I shushed her as she asked him a question. Would Rick stutter? He had a pronounced impediment that flared when he got worked up. I silently rooted for him as he cleared his throat and began to speak.
“Hey—isn’t that your hotel?” Amy paused, mid-stretch of her rock hard thighs and peered over my shoulder.
I nodded, my mouth full. Rick made it through a halting but smooth introduction to the hotel and last night’s events without a single stumble. I mentally high-fived him as he wiped at his brow and stepped out of the shot. I could anticipate what would happen next. Tall black coffee chugged like water in his office. Then, a donut delivery. By the time I started my shift at three, there would be a few half-eaten pieces left in the box, sitting in the middle of the break room table.
“Whoa.” Amy crossed her arms. “This happened last night? When you were there?”
I ran her through a quick recap as I finished off my cereal, then carried the bowl into the sink and rinsed it out. She gave the appropriate responses, and it was funny how easily I preened under her attention. That was all I had needed, three years ago. A spandex-wearing physical trainer who clung to my every word while I told my small and insignificant part of someone else’s story. Just one person, for one moment in time, to listen to me.
“But, both wives are okay.” I dried the bowl with a paper towel and stuck it back in the cabinet. Our dish inventory was limited. One bowl. Three plates. An odds and ends assortment of silverware. Stack of disposable plastic cups. “They arrested the crazy wife.”
“That is insane.” Amy tightened her ponytail. “I can’t believe that happened to you! You’re like, famous.”
“Right?” I grinned at the thought. “Not that they’re going to interview me.”
“They might. You’re working tonight, right?”
I nodded and tried not to think about how big my teeth would look on camera. Maybe I’d get lucky, and a journalist would show up, notepad in hand, no camera in sight. I could get a quote in, my name in an article, something to send to my parents and prove that aha! I had done something with my life, even if that something was just to swipe a credit card and give someone a room key.
“I’ve got to run.” Amy groaned theatrically, as if she didn’t enjoy the act. “Literally. Half-marathon in Malibu next weekend.”
She headed for the door, and I shifted through my purse to find the business card that the cop had given me last night. I still had five hours before work, which was plenty of time to swing by the station and drop off this phone.
The business card was stuck to a cheap scratch-off ticket, and I pulled them both out and set them on the table. Rummaging through the bottom of my purse, I found a slightly sticky penny and brushed it off, then scratched off the top row of numbers. In the neighboring apartment, someone started a shower, and the pipes gurgled to life.
There was a five, which was a good thing. Fives always seemed to match the big prizes. I started down the first row of possibilities and wondered if I should take a shower before work. There was a chance that the news crews would still be there. And not that my hair was greasy, but it was borderline. Should I put on makeup? And if I did, would it be too obvious why I was doing it? I hadn’t worn makeup to work since my first day, five months ago. Chris would call me out on it. Definitely. I scratched the second row, checking the top line with each revealed number.
So, a shower and super light makeup. Concealer, powder and mascara, nothing else. Too bad I hadn’t washed my uniform last night. I had two versions of the calf-length skirt and cheap blazer, and both were crumpled in the bottom of my closet, dirty. I could hang one in the shower, then hit it with an iron.
A 21 on the third row matched on in the top bar. I quickly scratched the area below it.
1,000,000
The numbers were small and cramped, barely fitting in the little space. I looked from the 21 to the top 21, then back down.
1,000,000
Later, when the press would unfold how Emma Blanton came to be, and they’d return to this moment, I’d tell a story of me screaming in joy, then running around the apartment, looking for Amy. But in truth, that isn’t what happened. Instead, I just sat at our cheap wobbly table, the dented detective’s business card beside me, and checked the numbers over and over again. And then, after a long moment where the validity of it sank in, I started to cry.
It was the exhaustion of it all that finally hit me. The stress over the fourteen dollars in my bank account. The past-due balance on my cell phone. The deposit I had to abandon on community-college classes. The upcoming eight-hour shift. My teeth, which had dictated my social standing, dating prospects, and self-confidence for my entire life. And now I had this small square of paper with a million dollars that I suddenly felt an enormous pressure to do something with. But what?
I didn’t deserve this. I’d stolen a dead man’s phone. I owed Amy twelve dollars from takeout three days ago. I’d faked a doctor’s note to get an extra paid sick day at work.
I hadn’t done anything in my life which warranted this sort of blessing, and I cried because the hope it gave me was terrifying.
After ten minutes, I wiped off my face, then called Rick and left him a voicemail, quitting my job. I left the detective’s card on the table and moved into our shared bathroom, placing the ticket on the soap rack and locking the door behind me. I turned on the water and undressed.
For the first time, I didn’t skimp on the shampoo or turn off the water in between rinse cycles. This time, I took my time and let myself dream.
For the first time ever, I had options. Every option. I could disappear. I could reinvent myself. I could have the life, any life, that I wanted.
6
#believeinyourself
EMMA: 849 FOLLOWERS
I thought, foolishly enough, that with money came friends. And it could, in the right way, buy a certain amount of interaction. But fame was the real draw. In Los Angeles, everyone wanted to know someone famous. I learned that from Vidal Franklin. I learned everything from Vidal Franklin.
“Take what you know, honey. All of it. Take it and throw it out the window.” Vidal was porcelain white and bald, with eyelashes so thick they looked fake. “You know nothing, understand?”
“Sure.” I nodded, because when you pay someone ten thousand dollars a month, you listen to them. And, Vidal was right. I knew nothing.
“Now, on the phone you said that you wanted to be an actress. Why?” He had a coffee cup set before him, the lid off, upside down, and placed meticulously to one side. His long fingers pinched a silver spoon and stirred the contents, which already had four sugars and one cream.
Why did I want to be an actress? I struggled with the truth—money, fame, adoration—and some less vapid motivations, none of which came to mind. “Umm… I like to act.”
“Are you good at it?” He cocked one pierced brow, and he was intimidatingly beautiful. Impressive bone structure. A perfect complexion.
“Well…” I shifted in the seat. “I think so?”
“You’re not good at it.” He shook his head, and I got a whiff of his cologne.
“I’m not?”
“No. If you were good, you wouldn’t have a question mark at the end of that sentence. And in this town, hot white girls with some acting talent are everywhere. Leave this coffee shop, and you’ll trip over one on your way out.”