“I’m finishing my mascara,” I lie. I had completed my make-up about half an hour ago, but not wanting to go out was a good enough reason to delay our departure as long as possible.
Just then, Petra’s phone vibrates, and she smirks, looking at the screen.
“Look at you, grinning like a guilty kid. Is that Jacob?” I ask, peeking over her shoulder, but she hides the phone before I can even catch a glimpse.
“No, not Jacob. He’s so last week,” she says in a mock valley girl accent.
Petra has been my guide into the strange world of the city of angels. She was raised here, and so it all seems normal to her. Coming from a small town just outside Bakersfield, I’m not used to the fast pace, or the ever-changing trends, of such a big city.
In my hometown, there’s one diner that’s been there my whole life, and when you want to go out to eat, it’s the only place to go. In LA, there’s a new restaurant springing up every day, and at least twice a month Petra drags me to a grand opening of the new “it” place. I’m still struggling to get used to it all even though I have been here for years.
“So then who is it?” I wonder, still trying to peek at her phone.
“It’s nothing like that, Ava. Can you please just come on?” She deflects, focusing on my procrastination to avoid answering the question.
“Okay, I just need to pack my purse,” I say, walking into my large closet with my lip gloss and mascara in hand.
Reaching to my top shelf, I pick a black leather clutch purse to match my bandage dress and stilettos. Petra would usually call this a boring outfit, but tonight she seems to be too engrossed in her phone to be the judgmental sister I never wanted.
“You don’t need all this,” Petra groans as she watches me picking items from my regular purse to pack into my tiny clutch.
“I need my wallet, Petra,” I roll my eyes, annoyed by her exaggerated need to hurry.
“No, you don’t. When do you ever pay for things with me?” She tilts her head while resting her hand on her hip before adding, “just bring your license, and you shouldn’t even need that.”
She’s right. Whenever I go out with Petra, I never have to worry about anything. It’s like she has a key to the city, the way she instantly gains access to every major event. She once told me there’s a secret society of bartenders and doormen, and that every kid from the city serves two years in the nightlife to create their own network. From the stories I’ve overheard, I know she was popular as a VIP waitress during her undergrad years at UCLA.
With Petra watching me like a hawk, I throw my license, a couple of bills, lip gloss and a pack of gum into the clutch before giving her the “I’m ready, stop hassling me,” glare.
After quickly typing something into her phone, Petra nods and walks straight out of my room without another word. Following behind like an orderly mentee, I make my way into Petra’s white S-Class Mercedes Benz. The car is too flashy for me even on a normal day. On nights like this one, when she insists on having the top down, I scoff at her desperate ploy for attention.
Petra doesn’t come from money, far from it actually, but Los Angeles isn’t about what you have, but rather what you look like you have. My best friend plays that game well, and always makes sure her appearance is top notch, regardless of how many late notices she receives for all her unpaid bills.
“So, where are we going again?” I ask before she turns up the music as she always does. I can’t remember if this is an opening of some sort, or just another club.
“Wherever the city takes us,” she smirks before blaring the music so loud I instinctively cover my ears, which makes her burst into laughter.
Looking over, it’s impossible to remain mad at her, and giggles pour from me as I watch her speed through the busy streets of West Hollywood. As the city passes us by, I still find it hard to believe I live here, after dreaming and working hard to make it happen.
Growing up so close to LA strangely made it more distant. I always felt the need to be someone different to live in a city filled with such glamor, but when my high school counselor introduced me to a program to attend UCLA, I jumped at the opportunity to leave.
Petra’s heading to Hollywood, so I figure we must be going to a nightclub. A feeling of dread rushes over me. Not that I love either, but grand openings are less pretentious than nightclubs. There aren’t even lines to the parties here. Everyone just crowds around a man with a clipboard, pleading their case to get in. It’s pathetic, but also Petra’s favorite pastime.
Before I can guess which club she’s going to, she rears off and continues straight to the 101, leaving me confused.
“You’re going to the valley?” I yell over the music, the disbelief apparent in my tone.
If there’s one thing Petra hates, it’s the valley. Whenever we have to leave Los Angeles County, she acts like we’re traveling to Siberia.
Petra doesn’t answer, although I’m sure she’s heard me. Without a word, she makes a left, heading up the narrow streets leading to the Hollywood Hills.
“The party’s up here?” I mutter, the loud music drowning out my confusion.
“I just wanted to drive through and see the homes,” Petra answers, although I wasn’t speaking to her more than I was remarking on her strange decision.
We both enjoy a random drive through a beautiful neighborhood for daydream inspiration, but rarely do these whimsical drives take place on the way to an event. When I hear her phone ding to
