Page 8 of You Will Never Be Me

“You can carry it off,” she says, as loyal as ever.

I frown at the rearview mirror, then smile. She’s right. I can carry these curls off. “Okay, let’s go back to finding your niche. What are your interests?”

She shrugs. “Cooking?”

My frown deepens. It’s true that Aspen’s cooking is amazing. We often stay in because eating out in LA is horrifically expensive, and plus, she stays over at my place so often that she feels guilty about it, so she’s always trying to make up for it by cooking me dinner. But to me, cooking isn’t something an influencer does. “I don’t know, not glamorous enough. Ooh, how about celeb gossip?”

Aspen goggles at me. “Dude, what? I know nothing about celebrities.”

“Yeah, but we live in LA—okay, well, we’re LA-adjacent—and we’re always running into celebrities at the parties I get invited to.”

If Aspen notices the specificity with which I say, “the parties I get invited to” and not, “we,” she doesn’t show it. She continues looking at me with open admiration. “I know,” she says, “but I don’t like, talk to them. I have no idea what to say to them.”

“Babe, they’re normal people, just like you or me. Ask them about their day. Tell them you love their clothes.”

She giggles. “I’m not like you, Mer. You’re so good at mingling.”

“You could learn, like you’ve learned everything else from me. Look at you now. I wouldn’t recognize you from a year ago.”

It’s true. Thanks to my help, present-day Aspen looks like a true-blue Angeleno. She’s dressed in high-end athleisure with slim cutouts right below the collarbone to bring the eye to her chest. And speaking of collarbones, Aspen’s are popping now, thanks to the low-carb diet I put her on. I’ve taught her how to get the Kylie lips by overlining them, and her face is so heavily contoured it would make a Greek sculptor fall to his knees. She is gorgeous, and it is honestly infuriating to me why she hasn’t yet been discovered by the morons on Instagram. She deserves fame, damn it!

“You know what?” I say. “When we get back, I’m going to do your hair, too, and then we’ll take selfies and post to our Instas. And I’ll tag you so my followers know to follow you too.”

“Oh, Mer,” Aspen murmurs. “Why are you so nice to me?”

I grin at her. “Because we’re best friends, of course.”

She matches my smile. “Forever.”

“Forever.”

•••

That same night, after wearrive back from Vegas, we go to a party (that I was invited to, of course, not Aspen), this time at a beach house in Malibu. It belongs to the son of some rock star, someone too ancient for me to know of, and the house is filled to the neck with memorabilia. Electric guitars dominate an entire wall, a drum set is in one corner and literally cordoned off with red velvet rope, and framed magazine covers are everywhere. Kind of over-the-top, if you ask me. But I play the game well. I greet everyone, throw air-kisses here and there, and call everyone “Darling,” even the people I don’t recognize. Aspen is, as usual, at my heels, clutching her purse like a shield. Despite thecontouring and the hair and the overlined lips, she still somehow manages to look out of place.

“Loosen up,” I mutter to her. “Some of the people here are the very best influencers.”

Her plastered-on smile freezes. “That doesn’t exactly help me loosen up.”

I sigh. “You’re my bestie. Everyone is going to love you.” Before I can say anything else, someone grabs my arm and I turn to see Ever Elle. (Can you believe that’s supposedly her official name? Like, the actual name on her birth cert? That’s what she claims, anyway, the fraud.)

“Bitch!” she cries gleefully.

“Slut!” I shout back. We laugh and pull each other into an aggressive hug. It’s our thing.

“Omigod,” she yells over the music. “How are you? Girl, you are growing so fast, what are you at now, one hundred thousand followers?”

I smile and bat my eyelashes demurely. “Try three hundred.”

“Omigod, bitch!” she squeals, hugging me again. “I’m only at like, two hundred and fifty. You must tell me your secret.”

“No secret, I just try to be as authentic as possible.” My go-to answer.

“Of course, yes, authentic, totally. I mean, that’s what I always say, myself.” Ever gives a vigorous nod. Both her hair and eyelashes are neon pink tonight. “I love your post about mental health. The way you were so real, so raw, about the pressure of looking perfect as an Insta-model. Obsessed!”

I want to give her a huge Cheshire cat grin, but that would be kind of tacky, so I tamp down my glee and battle my mouth intoan acceptably humble smile. “Aww, thank you. I was just speaking my truth, you know?”

“Yeah, for sure.”

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