I'm Glad My Mom Died(57)

But now, I’m over it. I’ve become a bitter person and I’m resigned to that fact. I can’t change my circumstances, so why try to change who I’ve become as a result of them? I’m done being a good sport. I resent being a good sport. If I wasn’t such a good sport to begin with, I wouldn’t be in this predicament in the first place. I wouldn’t be on this shitty show saying these shitty lines on this shitty set with this shitty hairstyle. Maybe my life would be entirely different right now. I fantasize about it being different.

But it’s not different. It’s this. This is what it is. Ariana misses work in pursuit of her music career while I act with a box. I’m pissed about it. And I’m pissed at her. Jealous of her. For a few reasons.

The first is that she had a much easier upbringing than I did. I grew up in Garbage Grove in a goddamned hoarder house with a cancerous mom who constantly wept about not being able to afford rent and utility bills. Ariana grew up in Boca Raton, Florida, an incredibly wealthy, idyllic town, with a healthy mom who could buy her whatever she wanted, whenever she wanted—Gucci bags, fancy vacations, Chanel outfits. I don’t even want Chanel outfits—I don’t like the way the fabric looks—and yet I’m jealous that she had them.

The second is that when I initially got a development deal with Nickelodeon for my own show a few years ago, I thought it was gonna be just that… my own show. This was supposed to be Just Puckett, the harrowing tale of a brassy juvenile delinquent–turned–school counselor. Now it’s some half-baked two-hander—Sam & Cat—about a brassy juvenile delinquent who, with her “ditzy best friend,” starts a babysitting company called “Sam & Cat’s Super Rockin’ Fun-Time Babysitting Service.” This is not harrowing.

The third is that Ariana is at the stage in her career where she’s popping up on every 30 Under 30 list that exists. And I’m at the stage in my career where my team is excited that I’m the new face of Rebecca Bonbon, a tween clothing line featuring a cat with her tongue sticking out. Sold exclusively at Walmart. And I frequently make the mistake of comparing my career to Ariana’s. I can’t help it. I’m constantly in the same environment as her, and she doesn’t exactly try to hide her successes.

At first, I managed my jealousy well. When she came skipping onto set saying she’d be performing at the Billboard Awards, I didn’t care. So what? She’s pursuing a music career—a thing I quit doing because I hated it. And in her pursuit of that career, she’s going to go sing some cheesy pop song on a stage, a task that sounds truly awful to me. I was unfazed.

Then she came trotting onto set saying she’d be on the cover of Elle magazine. That one got to me, but only out of my own insecurity. Am I not pretty enough to be on covers of magazines? Would I be the one on covers if this show wasn’t a two-hander? Is she robbing me of opportunities that would have been mine? I stuffed down my jealousy and carried on.

But what finally undid me was when Ariana came whistle-toning in with excitement because she had spent the previous evening playing charades at Tom Hanks’s house. That was the moment I broke. I couldn’t take it anymore. Music performances and magazine covers… whatever, I’ll get over it. But playing a family game at National Treasure, two-time Academy Award–winner and six-time nominee Tom Hanks’s house? I’m done.

From that moment on, I didn’t like her. I couldn’t like her. Pop star success I could handle, but hanging out with Sheriff Woody, with Forrest Fucking Gump? This has gone too far.

So now, every time she misses work it feels like a personal attack. Every time something exciting happens to her, I feel like she robbed me of having that experience myself. And every time someone calls me a good sport, all I feel is how much I don’t want to be one. Fuck being a good sport, I’d rather be playing charades with Tom Hanks.





59.


COLTON AND I ARE CHUGGING tequila Pocket Shots in the back seat of Liam’s 2009 Toyota Corolla while he drives. The Pocket Shots are disgusting. We almost gag with each one down, but we keep on chugging. We want to be nice and obliterated by the time we arrive.

“How you guys doing?” Liam coyly asks, wheeling around while he’s at a stop sign. This is the fifth or sixth time he’s asked it, and every time, he looks right at me like I’m the only one whose answer he cares about.

Liam and I met at Colton’s friend’s Cinco de Mayo party a couple months back. He was making himself some fajitas from the buffet table. Six foot two with a shaggy haircut and wide-set eyes, I beelined for him. We bonded over margaritas and our mutual attraction to each other. The stuff of substance.

“Couldn’t be doing better,” I slur as I split another Pocket Shot with Colton. God, I’m so fun.

“Good. Good,” Liam says with a wink. I’ve always been impressed by a man who can make a wink not creepy. He keeps driving.

I haven’t had sex yet, but it’s starting to feel like an appropriate time. I’m not scared of it anymore. I’m not scared of anything anymore, because I don’t really care about anything anymore since Mom died.

Liam seems like a solid person to lose my virginity to. I like him just fine but I don’t care about him in a deep way, so I don’t have to fear growing attached to him the second after we have sex—which is a genuine fear of mine since I’ve heard about this feminine weakness a hundred times. I want to do anything to avoid it. I don’t want to be some weak, smitten woman who falls for a man just because he was inside her. I want to be stronger than that.