“No, it was Natasha’s idea.”
“Wait, Natasha believes in this shit?” She furrowed her brow. “I’m surprised. She’s so levelheaded.”
“Yes, she’s levelheaded, and yes, she believes in it because it’s not fraudulent. It’s a common practice that a lot of influencers use. A way to kick-start my career and—”
“Your career?” Mari laughed. “Bree, this is not a career. This is a scam.”
“Everything’s a scam to you.”
“No, only scams are scams to me, and what you’re doing is a scam. Not to mention, it’s self-absorbed and shallow and fake. You’re a better person than this. You could be pursuing something totally worthwhile—helping people in need, creating works of art, contributing to the world in some meaningful way—and instead, you choose to devote your time to shilling a bunch of crap to people who probably can’t even afford it. Crap you don’t even use yourself.” She kicked my tote bag for emphasis, sending one of the FRANGELICO shoes rolling off into the sand.
She had a point. I would never wear these hideous shoes, so why was I trying to convince someone else to?
The sad fact is, I was doing it for the likes. I wanted the attention, the praise, the validation from someone—anyone, even random strangers on the internet. I wanted people to tell me I looked amazing, gorgeous, anything other than mediocre. I didn’t even care if it was a lie, or if it was coming from a bot that was preprogrammed to spit out canned compliments on a regular schedule.
How pathetic.
On the other hand, who was Mari to judge me for my choices? After all, it’s not like she devoted her life to feeding the homeless or saving the planet. She was trying to be a social media star, too.
A hot, molten anger built up in my chest until it erupted like a volcano over my tongue. “What are you doing that’s so important and meaningful, then? You record yourself complaining and you upload it to YouTube. How is that a worthwhile pursuit?”
For a moment, she looked gutted, as if I’d plunged a dagger into the pit of her stomach. Then the hurt vanished and was immediately replaced with flared-nostril fury.
“I’m making people laugh,” she said. “Real, actual people. Not bots I paid for in bulk. I’m giving them a piece of myself—a true, authentic piece of myself—and I’m not lying to them about who I am or what I do or what I like or don’t like. And yeah, not everyone laughs. The comments I get aren’t all fawning and flattering like yours are. But at least they’re real.”
As Mari turned her back on me and began to walk away, I had the sudden urge to lunge at her, wrap my arms around her waist, beg for her forgiveness. What I’d said was callous and hurtful, something she didn’t deserve, especially not after all the hard work she’d put into her comedy over the years. I’d lashed out because I was feeling defensive. And I was feeling defensive because everything she said to me was true.
I didn’t want to be an Instagram influencer. I wanted the influencer lifestyle—at least, the lifestyle as it was portrayed in the typical influencer feed. But it was all a carefully curated narrative. The lifestyle I coveted was a lie.
Before I could find my voice, Mari was already gone, walking briskly up the ramp toward Ocean Boulevard. In all our years of friendship, we’d never had a fight this bad, where one of us stormed off in anger. I needed to apologize to her, to make this right. But I’d wait until we both cooled off, and I could speak without shame strangling my vocal chords.
The sun was just disappearing beyond the horizon now. I stood still, staring at it, trying not to blink, anxious to catch a glimpse of the elusive green flash. Maybe if I wished hard enough, if I believed with all my heart, if I tuned my attention to the exact right frequency, then the universe would deliver it to me.
I watched until the last speck of light was extinguished, and the sky was nothing but an endless dusky blue expanse. No green flash. Time to pack it up and go home.
With my tote bag full of freebies hanging off of one arm and the plastic bag containing Rob’s drone slung over the other, I plodded up the beach toward the street, feeling sorry for myself. Then I passed by the homeless couple and felt stupid for wallowing in self-pity. No matter how bad I had it, at least I still had my apartment. It may have been shady and illegal and possibly in imminent risk of an electrical fire, but it was a roof over my head. A safe space with a bed and a minifridge and a box full of memories of my mom.
The couple propped a sign against their legs: Anything Helps. I didn’t have any spare change or extra food to give them. But I did have all the stuff in these two bags.
I approached them with a smile on my face and placed the bags on the sand in front of them. “This is for you guys.”
They looked at each other, then one of them peered inside the tote bag. She removed the bottle of kombucha and read the label out loud. “‘Detox your adrenals.’”
“It’s a health drink,” I said. “At least, I think it is.”
At the same time, her partner opened the plastic bag and removed the drone, turning it over in his hands. “What is this?”
“A camera drone.” When he squinted in confusion, I added, “It works, I just don’t need it anymore. I figured maybe you guys could sell it or something...”
As the words came out, I winced at my privilege. It was so easy for me to post something on Craigslist or eBay without a second thought. My ubiquitous internet access and permanent address were something I took for granted. I’d thought I was doing a good deed here, but were these two bags of crap actually going to help them, or was I simply adding to their already immense burden?
“I’m sorry,” I said. “If you don’t want this stuff, I can take it back. I didn’t mean to give you a bunch of useless things.”
“No,” she said, still rooting around in the tote bag. “This is great. Thank you. We’ll find a way to sell everything.” She paused, then pulled out the shoes, inspecting them with a grimace. “Except maybe these.”
“They’re ugly, I know.”
“Very.”
Despite having shed two bags and ten pounds’ worth of stuff, I left the beach feeling heavier than before. It took an enormous amount of effort just to press the crosswalk button at the corner of Mission Boulevard, where I waited for the traffic to come to a stop.
“Bree?”
A tall, lanky guy was suddenly standing beside me. He gave me this goofy smile, and when I didn’t immediately say hi, he pointed at his chest, like I should already know who he was. Granted, he did look vaguely familiar, but so did half the people in Pacific Beach.
“It’s Colton,” he said. “From Doobie Den.”