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“The one and only.”
“Are you serious? I’ll be bored out of my mind!” I protest.
“It’s the only one I could find that would take you,” Dottie says dejectedly.
I shake my head, but not enough that Dottie realizes that I’m royally pissed. I hate how my lifestyle after The Adventures of Talia and Bunny-Bun ended made the press demonize me. Sure, I had a few drunken nights and dated around. But that was called no longer being fourteen. Any guy who got off a kid’s show and dated twice as much as me was “becoming a man.” Just because I was a chick and twenty-four, I was all of a sudden deemed a slut when the paparazzi snapped a picture of me with my hand in the back pocket of a dude’s jeans instead of up a rabbit puppet’s ass. The whole double standard infuriated me. Because if it didn’t exist, I would never have been forced to even consider Dottie’s insane plan.
“Wow, that makes me feel a whole lot better,” I grumble.
Dottie peels herself off the lounge chair and kneels on the cement, then leans down to take my face in both of her hands. I feel the gold rings she’s wearing press against my face, which is most definitely sunburned, I realize, and I wince.
“Listen. You’re a talented girl. I wouldn’t be your manager if you weren’t. Now the director took a big chance on you because he recognizes all that you’re capable of, but if there are no investors, these films won’t get made. You have to do this.” She lightly pinches one of my cheeks and gives me a sad smile. “Now when have I ever steered you wrong?”
I think of the time she convinced me to be the spokesperson of a streaky self-tanner and when I invested millions in a failed chain of sushi-German food hybrid restaurants—Mein Herring—but stay silent.
I know she’s buttering me up because she gets fifteen percent of all my Zombie Prom money, which is the one reason she’d never quit. I sigh. What other choice do I have?
“Fine, I’ll go,” I say while waving a hand in the air dismissively.
“And you won’t cause any trouble?” Dottie asks, a warning in her voice.
I reach up and pinch one of her Botoxed cheeks. “Now when have I ever caused trouble?”
Dottie rolls her eyes before she stands up, slings her bag over her shoulder and walks toward the sliding door at the opposite side of the patio. The heels of her incredibly high tomato-red patent leather sandals click on the pavement.
“Oh, and by the way, Talia?” Dottie calls over her shoulder. “I’d suggest you put some clothes on before Sydney arrives to help you pack.”
Puzzled, I look down at myself and discover I’ve been talking to my nearly eighty-year-old manager for the past fifteen minutes while completely topless.
Maybe I am a bigger mess than I thought.
Chapter Two
Standing in front of my massive walk-in closet, opening the double doors with both hands like I’m Willy Wonka welcoming children into my candy factory, I turn to Sydney and coolly ask, “Now what exactly does one wear to rehab?”
Her focus solely on the clock hanging above my bed, Sydney barely notices my attempt at humor. She looks down at her watch and then back up at the clock, her eyes narrowing.
“Your clock is fifteen minutes fast.”
I laugh because it’s so typically Sydney. She’s been my assistant since I turned eighteen and when I first met her, I knew she was the perfect choice for the job. She was someone who would stick around and be able to handle the pressure—and for the last six years, she had. Before Syd came along, Dottie used to say that I went through assistants like toilet paper. Syd’s from the Midwest, incredibly hardworking and always wears some variation of black pants, a button-up shirt and her hair slicked back into a tight ponytail, making her look like the assistant manager of a chain family restaurant even though she’s just two years older than me. She graduated from college at twenty and despite being much smarter and more responsible than I’ll ever be, it took us a day to become besties. Dottie says Sydney is the exact opposite of me, which is a good thing. In all, Syd keeps my ass in gear.
“Will you calm down, Syd? We’re going to make the flight, I promise. Besides, that clock is fifteen minutes fast so I’m always on time.”
Sydney scoffs. “But you’re never on time, Talia.”
I shrug. “The clock makes me less late, at least. I like it.”
“Well, it’s making me tense. I’m going to fix it.” She flings off her orthopedic-looking sandals and is about to step on my bed when I wave her down.
“No, no, don’t worry about that. You need to help me figure out what I’m going to wear.”
Sydney’s eyes widen as she raises a hand, her index finger pointed toward the ceiling. “Wait. I think that’s in the patient-behavior manual the rehab sent you.” Sydney sifts through the piles of stuff on my bed until she finds and lifts up a two-inch binder stuffed with pristine white paper.
“Okay, let’s see. Clothing, clothing...” She chews on her bottom lip as she flips through the thick stack of pages like a deck of cards. “Okay, here we go.” She clears her throat before reading from the manual. “‘Female patients are not permitted to wear any sexualized items of clothing, including too-tight tops and pants. Skirts and dresses, no matter the length, and all forms of makeup are not permitted. Sweatpants and loose-fitting tops are encouraged. Jewelry, as long as it’s small and tasteful, is allowed.’” Sydney looks up at me. “Got it?”
“So that means I shouldn’t bring my nipple clamps? Because in some circles, they are considered jewelry,” I say thoughtfully, twirling a strand of my jet-black hair between my fingers.
She rolls her eyes. “Come on, we’re going to be late.”
“Okay,” I say on an exhale.
I walk to the far left side of my closet and gather up a section of grungy workout clothes in a bear hug and tug them off the rack, then throw them into one of my open suitcases on my bed next to Sydney, hangers and all.
“Seems good enough to me,” I say through gritted teeth, grunting as I struggle to zip up the bag.
Sydney eyes the pile and sighs.
“What?” I say innocently. “You said we didn’t have a lot of time.”
She glances back at her watch and makes a sound like she just choked. “Yes, yes, you’re right. Let’s get going.”
She bends down to grab my bags—there are three in all—but I put a hand on her arm to stop her.
“Syd, can I ask you a question?”
Most likely surprised by my earnestness, Sydney looks around for a second before responding, “Of course. What’s up, Tal?”
“What do you think of this whole rehab thing? Do you really think it’s going to change the public’s perception of me? And what if I do it and the Zombie Prom investors still hold their ground and I end up doing this whole thing for nothing?”
Syd puts both her hands on my shoulders like she’s a coach giving the star football player a pep talk during halftime. “You’re going to put in your two weeks and it’ll all work out. I’ve got a good feeling about this.” She shakes me gently and a piece of her straight brown hair falls out of her ponytail.
“Really?” I brighten at the thought. “So you think this’ll work?” I ask, genuinely surprised.
“Hell if I know,” Sydney remarks, her green eyes sparkling with amusement. “But it’ll be fun to watch you and find out.”
* * *
We make it to the plane two seconds before they close the gate, Sydney shooting me that I-told-you-so look she’s been perfecting lately as we take our seats. Because we bolted from the limo to the gate—Sydney’s clompy black shoes no doubt leaving tire mark-like tracks on the airport’s shiny polished floor—none of the paparazzi at LAX saw us. But when we land in Nashville, it’s an entirely different story.
Once we pass through security, a sea of eager faces begin yelling at me and thousands of cameras flash like a lightning storm. The crowd is mostly comprised of men with scruffy beards and scraggly hair that looks like its been unwashed for days. Many of them wear all black from head to toe, squinting one eye closed, concealing half of their faces as they draw large cameras to their cheeks. I recognize a few of them, having seen them lurk around Los Angeles many times before; I’m a little shocked that they’d come all the way out here, waiting for me. In true Dottie fashion, she must have tipped everyone off.
“Talia! Over here! Smile for me, Talia! You look beautiful—pull your shirt down a little!”
“We heard you’re going to sex-addiction rehab, Talia. How many guys have you slept with?”
“You look a little skinny, Talia—are you eating? Doing any drugs?”
I roll my eyes, never surprised by their brashness and bold questions. How would they like it if someone said that to their sister or their mother? I can’t help but think. I feel an elbow press against my ribs and, as always, they’re too close. I want to yell at them to back it up, give me some space, but if I do I know they’ll instantly turn on me. My face will be on the front cover of a newspaper with some sort of damning headline—Bad Girl of Hollywood Assaults Photographer—and that’s not what I signed up for. I’m nice Talia now—naive, virginal—and so I lower my head with a meek smile.
I was told to always leave them wanting more—including the paparazzi—and so I silently follow Sydney, who is carving a path through the throng of people like Moses parting the Red Sea, saying “Out of the way, out of the way” in a raised but bored voice like she’s done this millions of times before, which is because she has.
I lift the complimentary blanket I stole from the plane over my head and for a split second wonder if I should frame it around my face like a nun, but them decide that may be a little over-the-top. Instead, I drape it over my shoulders and my arms outstretched in front of me, looking like a child’s impersonation of a ghost on Halloween. Shielding myself from the camera flashes, I look down and follow Sydney’s steps as I scuttle behind her blindly.
After a few hundred steps, the paparazzi still swarming on either side of me, the drone of questions being shouted at me so loudly I can’t differentiate one from the other, I feel the mild Tennessee weather momentarily surround me, realizing that we’re finally outside, before I hear the click and swoosh of a car door opening. Suddenly, I feel Sydney’s hand on my elbow as she leads me into the private car like a blind person.
I flop myself on the plush leather backseat.
“Woo! I haven’t seen a crowd as big as that one since the day I quit my show.”
“That was madness back there,” Sydney remarks, swiping her forehead with the back of her hand. She exhales and lets her head fall back, closing her eyes briefly. “I still don’t think I’ll ever get used to that. I’m exhausted.”
I, on the other hand, feel nothing but exhilaration. After hearing the thunk of our bags being loaded into the back by an airport worker and the trunk being slammed shut, we’re off. It isn’t until the private car passes through the airport exit and merges onto a highway that I finally remember to turn my cell phone back on since I had it off during the flight. It lights up every few milliseconds, pulsing like a strobe light. Ding, ding, ding. Every bell and whistle on my phone goes off, sounding like I’m playing slots and just hit the jackpot. Hundreds of email, Twitter and text-message alerts chirp and beep. I open Twitter and scroll through all the Tweets mentioning me, my thumb cramping after a few minutes of nonstop scrolling. There are thousands of them.
Stay strong, Talia! You can do it! #WeSupportTaliaTruman
We love you, Talia! #WeSupportTaliaTruman
So proud of you, Talia! #WeSupportTaliaTruman
And just like that, I’m trending worldwide. Jackpot indeed.
I open my inbox and there are at least twenty news articles from major publications and networks forwarded from Dottie’s account. Beloved Child Star Enters Rehab; Talia Tries to Get Her Life Back on Track; Talia Truman Repents for Boy-Crazy Lifestyle, Gets Help in Nashville. One of them is accompanied by a picture of me from my children’s television show days—my hair is in two braids so long they fall on either side of my rib cage—juxtaposed with a photo shoot I did last year for an alternative magazine that barely anybody saw. In that photo, I’m in slim-cut leather pants and a lacy purple bra, my pointer finger drawn up to my pouty lips as if I was a sexy librarian telling the reader to be quiet. Shhhh.
Will Talia Truman Kick Her Sexy Habit? one rag mag asks with urgency, as if the answer to that question would cure cancer.
I shake my head slowly back and forth, whistling low. “Dottie, you crazy son of a bitch. We did it,” I whisper to myself.
“What is it?” Sydney asks and I show her my phone.
“See? What did I tell you?” she laughs, shaking her head.
I’m in a daze for the rest of the trip, in awe that the plan showed results so quickly. I scroll through my email once again, finding nothing about the Zombie Prom franchise. I sigh.
A text from Dottie pops up on my screen.
You land yet?
Yes, I write back. The crowd of paps was enormous.
Good. I’ll let the rehab know to expect you in twenty minutes or so.
Wish me luck! I write back with seven smiley-face emoticons, knowing Dottie will pick up on my sarcasm.
DFIU, Talia. Just promise me that one thing. Please make an effort to ensure this whole thing goes smoothly. This place has a zero-tolerance policy for any breach of the rules. One strike and you’re out.
I make an annoyed noise at the phone and Sydney asks what’s the matter. I flash her my phone.
“DFIU?” she asks.
“Don’t eff it up.” I can’t count how many times Dottie’s ever texted me that. I turn to Sydney. “Trust me,” I say, “the sooner the investors come back, the sooner I get to go back to Los Angeles and hopefully start filming. I will not eff this up.”
Got it, I text Dottie back.
I watch as the cityscape rolls by through the private car’s blacked-out windows and though I miss being able to see the ocean, it’s kind of pretty, actually. The sun has started to set. There’s a lot more green out here than I expected for a city and the air smells cleaner, sweeter somehow. Nashville itself is pretty small and soon enough the restaurants, storefronts and apartments start to give way to the more residential outskirts. It seems like every house we pass has a sprawling, pristinely kept yard. All of the neighborhoods have a charming and homey feel, not to mention much more character than the immaculate carbon-copy mansions on either side of the palm-tree-lined streets of my neighborhood. Though I’m hundreds of miles away from where I call home, I’m surprised by how quickly I feel pretty comfortable here. I roll down my window and take a deep breath of the air that is certainly not the smog of LA.
We turn off a main road and, after passing a well-manicured hedge, roll up to a large white gate. Our driver leans out the window to press a white keycard to a panel. The doors slide open and the white Colonial house I saw in the brochure comes into view.
When we stop in the round driveway, Sydney says, “And this is where I say goodbye.”
After giving me a hug she hands me a piece of paper folded in half. “I’ll be staying in a hotel just ten minutes away. Call me if you need to. Otherwise, I’ll see you in fourteen days.”
I give her a mock salute. “See you then, Captain Organized.”
I get out of the car and realize the driver has already left all my bags in a neat pile on the porch. I turn back and watch the car drive away. I’m all alone at rehab. This is real.
I turn around and face the house, straightening my shoulders and lifting my chin. It’s gotten fairly dark out—I’m not even sure what time it is—and there’s a faint sound of crickets chirping coming from the bushes and flowers at the bottom of the steps. I feel the cool spring breeze on my face and I take in a deep breath. “Let’s get this over with,” I say to myself.
I walk up the steps of the white wraparound porch and open the door at the top. Inside, the foyer looks like it’s been decorated by a very cheerful grandmother. The hardwood floors are immaculate and large potted plants sit on either side of a light blue antique-looking desk. There are framed cross-stitch patterns with sayings like One Day at a Time and It Gets Better! surrounded by candy-colored flowers hanging on the walls. There’s an ornate carpeted staircase right in the middle of the entrance hall and a vintage-looking upholstered settee at the bottom of it.
I plop my carry-on duffel on the blue desk and discover a chubby woman with a streak of white in her short red hair is sitting behind it.
I jump. “Oh! You surprised me,” I say dumbly.
The woman smiles to herself like she had planned that sneak attack. She’s wearing sparkly bright purple cat-eye reading glasses and looks up at me from her creased paperback book. “Name, dear?” she asks with a slight drawl. She looks more like a sweet Southern grandma than someone who’s in charge of preventing people from touching themselves.
“Talia Truman.”
She gets up from her chair and I easily tower over her by a couple of feet.
“Hi, Talia. I’m Doctor Brothers, but all my patients call me Judy. Welcome to New Beginnings,” she says, shaking my hand. It’s the most generic name for a rehab facility they could have picked and I almost laugh. She shuffles around her desk and picks up a manila folder with my last name written in block letters on the side. “We’ve been expecting you!” she exclaims delightedly. “You’re the television star, right?”
I snort. “Hardly. Haven’t worked in a year.”
“Right,” she says merrily, as if she didn’t hear me. “For now I’m going to be working with you in group sessions and I’ll give you your schedule first thing tomorrow morning. But for right now, I’m going to search your belongings for any type of contraband and then you can come with me for our last meeting of the day, the community meeting. Unzip all of your bags, please,” she orders as she snaps on a pair of rubber gloves.
I unzip my duffel and then bend down to open my larger bags on the floor. Judy comes out from behind the desk and starts ruffling through my things after setting a clipboard down next to her.
“Now,” she says, wiggling her fingers as if she’s just itching to go through my stuff. “Do you have any weapons—guns, knives, bombs, box cutters, pepper spray—”
“What?” I say, taken aback. “No, of course not.”
Judy gives me a slight smile. “I’m sorry, but I have to go over the entire list, dear. Standard procedure. You’d be surprised what people try to sneak in here.”
She looks back at the paper on the clipboard. “Drugs, alcohol, prescription drugs, any illicit substance that could hurt yourself or others?” she says brightly, as if she was asking me to join her for a tea party.
“No.” Though I wished I had some right about now.
She lifts a bra from my bag, inspects it for a second and then puts it down. “A little too lacy for this place, but I’ll let it slide.” Next, she pinches my electric toothbrush between her thumb and pointer finger as if it was the pin of a grenade and tsks her tongue.
