express from her pocket and cut the two piles into lines.

  The zigzags of drugs over Brooke’s smiley mug was so wrong for so many reasons, and metaphorically said a thousand words about the drama, the distaste and the way things were. I couldn’t help but take the camera out of my bag. This sent the girls into an absolute frenzy. “What are you doing with that?” Marisa shrieked as they all squirmed as if I took out a cobra snake.

  “Oh, no—I wanted to shoot the magazine cover . . . Not any of you! I just thought . . . with the lines . . . on Brooke’s . . .” Shit. What was I thinking?

  Bella intervened. “It’s cool girls! She’s a photographer and she likes to document stuff. She won’t put us in any of the shots!”

  They all sighed in relief and let me take the twisted photo. I made a point to let them know I had put the camera away afterward.

  Lacy referenced the powder and asked, “W
hy are these different colors?”

  Bella explained. “That’s because this one is the usual but this is something special I got from a friend. It’s waaay better. Try it!”

  “No!” I cried out. “It’s not what you think. It’s glass . . . Crystal.”

  “I’ve never tried it . . . I’ve always wondered what it was like.” Marisa shrugged.

  “Oh, I have. It’s great. I didn’t eat or sleep for three days!” Sasha said, going in for the kill.

  Bella threw her hands up, looking at me apologetically. I shook my head, watching Marisa take a second line. Marisa’s eyes immediately watered as she cupped her hands to her nose. “Fuck! That stings!”

  “You get used to it after a few,” Sasha assured her. Presley did a line, handing a rolled-up bill to me.

  “No, thanks. Not tonight.” I said it and I meant it.

  “Seriously?” Bella questioned. I nodded, watching the others in dismay.

  Witnessing the girls ingest glorified Ajax reminded me of the times in high school when the populars were barfing up Budweiser as I drove them home. Neither group looked so cool to me at either point. It turned me off from wanting to have anything to do with what they were doing.

  The door burst open and Diane Hart, Sasha’s mother, entered the room in a silky robe with a sleeping mask on top of her head.

  “Hey, Mom,” greeted Sasha. I panicked. Surely nineteen-year-old Sasha would be in hot water for the crack buffet sitting in the middle of her childhood bed.

  “Honey, will you make sure that everyone’s gone by four? I have that thing in the morning.” Diane kissed her daughter on the head before sticking a finger into the pile and rubbing it on her gums. On her way out, she added, “Oh, Sash, someone threw up by your door!”

  Jumping to the scene, Sasha confirmed that someone indeed had puked on the floor. She dashed out of view and returned to report, “We’re out of paper towels! Gross!”

  “Here . . .” Marisa held up an obnoxious Christian Audigier T-shirt retrieved from the floor.

  “Yeah, use that. So a hundred years ago,” Bella agreed.

  Sasha opened a dresser drawer, removing three shirts of the same brand. She proceeded to mop up the pungent vomit. “I knew I kept these around for a reason.”

  My cell phone buzzed. I flipped it open and smiled. Wish you were here . . . JP

  Bella grabbed the phone, read the message and rolled her eyes. She handed the phone back to me.

  “Oh, please. He’s only saying that because you haven’t fucked him yet.”

  “You haven’t fucked him yet?” Presley said in shock.

  “You guys . . . stop. Bella, who’s to say that he doesn’t like me too?”

  Presley folded her hands under her chin. “Maybe he’s crushing on her!”

  Bella leaned down and did a line. She made a painful expression that the girls mimicked, feeling her pain. “Whatever. It’s been my experience that men are all the same. But you girls are still young. Guess you’ll have to find out on your own.”

  Presley held her nose. “It smells like fucking puke in here.”

  Handing her a rolled-up bill, Bella agreed. “Yeah, let’s get out of here. Your place?”

  Presley nodded, going in for one last line. I felt relieved the attention had shifted away from me and offered to drive. I carefully coasted Presley’s sports car through the winding canyon. Bella dipped her nail into a baggie and did a bump. “This one has a chemical taste.” Presley, in the backseat, did a bump and agreed. She climbed forward onto the console and pressed the button that opened the sunroof. She then put her knee on the console and stuck half her body out of the sunroof. She reached down and opened the little baggie.

  “What are you doing, Pres?” I said in a slight panic. I steered the car with one hand, holding tightly to Presley’s knee with my other.

  Bella, looking up at our lunatic friend, asked, “What the hell, Presley?”

  Presley raised her arms, exposing the open bag to the warm breeze. “It’s snowing in LA! Woooohoooo! Yeaaah, baby!” Bella and I glanced into the sideview mirrors to see white powder flutter into the streets. We looked at each other with wide eyes and open mouths. Together we pulled Presley back into the car and she plopped down into the backseat, laughing hysterically.

  “You are one crazy bitch!” Bella shouted. At last, we came to a stop in Presley’s driveway.

  Bella held her pinky in my face. I’d had enough with the pressure. “I’m just not into it tonight. A little burnt out, to be honest.”

  “Lucy, what is with you? You haven’t been yourself since . . . him.”

  “Oh, come on! In forty-eight hours? You know that’s not true,” I teased her. She flipped her lip at me like a little girl. Presley tickled me behind my neck and they both poked and prodded me until I laughed. I was starting to feel like an outsider again and here they were inviting me in. Not wanting to be on the other side of the fence, I succumbed to the peer pressure yet again. I took a bump from Bella’s nail. Instantly, my shoulder muscles wildly contracted and my eyes went into a spasm. The worst burning sensation I could have imagined spread across my face, causing tears to pour from my scorching eyes. “Bella! What the fuck!”

  “Ooops, sorry! Wrong baggie—my bad!” Bella barely reacted.

  She and Presley exited the car and headed to the house. I was in complete disbelief. I didn’t want to believe my friend would purposely trick me like that. It must have been an accident. It had to be an accident. As I stepped out, I wiped away the burning tears with the back of my hand and followed them inside.

  chapter twenty-five

  Fish out of Sparkling Water

  The thought of leaving LA for the weekend made me nervous. So did flying commercial. I’d grown accustomed to the lifestyles of my celebrity friends. It had been well over a year since I’d been home, and I was looking forward to being in a safe, mellow environment. But at the same time, I wasn’t sure how things would go with my parents. There had been a strange disconnect between us ever since they visited. I knew that they thought my job with Bella was a joke and I was certain that they would eventually question my future plans. As the plane taxied to the gate, I zipped back into a pair of suede Marc Jacobs boots and adjusted my dress. I stared out the window at the hazy mist. The luscious green foliage against the ice gray sky reminded me why Seattle was called the Emerald City. In baggage claim, I immediately spotted my parents. My mother’s eyes were tearful as she clapped and waved. My father grinned, holding out his arms. Maybe this wouldn’t be so bad. I dropped my borrowed Balenciaga bag and hugged them both.

  Touching my sleeve, my mom remarked, “That’s quite an outfit, Luce!”

  “Bella lets me borrow her stuff. She’s like a big sister with really great clothes!”

  My dad patted me on top of the head the same way he had when I was a little kid. “Your hair has gotten so long. Is that a sweater or a dress?” He pointed at my short hemline.

  “Oh, Dad, these are extensions!” I explained. “And it’s Burberry! Well, it’s a tunic—which is somewhere in between a dress and a . . . oh, I don’t know.” What did it matter? “I’m so happy to be home!” I embraced them both in one hug. Over my parents’ shoulders, I saw Julie and her mother exiting the airport, hand in hand. If she was on my plane, I hadn’t seen her. I hadn’t thought about Julie in a while, nor had we spoken since the “cheesecake incident.”

  “I checked a bag,” I said, walking in the opposite direction.

  My dad teased, “For a three-day trip? Luce, after your recent travels, you still haven’t learned to pack light?” He poked and tickled at my sides as usual.

  “Yeah, Dad. Some things never change!” After a long drive out of the city, we arrived at home. I took my belongings to my childhood bedroom, which was now the guest room. Sitting on the edge of my old bed, I looked around. My colorful comforter had been replaced with a higher thread count solid wine-colored one. The butterflies that I had painted across the ceiling had be
en covered up. It really wasn’t my room anymore. Although it was only two o’clock in the afternoon, the gray skies made it feel near evening. I checked my cell phone and found zero missed calls or messages. Restless, I ventured downstairs to see what my mother was up to in the kitchen. She was chopping vegetables at the granite island. There were enormous mounds of raw onions, carrots, leeks and potatoes piled high on the counter.

  “Hey, Mom . . . Whatcha up to?”

  “Just getting ready for Thanksgiving a day early, same as every year.”

  “Which troops did you invite to dinner?” I snuck a couple of carrot slices from the pile.

  “Very funny. The Drixons, the Reimers and the McKennas are all coming over. I’d appreciate it if you were on your best behavior.”

  “Thanks. I’ll try not to play with my food.”

  “Very funny. Refill my water?” She gestured in the direction of her glass.

  “Sure.” I placed the glass under the dispenser on the fridge. “What the hell is this?” The refrigerator was covered in tabloid pictures of Bella, Presley, Jax and Kelly Osbourne.

  “They’re pictures of you.” Mom walked over, pointing to each photo with her cutting knife. “These are from London, I found them in OK! Magazine . . . This is from the World Music Awards, downloaded from online . . . and these are of you shopping in LA . . . I think.” The images were cropped to show the celebrities, with only a glimpse of my eyebrow or elbow in each photo.

  “Mom, these aren’t pictures of me. You can hardly see me in any of these. And this one isn’t even me!”

  “Sure it is.”

  “Uh, no. I’ve never met Kelly Osbourne in my life!”

  “Oh.” She removed the photo from the fridge, tossing it into the trash. “Well, since you don’t send pictures and hardly ever call, this is all I have to work with.” She continued chopping vegetables.

  “Mom, stop. You know how much I work . . .”

  She didn’t say anything, but from the corner of my eye I caught her raise an eyebrow and slightly smile. I knew her well enough to know that she was holding back from making a sarcastic quip about what I consider “work.” Rather than let it go there, I held back as well. “What can I do to help?” I stole another handful of carrot slices.