Because not every memory of them is tinged with darkness. There was Ramona’s first period, when DeeAnn sprang into action and told theGretaproducers Ramona was sick, and instead took her out for lunchjust us girls, followed by a mani-pedi and a tearful conversation about how Ramona was growing up so fast. The way they celebrated when they got news of each season renewal: a low-carb cupcake with the number of the season written in icing. Lighting a single candle and telling Ramona to wish for something wonderful.
DeeAnn singing Ramona’s songs to herself, hilariously off-key, only singing louder and more off-key when Ramona caught her, the two of them dissolving into laughter.
Her parents always viewed her industry friends as competition, preventing any kind of real bond from growing. Sure, she’d go out with other singers sometimes, a group of them causing a frenzy at whatever club or restaurant they wound up at. She craved those moments of camaraderie, as brief as they were, because she knew they were fleeting. Superficial connections in a superficial life.
So she has fans but not friends, parasocial relationships that trick her into thinking people really know her. And now she’sdesperate for human contact but has no humans to actually contact.
In a moment of weakness, like an addict who just can’t kick the habit, she hits call on DeeAnn’s name.
It only takes one ring for her to come to her senses, heart racing and thumb fumbling to hang up. No no no. She’s not talking to her mother right now. She presses her forehead to the wall again—as the phone starts buzzing in her hand.
DeeAnn’s calling her back.
“Fuck.Fuck.” Ramona doesn’t pick up,can’tpick up, can’t fathom hearing her mother’s voice after all these months, even when part of her craves the long-ago comfort of it. DeeAnn calls again, and again, and Ramona just sends her to voicemail.
Now the panic crushes her lungs tighter. Turns her light-headed. She imagines all the judgment DeeAnn would have for her current life. The criticism disguised as friendly advice.
shouldhavelistenedtoher
nevergonnabehappy
neverdeservetobe
Five things she can see…
Her shaking hands. The bulge of her stomach that didn’t use to be there.
nevergettingbetter
sofuckingweak
Then, somehow, a low voice cuts through the static.
I care about all my students.
She’s not sure why Nick Navarro suddenly takes up residence in her mind—except that he’d sounded like he meant it.
She imagines him bent over the desk in his office, brow furrowed, red pen slicing its way through pop quizzes. Wrinkle inhis sweater-vest, full bottom lip between his teeth. She’s pretty sure the psychology professor despises her, and the feeling is mostly mutual. But his name was on that DD list, and she must be truly pathetic, because the next thing she knows, she’s pulling up their email chain.
His phone number is in his signature.
God, is that a landline, an office phone? Ramona hovers over it for a few moments, and before she can lose her nerve, she swallows back all her pride and hits call. Hoping he’s still at work while also hoping he isn’t.
Her heart hammers as it rings. And rings.
And goes to voicemail.
A wave of relief. He’s probably gone home for the day, back to the sweet girl in the photo and his maybe-wife, and all of them can laugh about how Ramona flunked that quiz.
Except then the tone sounds to leave a message. And she is inexplicably opening her mouth.
“Hi, uh—Professor Navarro. Nick. I know this is going to sound completely crazy, but I guess that’s sort of how I’m feeling at the moment,” she says around a shaky laugh. She’s still dizzy, still struggling to take a full breath. “This is Ramona. Wilder. From your psych class. I’m at Westfield Century City, and I’m sort of having a breakdown?”
There’s a stretch of silence during which the reality dawns on her that she is leaving an actual voicemail for her actual professor, and she squeezes her eyes shut as she keeps talking.
“Maybe you can play this to the rest of your students and everyone can try to diagnose me. Um, that was a joke. Ha. I’m just…not sure I can make it to my car to get myself home. This happens sometimes but it hasn’t happened for a while and I sawyour name on that faculty ride thing, and UCLA isn’t that far away, and I—I didn’t have anyone else to call.
“Uh, if you get this…I’m in the first-floor gender-neutral bathroom near Kate Spade. And if this is crossing some kind of student-professor line, please just pretend you never heard it, because this is definitely the stupidest thing I’ve ever done. Okay. Bye.”
