Finding Marnie Š 2019 by MV Ellis All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any written, electronic, recorded, or photocopied format without the express permission from the author or publisher as allowed under the terms and conditions with which it was purchased or as strictly permitted by applicable copyright law. Any unauthorized distribution, circulation or use of this text may be a direct infringement of the author’s rights, and those responsible may be liable in law accordingly. Thank you for respecting the work of this author. Finding Marnie is a work of fiction. All names, characters, events and places found therein are either from the author's imagination or used fictitiously. Any similarity to persons alive or dead, actual events, locations, or organizations is entirely coincidental and not intended by the author. For information, contact the publisher, Hot Tree Publishing. www.hottreepublishing.com
Editing: Hot Tree Editing Cover Designer: Claire Smith Formatting: Justine Littleton ISBN: 978-1-925853-26-1
“'Tis better to have loved and lost than never to have loved at all.� —Alfred Lord Tennyson.
This one is dedicated to all the lost lovers. May you find yourselves, and each other.
Chapter One Marnie I didn’t know if everyone could pinpoint the exact moment their life changed forever, that one defining moment that sealed their fate and made them who they are. I could. It was a Tuesday in April, just after Easter. I was thirteen. I had woken up and gotten ready for school alone and in silence, as usual. I wasn’t sure if my parents were home. Silence meant they’d be out cold, sleeping off the effects of the night before, or they were still out, and as far as they were concerned, the new day hadn’t even started yet. It made no material difference to me either way, so I never concerned myself with their presence or, more likely, their absence. I’d been seconds away from leaving when I remembered I’d left my calculus book in the kitchen the previous evening, as I puzzled over my homework while I ate. Alone. And in silence. As I rushed into the living room on my way to the kitchen, right away I’d known something was wrong. There had been an eerie stillness, and the air felt thick or heavy. I couldn’t put my finger on it, but something definitely felt off. I edged cautiously into the room, and then I saw it. My mom’s skeletal arm resting on the side of the couch. I knew then that something was very badly wrong. On the rare occasions that my parents were home and functioning, if it could even
be called that at this time of day, it was always chaos. Neither could keep still for a moment. There would be pacing, cursing, yelling, and general high drama. About money. About drugs. About money for drugs. About each other. I never knew the exact details—I tried to make myself as scarce as possible. The TV would often be blaring, along with music, adding to the confusion. Silence in this circumstance could only mean no good. “Mom?” No answer. “Mom?” I continued my slow, wary approach toward the couch, knowing I shouldn’t, that I wasn’t going to like what I saw when I got there. However, I found myself compelled to approach regardless. Stupid. It was like when I saw a quick movement on the other side of the room from the corner of my eye, and even while my brain told me not to look, my eyes automatically headed that way before I could stop them. It was always something gross like a roach or spider that I would much rather not have seen but then couldn’t ignore. I edged closer. “Mom?” I was now level with the couch, but I avoided turning toward it, fearing that what I saw would be far worse than an insect or arachnid. When I dared to look, my suspicions were confirmed. I gasped, closing my eyes, hoping that when I opened them, the vision before me would have disappeared as though it had all been just a terrible mirage. Sadly, when I dared to peek through half-closed eyelids, the horrific scene remained. I didn’t know it then, but it was to haunt my sleeping and waking dreams for the rest of my life. My mom and dad were dead. I knew it as sure as I knew my name was Marnie. My mom’s right arm gripped the side of the couch tightly—I guess that was the true meaning of a death grip. Her left arm was linked with my dad’s. Her spindly fingers were intertwined with his equally starved digits. Her head was tipped back, bloodshot eyes open and rolled back in her head. Her skin was a lifeless gray color, her lips were blue, and there was a thick, dark brown substance below her nose. Dried blood? My father was slumped forward, the hand not holding my mom’s resting on his knee, his head between his legs. Both arms were ashen. I was glad to have been spared seeing the ravages that death had wrought his face, but I knew he was dead. From their linked arms protruded empty hypodermic syringes. My first conclusion was the most obvious one, and the risk for any junkie every time they shot up, snorted, or smoked: an
overdose. A pace toward them brought me one step closer to the truth. A piece of paper lay on the floor between their bruised and bloated feet—a folded “final demand” from the electric company. One word was scrawled on the top in eyeliner in my mom’s scratchy handwriting. ENOUGH. Realization hit me like a hundred-pound weight. I sucked in a huge gulp of air—I seemed to have forgotten to breathe—and kicked into survival mode. I rushed past them and into the kitchen, grabbing my calculus book from the table where I’d left it. Instead of heading out of the front of the house as normal, I took off through the back door, slamming it shut behind me. If I sprinted, I’d still make it in time for the school bus. I ran like the devil was on my back, then slowed to a normal pace on the corner of the block where the bus stopped. I reached the pickup point at the same time as the bus, breathing back to normal, nothing but red cheeks to signify anything was different about this Tuesday to any other. I took my normal seat in the back corner, hoping to be left alone, as I mostly always was. I moved through the school day on autopilot. I was there but not there, just going through the motions—not that anybody seemed to notice. I was thankful to fly under the radar. Every second, minute, and hour that passed took me further away from the terrible scene I’d witnessed earlier, and made me believe that maybe the whole thing had been nothing more than a bizarre dream. Maybe I’d wake up any moment at home in bed, tangled in my sheets, covered in a sheen of cold sweat. Or maybe the whole thing had been a waking hallucination. After school, I’d return to a deserted house as normal. I’d eat, do my homework, and go to bed, before starting the whole routine again the following day.
***
As I walked down the hall, a strange feeling came over me and settled in the pit of my stomach. It felt kind of like when I’d eaten a bowl of the gross ambrosia that my grandma Mia had insisted on forcing on me, despite my protests, when I’d stayed with her in New York one summer when I was little. The thick, gloopy mess had sat congealed in my gut like a lumpy stone, threatening to come back up if I didn’t sit still and concentrate on keeping it down. The thing was, apart from the unmentionable, I had no reason to be called to Principal
Moreton’s office. I shuffled through my mental index cards again just to be certain, but there really was nothing. Sure, I had made out with Dean Jacobs behind the cafeteria after lunch yesterday, but that was hardly a punishable offense in the grand scheme of things. I had also skipped gym last week, feigning stomach cramps, and instead taken myself to the mall for window-shopping and a soda, but if I was going to get in trouble for that, it would have happened already. Plus, I had seen the expression on my history teacher, Mrs. Anderson’s, face when she saw the note that was handed to her, summoning me to the office. She had recovered quickly, but not fast enough to avoid putting the fear of God into me. She had spoken kindly when she’d told me to pack up my things and leave. Normally taking our books would signify a suspension or expulsion, but I was super sure that wasn’t the case with me. I had done nothing. If I didn’t know better, I would have said she’d had tears in her eyes as she spoke, but that couldn’t be. Teachers didn’t cry, did they? Even if they did, they didn’t do it in class. I walked slowly, knowing that I was only delaying the inevitable, and that doing so wouldn’t make the outcome any less painful. Still, I wanted to take a moment. With hindsight, I would be glad I had. As I pushed open the heavy, ugly brown door of the Principal’s office, I could tell by the look in her secretary Marie’s eyes as she greeted me that there was something wrong. Very wrong. It was that same look of sympathy I had seen on Mrs. Anderson’s face. Marie motioned with her head, indicating toward the second drab door. When opened it, my life changed forever. Along with the principal, there sat Ms. Arnott, the school guidance counselor, and a woman I didn’t know. I would later find out she was from Children’s Protective Services. Oh shit. I hesitated in the doorway, not wanting to enter, as though holding back would somehow undo whatever drama was about to unfold. Of course I knew that was impossible, but in that moment, however illogically, the thought gave me comfort and hope. Principal Morton looked up when she heard the swish of the door across the fugly carpet of her office. The fear and dread built in me even further. You didn’t get called to the principal’s office for her to smile at you, or be nice in any way. You were summoned there because you had fucked up—you’d been caught smoking, or fighting, or your grades were slipping and you were flunking out. All sorts of bad shit. You didn’t expect sympathy, unless something really awful had happened—like the time when James Gravlinski’s sister had been hit by a police cruiser and killed. He had gotten sympathy. Fuck.
“Come in please, Marnie, and take a seat.” She motioned to the one empty chair in the room. I sat. One look at her face, and I knew. I just fucking knew. “I’m afraid I have some bad news.” All day I’d been hoping it would magically go away, but it hadn’t. Deep down, I’d known it wouldn’t. “What is it? What’s happened?” At least that’s what I wanted to say. In reality, what came out was a string of garbled words, each one tripping over the last and completely unintelligible to anyone else in the room. Through my tears, I saw that Principal Morton looked like she would rather be anywhere else on Earth but there. She wasn’t alone in that. We were all in the same boat. “I’m so very sorry, Marnie. There’s no easy way to say this, so I’m going to have to come right out with it. There has been an… ummm… incident at your house. Unfortunately, both your parents have died.” I felt my features literally crumble and turn on themselves, as though my skull had caved in, leaving not enough bone structure to carry my skin, sinew, and cartilage. Big, heavy tears spilled spontaneously from my eyes, and my whole body started to shake. She went on to explain. “Ahhh… we don’t know the full story yet, but the police who attended the scene have confirmed that your parents suffered apparent drug overdoses.” Up until that point, even though deep down I’d known it wasn’t going to be the case, for some stupid reason, I’d still held out a glimmer of hope that she had some other bad news to deliver. Like the house had burned to the ground and all my worldly possessions had gone up in flames with it. Like my parents had taken off for Vegas, never to return, finally admitting to the world what I already knew—that they didn’t want me. Like I was being expelled from school for missing gym, or kissing Dean. Like my whole life had been part of some Truman Show-style movie, and now was the time for the grand reveal. Although in truth, if my life was to be any movie, it would probably be The Hunger Games. “Sadly, it would appear that they took their own lives.” Now it was real. I don’t remember much of what happened next. Just that it was chaos. I was crying, screaming, and convulsing with the emotions I’d been suppressing all day, in the hope that it would somehow make the situation less real. I remember Ms. Arnott offering me a Kleenex and trying to slip a comforting arm around my shoulder. I’d shrugged her off—I may have even
cursed her out. I couldn’t remember the last time either of my parents had hugged me. I didn’t need to be shown that kind of affection from a complete stranger. Amid the unfolding drama, I was overtaken by a strong feeling of nausea, and I knew I was going to hurl. I grabbed my dirty old backpack and ran out of the principal’s office at high speed and into the girl’s bathroom. I stumbled toward the first stall, flinging my backpack behind me at breakneck speed and banging the door shut. As I heard my bag slap against the wall and thud to the floor, I lurched jerkily to the bowl, just making it in time to watch my lunch spewing out of me and into it. The door swung and hit me on the ass. I shifted my weight onto one leg, using the other to prop it closed. I stood like a deranged flamingo heaving until I was empty of every last trace of food and a whole lot of bile. Though my throat burned and my eyes watered, I felt almost numb as I slid down the heavily graffitied stall wall. Numb was good. Not thinking or feeling was… perfect.
Chapter Two Luke Of all the life-changing events I’d experienced, one stood out. The day had started off unremarkably, apart from the fact that Arlo had woken up covered in spots and would clearly not be joining the rest of us at school. It was weird; I could have sworn that we had all had the chickenpox already but apparently not Arlo. He got the shitty end of the stick, catching it as a teenager. Watching him suffer with it—he had spots in his ears, and even in his mouth—made me feel lucky to have had it when I was a preschooler. I’d left the house with a feeling of dread about navigating school life without Arlo running interference. It wasn’t that I couldn’t make it through the day without him. It was more that I wasn’t comfortable doing so, due to a combination of crippling shyness and total laziness. Plus, it was the way things had always been. Even when we couldn’t stand the sight of each other at home or anywhere else, at school Arlo was the voice for both of us, whenever possible. A person didn’t need to be an expert in twin psychology to know that we were a weird bunch—identical twins even more so. I’d trudged into school, made it through homeroom on autopilot, and was heading out of
the class on my way to chemistry when Mr. Kostopoulos called my name and beckoned me to his desk. I’d quickly run through the list of possible misdemeanors he could be pulling me up on but had drawn a blank. There had been nothing I was aware of—not that there ever really was. Arlo was a completely different story, but even he, as far as I was aware, had kept his nose clean for at least the few weeks prior. I had no idea why he would want to speak with me. I split from the throng of kids shuffling out of the room like sheep and stood by his desk, staring at my feet, shoulders hunched against the worst. “It’s okay. Don’t look so worried. You haven’t done anything wrong. We have a new student starting today in ninth grade, and Dr. Campbell has requested you as their student buddy.” Oh. Hell. No. The last thing I needed was to be stuck with some kid as he found his feet around the school. What the fuck was I supposed to say to him? I shook my head, still staring at the floor. Mr. K seemed prepared for my refusal. He chuckled. “See, here’s the thing. Just because I ask kind of nicely, let’s be clear, this isn’t a request, it’s a mandate. We all know it’s Dr. Campbell’s way or the highway. And by highway, I mean a month of after-school detentions on your record.” Motherfucker. I’d briefly considered just taking the detention, but I knew the boys wouldn’t forgive me for missing that many band rehearsals, and Mom wouldn’t forgive me for giving her more school shit to worry about than she already had to deal with because of Arlo. I didn’t want to do that to her. Damn. Our principal was a smiling assassin. At first glance, she looked like a sweet, kindly mom, but in reality, Dr. Lorna Campbell was a tiger, and she quietly ruled the school with an iron claw. I couldn’t say we all enjoyed her methods, but her take-no-prisoners approach was firm but fair and had elevated Ambrose Hill High from one of the poorest performing schools in the district to a shining example of inner-city excellence. At that moment, however, I could happily have strangled her with my bare hands. I shrugged, still resolutely refusing to make eye contact. “Good man. I knew you’d make the right decision.” Mr. K slapped my shoulder and sent me on my way. “Hurry now. Dr. Campbell is expecting you, and you know she doesn’t like to be kept waiting.” I knew. We all knew. As I walked into the reception area outside Principal Campbell’s office, she appeared in
the doorway, clearly waiting for me. “Nice of you to finally join us, Mr. Jones. Now hurry up. I’m not getting any younger over here.” She wasn’t getting any older either, at least not if her looks were anything to go by. I wasn’t sure how old she was exactly, but she held a doctorate, and I knew she had three sons around my age, so she must have been older than she looked. I shuffled over to the doorway, and she stepped aside to let me pass. I took a few steps into the room and stopped in my tracks. Could this day get any worse? Standing near one of the easy chairs in the principal’s office was a girl. My mind flicked quickly back to Mr. K’s words. “We have a new student starting today in ninth grade, and Dr. Campbell has requested you as their student buddy.” He hadn’t actually said the person was a dude; I had just assumed. I had thought it was a pretty safe assumption, though, as who in their right mind would assign me of all people to show a girl around the school? I couldn’t even talk to other guys, never mind a motherfucking girl. When I got past the general shock of my buddy being female, my jaw slackened, possibly to floor level, when I properly took in the appearance of the girl in question. To say she was cute was an understatement. She was out of this world. Of course, I instantly developed a blush so deep it felt like the entire top half of my body had been doused in kerosene and set alight. The girl looked at me wide-eyed, perhaps equally surprised to find that her buddy was a guy. Speaking of her eyes, they were wide set and beautifully angled, almost like a cat’s, and black as coals. But the thing I noticed most overwhelmingly about them was a deep sadness. She looked as though her heart was broken and seeing it in her made me feel the same way. My heart ached on her behalf, and I didn’t even know who she was, or why she was suffering. Her face was framed by bangs cut with precision into her long, thick, ultra-straight, jetblack hair. Little had I known at that point, but I was destined to spend years walking a few paces behind her, sporting an agonizing hard-on, watching that shiny mane swishing seductively just above her perfectly pert butt as she sashayed from A to B. It was to be my personal form of delicious torture. She was literally breathtaking. I opened and closed my mouth, trying to get air into my oxygen-starved lungs. My attempt was futile. The girl stared back at me with what appeared to be
a mix of mild curiosity and definite irritation. You and me both, chica. She blinked rapidly, turning her lips up at the corners into something that hovered between a smile and a grimace. I wasn’t quite sure which. Her. Lips. I had been so busy staring into her eyes like a deer in the headlights—officially making our exchange the longest time I’d maintained eye contact with anyone other than family and close friends for as long as I could remember—that I had completely missed her lips. Now that I had seen them, I couldn’t take my eyes off them, or see anything else. They were full, red, and pouty— so much so that they almost appeared swollen, but I knew they weren’t. They were the shape of tightly rolled rose petals, and I wanted to kiss them more than I’d ever wanted anything in my life. I swallowed. Hard. Dr. Campbell cleared her throat. The girl smiled a little more, then laughed shyly. I noticed more about her then, like the fact that she was unusually tall for a girl of her age—she looked like she was on the younger end of freshmen, maybe even thirteen years old—and that her legs seemed to go from the floor to just south of her armpits. She was like a tall and supremely beautiful version of Daria. “Hi.” She spoke first because I was a social moron. Please, voice, don’t fail me now. “Hi.” Yes! “Luke Jones, this is Marnie Harloe. She just transferred here from Michigan.” Marnie stuck out her small hand. “Marnie.” The way she said her name. Oh my God. She had an accent. It was cute as all fuck, and the last piece of the puzzle I needed to give me the boner from hell right there in the principal’s office. I prayed to every god and deity I’d ever heard of that neither she nor Dr. Campbell looked toward my crotch. In reality, it was probably pretty safe to assume that neither would. “Luke.” When I shook her outstretched hand, a spark flowed through her to me. My body tensed, and my dick grew even harder. What was that? “Okay. So now that we have the introductions out of the way, we can get to the formalities. Please, sit down, both of you.” Dr. Campbell had made her way behind her desk and was now sitting in her fancy reclining leather chair. She motioned for us to sit in the two green, fabric-covered, upright chairs on the other side. I realized I was still holding Marnie’s hand. It was warm and smooth like the heart-shaped
alabaster ornament our dad had once given to our mom as an anniversary present. I released it, embarrassed. More embarrassed. I sat, and so did she. The principal handed me a copy of Marnie’s schedule and explained what the buddy arrangement meant for both of us. I was to take her under my wing for the remainder of the semester, which had only begun a few days earlier, helping her find her classes, sitting with her at lunch, walking to the school bus with her. It sounded like a big fat chore. It was basically a glorified babysitting gig. Hell, I didn’t do all that shit for my own kid brother, let alone a total stranger. To say I didn’t want to do it was to put it mildly. I stared down at the worn government-issue brown carpet and sighed heavily. I knew there was nothing I could do to get out of this arrangement, so I was going to have to just deal with it. As Mr. K had already rightly emphasized, saying no to Dr. Campbell wasn’t a viable option. Considering that speaking was hardly an option for me most of the time—not without becoming a stuttering mess, at least—the chances of my arguing my way out of a decision with the principal were pretty much nonexistent. As we left her office, despite my initial hesitation, I became almost immediately thankful that Dr. Campbell had forced this unwanted interaction on me. So much so that after striding down the hall ahead of Marnie in silence, forcing her to almost jog to catch up with me, when we reached her classroom, I took the unprecedented step of making the first move to break the ice between us. “S-s-so why have you transferred? Your family move here for work or something?” She already had her hand on the doorknob, ready to enter the room, but stopped in her tracks at the sound of my voice. She turned back to me, looking irritated. “Nope.” She was clearly not a great conversationalist. That made two of us. “Why then?” “I don’t have any family, except my grandma, Mia. Both my parents died.” “Oh s-s-shit. Sorry. I didn’t know.” “Of course you didn’t know. That’s why you asked. Dur.” Shit. “Car crash.” She said the words out of the blue. “Huh?” “Car crash. It’s how my parents died. I knew that was going to be your next question, so I thought I’d save us both the awkwardness. I moved here because it’s where Mia lives, and she’s now my legal guardian.”
And this was why I hated speaking to people. Only a few moments in, and I’d already wrecked it. Fuck. Marnie spoke as though reading my mind. “It’s okay. I know people are going to ask. I’m cool with that. Besides, for every question you ask me, I get to ask you one back.” Oh. Hell. No. I felt myself nodding involuntarily. Today seemed to be opposite day. Shit. “So, before you got to the principal’s office, she told me you have a twin brother. Are you guys identical?” “Yeah.” I saw her bank the information and wondered why she wanted to know. “Bonus question. Being as I’m new and an orphan, I get a free pass.” What? No! Before I could raise my objections, she was asking anyway. “Are you pitching a tent for me, or Dr. Campbell?” She nodded toward my swollen crotch before turning again to enter her classroom. Holy shit. I’d just been schooled by a freshman. So much for nobody noticing. I only hoped the principal hadn’t seen it too. Either way, I was more embarrassed than I had ever been. My cheeks were so hot, I felt like they’d been dipped in molten lava. Marnie smirked, knowing she had me backed into a corner. “Okay, thanks for showing me the way.” I did the only thing I could—bobbed my head in lieu of saying goodbye, looking anywhere but at her, and got the fuck out of there. But because I had no shame, and definitely no game, even after making that much of a fool of myself, I still couldn’t resist turning around to get one last look at her as she went into her class. I would forever be glad I had, as I was just in time to catch her staring at me as I walked away. Yes! I figured the redness in her cheeks put us just about even in the humiliation stakes. *** Despite the unpromising start, the next two weeks with Marnie were the most blissful of my life. Even with my initial shyness and her ability to make me feel like a fool, the two of us had clicked from day one. We’d had an instant bond and an easy connection. We just made sense. My words flowed freely, and I could talk to her like I could my brothers and the guys. It was as though we’d known each other for years. She was kind of like the little sister I never had, except really nothing like a little sister at all. Being with Marnie brought out feelings and urges in me that I hadn’t known existed. First
there was the near-permanent state of crippling arousal that was a fact of life when she was around or whenever I thought of her—which was pretty much 24/7, especially at night time—I went to bed with visions of her running through my mind, and a boner to match, and woke up every morning the same way. However, I also felt insanely protective of her. Like the kind of protective that could push me to rip out someone’s jugular for looking at her the wrong way. It was completely out of character for me, and far more Arlo’s style, totally irrational. Not only that, but despite everything she’d been through with her parents dying, Marnie seemed to be this tough, smart, streetwise girl who needed nothing from anybody. Especially not me. Seemed to be. Whatever life threw at her, Marnie Harloe took it in stride. Being taunted and called Orphan Annie or Mile-high Marnie, rejection by the popular girls in her class, in fact most of the girls, it didn’t seem to matter—it flowed over her like water off a duck’s back. The two faces of Marnie Harloe—the smile and the snarl—always seemed to get her through. Except from day one, I saw something else when I looked at her. There was a third face, one that was hidden most of the time and to most people. The sadness that I noticed in the principal’s office was always there, just under the surface. Sometimes it was covered by a smile but more often than not, a frown. At other times it peeked its way through when she let the mask slip. That face made me want to scoop her up and keep her in a cabin in the woods. It made me want to tear anyone who hurt her limb from limb with my bare hands. That face had my heart from the very moment we met and always would. It was just a shame I couldn’t muster the words to tell her so right away. It was a failing I was going to live to regret for a long time to come.
Chapter Three Marnie Present Day
As the elevator doors slid open, I glided into the midtown offices of Wildefire Model Management. WMM had been my agency since forever. In fact, since the beginning. I was discovered by the owner and CEO, Sandra Wilde. It may have seemed like one hundred years ago, but I still vividly remembered the day she approached me and offered me a modeling contract on the spot as I stuffed my face full of chili dog at Luna Park—not the least of reasons being because my chin had been adorned with a giant glob of chili sauce throughout the entire exchange. The pain of that realization hadn’t dulled even after all these years, despite the fact that it hadn’t gotten in the way of me going on to have a successful modeling career. If I could reverse time, I’d go back and wipe off that sauce before I started a conversation with one of the most powerful figures in fashion. Still, sauce or no, here I was all these years later, still in the game. I kind of enjoyed these contract re-signing meetings. Yes, they were a chance to do the standard “let’s air-kiss, then pretend we give a fuck about what has happened to the other person since we last did this” charade, but on the other hand, as one of her “legacy”—read: old— signings, it was always good to see Sandra. She was a colorful character, to say the least, literally—
what with her shocking pink hair and taste for blindingly bright and flamboyant clothing. Naturally, she had an effervescent personality to match, priding herself on being Wilde by name, wild by nature. I remembered feeling completely awed and overwhelmed by her that first time. She had approached me and immediately launched into a gushing spiel about my looks, and my limbs, and my hair, and my complexion, and my everything, all at one thousand decibels, and much to the amusement of passersby. That was probably why I had stood like a statue with sauce on my face. At least, that was my excuse, and I was sticking to it. It’s true that at that point I had never met anyone as “out there” as her, though once I’d started modeling, she was to become the first of many larger-than-life personalities I would find myself working for, with, or alongside. Little had I known, that in after a very short while in the industry, everything that had initially seemed so extreme, outrageous, and exciting would become old hat, expected, predictable, and even boring at times. Whenever I looked back on that time, I wished I could somehow bottle the naiveté-driven enthusiasm I’d felt. Of course, I had been deeply flattered that someone would consider me even remotely model-worthy. The irony of the fact that the very things about which I had been mercilessly teased at school, earning me the nickname “Mile-high Marnie,” —my skinny, flatchested, gangly frame, my porcelain complexion, and my “weird” Eurasian features—were now being lauded was not wasted on me. Of the thousands of people at the amusement park that day, that Sandra had seen something special in me had been a huge boost to my nonexistent selfconfidence. Twenty-twenty is most definitely a biatch. When I thought of that poor optimistic girl, clutching her chili dog and daring to hope that her luck was about to change, I just wanted to fucking cry. I remembered thinking that maybe I was finally going to be accepted, to find my tribe. Maybe I was finally going to be on the inside, instead of on the outside constantly looking in. What green-as-cabbage Mile-high Marnie didn’t realize was that as far as cliquey, bitchy, relentlessly unforgiving environments went, moving from high school to the modeling industry was like jumping out of the frying pan and into the blazing infernos of hell. I had been clueless and clutching at straws, so desperately wanting to fit in somewhere, anywhere, because the truth was, I never had. Not at home or at school. From day one at school, kids seemed to sense my vulnerability and went for the jugular every time. They were like a pack
of wolves zeroing in on the smell of fresh blood. Even before the “incident,” I had always been the outsider, the outlier, and the onlooker. It’s no surprise, really. I had basically dragged myself up, assuming the role of mother and father just as soon as I was able. I’d cooked, cleaned, kept house, and kept myself washed and clothed, but I was sure people could tell from a mile away that I wasn’t like other kids, that my home circumstances were odd, to say the least. I had done my best, but looking back with adult eyes, I suspected my best had been nowhere near good enough. My parents had only had eyes for each other, and been too wrapped up in their own sick and twisted world of obsessive love and drugs, both legal and otherwise, to parent me in any real sense of the word. Their tunnel vision excluded everything other than themselves and whatever they could snort, inject, smoke, or swallow next. Then in the end, when they had no longer wanted to exist in this world, they had gone together to whatever lies on the other side, leaving me behind without a second glance. It had been the ultimate act of betrayal. They had always wanted each other so fucking much, but although I was a product of the sick and twisted love they had shared, the light of its halo had never shone brightly enough to include me. They had needed each other more than they needed life itself, but they had never even wanted me. Nobody had ever wanted me, not in the real sense of the word. Sometimes people wanted to use me. They wanted me for what I could do for them, or what I could bring to them. They wanted me for the doors I could open, or the ways in which I could make their lives easier. People wanted me for what I had. Scrap that. They wanted what I had. Nobody wanted me for me. Except Mia and Luke. I grew up knowing I was unlikeable and unlovable. If my own parents could barely bring themselves to tolerate me, what hope did I have with the rest of the world? If the people who were supposed to love me unconditionally couldn’t see past their unhealthy fixation on each other, and on drugs, I wasn’t surprised that almost nobody else cared whether I lived or died, not speaking metaphorically. Unless I could help or was in some way hindering people, I was basically irrelevant. I was to find out that the modeling industry was the epitome of “us and them,” and I was never going to be us. Modeling just reinforced the fact that I was nothing and nobody. It was the bitchiest, most unforgiving industry of them all. Backstabbing, badmouthing, and generally hating
on other people was an everyday occurrence, an expected way of life even, and I always seemed to be on the wrong end of it all. The big difference now was that, unlike high school mean girls, fashion people were the ultimate smiling assassins. Everybody was nicer than nice to your face, all “darling, so lovely to see you, mwah, mwah,” while at the same time plunging a Samurai sword between your shoulder blades. Somehow this was almost worse. The fact that the fake gestures were such a stark contrast to the real unpleasantness hiding behind every smile seemed to amplify the low acts. Still, the one small mercy of having been treated like shit for so long both at home and at school was that I was well equipped to let much of what happened to or about me as an adult roll over me like water off a duck’s back. I gave zero fucks—less than that in fact, most of the time. I strolled over to the front desk and greeted the receptionist. Kayla? Kylie? Karly? Something like that. In the biz we had so many standard phrases to avoid highlighting the fact that we had no idea who someone was that we never needed to worry. “Hey, babe, so great to see you. How are you?” “I’m good thanks, hun. What can I do for you?” The insincerity of her inquiry was standard procedure. I really loved to hate this industry. I plastered on a fake smile. Also standard procedure. “I’m here to see the great lady herself. We have our contract renewal meeting.” More smiles. “Oh. Uh… okay, yeah.” Her gaze shifted quickly around the room, looking anywhere but at me. “Yeah. She’s expecting you. I’ll just buzz her.” The whole thing seemed needlessly awkward, but I didn’t think too much of it. “Okay, thanks, gorgeous.” I drummed my nails on the top of the reception desk to the music playing in my mind, humming along tunelessly and moving my head from side to side in time to the beat I was creating. Kayla/Kylie/Karly pressed a button on her keyboard and waited a couple of seconds. “Hi, I have Marnie Harloe here for you.” She spoke into the almost invisible microphone attached to an equally discreet headset. I hadn’t even noticed she was wearing it. Another pause. “Okay.” She nodded as though unaware that the person on the other side of the call wouldn’t be able to see the movement. She looked up at me, carefully focusing on a spot between my eyes,
rather than looking directly into them. Maybe she thought I was like Medusa. As in, if she looked into my eyes, I’d cast her to stone or something equally stupid. If only. I stifled a snicker. Sometimes the dumbest shit made me laugh. “Take a seat, lovely. She’ll be out shortly.” “Sure.” I sat and flicked through the glossy magazines that were on the coffee table. I didn’t feature in any of them, but they were a good enough distraction, regardless. Sandra appeared about fifteen minutes later, dressed in typically crazy style. Today the outfit of choice was a tracksuit made to look like a packet of ramen soup. Chicken flavor. She had topped that sartorial show-stopper with a flowing hot pink chiffon kimono the exact same shade as her crazy hair. The outfit was accessorized with a pair of gold high tops, a hot pink croc handbag, and enough jewelry to sink The Armada twice over. The weirdest thing was that anyone else in such an outfit would have looked ridiculous, yet somehow on Sandra, it just worked. Besides, having known her for so many years, I would have been disappointed were she to turn up in all black everything, like most of the rest of the fashion world, myself included. We all loved living vicariously through her crazy, but un-ironic style statements, knowing full well we’d never make the same choices ourselves. “Thanks, Kerri.” She motioned to the receptionist before turning to me. Ah, Kerri. Close, but no cigar. “There you are, my darling girl. Sooooo good to see you, as always.” She enveloped me in a smothering hug and air-kissed just to the side of my left ear. “Mwah. Mwah. How the devil are you?” Sandra really was one of the most “fashiony” of fashion people I had ever met, complete with an obnoxiously loud voice. She seemed to have two volume settings: broadcast and deafening. I smiled through the ear pain. “I’m good.” It was the truth. Kind of. “I haven’t seen you in forever. So great to catch up.” I meant it too. It was always fun to hang with her, and it had been a long while since we’d had an opportunity to do so. “Let’s go for lunch. My treat,” she offered. “Oh. Okay. Yeah, sounds great.” Great, but unusual. Alarm bells. “Perfect. We’ll go to Cincotti’s. You love that place, right?” She had a good memory. I did love it, not that I could ever recall having been there with her, but I must have mentioned it in passing at some point in the previous fifteen years. In fact, in
all those years we’d been having these meetings, this was the first time she has suggested lunch. It made a nice change, but I knew not to take out-of-character behavior at face value. If my messedup life had taught me anything, it was to be suspicious of everything and everyone, even the people you knew and trusted the most. Especially those people, in fact.
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