“Step number one,” she said. “Discard the nuclear options: all ointments and astringents and medications meant to improve your skin. Sounds like a drastic step.”
“It sounds drastic, but trust—”
“Step two: commit to a life of healthy eating. And you have some guidelines for healthy eating, don’t you? You have a peculiar view of what healthy means.”
“It’s backed by more than two hundred—”
“Step three: relaxation.”
“I highly recommend listening to the guided meditations of—”
“We have Anna Mackenzie on the line from Arthur, Nebraska. What’s on your mind today, Anna?”
Anna Mackenzie wanted to know the safest BB cream to use daily.
“None,” I told her. “BB creams eliminate the natural oils on your skin. This causes your body to overproduce oils—as a way to compensate for the loss. So as soon as you stop using the cream, you’ll notice your face becomes extra greasy. That is not what we want.”
“Not at all,” said Kandace Heather.
The audience clapped respectfully. Anna Mackenzie thanked me. Kandace and I wished her a good day. The next caller wanted to know what foods to avoid.
“I don’t recommend avoiding foods. The trick is to abandon them.” I listed the seven foods to cut out of her diet: “Alcohol. Bread. Apples. Nuts. Dairy. Onions. Nitrates. It’s so easy to remember.” Thank you. Have a nice day. Good-bye.
After two more callers Kandace said, “We’re just about out of time.”
“There must be time for one more,” I said. I wasn’t ready to lose the audience’s attention and love. They applauded everything I said, laughed at my jokes, wept over the story of Dyson. Kandace wanted to end the segment out of envy. I was their savior, now. This must be how Cassandra felt in a crowd, doted upon and respected. This was how Claire Lance felt. How I deserved to feel. “I don’t want anyone on hold to miss out.”
The audience cheered in support. The production assistant shrugged, then made a rolling motion with her hand. Kandace tapped a finger to her ear. “It looks like we can do one more. How fun, we have a male caller. Do you have many male clients?”
“Not as many as I would like—because skin care isn’t a woman’s concern. It’s a human concern. My best friend is proof of this. I love all my male clients.”
“Well, we have Lucas Devry from Vicksburg, Michigan, on the line. Good morning, Lucas! What’s your question for Sasha?”
My face must have gone the color of bleach.
“Do you want me to die?” he asked. “You said it would be beautiful if I weren’t in the world so does that mean you want me to—”
“I’m afraid that’s all the time we have for today,” Kandace said. “I want to thank Sasha Marcus for sharing your skin-care routine with our viewers. Sasha, remind us again: Where can our viewers subscribe to The ABANDON Regimen?”
I stared at the camera.
“It’s been wonderful having you here, Sasha. After this break, we’ll be speaking with the star of the new movie Baby Man. You won’t want to miss it.”
The production assistant whisked me off set. Their callers were supposed to be screened, she told me. She had no idea how he had gotten through. They should have cut him off as soon as he started speaking—he was obviously deranged. I nodded along to her words.
Back at my apartment, I called out of work. My boss wouldn’t hear it. “We’re booked through the end of the month because of that segment. You’re an inspiration.”
“I’m a disgrace.”
“A TV star working at Gravee. My Gravee. I’m gonna print out a picture of you from the segment to hang in the window. We’re so lucky to have you!”
“You’re just trying to make me feel better.”
“Check your accounts,” she said.
Over the course of the morning, my followers had surged from the low twenty thousands to the edge of a million. Blake tagged me in a photo of us on a picnic upstate. It was a lovely photo, a favorite of mine, a photo I loved too much to share (I always protected my favorites). Blake wrote: So proud of my baby for all the good she brings to the world. Muah! Love you, Sash! He’d never called me baby, before. I drank up his public affection. Love you, too, I texted him. He responded: I’ve had like 5k follows since I posted. Unreal! I was authentically happy to help him.
Publicists and managers sent cascades of emails. The future Cassandra described, with its vistas and leisure, materialized before me. I poured myself a glass of white wine—a deserved celebration, I thought, no matter how early in the day it was—and waded into that future, letting it cleanse me of my anxiety. My new followers found me sympathetic and dignified and worthy of admiration because of how I had responded to Lucas Devry on the show. That is, until 2:17 that afternoon, when I received a notification telling me that LucryDevas88375 had tagged me in a live video.
He sits at his kitchen table aiming his phone at his face. His skin has a margarine glow beneath irresponsibly bright lighting. He holds a pistol in his free hand. I still don’t know what kind. I hope to never find out. “You said you wanted a beautiful world, Sasha. You said that my death would make the world more beautiful. Well, I want a beautiful world, too. I couldn’t want anything more.” His eyes never land on the camera directly, just above it, or to the side, though it’s unclear whether this is on purpose—he can’t stand to see himself—or if he didn’t know where to look. “This is your fault, Sasha. You made me do this. I’m doing this for you. For the beautiful world. Here it is, Sasha. Here is your beautiful world.”
An hour later, my boss suggested I take a week off. Blake
