He texted: Things are getting out of control.
I typed: Then figure it out. But I erased the message.
He texted: Were you writing something? I saw the dots.
I turned off my phone.
Roger and I shared dinner again—sushi. He flirted with me how a lion tamer might flirt with a lion. I couldn’t tell if he wanted me or merely wanted to use me, and I refrained from flirting back, though I knew if I put in even the teensiest effort he would end up in my bed.
I didn’t want him in my bed. I wanted Peter—half out of desire, half out of guilt.
“María tells me you’re making great progress with the commercial,” he said.
“She’s a very generous person.”
“It sounds like the ad will be ready for the gala on Friday.”
My face went blank, quizzical. It was the first I’d heard of the gala.
“In celebration of Saturday’s launch. Don’t worry. These events aren’t really for us. They’re for the investors. To see their contributions put to good use.” He took a drink, dabbed his mouth with a napkin. “We’d love you to address the audience.”
“I’m already doing so much,” I said.
“We’re paying you generously for your work.”
“I don’t have time to write a speech.”
“We have freelancers for that. Writers who used to write for the president.”
“Which president?”
“One of the good ones, I assure you.”
My mind drifted to the image of me triumphant before an ocean of tuxedos and gowns. Hands were slapping together to cheer my perfectly delivered speech.
“And your friend will be there,” he said.
“Dyson?” I asked.
“No cult leaders on the guest list—that I know of,” he said with a laugh. “I meant Cassandra. Cassandra Hanson.”
Her name made me cringe. I heard myself refusing her pity all those weeks ago in the woods. But here I was: a hypocrite. Worse: a fraud.
“I can’t wait to see her,” I said.
thirty-four
MY DAM SCORE had been calculated. I gawked at the green-screen phone in my hand, trying to appear terrified and remorseful in the face of my ruined future.
“Cut!” said the director.
Roger opened the car door for me, clapping. “Touch my arm, Sasha,” he said. “Goose bumps from shoulder to wrist. You have such a command of a camera.”
I thanked him emptily. The filming drained everything from me.
“Don’t think I’ve forgotten about your health.” He draped a hand over his heart. “I’ve scheduled you an appointment with our finest holistic clinician. Emotional. Physical. Spiritual. Lynda takes care of everything.”
“That would be great,” I mumbled. But when the time came to leave my apartment for the session, I shut the curtains and napped until dinner.
I’m having a very hard time, Dyson texted. I get lonely at night. I’m scared. The men have been… doing things. They’re unhappy. They’re angry.
What things? I texted in a moment of weakness. I was angry at him, yes, but I missed him—even though I wished I didn’t. We shared too much history.
I thought you’d never respond!
“That’s it!” said Roger from the set. “That’s exactly it! I’ve never been so moved in my life.”
I crumpled over the phone in the back of the car, my eyes ready to empty. To make myself cry, I’d thought about Peter. Monster and killer, I’d thought. You never loved him. You were using him. You never even knew him.
María helped me out of the car. Together, we walked off the set.
“You’re an icon,” said Roger. “We knew you could do it. We never once doubted you.”
“Are you okay?” asked María.
I nodded, but I wasn’t. Roger gave me a stiff-armed hug that felt like being bundled by a pair of steel beams. He treated me as if my pain were contagious.
At five thirty, on Friday, someone pounded on my door. The week of filming and polite formalities with DAM employees had left me scooped out, crisp as a cracker, and it took me a while to answer. The woman who had been knocking shoved a dry-cleaned black strapless gown into my arms. “The gala begins at seven in the ballroom. I recommend you practice your speech.” She handed over a black padded clipboard with thick white paper glued to the surface.
“Where’s the ballroom?” I asked.
She was already too far away to hear me.
I swallowed a pair of caffeine pills to revive myself. I showered, then requested a stylist, who put my hair in a mermaid wave she assured me could withstand a hurricane. Afterward, she called for a colleague to apply my makeup. Together, they zipped me into the gown, which was so tight that it made me feel like a bullet.
Outside the ballroom, a line of hundreds of strangers in gowns stretched out from the entrance. Ushers checked IDs against the guest list. A lanky blond man in a red tuxedo fought with the ushers. “Roger invited me personally!” he shouted. The usher tapped the list, shook his head. The guest took a swing at the usher. Security swarmed. They dragged him handcuffed into an unmarked blue door down the hall.
The guests gasped. They clutched at their hearts. María palmed the small of my back. She leaned to my ear: “He’s an actor. Roger hired him to create a sense of exclusivity.”
Inside the ballroom, staffs of colored light beamed out from the ceiling, zigging drunkenly over the floor. A hologram of Kendrick Lamar performed for a crowd of aging white men who had been dressed in designer T-shirts and flat-brimmed caps. Weed lollipops poked out of their mouths. They nodded insecurely, clapped vigorously, stomped their feet without singing along. I’d stepped into a rave for and by people who hated raves. On the far side of the room, clustered in front of the stage, were waist-high dinner tables, no chairs. “Standing tables reduce the musculoskeletal damage of sitting,” María told me. Everywhere, investors posed for photos with B-list celebrities. The celebrities included daytime talk show hosts, the stars of TV dramas, game show prodigies, failed presidential candidates, child actors, the generically and talentless hot. María and
