According to a Source Page 10

  Your new number-one priority for stories is Not-So-Innocent Oversexualized Pop Star. We have her at Ambiance two nights ago, but we need more details! No detail is too small. Anyone who can provide a source with accurate information as to what might have caused Not-So-Innocent Oversexualized Pop Star’s breakdown or an exclusive story relating to this incident will have immunity from the points system and will automatically keep their job. If you know anyone that’s seen her out and about recently, contact them ASAP.

  Aside from her rare appearance at Ambiance the other night, I’d never heard of Not-So-Innocent Oversexualized Pop Star hitting the Hollywood club scene. She was not someone that I regularly wrote about in my files. In fact, she seemed to run in a different circle in Hollywood and before this meltdown kept her personal life shrouded in privacy. I can’t fall back asleep so I log in to Facebook to see if I know anyone that has even the slightest connection to her. I’m down a social-media rabbit hole, lurking on profiles that are so far removed from mine that I don’t even remember how I came to click on them. It’s like I was on a social-media drug binge and don’t realize that four hours have gone by until …

  I smell my mom’s famous French toast wafting through the house.

  I hop out of bed and race downstairs. The kitchen is immaculate, sterile almost. The countertops sparkle and the table is set as if an etiquette expert were coming to breakfast to test Robin’s proficiency. Being the perfectionist she is, there isn’t a napkin ring out of place. There’s no evidence that twenty toddlers were here hours ago. There’s barely any evidence a toddler lives here now. I honestly don’t care where I eat or which fork I eat it with as long as I can get my hands on my mom’s meal ASAP!

  “Yes!” I’m so excited for this French toast. I honestly have dreams about it. “Thank you, Mom.”

  “Nobody’s French toast is better than Mom’s,” Robin adds. It’s true. I don’t care if I’m at the nicest brunch restaurant in town and they use locally sourced, organic ingredients and cage-free eggs from chickens that get daily Reiki healing, it will never be as good as my mom’s secret recipe, and she knows it. I’ve long speculated that she adds crack to the egg mixture she uses to coat the bread because it’s so addictive.

  “Sit down, Ella, it’s ready.” This is the best surprise ever. I plop into the closest seat so I don’t have to waste any time before dousing my French toast in syrup and devouring it.

  “Where are Marianna and Jeff?” I ask. “If they don’t get in on this soon I’m going to eat it all.”

  “They went out for a father-daughter breakfast,” Robin says.

  “Why would they do that? Oh well, more for me!”

  “Actually…” My mom takes my hand. I feel my heart stop. A person taking my hand has not been working out well for me recently, so I’m dreading whatever is going to come out of her mouth next.

  Robin and Mom are looking at each other. Mom continues. “They went because I wanted to talk to you. I’m not here for Marianna’s birthday or for vacation. The truth is I’m here for a while. I have an open-ended ticket.”

  “Are you moving here?” I ask.

  “Sort of.” My mom stares at Robin.

  “It’s okay, Mom. Tell her.” My mom takes Robin’s hand as well.

  “Ella, you know how much I love you,” she begins. She takes a breath.

  All thoughts of French toast are gone. I feel my rabid appetite completely dry up. “Mom, you’re really scaring me.”

  “I’ve been diagnosed with acute myeloid leukemia,” she says quickly.

  There’s silence in the kitchen. I don’t know what to say. I don’t know if I could speak if I knew what to say.

  I squeeze her hand so hard she has to remove it because I might break one of her bones. Aside from my death grip on her hand I’m paralyzed. I don’t know if I could move my body if I wanted to.

  I realize Robin is speaking: “Mom is going to see an oncologist at my hospital who specializes in blood cancers. He’s a friend of mine and he’s going to do everything he can for her. This can be treatable.”

  I still can’t speak and probably look like I’ve had a stroke and am in need of medical attention myself. I throw my arms around my mother and hug her tighter than I ever have in my life. Cancer? How can this be happening? She kisses the top of my forehead and rubs my back, but I refuse to lessen my grip.

  “I’m going to be fine. I know Robin’s colleague is going to give me the best care possible.” My mother is the one diagnosed with a potentially terminal disease, yet she’s trying to give me reassurance.

  “I love you so much,” I manage to muster.

  “I know you do, sweetie.” She pushes me back a little and wipes a tendril of hair out of my face.

  “I don’t know what I’d do if—”

  “If nothing. I’m going to be fine and we’re going to get through this together. The Warren women are strong. Every single one of us. Never forget that.”

  “We have an appointment with the oncologist next week if you want to come with us,” Robin says. Her voice is softer than I’ve heard in a long time. “He’ll be able to answer any questions you have and you can learn about Mom’s treatment and what we can all do to make her more comfortable.” Knowing that Robin has a plan, I feel my tears finally beginning to subside.

  “Yes. Of course. Tell me when and I’ll be there.”

  I stare at the remainder of the French toast on my plate. I can’t stomach the thought of eating another bite. I feel nauseated and dizzy and like my heart is about to explode out of my chest.

  “It will all be okay, Ella. I promise. Have I ever broken a promise to my baby girl?”

  “No,” I say, shaking my head back and forth.

  “I’m certainly not starting now,” she tells me.

  Robin drives me home after breakfast. The drive is silent and not because we don’t have anything to say but because we have too many things to say that neither of us want to actually say out loud. I get out of her car, despondent, realizing that another set of problems is waiting for me inside. Before I shut the door, Robin breaks the silence.

  “I’ll text you the doctor’s appointment info later, okay?”

  “Yeah. Thanks.”

  “Are you gonna be okay by yourself?” she asks. “I know breakups aren’t ever easy and—”

  “Trust me, Robin. Ethan is the last thing on my mind right now. All I care about is Mom,” I tell her. She gives me a single nod.

  “Call me if you need anything, El. Really, anything. And I promise I’m going to take good care of Mom.”

  “I know you will.” I wave as she pulls away.

  I walk inside my apartment and collapse on my bed. It’s not like there’s anywhere else to sit. My anxiety is skyrocketing and my mind is overanalyzing every potential scenario of my mother’s illness. There are about 33 million search results for “what to do after you find out your parent has cancer” online. I Googled it in the car. But no one can tell me how to make the combination of impending doom and apathy go away. The more daunting thought is that if Ethan were here, I know he’d use his prowess with prose to concoct a comforting speech. But he’s not here. I’m all alone and I don’t want to be. Not right now.

  I call Holiday. Each ring that passes without an answer draws a new tear from my eyes. Voice mail. I hang up without leaving a message.

  I try Jessica next. Same thing. It’s not their fault they have lives. And I’m sure that they’re convinced that I hit rock bottom the other day so the only direction for me to go was up.

  The only thing I want to do right now is not think and the only thing mindless enough to get everything off my mind is packing, so I start throwing my clothes in boxes.

  * * *

  I’m sure Holiday did something fabulous last night and I don’t want to wake her even though it’s the early afternoon, so I quietly retrieve the spare key from underneath the flowerpot next to the front door. We’re going to need to find a more discreet hiding spot once I�
��m moved in.

  I’m exhausted. I can’t wait to get this box of clothes through the door. As soon as I’m inside, I set it down so I can grab some water.

  I walk into the kitchen and Holiday and Seth Rubin are making out like they are on a nature show.

  She’s sitting on top of the kitchen counter straddling him like he’s the prey in a National Geographic special. Holiday is in a robe and luckily he’s in a pair of boxer briefs, but I have to do a double take to make sure that one of my best friends is in fact getting busy with a married man and that I’m not still drunk or hallucinating. I can’t unsee this!

  My feet feel like they’re glued to the ground so I can’t move, even though my head is telling my body to bolt in the opposite direction. Seth catches me out of the corner of his eye and immediately pushes Holiday away from him. She turns to see why and stares at me, terrified. We are all looking at one another slightly embarrassed and not sure who should speak first or what to say.

  “I’m going to go get dressed,” Seth says for all of our benefits after a good thirty seconds. “Holiday, I’ll see you in Canada in a few days,” he says, trying to sound professional and like he wasn’t caught with his hand in the British teakettle. He retreats upstairs and Holiday hops off the kitchen island. She opens the refrigerator and grabs the orange juice without uttering a word.

  “You want some?” she asks as she pours a glass like nothing had just happened.

  “Okay … so just to be clear, we’re not going to talk about this?”

  “There’s nothing to talk about,” she replies with a mixture of adamancy and tranquility, as if I’d asked her if she felt like having Italian food for dinner.

  “Got it.” I may need to pour my feelings out like an erupting volcano anytime my personal life hits turbulence—especially if I was having an affair with the married creator of my TV pilot—but she’s entitled to handle her own life however she wants without judgment from me. She slides my glass of orange juice across to me. “I’m here if you do,” I tell her.

  “Ella, I only want to say this once. I never want to talk about this ever again with you or anyone. It never happened. Do you understand?”

  “Understood.”

  “Good. I should probably get dressed as well. Lots to do before I head to Vancouver,” she says, rushing off like the kitchen was on fire.

  I did not see this one coming. First of all I thought she was into Tristan. Secondly, I’ve never known Holiday to go after another woman’s man. Seth, now fully dressed, rushes out of the house without another word as I’m finishing my juice.

  Ten

  We’re going to a party at Foreign Born Supernatural Superstar’s house tonight.

  Holiday texts me, even though my room is only 1000 square feet away from hers.

  It will be the perfect bon voyage LA party! Plus the party is technically “public” so you can do some reporting without breaking your code. Be ready for 8 pm.

  Foreign Born Supernatural Superstar is at the top of the A-list, which hopefully means his guests will be A-list and I will get a good scoop for The Life and show them that I’m taking initiative and using my own sources to try to get a story for them. Even though they’ve used everything I turned in online, I need a magazine-worthy cover story if I want to beat out the other girls and save my job.

  “I got us an Uber. You’ve been through a lot lately. You deserve a night to get a little bit tipsy while you search for your story,” she says as we are leaving the house that evening. This is the second time in a week that I want to officially convert my religion to Holi-tology.

  “Thank you.”

  “Shut up and get in,” she says, holding the door open for me. The party is in the Bird Streets, not too far away, and as we both finish applying a final coat of lip gloss I come to find out that Holiday has another agenda when she asks, “What’s your game plan?”

  “Game plan?”

  “Yes. Game plan.” She stares at me in disbelief that I have not calculated every move tonight already. “This party will be a great place to meet guys.”

  “I don’t know if I’m quite ready for that, Hol.”

  “Life doesn’t care if you’re not ready. In fact that’s usually when you end up meeting someone.” She pulls a pack of violet candies from her purse and offers me one. “You may be in the hustle and bustle of the Hollywood nightlife scene but you’ve been out of the dating scene for a while. You have to use technique to navigate your way through the crowd to find the right guy, now that you’re on the pull.”

  “Holiday, are you trying to be my friend or my pimp? I won’t find a good story if I’m off trying to be a ho.”

  “Bollocks.” It is. I acquiesce. I’d rather listen to her than obsess over my mom’s doctor’s appointment. I haven’t told Holiday yet because if I say it out loud, it’s real and I’m not ready to face that yet.

  “Alright, I’m listening.” Her face shines and at first I can’t tell if it’s from the makeup or if it’s her excitement about educating me on how to triumph in the battle of the sexes. It becomes clear that she’s more enthusiastic about being able to impart her wisdom than she was when Armani launched a makeup line.

  “The first, and in my opinion, most important step, is eye contact.”

  “Make eye contact,” I repeat.

  “No. Not just eye contact. It’s not that simple.” Of course it isn’t. “It has to be quick. A pouty, seductive smile and a glance directly into the eyes and then immediately divert your attention back to whoever you were talking to before.”

  Holiday turns her head and gives herself a moment of preparation before she whips her head around using me as her subject and demonstrates her well-researched tactic. I have to admit that I’m impressed. She’s so convincing that I can’t help but let out an uncomfortable laugh. She continues.

  “You can’t let it linger or the eye contact turns into full-contact eye-fucking and that is far too aggressive. You want the man to be the alpha and feel like the hunter.”

  “Eye contact, don’t eye-fuck,” I reiterate.

  “If, and when, the eye-contact guy, or any other guy for that matter approaches you—and always let them approach you, let him speak first,” she commands. I nod in agreement. “During your conversation, make sure to ask questions about him. Men love nothing more than talking about themselves … and sports.” I nod. “Next, casually interject the most fascinating facts about yourself without seeming self-absorbed or egotistical. This is a delicate balance that you will have to find through trial and error. Whatever you do, don’t play dumb,” she emphasizes.

  I may not have been out on a date in a few years, but Holiday is acting like I have the etiquette and social skills of someone who’s just been released from prison—although in some weird existential way I guess I am. With every rule and tip she enjoys educating me on her guide to seduction more and more, so I play along and keep my mouth shut. Her tutelage concludes as we pull up at Foreign Born Supernatural Superstar’s house. My phone vibrates and I better check it because if it’s something that needs a response there’s no telling if there will be service at Foreign Born Supernatural Superstar’s house.

  El, wanted to remind you about Mom’s doctor’s appointment tomorrow. 9 am. I know she’s really happy you’re coming. We’ll see you then. Love you.

  I swallow as I read the text.

  “Everything okay, darling?”

  I fight back the tears I know are dying to be released. “Yeah.” My meek tone isn’t convincing either of us.

  “You can do this, El. I think you’re ready but if you don’t want to go, we don’t have to.” She thinks I’m nervous about interacting with men and I would honestly trade anything for my nerves to be occupied by sexual politics instead of leukemia logistics. Holiday bats her sympathetic puppy dog eyes at me.

  “I’m okay,” I assure her. Holiday nods. “It will take my mind off everything for the night and earning some points wouldn’t hurt.”

  Before
getting out we do one final makeup check in the car mirror and quickly swipe a lint roller over our dresses as we exit the car. As we approach the front door I notice that there is a security guard in a black-on-black suit and an earpiece checking the list as Holiday and I confidently stride up to his post.

  “Holiday Hall, plus one.” He checks his list without even the trace of a smile and he’s paying more attention to his task than any TSA agent I’ve ever come across at LAX. He returns from his list and glances at us sternly. He pulls two sheets of paper from behind his list on the clipboard and hands them to us with Montblanc pens.

  “If you’d like to enter the party each of you must sign nondisclosure agreements. I’ll also need to take a photo of you with your driver’s license and the completed NDA,” he tells us.

  He’s staring at us as if we’re ex-cons here to case the joint, and his humorless demeanor is mildly terrifying. I feel a shooting pain in my foot. If I sign this NDA and I give information to The Life and they use it I could theoretically be sued—not that I have anything for Foreign Born Supernatural Superstar to take. If I don’t sign I can’t go in and there’s no chance of me getting any gossip and my job will still be in jeopardy. I make the split-second executive decision to roll the dice and sign. As I’m about to take the pen to paper I’m interrupted.

  “Holiday! How are you?” It’s Foreign Born Supernatural Superstar.

  “Good, and yourself?” They double air-kiss each other.

  “Algernon, they don’t need to sign these. This is Holiday Hall! She’s one of us.” Algernon, whom I’ve now gathered is his private security guard, winces before retrieving the blank forms from us. I know that he wants to roll his eyes at us but he’s required to keep his stone-cold face stoic.

  “Grazzi. Don’t you look dashing,” Holiday flirts.

  “Foreign Born Supernatural Superstar, this is Bella.” She winks at me as she calls me Bella, enjoying the secrecy of our inside joke.

  “Nice to meet you, Bella. Ladies, follow me.”

  We make our way through the house. We can both instantly feel that this party has a different vibe and energy from any of Holiday’s parties. Her parties feel elegant and extravagant from the moment you walk in. Holiday is able to give her guests the sensation that they are at an exclusive affair while still providing a comfortable atmosphere. While this party has attempted to emulate that feeling with elements like waiters offering guests both champagne and cigars, other additions like the ice luge next to the bar make it feel fratty. We continue to follow Foreign Born Supernatural Superstar as we navigate our way through the large living room that is surprisingly already full, seeing as people rarely show up when a party actually starts—except for me.