Twisted Sisters (9 page)

Deva’s statement almost comes across as a question, so I confidently reply, “Indeed.”

Of course I love what I do.

I mean, I feel like I love what I do.

I definitely love the benefits that come from being on
Push
. I love feeling like I’m changing lives in front of an audience. I love the travel
and how it’s never the same show twice. Plus, I love meeting fans in the grocery store.
I really loved having access to Wendy Winsberg.

Back when I was in private practice, I truly enjoyed assisting others in finding resolutions,
even though sometimes I could get a bit distracted. I’m not always as patient as I
should be in certain situations, either. And yes, sometimes it’s frustrating that
I can’t just take the damn reins already and force my patients into the right direction.
But overall, therapy is the best job I’ve ever had, and it’s only been made better
by being on camera.

I think.

I did adore the work-study I held in the U of C writing lab, but that was a million
years ago.

Of course, I never considered whether I’d rather hold another job, because this is
what I’ve been training for my entire adult life, and I have another ten years’ worth
of student loans to prove it.

I’m doing what I should be doing.

Of course, Boyd would disagree, but he no longer has a say.

My point here is I got ninety-nine problems but the job ain’t one.

At least, that’s what I tell myself.

Adventures in Awesome

“Here are half a dozen Twitpics of her modeling a thong. Wow, that mesh front doesn’t
leave a lot to the imagination, does it? Clamshell-city.”

Ruby’s scrolling through her iPhone and narrating the most alarming status updates
from Ashlee Austin, our show’s first official guest, while the rest of us listen.
I wasn’t terribly familiar with Ashlee’s body of work, but according to Faye, she
was a huge teen star on some kids’ network years ago. Ever since her TV show
Ashlee’s Adventures in Awesome
ended, she’s made a series of questionable decisions, which have recently escalated
in severity.

Ruby winces as she thumbs past entries. Despite all outward appearances—piercings,
dyed black hair, dominatrix boots, et cetera—she possesses the moral compass of your
garden-variety Mennonite. “Good God, Ashlee.
Please
tell me you didn’t do this.”

“What now?” I ask. After hearing dozens of disturbing tweets, I shouldn’t be surprised
by this one.

Ruby reads, “‘
LAPD r bulshet
’—I think she means bullshit—‘
and I
waznt drinkin much
.
Am just supr skinnie from juice cleanz and low toleratin
.’”

“Her DUI is a matter of public record, as are all her hit-and-run accidents,” Faye
says, not looking up from her almost constant knitting. She quit smoking last year
and now she channels her nervous energy into her needles. She made me a gray cashmere
pashmina recently—it’s gorgeous! “That’s why she’s agreed to appear on the show. The
judge said she could come to
Push
or go to jail.”

Ruby replies, “Yeah, but the arrest itself isn’t the most cringe-worthy part. I’m
referring to the fifteen subsequent tweets to the Speaker of the House demanding he
grant her diplomatic immunity. She keeps calling him ‘Congressman
Boner
.’ I feel secondhand shame for her. Is this about the drinking? Is she an alcoholic?”

“Possibly, possibly not,” I reply. “I won’t have a clear picture until we begin therapy.
Diagnoses aren’t always so cut-and-dried. Her binge drinking may be an offshoot of
something else, say, an accommodation for a social anxiety disorder, rather than a
true addiction.”

“Ashlee seems like she’d be superfun,” volunteers Mindy.

Ruby, Faye, and I exchange weary glances. None of us are thrilled to be saddled with
Mindy. I suspect she was assigned to our team because each of us took umbrage with
Kassel at the initial production meeting. We’ve tried to limit her participation in
today’s strategy session, but we’ve already sent her out for hot beverages three times
in the past two hours. I don’t know which is worse, the prospect of Mindy catching
on to our collective contempt or my bladder exploding from consuming so much green
tea.

Mindy adds, “TMZ reports she’s been stalking Ol’ Rat Nasty. Wonder if that’s true.
I guess I can ask her later, right?”

“I’m sorry—who?” I ask. I’m missing the better part of a decade of pop culture familiarity
from when I was busy with grad school and my internship. At the time, I had no idea
shows like
Gilmore Girls
,
Veronica Mars
, and
Battlestar Galactica
even existed.

“Ol’ Rat Nasty! Don’t let the name fool you, he fiiiiiine,” Mindy gushes.

Faye explains, “He was a child star, too. His given name is Clarence Floyd and he
was on that sitcom where the alien family crash-lands in South Philly.
Marz ’N the Hood
? Sound familiar?”

I shake my head. “That was real? I assumed it was a
Saturday Night Live
parody.” At the time, I vaguely recall Boyd used to quote something like,
“Martians? In Philly? I won’t hear of it!”
which now makes more sense.

“Huge hit,” Faye assures me, inspecting the length of stockinette-stitched baby blue
alpaca yarn. Satisfied with her work, she continues. “Really massive. Was syndicated
in something like eighty-three countries. Clarence was positioned to make the leap
to film and become the next Will Smith. Then he dropped out of the public eye in his
late teens.”

“Did he snap?” I ask. Sadly, they almost always snap. One day, they’re cashing a residual
check, the next they’re robbing a dry cleaner.

“Far from it! He went to Cornell and then enrolled in USC’s business school. Got his
MBA at Marshall and he’s since reinvented himself as the rapper Ol’ Rat Nasty. He
owns a record label now, too.”

“And a line of energy drinks,” Ruby adds. “I just read in
Forbes
that NastyWater grossed a hundred fifty million last year.”

Mindy exclaims, “NastyWater’s sick!” I’d inquire if “sick” were a positive or a negative,
except I don’t care. “Anyway, I’m pretty sure Ashlee wants to get her Nasty on.”

Ruby nods. “Ah, hence the following tweet. Brace yourselves—‘
I wish Ol’ Rat Nasty would slay my panty hamster
.’”

My skin crawls.

I hear a commotion in the hallway, immediately followed by a firm knock. “Hello, hello!
Your star is here!” Kassel materializes at the door of our conference room, followed
by the other staffers on our team, including a hairdresser, a makeup artist, an interior
designer, a fitness guru, a wardrobe stylist, Kassel’s assistant, a couple of interns,
and Deva. The last person in the room is a very pretty girl with a very bald head.

“Everyone, meet Ashlee.” I notice Kassel has no problem calling
her
by her given name. Typical.

I’m not sure what to make of Ashlee’s naked pate. She doesn’t appear to be ill and
there’s a healthy amount of stubble, leading me to believe she’s not undergoing chemotherapy.
That’s when I notice Mindy’s gawping, complete with an open mouth, and I realize that
this ’do is both new and unexpected.

After a round of introductions and greetings, Kassel whips out his iPad and begins
to rattle off the schedule. The hair on his wrists is particularly sun-bleached and
downy.

Not that I care about that kind of thing. I equally admire Sebastian’s slender wrists.
(That is, when they bother to operate his hands and dial me back.)

Everyone takes notes except for Ashlee, who stares forlornly out the window, occasionally
running a hand over the barren landscape that is her skull.

“You.” Kassel points to Marcy, the interior designer. She’s all done up in Pat Benatar
eye makeup, shoulder pads, and fluorescents. She looks like the physical embodiment
of a Nagel print. Are the eighties back again? I can never keep up with this stuff.
“You’re heading to Brentwood to work on Ashlee’s condo. Your sketches have been approved
and supplies are ordered. The contractors are on-site already and they’ve started
the demo. You’re set, get out of here.”

Marcy scoops up her portfolio and fabric-sample binders and exits in a cloud of Christian
Dior Poison.

“The rest of us will stay here in Chicago. So here’s how the next week shapes up.”
Kassel’s assistant then hands out hard copies of the schedule and tells us she’s also
sent each of us electronic copies. “Starting Monday, Ashlee’s working out with Jimbo
every morning from nine a.m. to twelve p.m. She’ll break for lunch until two p.m.,
and then she’s doing a hair consult Monday afternoon—you have a wigmaker lined up,
yes?”

Marco the Roman hairdresser offers us the thumbs-up.
“Sì!”

I’m so glad we’re covering the most important elements first.

“Excellent. Makeup on Tuesday, wardrobe Wednesday, therapy Thursday, and Friday you
do your voodoo. Heh.” He gestures toward Deva, who places her palms together and gives
him a slight bow.

“Sound like a plan? Everyone understand their role?”

I glance down at the single sheet. “Where’s the rest of our schedule? Or will our
time with Ashlee vary from week to week?”

Kassel frowns at me. “What week to week? This is it.”

“But that can’t be.”

“I assure you, Peace Corps, it can and will.”

I’m gobsmacked. “I’m sorry, what? Is your expectation that I have
an afternoon
to help this girl? That’s it? A few hours on a Thursday? Are you kidding? How do
you expect me to miracle any sort of results in an afternoon? The whole point of
I Need a Push
is having the time and resources to instill real change. I can’t do that in an afternoon.”
Venom (and panic) practically drips off my every word.

And, not to split hairs, but what of my screen time? I pretty much was the entire
show, and now I’m going to be what? A segment between picking out paint and shopping
for sneakers? Unfair!

Kassel nods and begins to scroll through his schedule. “I hear what you’re saying
and I wouldn’t expect you to solve everything in an afternoon.”

That’s
more like it. The idea of trying to—

He continues, “Feel free to work through dinner.”

“I have no idea what Ashlee’s problems are and I certainly can’t treat them in half
a day!” My blood pressure has shot through the roof and I can feel my heart almost
pounding out of my chest as hopes for my spin-off slip away.

Deva whispers to me, “So murky red, Reagan Bishop.”

Kassel shrugs. “All I’m saying is Dr. Phil can do it in an hour. With commercial breaks.”

I leap out of my seat. “Then maybe you should hire Dr. Phil.”

“Like we could afford him!” Kassel cracks himself up over this line. “Besides, Dr.
Karen said the timeline was no problem.”

“Because I’m sure she’ll medicate the pushees—”

“Guests.”

It’s all I can do not to slap the bejesus out of this man. “Then she’ll medicate the
guests
into oblivion. They’ll be too drugged up for recidivism!”

Kassel leans forward and rests his arms on the table. “I’m failing to see the problem
here. We get our aha-moment footage, the pharmaceuticals help guests curb whatever
behavior brought them to us in the first place, and the audience thrills in the big
reveal at the end of the show. If they need it, we’ll pay for therapy afterward. This
formula has Emmy written all over it. Trust me, I’ve won six.”

“This is utter and complete . . . six, did you say? You’ve won six Emmys?
For eating bugs?
” His news completely stops me in my tracks.

Not that recognition of this sort would change my treatment plan, but six Emmys is
more than a little impressive. What would it be like if I were part of the team who
won six Emmys? What would my family say? Maybe they’d finally have something to talk
about other than Mary Mac grinding her own sausage for the birthday party.
Mary Mac—these have so much flavor! And they’re so tender! You’re
so
talented! Oh, that fennel!
Really? A homemade encased-meat product garners that kind of praise? Correct me if
I’m wrong, but the process of stuffing your own sausage isn’t much more complicated
than putting on a condom.

Then again, Mary Mac has, like, a dozen kids. Perhaps anything related to using contraception
should
be cause for celebration.

When I graduated from Pepperdine, everyone said,
This doesn’t give you license to psychoanalyze us, Reagan.
No
Great job!
or
What a stunning achievement!
Where were my sausage-stuffed kudos? Why does the bar have to be set so much higher
for me? How is that fair? I’m killing myself here and Mary Mac gets a parade for having
made lunch.

Kassel’s continued to talk while I’ve been lost in thought, but I manage to catch
the end of it. “. . . then why don’t we ask Ashlee? Ashlee, are you able to extend
your treatment more than a week?”

Ashlee curls her delicate lip. “No way. That’d cut into my time filming
The Bitches of Brentwood
.”

“I can’t wait to watch!” Mindy enthuses. Then she explains, “It’s a reality show,
kind of like the
Housewives
, only trashier.” According to
Us Weekly
, which I might read at the gym on occasion, it’s supposed to be
Keeping Up with the Kardashians
meets
Mean Girls
.

Who’d want to watch
that
?

(I mean, if they weren’t home sick with a summer cold and all the rules were temporarily
suspended.)

Ashlee smiles for the first time. Personally, I’m concerned that she doesn’t consider
“trashy” an insult. I mentally place “self-worth issues” at the top of my list.

“Ashlee,” I reason, “I’m fighting for you right now. Help me help you.”

“You really want to help me?” she queries.

“In any way that I can,” I reply.

She rises from her seat and starts to walk away. “Then come with me.”

Before I can even ask where we’re going, Kassel uses his wrists (and palms) to shove
me out the door behind her.