Wicked Jealous: A Love Story (3 page)

So I’d come home from school, bring some food up to my room, lock the door (weird, seeing that I was the only one in the house, I know), and eat. While I was pretty disciplined when it came to things like school, with food I was missing an Off button. One Butterscotch Krimpet turned into three turned into six, and before I knew it I was sitting on the floor with an empty snack cake box feeling sick to my stomach, wondering how I’d ended up here, yet again, on a day I had sworn up and down to myself and whatever it is that runs the universe that I wasn’t going to binge.

Most people, if they heard that story, would see how crazy it was, to eat until I made myself sick to my stomach. But for a little while I forgot that I was That Weird Fat Girl. I forgot that I didn’t have a mother. I forgot that my father spent more time living in a make-believe world run by a talking dog than with me. For however long it took for me to eat my way into numbness, I forgot myself.

And I’d forget that I was never going to be able to fit into the robin’s-egg-blue satin dress, which I had found myself holding again.

“Okay, well, if you’re not going to buy that dress, can I buy it for you?” Nicola asked. “It’ll be your birthday gift.”

“My birthday was last month. There’s a whole year before September rolls around again,” I replied.

“Exactly.”

I knew what she really meant by that: that it would give me the time to lose the weight so I could fit into it. If only it were that easy. Nicola was my best friend, but even she didn’t know about the stash of snack-cake wrappers and cake boxes in the back of my closet that I threw out every few weeks. Maybe because of the English thing, Nicola wasn’t so into talking about things head-on. Instead, she did it in roundabout ways, with bribes.

“I’ll even throw in the shrug for being such a good friend for letting me copy your trig homework all the time.”

And more bribes.

I shook my head. “That’s really nice, but no thanks.” As much as I loved the dress and knew that, had I lost a bunch of weight and removed a few of my ribs and then taken the time to blow dry my straight dark hair instead of just jamming it up on top of my head with a clip, I kind-of-sort-of-maybe would have looked a little bit like Jeanne Moreau’s shorter, squatter, less-pretty second cousin, it felt wrong to take it off the market. This was a dress that deserved to go places. To parties. On dates. For walks on the beach at sunset. (Although because the dress was so cool, it might find that activity a little corny.)

It deserved to be worn by someone who had an actual life—not to hide out in a dark movie theater and end up with petrified pieces of popcorn on the butt. I put the dress back and picked up the Doobie Brothers T-shirt instead. Maybe one day that dress would be me, but for now it was concert T-shirts and cargos.

You’d think that someone with the nickname That Weird Fat Girl would totally stand out at Castle Heights, but not so much. In fact, the weight had the opposite effect: as time went on, it was as if I was slowly being erased, to the point where I was invisible. Letting my long dark hair fall in front of my face and being given the nickname Cousin Itt after the character in
The Addams Family
didn’t help this.

How else to explain the fact that, as I sat in study hall in the auditorium the next day, flipping through a book of the French photographer Brassai’s photos I had found at one of the few used-book stores on Abbot Kinney that hadn’t closed down when I really should have been working on my English paper about
The Scarlet Letter
(and why I thought the movie
Easy A,
starring Emma Stone—my favorite actress next to Jeanne Moreau—did such an awesome job retelling it), I kept getting boinked in the back of the head by kids walking by.

“Ow,” I cried when it happened the fourth time as one of Josh Rosen’s many video cameras made contact with the back of my skull so hard it almost knocked my contact lenses out.

“Oh. Sorry about that, Simone,” Josh said as he almost took out my eye with the end of a tripod. “I didn’t see you there.” Because they were so low on the social food chain, film geeks were generally very nice people, but apparently, I barely existed even in their eyes. Which, seeing that artists are supposed to be such keen observers of life, was a little alarming.

“It’s okay,” I sighed as I rubbed my head. Maybe if I was lucky I’d have a concussion and I’d be able to miss the chemistry pop quiz that was scheduled for tomorrow. Apparently, Mr. Weiner, our teacher, never got the memo that announcing pop quizzes ahead of time kind of defeated the whole “pop” of it all. I liked to think that chemistry was a waste of time, since in 245 days—which is when I would be graduating, not that I was keeping track or anything—the odds of my having to call on my knowledge from the periodic table of elements were about as great as coming across a rhombus or isosceles trapezoid.

After Josh walked away, I went back to my book, happy to see that Parisian women from the 1920s hadn’t been stick thin, either. Even more evidence to support my argument that I had totally been born in the wrong country.

“You know, if you start feeling dizzy or start having sensitivity to light or noise, you might want to go to the nurse and get that checked out,” a voice from behind me said in my ear. “Those are two of the main symptoms of a concussion.”

Startled, I slammed the book shut. Mostly because the photo I had just flipped to happened to be of a woman who, when my eyes adjusted, I realized was totally naked. I whipped my head around, butting my forehead right up against Jason Frank’s.

Great. Of all the people to smack foreheads with, I had to choose one of the most popular guys in the grade and the leader of what Nicola liked to call the Testosterone Twits. Jason had been on the varsity squad of like seventeen different sports teams since kindergarten. The TTs were so popular that even though they were only juniors like me, they got to sit up on the Ramp in the cafeteria, which literally put the popular kids above the rest of us mere mortals. Jason grimaced as he rubbed his forehead. “And maybe I’ll go with you.” As he smiled, I saw that one of his top front teeth was a little bit chipped. It was nice to know that someone so perfect wasn’t so perfect. Although the way his curly dark hair framed his blue eyes? That was a little on the perfect side. “You ever think about trying out for the football team?” I glanced down. The minute the question hit the air, I could see he felt bad. “Not, you know, because . . .” He made some weird gesture with his hands, which I assumed was shorthand for “that gut’s not from 100 calorie snack paks, is it?” “I meant because your head is so hard you wouldn’t even need a helmet.” He cringed as he realized that didn’t sound so good, either. “You know, I think—”

“You’re going to stop talking while you’re ahead?” I suggested.

He nodded. “Exactly.” He stood up. “Well, see you in history,” he said as he started to walk away. He stopped and turned. “By the way, nausea is another symptom,” he went on. “And sleepiness.”

I nodded. “Okay. Thanks. I’ll keep that in mind.”

He nodded back. “You should.”

As I watched him walk away, I had to admit I did feel a little nauseous. It wasn’t every day a popular person talked to me.

Let alone a Testosterone Twit.

two

“Obviously Jason Frank is completely smitten with you,” Nicola said for what had to be the tenth time as we drove to my house in Brentwood after school. Although her mom had wanted Nicola to get an after-school job so she could learn the value of money and buy her own car, like she had been forced to do back in England when she was growing up, Nicola’s dad’s guilt over leaving them for his acupuncturist, selling his software company for millions of dollars, and moving to Sedona, Arizona, where he now made sand paintings, had resulted in a nice wad of cash for a car.

Unlike most kids at Castle Heights who drove BMWs or Priuses or—in this hippy-dippy girl India’s case—an old VW bus, Nicola put her money toward a candy-apple-red 1976 Cadillac, which, according to my dad, was the exact car that my grandfather and every other old Jewish guy in Florida had driven about twenty years earlier. Although it smelled like one of those Christmas tree air fresheners, even though there wasn’t one in it, it was such a brave choice and so totally Nicola that I couldn’t help but love it. Especially since my car—a used blue Saab—was in the shop even more than hers. “This is all so
Pretty in Pink
I can’t
stand
it!” she squealed.

I turned to her. “Okay, (a) you’re insane, and (b) why is it
Pink
ish?”

“Because Jason is sort of like Blaine. You know, preppy; maybe not whip smart, but cute. . . . He even looks a little like Andrew McCarthy if you were to put a hand over one eye. . . . And you’re funky-with-a-love-of-cool-vintage- clothes Andi!”

I rolled my eyes. “I think you’ve been huffing Magic Markers. There is nothing
Pretty in Pink
about this. Especially because last time I watched the movie, Molly Ringwald was a size zero.”

“It so is!” she cried. “The way he crossed the room—not to mention all social boundaries—to approach you . . .”

I shook my head. “He was sitting in the row behind me and he saw Josh Rosen whack me in the head. Because he’s not a complete sociopath, he wanted to make sure I didn’t die right in front of him.”

She cocked her head. “What do you think of dyeing your hair red like Molly’s? I totally think you could pull it off.”

“Okay, that’s enough. There will be no hair dyeing and no more insane talk about some popular guy liking me,” I said firmly. “We have much more important things to discuss.” As we pulled into the driveway, my stomach sank at the sight of a powder-blue BMW convertible. “Like the fact that Hillary is at my house in the middle of the afternoon.”

There were a lot of things you could say about my father’s girlfriend Hillary—like, say, she wouldn’t eat or shop anywhere that wasn’t
Elle
- or
In Style
–approved—but because she was incredibly ambitious, she did work her butt off. Like just as hard as my dad, which meant that her leaving the office before eight o’clock on a weekday was almost unheard of—unless it was for a screening or work-related drinks or dinner. Her official title was Senior VP, Production, at LOL Films. (“That stands for Laugh Out Loud,” she had explained to me, “but as a Millennial, you’re probably aware of that.”) But really, Hillary was what was known in the film and TV business as a D-girl. D-girl was short for “development girl,” which meant that she spent her time having meals with agents and managers trying to find the next script or idea that would become a hit movie that was so successful that McDonald’s ended up making Happy Meal toys based on it.

She and Dad had met when his agent had forced him to unchain himself from his computer and go to her office to pitch her some ideas that might be right for movies. While she didn’t like any of the ideas (a cat in a girl’s body who goes through sorority rush, an elephant in a cop’s body who is forced to spend twenty-four hours with a turtle in a prisoner’s body, and other animal-in-human-body combinations) she did like Dad.

In the six months they’d been dating, I’d only seen her about five times, and every time she talked about her job and managed to work in the “30 Under 30” thing over and over
.
Other than grilling me about what kind of movies I liked (“You know, Simone, as a Millennial, your demographic is
so
important!”), she didn’t ask me anything about myself other than asking my dad—
right in front of me
—if he had ever looked into any of the fat camps that were advertised in the back section of the
New York Times Magazine
. Nicola was convinced that underneath her big job, flat stomach, and killer wardrobe, Hillary was probably deeply unhappy, but I wasn’t sure about that.

As we got out of the car, a U-Haul arrived. “And a moving truck just pulled up,” I said nervously.

As the front door opened, Hillary came
click-clack
ing out in her Gucci snakeskin stilettos, holding her sterling silver snake compact. Despite that fact that it was one of the few humid days in Los Angeles, her shoulder-length blonde hair was stick straight and curled under, and there wasn’t one wrinkle or stain on her black pencil skirt or starched white blouse. Plus, even though I wasn’t close to her, I already could tell she smelled good. Not in a gross perfumey way, but in a just-got-out-of-the-shower way, because that’s the way she always smelled, even right after spinning class. I, on the other hand, had just spent the entire car ride multitasking as I dabbed at the Coke Zero stain on my left boob while picking churro crumbs out of my bra.

“Hello, hello!” she trilled as she finished applying dark red lipstick. Hillary was a big triller. She was also a big tweeter, both in the literal sense of the word and the Twitter one. (“I feel it’s very important to be an example for young women as to what’s possible if they work hard and pledge the right sorority.”)

I put on the biggest fake smile I could muster, which, since I was not a big fan of anything fake, probably wasn’t all that convincing. Hillary, on the other hand, while picky about certain things, was okay with certain things being fake. Like, say, her boobs. “Hey, Hillary,” I said. “Look at this—you’re here. At my house. In the middle of the afternoon.”

After rubbing her lips together, she examined them closely in the mirror before nodding approvingly. “You know, I think I may have finally found the perfect shade!” she announced. I had no idea why so many women were obsessed with red lipstick. It was as if they thought that if they got the color just right, it would somehow solve all their problems. As she looked over at me, a flash of annoyance crackled across her face before she resumed her usual smug expression. “Although your color is better. What is it?”

“It’s called Au Naturel,” I replied.

“Au Naturel. I like that. It sounds very Chanel-ish.”

“I was trying to make a joke,” I replied. “These are my real lips. I don’t have anything on them.” My lips always looked as though they were perpetually stained by a cherry Popsicle.

The smile evaporated. “You’re joking.”

I shook my head.

“Talk about unfair,” she said. “I’d kill for lips like that,” she sighed.

“Why does that not surprise me?” Nicola muttered next to me.

As two big guys began to get out of the U-Haul, I turned to Hillary. “So, uh, what’s going on?”

Without answering me, Hillary began to
click-clack
over to the truck, stopping to yank out one lone weed that Joaquim, our gardener, had missed. “Someone’s
been slacking,” she muttered to herself. “Don’t think
that’s
not going to change.”

Just then my dad walked out of the house. He was home, too? What was going on? As always, he was typing on his iPhone as he walked, which meant that, as usual, he tripped on the last step and almost went flying. “Um, Dad? What’s going on?”

“Just a sec, honey. Let me just finish this e-mail to the president of the network about why doing a Very Special Episode about cutting would be a real downer for a half-hour sitcom,” he said.

“Dad, watch the—”

He tripped on the indentation where the lamppost used to be before he knocked into it because he was texting while driving.

As he tried to brace himself by grabbing onto a rosebush, I cringed. “—rosebush,” I finished.

After he righted himself and began to pick the thorns out of his hand, Nicola shook her head. “Don’t take this the wrong way, Simone, but I feel like all the stuff that happens to your dad is a lot funnier than that talking dog.”

“Tell me about it,” I agreed. As the doors to the U-Haul opened, I saw that it was filled with suitcases, garment bags, and an elliptical exercise machine. “Okay, I’m going to ask again. Can someone please tell me what’s going on?”

Hillary looked over at me and flashed me a smile. “Didn’t your dad tell you? I’m moving in!”

I didn’t have to look in a mirror to know that my face had become even paler than usual. Talk about a nightmare scenario. This was worse than that time the curtain outside the changing room in the girls’ locker room had come crashing down when I was in the middle of pulling up my underwear. Dad finally looked up from his iPhone. “Hillary, we talked about this—you’re not moving in,” he said nervously. “You’re staying here for a few weeks while they redo the floors in your condo.”

She shrugged. “A few weeks, moving in—same thing.”

“A few
weeks
, Hillary,” Dad corrected.

She ruffled his hair. “Right. That’s what I said, babe.”

“Actually, Dad, no, you didn’t tell me,” I said.

Dad looked confused. “I didn’t?”

I shook my head.

His brow got all wrinkled, which, because his hairline was starting to recede, made him look like a shar-pei. “Oh wait—I wrote a scene for next week’s episode about it.
That’s
what happened. Sorry about that.”

I wondered if other kids of TV and movie writers had to deal with parents who were constantly mixing up real life and their make-believe worlds. It was too bad there wasn’t some sort of support group for us, like that Alateen thing that Nicola went to sometimes because of the fact that her mother—although she wasn’t drinking anymore—sometimes still acted totally nuts.

“
Anyways
, I am so looking forward to this, Simone!” Hillary cried. “It’ll really allow us to get to know each other so that when your dad and I
do
get married, it won’t be like we barely know each other!”

As the movers began to heft the elliptical into the house, I could see Dad’s left eye was starting to twitch. Maybe he was beginning to question what he had gotten us into.

“It’ll be like we’re
sisters
!” she went on. “You know, because we’re so close in age.”

That part was true. I was sixteen and she was twenty-eight. We were closer in age than she and Dad were—he was fifty-one.

As Hillary walked over to the movers and began to chastise them about how they were holding the machine, Dad joined me. “It’s not forever, Simone,” he whispered. “It’s just a few weeks. Hillary’s in a bit of a jam.”

Getting new floors was a jam? It wasn’t like her house had burned down.

Hillary
click-clack
ed over to us and put her arm around me. “To quote one of my favorite movies and a true Hollywood classic,
Sunset Boulevard
, ‘I think this is the beginning of a beautiful friendship.’”

It was a quick one, but I saw Dad cringe. He may have been writing bad sitcoms about talking dogs now, but Dad had been a film studies major at Harvard with a minor in experimental German expressionism. “Actually, honey, that’s from
Casablanca
.”

“Oh right. With Lauren Bacall and Spencer Tracy. Another one of my favorites.” She turned to me. “I minored in film at Pinewood Community College.”

He cringed again. “Actually, it was Ingrid Bergman and Humphrey Bogart.”

Even I knew that. Not because I had seen the movie, but from
Jeopardy!

Hillary shrugged. “Well, they’re both black and white. The important thing is that Simone and I are going to have
such
a great time getting to know each other!”

I’m glad someone was such a positive thinker.

“For someone who’s only going to be here for a few weeks, she sure has a lot of stuff,” Nicola whispered later as she finished painting her nails yellow while we watched my dad struggle with Hillary’s last big suitcase.

“Tell me about it,” I said with my mouth full of some of the pretzel-topped fudge that my grandmother had mistakenly sent me the month before with a gift tag that said
Dear Olive, Happy 14th!
(Olive was my cousin in New Jersey. I didn’t send it back.) Some people, when they’re stressed, lose their appetite and stop eating. I eat more.

“Babe, try not to let it touch the floor,” Hillary ordered. “You know how I feel about scuff marks.” As she walked by us, she stopped and smiled. “Nigella! So nice to see you again!”

“It’s Nicola,” she corrected.

“Right,” Hillary replied as she whipped out her snake compact and began to apply some more red lipstick. After she was done she looked at me. “Are my lips as red as yours now?”

“Mm, I’m not sure,” I replied as I wiped my face. I turned to Nicola. “What do you think?”

I could see the impatience flicker on Hillary’s face as Nicola took her time looking first at her mouth before turning her gaze to mine and then back again. Finally, Nicola nodded. “Actually, I think they’re pretty close.”