Psychos: A White Girl Problems Book Page 2

  Anyway, the next day they both came over to sketch out the broad strokes. After careful consideration, we decided to have a small dinner party in lieu of a massive blowout. They didn’t want me to, but I insisted on helping and went ahead with curating the guest list, floral theme, and scent story. Roman smoked a joint, Gen got annoyed at him for being stoned, and then Roman showed us the people he was “seeing” on Grindr.

  I spent the next morning aggressively texting/inviting/guilting my desired ten-person guest list to come to the party. They all eventually agreed, thank God. I then went about locating and booking rare tropical birds to make up for the party’s otherwise lack of wildlife. No post-rehab bash is complete without a few representatives from the animal kingdom. They elegantly remind us that we’re all animals on this earth, constantly evolving yet eternally caged. At Cirque they told us that having animals in our lives would keep us grounded, and that caring for another living thing releases oxytocin in our brains and that’s, like, as powerful as doing a line of blow or something. I didn’t totally get it, but I was going with it. So the party needed birds.

  Planning this event was proving difficult. Gen was “too busy at work” to return my texts, so I couldn’t even get an approximate pool depth for my exotic fish guy, which meant there would be no platinum arowanas (google them) spicing up the otherwise boring backyard. Also, my orchid dealer was too busy planning Demi Moore’s new boyfriend’s bris to handle putting together centerpieces for my intimate soiree. Hydrangeas would have to suffice.

  On the day of the party, I found solace in a kale lollipop for lunch, went for a quick jog down and then back up my driveway, showered, and then napped for twenty-five minutes. When I felt rested enough to be nice to my hair and makeup people, they came over.

  Mabinty and I were sitting in my bathroom while Hair gave me a blowout and Makeup worked on dulling my forehead shine. I would usually learn their names, but I was under a lot of stress that night. I really didn’t appreciate the fact that I was going to have to eat in front of people again to fully display my recovery. Oh, and yes, I have forehead shine. I’m human, get off me.

  “So,” I said to Mabinty, “when I walk in, should I just go straight to the head of the dinner table and begin the toast I wrote to myself? Whoa, easy with the powder up there.”

  “Sorry, Babe,” whimpered Makeup.

  “You’re forgiven.” I turned back to Mabinty. “Or should I greet people and act as if the party’s not all about me? Like, be totally casual? I’m glad it’s going to be intimate, but that almost makes it more awkward to navigate.”

  “Yuh gwan be fine. Don’ overtink nutin’ tonight. Be yuhself, that’s what yuh friends be missin’ the past few months. So, give dem Babe Walker. Don’t worry what dey tink,” advised Mabinty, the wise one.

  “Oh. Okay, I’ll just completely disregard what anyone thinks about me. That’s really easy to do, Mabs.”

  “Yuh bein’ a bitch.”

  “Mi know,” I muttered, closing my eyes and rubbing my temples in an attempt to center my thoughts.

  “If yuh dun know by now, we rootin’ for ya, gyal. Yuh need a smooth transition back into yuh life here in LA.”

  “Mi know,” I said.

  God, I’d missed my sweet, cunty Mabinty.

  “But yuh gwan be fine. Bettah than fine. Yuh’ll be great again. While yuh were away, mi started meditatin’ like yuh always told me to do.”

  “Mabs! Bless!” I turned to Hair. “I’ve been telling her to get her zen game together since I was eight. So stubborn, this one.” Hair just nodded. “What time is it?” I asked.

  “Seven fifteen,” said Makeup, glancing down at some kind of plastic Michael Kors watch, I’m sure.

  “Fuck. Okay, we’re done here. I need to get dressed. Cocktails started at six, so people are probably showing up there now.”

  I’d sketched out a few looks (like I always do, as mirrors are not to be trusted) and decided on my party outfit: a vintage Pucci jumpsuit, a vintage Judith Leiber Buddha Bag, and purple Prada platforms. I slowly walked toward the front door of Gen’s parents’ Malibu manse feeling powerful yet likable, expecting to simply float into a manageably small and chic gathering; I stepped through the front door only to be confronted by a very, very harsh reality. It was packed. Hundreds of people. Strangers. It smelled like sugar and beer, which was alarming because I’d designed a lavender/old library scent with my aromist specifically for the event.

  Genevieve and Roman had apparently invited all of Malibu, half of the Lakers, and anyone who’d ever slept with James Franco. In a word, it was merde. I’m talking magenta balloons, WELCOME HOME banners, plastic cups, teenagers, and a keg.

  My body must’ve gone into shock. If that Laker hadn’t been there to catch my fall, I would have broken my nose from fainting, again. I found the closest unoccupied room and stood in silence with my eyes tightly shut, trying to calm myself. I am peace. I am me. Me is peace. I am peace. I am me. Me is peace. I am peace. I am—

  BAM! The door swung open so hard that it almost flew off of its hinges.

  Standing before me was a very drunk Genevieve and some girl I didn’t recognize, whose presence at that particular moment baffled me because she was also wearing vintage Pucci and a lot of foundation.

  After I struggled to stomach Gen’s inappropriately formal, one-shouldered Christian Siriano gown, I released the following words from my trembling lips:

  “Why are you doing this to me?”

  “Um. Are you kidding? Look around,” she slurred, motioning with her Solo cup filled almost to the brim with vodka cranberry. “This is way more fabulous than your party plan.”

  “What?! No, it’s not!”

  “And this vibe is so much more you.”

  “So much more me???” I yelled at her.

  “You love when I invite the Lakers! Oh, and the bird guy had to take the birds home. I tried to get him to stay so you could at least see them, but you were so late and he said rap music was too scary for them. So, he left.” All of this was said so flippantly, as if she had no idea that I was hysterically crying on the inside.

  It was at this exact moment that I realized being away for four months had had a real effect on me. Before rehab, I would’ve loved a party like this. But I wasn’t going to tell Gen that. “You obviously don’t know me anymore. Excuse me, I have a party to hate.” I looked at the girl standing next to Gen. “I don’t really know who you are, but I’d appreciate it if I never found out.”

  With that, I attempted to walk past her and into my party, but she tried to hug me.

  “You don’t know me, Babe, but I hope that you find the strength to—”

  “Excuse me?” I lashed out at her.

  “You’re in a dark place. I’ve been there.”

  “You don’t know me, weirdo. Don’t pretend that our mutual appreciation for Pucci gives you the right to tell me where I am.”

  I stormed off, allowing the crowd to swallow me before she had a chance to respond.

  The saddest part was that no one there knew who I was. I was standing in a house full of people boozing, coke-ing, smiling, and avoiding Charlie Sheen, yet no one was rushing toward me to tell me that I looked really happy, or that LA blows without me. What was the point of this party, anyway? I didn’t want to drink, and I couldn’t shop, and I couldn’t slap anyone, and there were no hot guys there. The longer I stood watching everyone, the tighter I balled my fists, and the more I wanted to scream.

  Float in the light, I am the light, light is light, we are light, ham sa, ham sa shanti—fuck this.

  “Do you even know who I am?” I scrasked (scream-asked) a girl in an Alexander Wang dress from the bad season, grabbing her arm.

  “Um?”

  “Exactly. You should go. It’s not safe here.” I ushered her away from the crowd.

  “But my bag. Wait, what? I just came with some friends . . .”

  “You’ll be fine.”

  And like that she was out th
e door.

  I continued this evacuation procedure and was actually making good progress with one of the Jenner girls when someone grabbed my arm and pulled me backward.

  “BABE, STOP.” It was the strange girl who was with Gen earlier and she looked mad but also scared. Was I being scary? I was totally being scary.

  “Who the FUCK are you?!” I shouted at her. I noted that, in extreme close-up, her skin was in really good shape, surprisingly enough.

  Roman was standing behind her. “This is ridiculous. Babe, you need to stop, everything is fine,” he commanded.

  “Roman, you have to understand. I’m fragile and Genevieve is just doing this to annoy me.” As if on cue, Genevieve then approached the three of us. “Right, Gen? You’ve been waiting months to fuck with me again. I get it.”

  “NO! I thought you would be happy that so many people showed up. But I guess you’re right, I DON’T know you. Or at least I forgot what a cunt you can be.”

  “Wow.” I was basically speechless. “And who is she?” I said, motioning to the random girl. “My replacement? Clearly you guys don’t give a shit about me anymore.”

  “Babe,” Roman said, trying to grab my hand, but I was already making my way toward the door. I stopped and looked at them with cold, dead eyes.

  “The next time one of you gets home from rehab, I’ll remember this.”

  On my way out I grabbed the first tall guy I saw by the hand and dragged him with me. He was oddly not bothered by my psycho behavior.

  “Can you take me home? Please? This was supposed to be my party, but the whole thing got totally out of hand. I hate all of these people. Except you. You’re fine. But everyone else. I just . . . I was . . . I’m really fragile tonight. I just . . . I can’t.”

  And then I totally lost consciousness, but I kept repeating those words: “I can’t.” Over and over and over. It was like a seizure fucked a blackout and gave birth to a litter of tourettes.

  “I’ll get you home. Just stop talking,” I heard him say through the fog.

  “Thank you. Um . . .”

  “Jonathan.”

  “Jonathan. Thank you, Jonathan. I’m just really confused right now.”

  This catastrophic evening took a momentary turn for the better when I stepped into Jonathan’s black Land Rover. Once we were in the car, I realized that he smelled amazing, his tan was amazing, he had huge amazing hands, and the top of his head was blessed with amazing surfer hair. Totally not my type, but also totally my type.

  “So, did you have fun?” I said, looking out onto the empty highway.

  “You mean before you dragged me out?”

  “Sorry about that.”

  “It’s okay. And yeah. I guess I was having fun. I’d never seen a Playboy Bunny naked, so that was cool.”

  “THERE WAS A FUCKING PLAYBOY BUN—” I stopped myself before my scream became crying. I managed to cool down quickly and squeeze out a whimpered: “Oh. Cool. Awesome.”

  Silence.

  “So, who are you?”

  “I’m Jon, remember?” he said, smiling.

  “I remember your name. I mean, who are you? Besides a potential kidnapper-murderer.”

  “I surf, I work at a surf shop here in Malibu. I’m in a band, but we don’t really play shows. I actually went to high school with you. I was a few years older than you guys.”

  “You guys?”

  “You and Genevieve.”

  Then I put it together. This was Jonathan Larson. Gen’s older cousin through marriage whom she has always wanted to fuck and probably will always want to marry. We used to send him anonymous boob-texts when we were sophomores.

  “Oh yeah! You’re that guy. I remember you now. You used to date that heavy girl from Spain.”

  “Flora. Yeah, she was actually at that party. She’s engaged now.”

  “Wow. Good for her.”

  Silence.

  Luckily we were pulling onto Sunset, so I was only a few minutes away from home and the end of this awkward taxi ride.

  “So, is it weird to have the same name as the guy who wrote the Broadway musical Rent?” I asked.

  “Sorry, not a big theater guy. What is that?”

  “Oh. Hmmm, I don’t know that I’ve ever met someone who didn’t know what Rent was. This is my house, you can just let me out here.” I grabbed my bag and exited the car. “Thanks for the ride.”

  “No prob. Uh . . . ?”

  “Babe. Babe Walker.”

  “Right. How could I forget a weird name like that? Later, bro.”

  After that last sentence, all I could do was look in his general direction and wait for him to reach over and close my door from the inside. I made my way to the guest house, and tried to reconcile my anger with Gen and Roman by doing a yoga/meditation session in the steam room. I couldn’t believe they’d thought that was an appropriate event to throw for someone who’d just gotten out of rehab. But considering how fucked up my life was going to get over the next few months, that shitty party would be the least of my worries.

  two

  TRYING TO DO MORE REGULAR-PEOPLE STUFF.

  Genevieve 7:16AM What is your problem?

  This was the text from Gen that I awoke to in the morning. I knew I’d have to deal with her being mad at me after I stormed out of the party, but I didn’t like the idea of her being mad at me while I was supposed to be mad at her.

  Babe 9:10AM What is your problem?

  Genevieve 9:10AM What do you mean?

  Genevieve 9:11AM I asked you.

  Genevieve 9:15AM What is your fucking problem?

  Babe 9:16AM Before answering that, I’d really like to know what your fucking problem is.

  Genevieve 9:18AM My problem is that I’m not clear on what your huge problem is right now.

  Babe 9:19AM I’m busy. brb

  Under the impression that Gen and I could now move on from her mistake, I tried to go back to sleep. Then my phone buzzed in my hand.

  Genevieve 9:25AM I fucked your dad.

  Babe 9:26AM Not funny. It’s too early to be that not funny. Call me later.

  Genevieve 9:28AM I’m not trying to be funny.

  Babe 9:28AM Genevieve

  Genevieve 9:29AM Babe

  Babe 9:30AM Genevieve

  Genevieve 9:31AM Babe

  Babe 9:32AM Gen

  Genevieve 9:33AM Babs

  Babe 9:35AM Don’t call me that.

  Babe 9:37AM Why are you doing this?

  Babe 9:37AM It’s fine. I’m not mad anymore kind of.

  Genevieve 9:45AM Ok

  Babe 9:46AM Ok what?

  Genevieve 9:50AM Ok I slept with your dad while you were at rehab.

  Babe 9:51AM You’re fucking insane. Being this annoyed right now is giving me wrinkles, I can feel them sprouting.

  Babe 9:54AM And besides, I fucked your cousin Jon last night after he drove me home. He’s really nice.

  Genevieve 9:54AM What?

  Babe 9:55AM Kind of weird that he’s your cousin, though.

  Babe 9:56AM He had a huge dick. It was like losing my virginity all over again.

  Genevieve 9:57AM Literally Babe, the DAY after you went to rehab, your dad emailed me and was like you should come over for tea darling and all this shit.

  Babe 10:02AM My dad hasn’t written one email in his life. Cheryl does them for him.

  Babe 10:03AM Did you know Jon plays the bass?

  Genevieve 10:04AM Your dad took me to Nobu.

  Babe 10:05AM Jon asked me to come on tour with his band.

  Genevieve 10:06AM The Nobu in Tribeca. In New York. New York City.

  Babe 10:07AM I came six times, it was actually excessive.

  Genevieve 10:08AM He fingered me in the restaurant.

  Babe 10:08AM He wants to teach me how to surf.

  Genevieve 10:08AM Out of all the old guys I’ve fucked, your dad is definitely the most limber.

  Babe 10:08AM Between your younger brother and Jon, I preferred your younger brother.

>   Genevieve 10:08AM We TRAVELED together.

  Babe 10:08AM I’m PREGNANT.

  Genevieve 10:10AM You’re insane.

  Babe 10:11AM We’re family now.

  Genevieve 10:12AM So are we.

  Babe 10:12AM You’re my cousin.

  Genevieve 10:13AM I’m your mom.

  Babe 10:13AM Bye.

  Genevieve 10:14AM Ugh bye.

  There’s no way Gen and my dad ever even did so much as run into each other at The Grove while I was away, much less copulate. He would never and she would never. So I knew she had to be lying. But that didn’t mean I was going to come clean about my lie anytime soon.

  I fell back asleep and woke up at noon, feeling properly incubated and ready to grab life by the tits. I crawled out from under my igloo of pillows, flossed, brushed my teeth, and headed across the yard to the main house to pick up my hearty breakfast of green juice and an e-cigarette followed by a real cigarette. One of my post-rehab goals was to quit smoking. It’s a process.

  As I approached the kitchen I heard two very British men talking about the stock market or cars, I can’t remember. One of the voices belonged to my dad, but the other was unidentifiable. I try not to enter rooms unless I know exactly who is inside, so I stood waiting for a bit, peering through the thin crack between the door and the wall.

  My dad sat with Anonymous at the island, with a cup of tea and an empty cereal bowl in front of him. I could only catch glimpses of the other guy, but I could tell he was about my age and had good hair. I figured he was safe, so I opened the door and feigned surprise when I “saw” them sitting there.

  “Oh, good morning,” I said, walking toward the fridge.

  Not only did this guy have great hair, but his smile was warm and oddly familiar. He was hot, in the most British way. Dirty blond locks, blue eyes, a solid nose. Chris Martin meets Eddie Redmayne meets Prince William. I immediately felt attracted to him, so I ignored him.