Page 11 of Everyone Is Lying to You
Over there is the woman who meticulously organizes closets and pantries. I honestly can’t get enough of her. I watch her videos, rapt with envy, and every time I’m done, I swear I will organize just one junk drawer, just one. Her obliteration of clutter is so strangely soothing that I feel like I know her intimately, like she’s a friend I can just walk up to and say, “Do you really think I could do a capsule wardrobe?” It sort of reminds me of the time that I covered the Golden Globes for the magazine and I found myself in a room filled with celebrities all talking to other celebrities like they’d been best friends since high school. Taylor Swift was sharing a piece of chocolate cake with Naomi Watts. Ryan Gosling handed Ryan Reynolds some ChapStick. None of it felt real. I had awkwardly tried to fist-bump Meryl Streep before I interviewed her as she munched a chicken satay skewer. She only nodded at me in return, my fist hanging in the air like a lost balloon at a birthday party. I will not fist-bump anyone at this pool.
When my phone buzzes my heart flutters with anticipation. Bex?
But no. My sister Emily’s face fills the screen. In her photo she’s sticking out her tongue and making jazz hands on a beach somewhere in Bali. I think that’s where she is now, but I’m never sure. This brilliant woman is five years younger than me and constantly on the go. Her interest in having a husband or children is less than zero. All she wants is to be a top anthropologistin the field of matriarchal studies now that she’s finally finished her dissertation. I had no idea matriarchal studies was something you could focus on or make a career out of. But Emily seems to have always known.
“I have to take this,” I say to my handler. She makes prayer hands and bows slightly in goodbye as she returns to check-in and sets me free on the pool mesa.
As I turn around, I run directly into a statuesque woman staring at her phone.
“I’m so s-sorry,” I stutter to the smoldering brunette, who barely glances up at me. She’s wearing a red gingham dress that looks like a picnic blanket. It’s got a sweetheart collar and is cinched at the waist with a massive matching ribbon and bow. Her hair is pulled into an exquisite French twist. Her makeup is flawless, bronzer accentuating her sharp cheekbones. She’s June Cleaver meets a Kardashian.
“You should watch where you’re going.” Her eyes catch on my orange wristband, which announcesPressin bold black letters, and then she softens her tone and reaches out a hand to shake mine.
“I’m Veronica Smith. Who do you write for?”
“Modern Woman,” I say, craning my neck to look at her since she’s also wearing four-inch black heels.
“Interesting. I always see that magazine on the newsstand and think, ‘What the heck is a modern woman?’ ” When she laughs, I laugh because it feels like the polite thing to do. I’ve also wondered the same thing. “Maybe we should talk later. I have lots of answers to that question.” She sashays away before I can say a word.
“Right,” I murmur to her back as I walk to the edge of the deck to return the call.
“Hey, Emmy.”
“Could you put my godchild on the phone? I had a dream about Nora where she turned into a purple dragon and I need to tell her about it.” Emily doesn’t even say hello to me.
“I’m not home. I’m on assignment.”
“Where? I thought the magazine didn’t send people on assignments anymore.”
“It’s…I guess it’s a special case.”
I explain MomBomb as best I can. Talking through it sort of feels like explaining theJurassic Parkfranchise to an alien, but Emily gets it right away. She has a fascination with Internet culture, but she claims it’s only from a sociological point of view and she doesn’t keep any of the apps on her phone.
“Will you send me lots of pictures of women taking pictures of themselves?” she asks.
“Absolutely.”
“You’re a really good sister.”
“I know.”
I mention Bex. “Do you remember her?”
“Yeah. When I visited you in college she gave me her Wonderbra and my first joint.” Of course she did. It amazes me that there is so little information out there about Bex from college given the public’s current intense fascination with her, but she’s managed to bury her wild-child past quite well. All that money must help.
“You were fifteen when you visited me at school!”
“I was mature for my age. I think I still have that bra.”
“I miss you,” I say with a sigh.
“I miss you too. I wish I was with you,” Emily says.
“Me too. The spa here looks incredible. You’d love it. I think they make you eat crystals or something to fix your karma.”
“That sounds right. I’ve gotta run but will you tell Nora about the purple dragon or should I call Peter?”
“You should definitely call Peter,” I tell her, because I love it when my sister annoys my husband.
