Exit Wounds

17 | mean girl

S E V E N T E E N

LOS ANGELES, CA

          "I hate your publicist," Michelle grunts, wiping some excess salt from the rim of her cup instead of drinking her margarita the proper way. As a fan of cocktails myself, I wrinkle my nose at this, wondering if this is an LA thing or if my sister just isn't as well versed in the universe of good drinks as I am.

          "She's an acquired taste," I retort, which isn't far from the truth. Considering I've spent an adequate portion of my life and our professional relationship doubting whether we're appropriately close to one another or not, I've had my fair share of moments where looking at her was the last thing I wanted to do. I like to think we're past that and are able to behave like mature women, people who don't just tolerate each other's presence based on a common goal—the success of my career and that of Harley Kane™—but I'm no stranger to people being ambivalent about her.

          See: Nick St. Martin. One would expect that the two people in my life who have my best interests at heart would be able to get along, but Sadie thinks he's washed out and peaked in his college years, while Nick thinks her approach is too cold and clinical, which is a nice way of saying he thinks she's a bitch.

          If I could pay men to never say the word bitch again, I would. Nick doesn't do it around me and I want to believe he's one of the decent ones, but I've been wrong about people—especially men—before and there are times when I fear ever giving people the benefit of the doubt. You can trust them with every ounce of strength and blind faith you have, but there's no way of being completely certain of who they are and how they act behind closed doors, when you're not around.

          I know people call me a bitch behind my back, sometimes even to my face. It never comes from people that matter to me so it generally doesn't bother me much, but there are times when every negative thing starts piling up all at once. Though I'm well aware I've built a career out of appearing to be unapproachable as per Sadie's advice and marketing strategy—it does work, for whatever reason—and there are times when I simply don't have the patience to be genuinely pleasant to be around, there's still a deep rooted desire in me to be liked by everyone at all times.

          Maybe people will stay then. Maybe people won't try to take advantage of me if I'm nicer.

          I don't think I'm too big of a people pleaser (that's Michelle, who thrives on being the golden girl), as people pleasers purposefully go out of their way to be likable, almost to an unbearable extent, but it's exhausting being seen and thought of as a bitch all the time. No one really likes a mean girl.

          "She's extremely protective of you," Michelle continues, helping herself to a generous serving of truffle fries. My stomach is still frail from the combination of carbs and alcohol from last night, so I've treated myself to a simple tomato and basil bruschetta option, which won't upset me nearly as much as what she's having. "I mean, good for you to have someone unconditionally on your side, but she takes it to a whole different level, like no one is even allowed to breathe around you."

          "Barely anyone in this city is allowed to breathe around me without sending me spiraling down a dark path," I remark. She avoids my eyes. "I think I've been having a constant panic attack ever since we landed in LAX and, even if she didn't know the full story, she'd still know something's up. Maintaining my public image is what keeps her employed, and we're both interested in keeping both of us employed. Keying Adam's car and publicly slapping could've ended badly, but it didn't stop me." It's my turn to not look her in the eye, glad there's food and mimosas I can use to distract myself and keep my hands busy with. "It was a mistake."