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Alice

Why do they call it fair skin? Being so pale and prone to burn within minutes of sun exposure is actually pretty unfair .

I’m wearing one of Farrah’s wide-brimmed hats, sunglasses, a lightweight long-sleeved shirt and crop pants, but I still applied sunscreen. All my skin that was exposed yesterday is pink today, and I was hardly even outside.

Farrah, on the other hand, is golden, her skin glowing as she stands thigh-deep in the ocean. She’s wearing the hell out of a black bikini, her blond hair blowing gently behind her in the breeze.

The producers are filming beach scenes today. They’re pairing up contestants to take walks together, sit down in the sand and cool off in the water.

“I loved you in that space station movie,” an up-and-coming politician, Josh Sellers, tells Farrah. “When you floated out of the air lock, I was like--is she done for?”

Farrah smiles. “That movie was so much fun to film. We got training from real astronauts.”

Josh arches his brows, impressed. “No way. Did they give you any of their freeze-dried ice cream?”

“We did try some freeze-dried foods, but no ice cream.”

She puts her feet on the ocean floor, standing up straight. She’s just below knee-deep in the water. When she looks over at the director, Alan, he scrunches his face in aggravation.

“Cut!” he calls out.

“Alice, blot me,” Farrah says.

I’m standing about ten feet behind the cameraman to be out of his way. I set down my bag and walk toward Farrah with one of the thin, paperlike sheets that absorb sweat, sliding out of my sandals before I enter the water.

“We have makeup people for that, and we don’t break anytime you feel like it,” Alan says.

Farrah gives him her trademark smile. “Alice knows how I want it done.”

I blot her face and chest as quickly as I can, waves lapping against the bottom of my pants.

“This isn’t a swimsuit cover shoot,” Alan says. “I need continuous footage, and I have a full schedule today. No more stopping.”

“I don’t want to be dripping sweat on camera.”

Alan pinches the bridge of his nose. “It’s summer in California. Everyone is sweating.” He gestures at the cameraman, still holding his heavy equipment in the air. “Danny sweated all the way through his T-shirt.”

Farrah ignores him, looking at me instead.

“How’s my hair?”

“It’s good.”

“Is this camera angle working, or--”

Alan throws the ink pen in his hand. It flies about ten feet before flopping to the sand unceremoniously.

“I decide the camera angles! Alice, I need you out of my shot right now.”

It would be unusual for Farrah not to piss off the director of whatever she’s filming. But I hate being dragged into it.

I duck my head and walk back to my spot behind Danny. This time, I go farther, so I can take out my phone to check and see if my mom has texted me back.

Mom: He wasn’t up for his therapy today. He didn’t sleep well last night.

I hate that I can’t be there. If Dad didn’t sleep well last night, neither did Mom. She carries a lot of weight on her shoulders as his caregiver, and she never complains. My brother and I both wish she would, though. I worry she’ll just implode one day, too exhausted and overwhelmed to keep doing what she does.

Alice: Did he miss speech therapy? That one is really important to help with his chewing.

Mom: I know. But he refused to go. We are okay, honey. Are you enjoying California?

I sigh softly. My mom is a glass-all-the-way-full person. She sees things from an overly positive perspective, and I know it’s partially a protective mechanism for her because the truth can be heavy and scary when you’re the long-term caregiver of a disabled person.

Alice: It’s very sunny here. I’ll FaceTime you guys this evening.

Mom: We’d love that! Thanks for the picture of the beautiful sunrise! Your dad smiled when I showed it to him.

I send a smile emoji and put my phone back in my bag, wishing I could talk to my brother Will. But he’s in his first year of surgical residency in Chicago, and he doesn’t get much downtime. We have a call scheduled for this weekend, so I’ll have to wait until then.

Alan films Farrah and Josh for about ten more minutes. As soon as he’s done, Farrah walks over to me.

“That guy’s a bore,” she says under her breath.

“Who, Alan?”

She laughs lightly. “Well, yeah. But I meant Josh.”

I change the subject because Josh isn’t that far away, and it feels rude to be talking about him when he could overhear. “Are you on a break?”

“Yep. I think I’ll have scrambled egg whites for lunch.”

That’s a relief. I’d love to get out of the sun and get a respite from this hot hat.

“Sure. Anything else?”

“Mmm, I’ll also take half a cucumber, sliced. And extra water.”

“I’ll have to go to the grocery store for the cucumber, which is fine because I also need to pick up some more collagen.”

She furrows her brow. “I only like that one brand. The one you order online.”

“Well, it’s back-ordered. I can’t get it right now.”

She huffs out a sigh. “Why do businesses make it so hard to support them?”

I love Farrah, but a part of me wants to shake her and ask her if she has any idea how many people would love for their biggest problem to be using a new brand of collagen in their smoothies.

“But then I’ll have to wait for the eggs,” she muses. “Okay, so make the eggs and then go to the store and I’ll have the cucumber as a snack.”

“Okay.”

“Did Lisa call about that contract?”

I take Farrah’s phone out of my bag and check the screen to see if her agent called.

“Not yet.”

“Call her office. I want that contract wrapped.”

“I will.”

She glances down at her chest and then back to me. “Are you sure my boobs look good in this top?”

“They look amazing,” I assure her for the third time today.

She hesitates. “Okay.”

Later that evening, I’m sitting alone on the beach, oblivious to the people who occasionally walk past me on their beach strolls. It’s just after eight p.m. I had to fight Farrah to get out of dinner with the contestants.

As soon as I heard the chef’s menu for tonight included pate and pureed beets, I told Farrah I was having dinner on my own. Normally, she likes to have me beside her for meals when she’s working.

It’s been a day, though. I was the go-between for Farrah and Lisa over the contract for Farrah’s next film since Farrah was busy filming the show today and couldn’t talk to Lisa herself. I also had to hit up multiple grocery stores to get all the Voss water I needed.

Then there’s my dad. I just FaceTimed my parents and he didn’t look like he was feeling well. He put on a brave face and communicated with me through the computer that’s now his voice, but it was bittersweet. I haven’t seen my parents since Christmas, almost six weeks ago. Even then, I only got two days off from Farrah. She gave me a big holiday bonus to make up for the lack of time off.

I miss watching Jeopardy with my dad and eating subs from my mom’s favorite place with her while we play Scrabble.

With a heavy sigh, I take the double bacon cheeseburger from the white paper bag I picked up at a drive-through. I only had time to grab one pancake from the breakfast spread this morning, which I rolled up and ate without syrup. Instead of eating lunch, I was doing things for Farrah.

The cheeseburger smells like heaven as I unwrap it. A little grease drips onto my fingers. I sink my teeth into it for a huge bite, closing my eyes.

It tastes amazing. Eating this burger and drinking the strawberry shake I got with it is the first thing I’ve done just because I wanted to in a long time.

Filming today was pretty much just absurd. The contestants were directed to do things like flirt, give meaningful glances and touch affectionately.

It’s all so fake. Even the parts of the show that are real are gross. Today, the rock star, Dom Marone asked the Olympic gymnast Misty Meyers how much she weighs. She’s way more muscular than he is. She smiled sweetly and said she’d tell him how much she weighs if he’d tell her how many times he’s shot up or snorted the drugs that have left him borderline emaciated.

That’s probably not making Alan’s cut, but I thoroughly enjoyed it. Misty could kick Dom’s ass, and I hope, at some point, she will.

“Hey, how’s it going?”

I look up, my mouth full with a bite of my burger, and see Dalton standing there. He’s wearing athletic shorts, an Ohio State T-shirt and a backward baseball cap.

I chew as quickly as I can, putting my hand over my mouth before I answer. “What’s wrong? Does Farrah need something?”

He smiles. “Probably, but I’m not aware of anything.”

“She didn’t send you down here to get me?”

“Nope. I’m just walking on the beach. Everyone else is eating lemon sorbet.”

I nod, sipping my milkshake.

“Looks like you were smarter than me,” he says. “I had a little poof of meat mousse for dinner.”

“Sounds filling.”

“Do you mind if I sit?”

I shrug. “No, I don’t mind.”

He sits down beside me, putting his knees up and resting his forearms on them. For a minute, we sit in silence, the crashing waves the only sound. I catch a hint of his scent--a light, clean smell with a note of sandalwood.

“Been to Malibu before?” he asks.

“Farrah had an event here once. But I stayed at the hotel the entire time, so I don’t think it counts.”

He looks out at the darkened ocean water. “It’s my first time. It’s really different from Minneapolis.”

“Is that where you grew up?”

“No, but it’s home now. I grew up in Ohio. What about you?”

“Detroit, Michigan.”

“I’ve got a buddy there. A friend from high school.”

A couple walks in front of us, hand in hand. Once they’re past, Dalton looks over at me. “So, how long have you worked for Farrah?”

“Let see...almost three years.”

“Do you travel home for your time off?”

I smile wryly. “What time off?”

He pinches his brows together. “You do get time off, right?”

I subtly breathe a little deeper, wishing I could lean closer and smell him better. “I go home for Thanksgiving and Christmas.”

He just looks at me in silence for a few seconds. “Are you serious? She won’t give you time off?”

There’s a flare of aggravation in my chest. “It’s not that she won’t. It’s complicated.”

“Were you exaggerating? You get weekends off, right?”

I almost laugh because I can’t imagine what I’d do by myself for two full days. Before I worked for Farrah, I had two jobs. I haven’t had two days in a row to do nothing in more than six years.

“Our setup works for us,” I say, hoping he’ll drop the subject.

“Are you happy working for her? Running errands and getting water and blotting her sweaty face?”

I am already emotional over my parents, and his completely out-of-line questions send me over the edge. I pick up my fast-food bag and stand up.

“Fuck off, Dalton. You don’t know anything about me.”

“Hey, I didn’t mean to offend you. I just--”

“You don’t have a fucking clue.” I’m yelling at him now, the guy walking by with his dog veering out of the way to avoid us. “But how could you? You’re a millionaire pro athlete starring on a reality TV show.”

“Alice--”

I flip him off. “Thanks for ruining my few minutes of peace, asshole.”

I turn and try to stomp off angrily, but my feet sink into the sand. Damn. Trying to storm away from this conversation is turning into a workout, my calves feeling it.

Dalton doesn’t follow me to try to defend himself. Good move on his part.

I’m normally even-tempered. I have to be working for Farrah. But Dalton made his shitty comments on the wrong day. Angry tears fill my eyes as I walk around the house, avoiding the back entrances where I’ll run into people.

Instead, I slip in through a side entrance and go to my room. Once there, I close the door and curl up on the bed, still crying.

Are these angry tears? They are, but they’re sad, too. I picture my parents’ faces on the call tonight, both of them looking older than I remembered. And tired. So tired.

Who am I to feel sorry for myself when my mom does what she does? I swipe the tears from my face and take a few deep breaths.

I take a minute to breathe before I pick up my phone to respond to the text Farrah just sent.

It was just a bad day. Tomorrow will be better.