This Might Hurt(31)

“Her name is Rebecca,” April says.

I startle. Don’t men typically lead this type of place, these strange communes full of people who believe they’re too morally superior to partake in regular society? Relief courses through me.

Georgina snorts. “And good luck.”

I turn to her, questioning.

“We haven’t seen her in weeks,” April says. “When we first started here, we saw her all the time.”

Georgina butts in. “Now she’s too important for us, working on some big new thing. Supposedly running the show behind the scenes. Sounds like some Wizard of Oz bullshit to me.”

Georgina has a Jordan Belfort vibe to her, à la The Wolf of Wall Street, an assessment she’d probably respond to with a smirking “fuck you very much.”

“Georgina,” April protests.

“She said Wisewood was her number one priority.”

“What’s your point?” April asks. She’s clearly more loyal to the cause than her friend. I’m sure if I shared one or two more meals with April, she would proclaim Lean In has changed her life and profess her love of all things pumpkin-flavored.

“My point is, people are paying good money to come to this island and work with her, not Ruth. Anyway,” Georgina says, “you have to be a huge kiss-ass to get time with her now.”

April sighs. “Like this one poor girl we used to be friends with.”

Georgina brightens. “Supercool chick. Our age, lived in Brooklyn before coming here. Has these insane life stories but you can tell they’re true. Like she dropped out of college to join her boyfriend’s band on tour. Who does that?”

My stomach drops.

“I remember being jealous. Her life was so spontaneous compared to mine. The three of us became close fast. There aren’t a lot of women our age here,” April says. “But after a few weeks . . .”

“Suddenly, all she cared about was Rebecca. She would do anything to impress her.” Georgina grimaces, and I feel nauseous. “Kind of pathetic to watch her become this drudge. Don’t get me wrong; we all appreciate what Rebecca has set up here. But she’s not a god.

“Some people guzzle the Kool-Aid when they should take sips.”





12





IN THE GLORIFIED closet that was my dressing room, I gripped the arms of the chair and willed my heart to decelerate. I’d performed in front of crowds hundreds of times, spent an entire year in venues bigger than this one.

I wasn’t the headliner then.

A knock sounded at the door. I wiped my hands on my pants. “Come in.”

In the doorway stood Evelyn Luminescence, dressed in an indigo muumuu and flower crown. She beamed.

“Evie?” I wrapped her in a hug. “What are you doing here?”

“I couldn’t miss your first solo act, could I?” She plunked herself on the threadbare couch, wincing as she glanced around the small quarters. “Nowhere to go but up.”

“How do I look?” I gestured to my outfit.

She gave me a once-over. “Like a funeral-goer.” She pulled a bundle of herbs and a lighter from her frock. “As always.”

I glanced down at my black cigarette pants and black cotton sweater and frowned.

She waved off my concern before I voiced it. “The all-black vibe is your thing. Aura-reading earth mother is mine.”

I laughed. She lit the herbs and began wafting the smoke around the room with a feather. For the hundredth time, I wondered how deep her smock pockets were. She owned more trinkets than everyone I knew combined. I had stopped asking the meaning behind all her rituals a while ago. Invariably they were for good luck or warding off demons.

“How do you feel?”

“Apprehensive,” I admitted, palms already saturated.

“That’s normal. At my first show I sweat through three caftans before I even set foot onstage.”

Evie had been on the road with her art shows for twenty years. The summer between my freshman and sophomore years of college, I’d attended another performance and convinced her afterward to let me open for her with a ten-minute act. When she said yes, I dropped out of school to join her. She was mildly prominent on the East Coast, so that was where we spent most of our time. After a year together, she’d told me it was time she settled somewhere. Now she limited her shows to New York’s greater metropolitan area.

The day before she told me about her impending retirement from the road, an agent offered me representation. He’d seen my opener for Evie’s tour and promised he could turn me into a headliner. Ten months later, he had proved true to his word. Here I was, twenty-one and minutes away from my embryonic performance.

“I have a lot riding on this,” I said. No one had approved of my decision to drop out of school. When I told Jack the news, she had asked why I couldn’t choose a less embarrassing career. Lisa, my supposed bastion of support, had confronted me on three separate occasions, arguing that my magic should wait until I had my degree. You’re going to need something to fall back on when this goes south, she’d said, then quickly corrected the “when” to an “if.” We hadn’t spoken since. I didn’t even bother with Sir or Mother.

“You can always go back to school,” Evie said. “Opportunities like this don’t come along often.”