After Perfect (7 page)

My mother had flown out to California early to avoid watching twenty-five years of her life sold off to strangers and filed away in brown cardboard boxes. She didn't want to be there when the bank took the house. We were staying at her friend Suzanne's house, one of her sorority sisters from her days at UCLA, who owned the local stationery store in town. During the last six months of my freshman year at LMU, I got to know the exclusive beach town just south of Malibu where shiny Escalades, Maseratis, and Range Rovers rest in front of outdated storefronts. Suzanne hired me part-time when she found out about my father's arrest. I sold Christmas cards, Bar Mitzvah invitations, and baby announcements, schmoozing all day with the wealthy wives of agents, producers, and directors, helping them capture their important milestones and memories. The mothers loved me. “Young college student from Washington, DC; daughter of philanthropist and lawyer” was the story I told them, even though I knew it was no longer the truth and wondered if it ever had been.

“Where are you?” my mother text messaged me.

“On my way,” I replied.

She had been looking for a rental and needed to register Chloe for high school as soon as possible. Everything back home in Virginia would be gone within the week. What few items were left needed to be shipped to California. Three mattresses, three bed frames, my bedroom set, two couches, the breakfast table, six chairs, five lamps, one television, two desks, two rugs, kitchen dishes, pots and pans, boxes of old family photos, five enormous Louis Vuitton trunks, the Range Rover, and Mom's Jaguar.

I asked my mother how we were able to keep our nice cars if we had no money. She said, “There's a lien against the cars, honey; we can't sell them.” I didn't know what this meant. When I learned they were being used as collateral in exchange for a loan, wherever that money had gone, it was gone with the wind, like everything else. How were we going to lease a house or an apartment? How were we going to move everything out to California? My parents were in $12 million worth of debt. The feds were watching. Their accounts were drained.

I
arrived in Pacific Palisades and saw my mother standing on the corner in her Christian Dior sunglasses, holding a latte. I parked and walked over to her.

She began explaining to me that we had run out of choices. My father had arranged for a man named Gary in Boca Raton, Florida, who worked at a bank, to wire money into an account for us. “Two hundred thousand dollars,” she said. But there was a problem. We needed a name for a bank account that would go unnoticed, a name that would slip right under the radar so that in return, we'd have a roof over our heads and food on the table. Mara was out of the question, because she was back in Texas applying for student loans and financial aid. Chloe was only sixteen. I, on the other hand, was over eighteen years of age and considered a California resident, a struggling actress with a clean record. Who would notice?

“I don't understand. Why do you have to use my name? Why can't we use yours?” I asked.

“Because everything in my name is attached to your father's. We don't have a choice, honey,” my mother explained. “The government—they've taken everything from us, and if they see we have more, they'll take that from us too. So we either use your name, or we go to the homeless shelter downtown. Your choice.” She had lost ten pounds since the trial, her once rosy cheekbones now empty and gaunt. She was almost unrecognizable the more short fused she became, riddled with anxiety, often forgetting to breathe, and stopping whatever she was doing to rest her hand on her chest to take conscious deep breaths. It was jarring to see her in such a state of desperation; her once calm and nurturing voice whenever I felt anxious under pressure—“How do you eat an elephant, sweetheart? One bite at a time”—now heavy and morose. I wanted to help her. I trusted her. I trusted my father. They would never let me do anything illegal.

“C
hristina Grace Prousalis, that's a pretty name. Is it Greek?” the banker asked. He was pleased with himself for acquiring a new member of the branch. In five minutes, he'd try to sell me a credit card.

“Yes. My dad's half Greek,” I replied, glancing over at my mother, who posed next to me sipping her latte so that we appeared normal. The banker handed back my driver's license with an application to sign.

“Autograph at the
X
,” he said. I used to spend hours in elementary school practicing my autograph on classroom chalkboards, extending the bottom of the
a
so it looped around, crossing over the
t
and
i'
s. I wanted my loops to look just like my father's. I had even perfected his autograph, telling all of my friends, “Watch this: I can forge my dad's signature.” I remember sitting on his lap at his mahogany desk in the library and asking him to show me how he did it. He put my hand around his as he drew the cursive capital
T,
looping the
o
around to the squiggly
m
.

On the application, I read the statement in small print:

Everything I have stated in this application is correct. You are authorized to make any inquiries that you consider appropriate to determine if you should open the account. This may include ordering a credit report or other report (e.g., information from any motor vehicle department or other state agency) on me. I have received a copy of Consumer Account Agreement, Consumer Account Fee and Information Schedule, and Privacy Policy (collectively the “Account Agreement”), and agree to be bound to the terms and conditions contained therein. I also agree to the terms of the dispute resolution program described in the Account Agreement. Under this program, our disputes will be decided before one or more neutral persons in an arbitration proceeding and not by a jury trial or a trial before a judge.

E
verything in the application was correct. The banker accepted the application and handed me the Wells Fargo signature folder. It read “Together We'll Go Far.”

We walked out of the bank with our new debit card and temporary checks in hand. Had I known at the time what I had done, I might have felt like Bonnie from
Bonnie and Clyde,
except instead of using a gun, I used white privilege and class. Given the local population, I was just an ordinary girl opening up a bank account with her elegant mother in one of the wealthiest neighborhoods in Los Angeles.

I couldn't quite describe the feeling I had other than it felt dark underneath the bright sun as we crossed Sunset Boulevard toward my car, passing young moms in their Elyse Walker sweaters pushing Bugaboo strollers, their sleeping babies all bundled up like cashmere burritos. My mother needed me to give her a ride to the rental house on the corner of Drummond Street so that we could sign the lease agreement and write the landlord a check.

“M
rs. Gilbert, this is my daughter Christina.” An elderly woman walked down the front steps of the red and white craftsman home. It was a 1950s picturesque lot complete with a white picket fence right in the heart of Pacific Palisades. Mrs. Gilbert shook my hand. “Nice to meet you, dear. Your mother tells me you're the catalyst for the family's move out to California. That you're an actress.” She pretended to be impressed, I could tell.

“I am.” I shot my mother a look.
Did Mrs. Gilbert know Dad was going to prison?

My mother interrupted, quickly sensing my unease. “I've been trying to convince my husband to move out here for years, and now that Christina is here, it feels like the right time.” I studied her, and if my eyes could speak, they'd have said, “I know your secret.”

“That's nice,” Mrs. Gilbert said, and she handed me the lease agreement. I guessed my mother had told her it would be me signing the lease.
Doesn't this woman think it strange that I'm the one signing the lease? Doesn't she need to verify employment? Run a credit check?
She never seemed concerned. Maybe she needed the money. I signed the lease and handed her back the paperwork. A wide smile crossed her face.

I never questioned the veracity of my own actions. That day was only the beginning of a series of grave mistakes I'd make. We were longing for normalcy, longing for a home, a community. A place to belong. I had no understanding of what it took to keep up with the Joneses. That this was what my mother and father were still doing, despite everything. On the outside, on another coast, our situation didn't
look
a whole lot different for us. Not yet, at least. We had the house, the Range Rover, the Jaguar, the designer clothes, and the white picket fence. We looked like we fit right in. But the thing about a veneer is that there's always something rotten underneath. Most of the time, you just can't see it. There was a part of me that could feel it, though—that deep down it was a lie. But my instincts had been disproved by authority figures all around me, like my father's attorneys: “It's the government's fault.” The prosecutors: “Do you want to testify against Mr. Prousalis?” Bernie Carl: “I do not.” The Wells Fargo banker: “Would you like a credit card?” Mrs. Gilbert: “Sign right here, dear.” My mother: “We don't have a choice, honey.” And my father: “Everything will be okay.” Pointing me only in the direction of whatever it was they needed to believe—for money.

So I must have been wrong to feel that the whole town was a lie, all of those families with their towheaded babies, tree houses, and nannies, acting perfect and happy. They looked just like us. Just like we had been once: happy.

My agent called. “You booked it,” she said. I had been selected to compete for the role of Laurie Partridge in a new reality television series called
In Search of the Partridge Family
, where VH1 and Sony Television were looking to remake the 1970s sitcom. Other than the fact that money was being laundered in my name, and I had a father going to prison for fraud, I thought this would be a good idea. The reality show would consist of Partridge Family “boot camp,” where I would be trained in singing, dancing, and acting by original cast members Shirley Jones, David Cassidy, and Danny Bonaduce, and compete against seven other starstruck girls for the part on national television. To be sure that no one found out about my father, I dropped my last name and used my middle name. I became Christina Grace, innocent and sweet, just like Susan Dey, the original Laurie.

“Is Christina Grace your real name?” the girl asked, flipping through
Los Angeles Confidential
magazine. She had auburn hair, translucent skin, and a husky voice for someone so skinny.

I looked at her, annoyed. “Maybe,” I said.

“Or is that your stage name?”

Why
is
she asking me this? Is my paranoia obvious?

“Grace is my middle name,” I replied, trying to play it cool.

“I'm Emily. Emily Stone.” Later she would become the movie star Emma Stone. “I'm one of the Lauries.” She reached her arm across the table to shake my hand. Her energy felt ambitious and electric.

“Me too, one of the Lauries.”

She looked at me with her wide green eyes. “So what's your
real
last name?”
Seriously, what is this girl's problem
?
I knew in that moment it was no longer safe to be myself. She looked to be about fourteen or fifteen years old, so I figured she didn't read the
Washington Post
. Besides, no one in Los Angeles read the
Washington Post.

“Prousalis,” I said, a little apprehensive.

“Oh yeah.” She nodded her head, indicating I had made the right decision. “Christina Grace. It's innocent and sweet, just like Susan Dey.”

“Thanks.” I smiled. We gave each other the once-over, the way actresses do, comparing and despairing without wanting the other to know.

Moments later, the rest of the Lauries gathered around us in the hotel lobby at Universal Studios, which was where we were staying for Partridge Family boot camp. It was our first day on set. We looked like Susan Dey octuplets: skinny with long hair, each of us carrying big dreams of stardom. We were driven to Tribune Studios in Hollywood and were greeted by Becky, the talent coordinator with big boobs and a southern accent. She stood in front of the enormous soundstage, holding a walkie-talkie and a clipboard. “Welcome to Partridge Family boot camp, ladies.”

We followed her onto the soundstage, which was broken down into different 1970s-looking set pieces with neon green, orange, and red couches. The air-conditioning was on full blast. Straight ahead against a makeshift wall was the craft services table, filled with Red Vines licorice, veggie platters, donuts, chips, soda, hot tea, and coffee. All of it for free. I walked over, shivering in my chiffon tank top and jean miniskirt, contemplating which donut I should eat, when I felt a tap on my shoulder. I spun around.

“You look like you're freezing.” A tall boy wearing a USC sweatshirt stood in front of me holding a wool blanket. “Here,” he said.

“Thank you.” I took the blanket, eager to wrap myself up.

“They always crank up the air at the crack of dawn because the lights make it so hot in here. I'm Josh.” His eyes were the bluest I'd ever seen.

“Christina—”

“Grace,” he said before I could finish. “I know. One of the Lauries. I saw your audition tape.” Then he started teasing me, singing the
Partridge Family
theme song, “Come On Get Happy,” as if we'd known each other for years.

I laughed. “Are you one of the Keiths?”

“No way,” he said. “I'm the guy that gets paid to stare at you all day long.”

“Uh . . .”

“The camera operator—sorry.” He shook his head and blushed. “That sounded creepy.”