Psychos: A White Girl Problems Book (24 page)

“I miss you terribly, but I have some bad news. I have to push my return date.”

“How long?”

“Another week? Maybe two?”

“Charlie . . .”

“I know, darling. It won’t always be this bad. Once this deal is done, I will have far more free time. I promise.”

“Well, good.”

“What have you been up to, love? Anything new going on?”

I paused and contemplated telling him everything that had happened in the past forty-eight hours.

“Nope.”

“I find that a bit hard to believe. We haven’t spoken in a few days. You must’ve gotten up to something.”

“Honestly, Charlie. I’ve just been here or at work. The usual. Hanging out, I guess? You know.”

Now would have been the time to rip off the Band-Aid, tell him about Robert, my job, Thalia’s return, Babette. But I just couldn’t do it. Even though I knew Charlie wasn’t The One, part of me wished he was in New York, comforting me. He was so good at that. I hated lying to him.

“Do you have a busy day at the office today?”

“I’m actually not going in today. It’s like a Jewish holiday or something, so I decided to observe.”

“But you’re not Jewish.”

“I know. But still.”

“Are you sure you’re okay, my dear? Something’s off with you.”

“Well, maybe it’s Skype. I look a lot prettier on FaceTime. FYI.”

“I’ll remember that for next time. Listen, I have to run to this dinner for work. But I can cancel it if you just want to talk.”

“You’re so sweet. But no thanks. I have a super busy day planned. You go ahead.”

“Okay, but I’ll try you again before I go to bed. Love you, Babe.”

“You too.”

And with that, we clicked our respective hang-up buttons.

It was time for me to stop taking three-hour showers and lying in bed, waiting to die. I was sick of being a victim of circumstance. I might have felt forlorn in regards to my love life, but I needed to make a serious change if I wanted to live. Which I did. I wanted to live for a long time. Long enough to get married someday, have a daughter, raise her to be a supermodel, age gracefully, get a second face-lift, and die in my sleep. Rolling over and allowing Thalia to murder me was not an option.

I rehired Felix as my driver and my bodyguard, and enrolled myself in a week’s worth of kickboxing and Krav Maga classes. I bought Mace and a Taser. I watched
Home Alone.
I was starting to feel physically stronger, but my heart still hurt. I was slipping deeper and deeper into despair about the Robert and Charlie situation, which I dealt with by turning to poetry. I Instagrammed pictures of my writing:

The Undead

An Invisible Poem by Babe Walker

My Soul Is A Rat King

my voice my hope my time my love my life my heart my tears

lost

my death my dust my depths my dear my dull my darkness

cost

my happiness

T
his must have been what tipped Gen and Roman off to just how fucked my life actually was. We’d been checking in periodically over the past few months, but within an hour of posting the poems (which each got like 2,000 likes, btw) I received a stupid number of texts from them:

Genevieve 3:45PM
Babe. Are you dead?

Roman 3:45PM
Babe?

Roman 3:50PM
Hon? Gen said you died. True?

Genevieve 3:56PM
Babe? If you’re dead I want my pashminas back.

Roman 4:43PM
Seriously, are you okay? Just text me one letter to let me know you’re okay. Gen said to tell you she wants a pashmina or something?

Genevieve 5:01PM
Ran into Mabinty at the Grove today. She got extensions. She looks like a young Lauryn Hill. You should call her.

I didn’t respond. When my depression-fueled hunger strike entered a second day, I tweeted the following haiku:

Macaulay Culkin

is my spirit’s reflection

Home Alone for life

. . . and mustered enough energy to look up the number of Organic Avenue and order a few cold-pressed celery juices to be delivered to Charlie’s apartment. Twenty minutes later, the doorman buzzed up to the apartment. Donald will try to engage in conversation if you let him, so I just pressed the intercom and immediately said “Send it up,” to avoid having to hear about the New York Knicks or some other stupid football team.

As I stood up to answer the door, I caught a glimpse of myself in the huge mirror hanging in the hallway. I looked dead. But not in a good, skinny, pale way. Like, actually deceased. I didn’t really care, because it wasn’t as if I was trying to impress the juice delivery guy, but I wrapped myself in a bright yellow Pratesi throw that was on the couch, grabbed my wallet, and opened the door.

I must have been staring into Genevieve’s eyes for at least a full minute before I realized I was actually screaming out loud.

“What the fuck are you doing here?” I said, shutting the door in her face.

“Babe, we came to rescue you from yourself.”

“What do you mean, ‘we’?”

“Romie and I. He’s downstairs flirting with your doorman.”

“I’m not really in the mood to talk to anyone this month, so can you come back never?”

“Babe. Open the door. We flew Southwest. It was fucking sick and I need to shower, like, pronto.”

I’d heard the elevator door open so I knew Roman was probably standing with Gen by now.

“Roman? Are you there too?”

“Yeah, Babe. We’re both here. I gotta pee. Can you please let us in?”

“You can come in, but she can’t.”

“If you don’t let us both in, I’m going to pee on the carpet right in front of your door. PS: This building is very
Factory Girl.
”

As I opened the door, it occurred to me how terrible I looked. Gen hadn’t seen me this stripped down since before high school, and I don’t think Roman ever had.

“Oh, hey,” I said quietly.

“You okay?” asked Roman.

“What do you mean?” I was being so rude.

“You look homeless, but not in a good way,” said Gen. “We know you got fired from
Vogue,
and you haven’t been responding to any of our texts.”

“Why is there a handgun on your coffee table?” asked Roman.

“And who is that?” asked Genevieve, nodding to Felix, who was standing across the living room silently observing what was going on, doing his job.

“The gun is ceramic, the bodyguard is Felix. Thalia is still fucking stalking me, you guys. And I have a switchblade in my purse. Just kidding, it’s a Taser.”

“WHAT?” they both asked in unison. I was kind of loving the attention, so I continued.

“It’s true.”

“Didn’t she drive a Range Rover into her ex-boyfriend’s house after he cheated on her with Paris Hilton?” asked Roman.

“That was her?!” I asked, shocked. “I knew she was a psycho from the moment I laid eyes on her freaky face. She’s the one who’s been stalking me.”

“Ew, sick,” said Gen.

“I know. It’s all been her. The notes, the creepiness. The lipsticks. But she doesn’t deserve one more second of attention. I’m fine. I’m actually like so super great. I was just about to drink some celery juice, write another couple poems, smoke some cigarettes, maybe go lie down in Central Park for a while . . .”

“No, Babe,” said Roman. “Take a shower and put on something Jil Sander-y—we’re taking you to lunch at the Carlyle.”

W
hen we arrived, I told Felix to wait outside in the car until I texted him. Gen and Roman checked in while I laid on a couch in the lobby and fake-read emails I’d been avoiding. After what seemed like forever, Roman tapped my shoulder and the three of us went up to the room. I was in one of the shittiest moods I’d ever been in. I didn’t want to be there, I didn’t want to be with anyone (especially Gen and Roman), and I certainly didn’t want to have to talk about any personal shit that had been going on with me. Which is why I almost passed out when we got up to the suite and I realized that I had been ambushed.

Sitting on a couch cross-legged, wearing a flowy, flower-print dress, was Susan, my fucking therapist from LA. I looked at Gen
and Roman with all the disdain I could muster. They had tricked me into thinking that I was going to have lunch with them, but in reality they were plotting to intervention the fuck out of me, and they’d flown my goddamn therapist across the country to help in their efforts.

“And, uh, what the fuck is this?” I asked, infuriated.

“Gen and Roman thought, wisely, that it would be helpful to have someone here to help mediate,” said Susan, looking serious/concerned.

“Okay, first of all, don’t talk to me right now, Susan. You unloyal backstabbing bitch!” I turned back toward the door. “I’m leaving.”

“Babe! Stop. We are seriously worried about what’s been going on with you,” Roman chimed in.

“Well, why the fuck do you care all of a sudden? You didn’t seem to give a shit about me or my stalker when you left me at Chateau,” I screamed.

“You are a mental patient. You are literally Angelina in
Girl, Interrupted,
” said Genevieve. “No one ‘left’ you, you kicked us out!”

“Oh, fuck you, Gen. I was in a really good place when I came back from rehab, and you just couldn’t deal with me being happy, so you sabotaged my life by throwing that disgusting party. You are literally Vanessa Hudgens in
Spring Breakers.
”

“Whatever. You are literally Tilda Swinton in
The Beach.
Psycho.”

“Honestly, you are literally Charlize in
Monster.
But fatter and greasier. You’re scaring me.”

“Oh, that’s rich. When you opened the door to your
apartment, I literally thought I was looking at Catherine Deneuve in that Roman Polanski movie where she kills like three guys and eats a rabbit.”

“Nice try. That movie happens to be one of Catherine Deneuve’s chicest moments, so thanks. You are literally Eva Mendes in life.”

“That’s literally so rude.”

“I was fucking sober, Gen. I wanted a peaceful, zen dinner party with tropical wildlife in the backyard and around the pool. Not some kegger with a bunch of losers who didn’t even know who I was and what I had overcome.”

“There were Lakers there, Babe. For you.”

“Exactly.”

Gen and I stared at each other for thirty seconds. The tension in the room was palpable.

I finally broke the stare-off. “Why would I want to have frat guys and starfuckers who don’t even know me at a party celebrating my triumphant, substance-free return to Los Angeles?”

“Babe,” interrupted Roman, “you know I don’t like to use this word, but sometimes it’s the only way to get through to someone in need, so here goes . . . You’re acting like a cunt. I’ve known you since we were four years old and never in my life have I seen you be so aggressive toward your friends. It doesn’t look good on you, trust. I honestly questioned whether or not we could be friends anymore after Chateau.”

“I wasn’t that bad, Romie.” I turned to look at him.

“You were absolutely that bad. You were the worst! You were cuntsville dot com slash Babe Walker.”

“Roman—”

“The. Fucking. Worst,” he deadpanned.

“Can we all just sit down and talk this through?” Susan gently interjected. “Emotions are running high, and I want to make sure that everyone is heard.”

“I can’t believe you guys lied to me about coming here for lunch,” I said, tearing up. “No one should ever lie to anyone about going to lunch. That’s just cruel.”

“Babe. Please sit down. Genevieve and Roman flew a long way to—”

“Ambush me?”

“No.”

“Fuck with me?”

“Babe.”

“Make fun of me?”

“I think that’s enough, Babe. I’m in New York because I want to help the three of you clear the air. You’re lucky to have friends who care this much about you. In my practice, it’s rare that I see this level of loyalty between people your age.”

That statement shut me up. Susan isn’t an idiot, and although I have a love/hate relationship with her, she was kind of making sense. I sat down on the couch opposite Susan, and Gen and Roman each sat in chairs so we could all see one another.

“Let the healing begin,” I said smugly.

“That’s exactly why I hate talking to you about anything real, Babe. You make a fucking joke every five seconds,” Gen blurted out.

“Jesus, Gen. Chill out. This isn’t about you.”

“The thing is, Babe, it’s never about me. It’s always about
you. I feel like I’m always there for you, but when my life is falling apart, you barely notice.”

“Um, exsqueeze me? When was your life falling apart? You are like Miss Perfect Pants. With the job and the tits and the job and the promotions and stuff. When have I not been there for you?”

“Always! When you came back from rehab, I was dealing with an AIDS scare.”

“What?”

“Yeah. My ex-boyfriend Josh traveled to Africa with his family.”

“So you thought you had AIDS?”

“Yes.”

“Gen, he was on safari with his family,” said Roman. “They drove around and looked at lions and shit. They stayed in a five-star resort. I’ve told you over and over, you can’t get AIDS just because you fucked someone who went to Africa.”