Psychos: A White Girl Problems Book (7 page)

The first few days at Chateau were whatever: waking up at noon, ordering some juice, going for a hike with myself, ordering more juice, not drinking it, late lunching in the courtyard with Roman, making fun of the celebrities’ plastic surgery, wondering what Robert was doing, wondering if my stalker knew where I was, ordering a piece of salmon for dinner, showering for an hour before bed. Very typical Zen Babe. I was starting to realign myself. Roman seemed to be doing well too. He’d been writing a lot of new lyrics, and getting a great tan from lying out on the balcony.

A week into our Chateau experience, I was sunning by the pool and flipping through the pages of
Vogue Paris
when I came across a familiar face. There, in a dominatrix-themed
editorial was Donna Valeo, my biological mom, growling up at me with a whip in her hand, draped in Balmain and Fendi. I didn’t know she’d started modeling again. Her body looked insane and so did her face (but in a good way), which made me feel great about my own body and face. At that moment, I was really grateful to know Donna, simply for the fact that her face was proof I would age well. I felt compelled to email her, so I pulled out my iPad 3 and composed the following message:

FROM:
Babe Walker

SUBJECT:
Saw your editorial in Vogue Paris

DATE:
April 2nd, 2012 3:22:56 PM PST

TO:
Donna Valeo

Chic.

How are you? How’s Gina? Why do you still have a yahoo email?

BABE

She responded super quickly.

FROM:
Donna Valeo

SUBJECT:
Re: Saw your editorial in Vogue Paris

DATE:
April 2nd, 2012 3:27:45 PM PST

TO:
Babe Walker

Babe,

Good to hear from you/glad that you liked the shoot. I’m trying to maneuver a bit of a comeback, as they say, so I’ve been doing a lot of Pilates and eating nothing but
organic salads from Gina’s garden. She says hi, by the way. She misses you tons.

P.S.—We both read your book and loved it. Gina died laughing over what a cunt you made her sound like.

P.P.S.—I like yahoo. It’s kind of early 2000s chic, no?

xDonna

FROM:
Babe Walker

SUBJECT:
Re: re: Saw your editorial in Vogue Paris

DATE:
April 2nd, 2012 3:39:16 PM PST

TO:
Donna Valeo

Absolutely not.

Glad to hear you’re both doing well. Gina’s salad diet sounds major. Tell her I miss her. I guess I miss you too?

BABE

FROM:
Donna Valeo

SUBJECT:
Re: re: re: Saw your editorial in Vogue Paris

DATE:
April 2nd, 2012 3:58:10 PM PST

TO:
Babe Walker

I miss you as well? Maybe we should get together soon.

xDonna

FROM:
Babe Walker

SUBJECT:
Re: re: re: re: Saw your editorial in Vogue Paris

DATE:
April 2nd, 2012 4:10:38 PM PST

TO:
Donna Valeo

Totally.

BABE

This would’ve been a totally normal email chain if it wasn’t for the fact that I hadn’t seen Donna since meeting her for the first time ever while in rehab. Prior to that, the last time we were face-to-face was when I exited her womb twenty-five years ago. Long story short: my dad met Donna in New York when she was nineteen, she was a model, my dad knocked her up, she moved to LA for a nanosecond, had me, freaked out, left us, gave my dad full custody, and moved back to Ohio, where she was originally from (dark). After taking a few months off, Donna went back to modeling. Then she met Gina (a fellow model), they scissored, and fell in love. Things got a little too
Gia
for both of their liking, so they decided to take a leave of absence from the fashion industry and bought a farm in upstate New York to live happily ever after as farmer lesbians. After a few years, Gina went back to work (and heroin) and ended up at Cirque, where she and I were roommates, which is how I came to meet Donna. She showed up to visiting day, throwing me, my dad, Gina, and Mabinty for a total loop. I guess I know now who I inherited my knack for making an entrance from. The whole thing is really fucked up but kind of amazing.

Gina and I were close, but Donna and I hadn’t really been in touch. We’d emailed a couple times and had a super awkward phone call where we both pretty much said, “Um . . . ?” back and forth to each other and talked about the weather until I pretended I’d lost my signal and hung up. Maybe it had to do with her guilt about being an absent parent? I don’t know. At the end of the day it didn’t really bother me that much. Even though we probably wouldn’t be getting together any time in
the near future, it felt nice to reconnect with Donna. My birth mother, the model. Chic.

I
wish I could say that things didn’t get weird between me and Romie, but I can’t. In fact, the Chateau Marmont turned out to be the least suitable place for a best friends’ staycation. Firstly, Roman’s ex-boyfriend Uri was over all the time, which I felt was distracting Roman from his number one priority: keeping me safe. Also, Roman was in a CrossFit phase, which meant he never wanted to do hot yoga with me. And to top it all off, I could tell that he was starting to get annoyed with New Babe’s lifestyle needs.

“Roman,” I called from the kitchen one morning as he watched his DVR’d Anderson Cooper from the night before.

“Yesssss?” he called back, sounding annoyed.

“Where’s the Vitamix?”

“What’s a Vitamix?”

“Are you joking?”

“Babe, please. Anderson’s talking about the election.”

“Roman, please. I’m talking about my health!”

I heard the TV pause and then Roman was standing in the doorway to the kitchen.

“What? What do you need?” He didn’t look mad but he didn’t look happy, which usually meant he was mad.

“I’m just saying that, as someone who wants to contribute to the world with more focus and compassion than I was able to pre-Utah, I’m going to need the appropriate accoutrements to reach my goals.”

“Okay . . .”

“So we need to get a Vitamix Professional Series 750. It’s the only blender worth owning anymore, and it’s perfect for making juices, nut butters, soups, and homemade organic cleaning solutions.”

“Wow. Okay. Babe, look—there’s a blender right there.” Roman pointed to something behind me, but I kept my eyes locked on his gaze.

“Um, I’ve obviously sensed the presence of that machine behind me, but it’s just not gonna cut it. I’m sorry.”

“So just call the hotel staff and have them pick up a Vitamix for you.”

“They can’t be trusted.”

“You’re serious?”

“As butt cancer.”

“This is next-level neurotic behavior,” Roman said.

“Roman,” I said as I turned away from him, looking down at the Mexican tile floor.

“What?”

“I’m scared and I don’t want to die. Let me have a Vitamix.”

“It’s fine, it’s fine. You’re fine,” Roman offered, walking toward me.

“Wait, am I being totally high maintenance?” I asked, tilting my head up and pouting for effect.

“No, you’ve been through a lot. But just go buy it yourself. I have a session with my voice coach in fifteen.”

“Okay . . . well . . .”

“What?”

“See, I really shouldn’t be getting in a car before one p.m. My
shaman says the body hasn’t located itself within the universe until around two p.m., and I believe him, so—”

“Babe.”

“Fine. I’ll do it myself, like everything else,” I grumbled and walked off toward my beige room.

When I got back to Chateau with the Vitamix that afternoon, I went straight to Roman’s room to apologize for being a cunt. I felt bad for giving him attitude, and he deserved an apology.

“Romie?” I said as I opened the door.

“KNOCK!” said someone very loudly. I don’t respond to barked orders, so I walked right in and discovered Roman getting head from Uri.

“Fuck, Babe! Get out!” he shouted. Unfazed, Uri kept going.

“Actually,” I said calmly, “would either of you mind if I hung out in here for a second?”

“Go for it,” said Uri, who’d let up and turned to smile at me.

“Are you crazy??” Roman asked.

“The energy in here. It’s amazing, so much power in the air,” I said. It was true. The carnal energy in that room was beyond.

“Get out!” Roman screamed again.

“Gimme thirty more seconds, I haven’t had good sex in forever, Roman. You know this. Let me enjoy these auras. Please,” I pleaded back.

“Oh my God, this isn’t happening.”

“No, it’s totally happening,” I disagreed.

“Well, it’s not, because I’m not even hard anymore. So, thanks.” Roman rolled over and slipped on some track pants. Uri stood up to find his briefs, which were in a ball on the floor by the bed.

“Whoa, Uri. Roman was right. Your dick really is perfect.”

“Okay, get out. Now,” Roman said, crossing his arms. He was pissed, and I’d had my fill of the sexual vibes, so out I went, feeling refreshed. As I walked away from the room, I heard Uri thank Roman for telling me that he had a perfect dick. It was really cute. But that was the last straw for Roman. Later that night, we got into a big fight about him playing too much Mariah Carey in the penthouse and the Vitamix ordeal. I called him fat, he called me gay, we both cried, and everyone lost.

To make matters worse, there was construction going on outside the hotel the same day that Roman and I had our epic blowout. This meant there were deafening grinding noises constantly. The men in hard hats told me I should wear headphones or leave. I mean, how could they not have told me that my room would become uninhabitable? No warning, no nothing? No “Hey, Babe. You’re not gonna be able to do yoga or meditate in the hotel because there will be a machine scream-crying in your face TWENTY-FOUR HOURS A DAY.” Nope, they had no concern for my needs.

I tried to turn our kitchen into my bedroom, which basically meant I just started sleeping under a table because it was the only spot in the house that my spiritualist deemed “psychometrically balanced” enough for me.

One morning, I was jarred awake from my nap under the table.

“It’s four in the afternoon. We’re going to the gym. Get up.”

“Why are you screaming? What’s happening? I’m tired,” I slurred.

“Muffin, I’m so not screaming. You just really need to get the fuck out of this zen kick from hell that you’ve thrown yourself into. We’re over it.” I could see that the blurry silhouette above me was wearing Jeremy Scott sneakers, so I knew it was Roman.

“Roman, please. Wait, who’s ‘we’?”

Then, as if the vibe in the room wasn’t tense enough, Genevieve stepped in from around the corner holding a neon pink Céline Boston bag in one hand and a neon pink beet juice in the other.

“No!!” I screamed.

“Stop screaming!” Roman yelled.

“Okay!” I yelled back.

My behavior was out of control. I was watching myself turn into a monster.

“Okay,” Roman said sternly, “you said you needed to feel safe, and I’ve been trying to make this a happy place for you. We’re your two closest friends. You’re losing yourself and it’s not chic. You don’t seem like Babe to us.” So there we were. Three old friends. Three best friends. Three strangers.

“Hello, Babe,” Gen said wryly, not smiling.

“Don’t act weird. I’m still convinced you wrote that fucking note on my bathroom mirror,” I replied.

“I’m not being weird and I obviously didn’t write that shit on your mirror. Even if I was a stalker, I wouldn’t be stalking
you
.”

“Ew. That’s like a really creepy thing to say.”

“Ew. That’s like a really creepy place to sleep.”

“Ew. That’s like a really funny joke, Gen.”

“Fuck you, Babe. I was just stopping by to say hi and see if you were okay. Seemed like the adult thing to do. But clearly
you’re just going to be shitty and accuse me of being a murderer or whatever.”

Silence.

“What?” I said.

“Babe,” Roman dramatically whispered. Things were getting pretty elevated.

“What? I don’t know what you two want from me. I don’t trust either of you right now!” I was shouting at this point.

“I’m done!” Roman exploded. “I legit cannot believe you right now. I’ve put up with all your bullshit, Gen comes to check up on you, and then you tell us that we’re not to be trusted? Oh, hell no. I’m done, hashtag shade, hashtag get a grip.”

“You’re a mess, bitch. Get it together and text me when you do,” Gen added.

“GET THE FUCK OUT!” I screamed. “Both of you. Nobody gets that my life is in grave danger, and nobody’s going to save me, so bye. Bye, bye, bye, bye, bye, bye.”

With that they both left the suite without even turning back for a last look at me. Wow. This was actually happening. My friends had betrayed me, and once again I was a victim of this cruel and insensitive world. Had I completely lost track of who I was? I was so embarrassed/scared/angry/freaked out/confused/hungry. It started to settle in that Gen probably hadn’t written that lipstick note in my bathroom. It just wasn’t her style to take a sick joke this far. Was I in real danger? If Gen hadn’t left the note, then maybe I was actually being stalked. Holy fuck. I’m going to die.