The Comeback(29)

“Hi, sister,” Esme says wearily as she squints up at me, clearly unimpressed by what she’s seen so far.

Esme’s friend has a shaved head and is wearing a beautiful, sari-like dress with one dangly cross earring. They both stand on the porch and look me up and down for a moment. I realize that I’m breaking all of Laurel’s rules at once in a bathrobe and the sheepskin-lined Crocs.

“Hi, I’m Blake,” Esme’s friend says politely. “Isn’t this the cult place?”

“I’m actually pretty sure it’s not a cult,” I say. “Although I’ve heard there are unholy sex parties every Tuesday night.”

Blake snorts with laughter but Esme glares at me.

“Can you help me with something?” I say, holding out my new phone. “I can’t even switch this on.”

“I can’t believe you’re nearly twenty-three,” Esme says as she takes it and presses an invisible button on the side. The screen changes from black to gray, and an Apple logo appears.

“She’s twenty-three?” Blake says, staring at me closely.

“I’m dressed like a disoriented person,” I say, looking down at the robe.

“It’s a thing. Apparently famous people are eternally frozen at the age they were when they became famous. Mentally,” Esme says to Blake, busily typing something into my phone. She exhales heavily, somehow exasperated with me already. “You’ve totally fucked this. I need to work on it for a little bit.”

“Who told you that about famous people?”

“A girl at school.”

“Were you talking about me?”

“God, no. We were talking about Justin Bieber,” Esme says, looking at Blake pointedly. “Anyway . . .”

“Okay, I know, I have to run,” Blake says. “Can’t wait to see what’s in store for me today. If I’m super lucky, my hypnotherapist might guide me back to when I was a fetus again.”

Blake air-kisses my sister and waves at me before ducking into the car. “I’ll be back from my mother’s womb in an hour or so!”

“Blake’s very funny. Are they a friend of yours from school?” I ask Esme, managing my pronouns clumsily once we’re alone.

“She lives two doors away, Grace. I’ve known her since I was eight.” Esme’s scathing-hot tone reminds me so much of my mother that I flinch. I’m pleased that neither of us seems to have inherited my father’s affinity for keeping the peace.

“Why is she in therapy?” I ask. “She seems happy enough.”

“I guess our particular part of Anaheim isn’t quite ready for a trans seventeen-year-old,” Esme says, peering past me into my house. “Blake’s mom tried to commit her when she found out, but her dad convinced her to try this conversion therapy place instead. Her mom is a total cretin. She’s lucky that Blake could basically have graduated high school in fifth grade if she’d wanted to, she’s missing so much school.”

“Has our mom met Blake?” I ask.

“Mom adores Blake,” Esme says, and I wish I hadn’t brought up Mom because a defensive silence stretches between us while I rack my brain for something else to say.

“You should call them, you know,” Esme says, folding her arms across her chest.

“Look, it’s complicated,” I say more sharply than I intended, because Esme’s face crumples for a second before closing off again. I feel guilty for a moment, but I’m still trying to adjust to this version of my sister.

I turn around and Esme follows me into my bungalow. I flick the overhead light on, but it doesn’t make any difference to the damp, desolate atmosphere in the room. I make a mental note to buy some sort of lampshade. I wonder if they sell them at Best Buy.

Esme looks around wordlessly.

“It’s kind of like a cave, right?” I say, and she raises her eyebrows but doesn’t say anything. “It’s very temporary.”

I pick up an empty packet of Kettle chips from the floor and drop it into the huge Dior shopping bag I’ve been using for trash, in the absence of a real trash can or any liners.

“Do you want to get ice cream or something?” I ask, because the presence of another person in my rental has highlighted to me that I need to buy some basics if I’m going to pretend to be a functioning human being. I take Esme’s shrug as affirmation and head into my bedroom to change out of my bathrobe, pulling on a pair of jeans and a white T-shirt with my Crocs. I can’t work out whether I care enough to put on some makeup too. I’m not sure what the chances are of getting photographed now, whether the paparazzi know I’ve moved or if they even care. I wonder if Laurel is exaggerating the threat to make herself more useful because this never used to be a problem for me: I used to give the photographers a couple of staged photo opportunities a year, and in return, they would leave me alone the rest of the time. In the end, I leave the house without putting any makeup on.

“Are you going to go back to work?” Esme asks me once we’re in the car and driving up to PCH. She inexplicably appears to be applying even more eyeliner.

“I’m still figuring that out,” I say, keeping my eyes on the road ahead. “Apparently I have to start from square one. Audition again.”

“Poor you.” Esme rolls her eyes, and I’m instantly embarrassed.