What's Mine and Yours(48)
“I used to have a dog. He went missing.”
“No shit,” Celeste said and dragged on the vape. “I wish she’d go missing. I’m kidding. I just don’t have the headspace for a dog these days. You should take her, honestly. Venice is a circus. A guy on a unicycle nearly ran her over the other day.”
Celeste’s parents rented the house for her. It was pink with bougainvillea growing up the walls, a single bedroom, but there was an attic with a little moon of a window.
“So, how’d the face work for you today? You a rich bitch yet?”
“The shoot was fine, but I’ve got to wait on the money. Actually, I think I’m in trouble. I owe a lot of rent.”
Celeste shook her head, handed her the vape. “Do you ever think, like, what’s the point?”
“Of modeling?”
“Of cities. You pay all this rent. But you don’t want to spend time at home, so you hemorrhage all this money so you can go out. Lunch, happy hour, Pilates. It all adds up. Now, you turn thirty, and you can’t even buy a house unless it’s, like, in Long Beach. My parents, they had it easy. They had a mortgage, no traffic, everything was five minutes away. But our generation? We could be in L.A. forever. And, it’s like, how’d we get duped? Into this expensive, shitty life? I hate it here.”
“You’re good at it,” Margarita said. Even now, in the vinyl lounge chair, Celeste was an ever-ready image for her followers. At @Celestial_LA, she had nearly twice the number Margarita had.
“I’m lonely,” Celeste said. “I’m twenty-seven, and I’m totally alone. No offense.”
“Why don’t we become roommates? I’m here all the time anyway.”
Celeste sucked on the vape, the colored lights blinking. “You idealize this place too much. I’m telling you, Venice is not that great. You can never find parking at the beach.”
“It’s not about Venice. They’re going to kick me out.”
“Didn’t you fuck that guy? Gavin?”
“I’ve got until tomorrow.”
“That’s what I’m saying about cities. They pump you for your money, and you have nothing to show for it.” Celeste fidgeted with her phone.
“Nobody is bankrolling my life out here,” Margarita said. “I don’t have anyone to rely on.”
“What about your parents?”
“My mom is sick.”
“Holy shit. Since when?”
“She’s got cancer. She’s in the hospital.”
“What about your sisters? Maybe they can help you out.”
“We’re not those kinds of sisters. Can’t I just stay here? I’ll sleep in the attic.”
“Margs, you know my deal with my parents. If I move anyone in, they stop paying the rent. This is my sanctuary. It’s supposed to help me focus.”
“You wouldn’t have to tell them.”
“My mom’s got a sixth sense. She’d know.”
They sat in an uneasy quiet. In all the years she’d known Celeste, Margarita had never needed her for anything but to go out—to sushi, to bars, the nail salon, a bonfire on the beach with some guys she’d met surfing. Celeste always said yes. Margarita had never asked her for anything else.
Celeste smiled and proposed they drive to Malibu to cheer themselves up. They could get drinks cliffside, watch the waves.
“I just told you I’m broke,” Margarita snapped, and retreated into her phone.
The videos they had posted already had hundreds of views, and she had a dozen direct messages. She clicked through them, ignoring Celeste, and stopped dead when she saw a message from Noelle. Her sister didn’t even follow her on any of her accounts, but there was her profile picture, a tiny orb on her screen. The message was a single line.
Nice to see you’re not answering your phone because you’re busy doing big, important things.
Margarita stood and snatched the whiskey from Celeste. “Fine, let’s go,” she said and drank straight from the bottle, swallowing as much as she could in a single swig. “But we’re getting something stronger on the way.”
Of all the drugs she had tasted, shrooms were her favorite. The way she felt the edges of herself melt away, how close she became to everything, as if she were swimming through existence. It was a pure, ecstatic feeling. But afterward, she could spend days in bed, crying for no reason she could name, which wasn’t like her—she wasn’t the sort of person prone to feeling sad. Weed was fun, but she only liked the head highs, traipsing around L.A., giggly, loose, allowing herself ice cream and cold soda. MDMA and alcohol were standbys, precursors for nights out. Fun, electric. Hazy. Cocaine was all right if everyone else was doing it, a ritual that roped a group of strangers together for the night, but she watched herself with that one.
They got edibles: a dark chocolate square for each of them. Celeste drove fast along U.S. 1 so they would get to the beach before it hit them. The sky was velvety blue, the waves cresting one after the other.
They were bowled over by the high once they reached the beach. Celeste was giggly and yammering about nothing. Margarita splayed out on the sand and watched the clouds morph, felt herself sink into the earth.
Since she was a girl, she had been haunted by the sense that she was no one. It wasn’t a voice in her head; it wasn’t even a conscious thought, really. It was a feeling, like a blanket draped over her body to disappear her. It wasn’t because her father went to jail or used; it wasn’t because her mother had no self beyond her marriages. It wasn’t being mixed and knowing she was always half-in with white people, half-out with people of color. It wasn’t any of that—or, it wasn’t only that. It was the way she slid out of the watchfulness of everyone she wanted to see her. It wasn’t classic middle-child bullshit, either, because she knew other middle children.