Chapter 3
She has nothing to wear.
Of course, it’s an exaggeration. Ramona has too much to wear, designer samples and custom couture and beautiful dresses with bad memories.
It’s like trying to find something to watch with the entire history of film and television at her fingertips, so she spends the whole night scrolling before dozing off ten minutes into The Holiday.
Before Jude Law shows up, which frankly isn’t even worth it.
The truth is that Ramona doesn’t know how to dress for her first day of classes without attracting attention.
She isn’t so out of touch that she’s unaware of what’s fashionable, but she’s going to be at least five years older than anyone else and doesn’t want to look like she’s trying too hard.
Doesn’t want to stand out any more than she already will.
A terrifying thought occurs to her. Her future classmates—they wouldn’t ask for selfies on the first day, would they? They’ve got to have more tact than that.
From Ramona’s bed, Janet lets out a distressed purr, as though the sight of Ramona at her walk-in closet is deeply foreign to her after all these months of hibernation.
She adopted the orange tabby after an assistant’s cat had an unexpected litter of kittens, and she loves her more than anything in the world.
“I know, baby girl,” Ramona says, bending to scratch her underneath the chin. “I’m going to miss you too.”
She decides on a jersey midi dress that’s tighter around her hips than it used to be and a faux leather jacket cropped at the waist. Black to blend in. Polished, but not overly so. For makeup, she goes with liquid eyeliner and tinted lip balm. A dab of coral blush on her cheeks.
Then there is the problem of her hair.
Her entire career, her long dark hair has been her trademark, thick and wild and apparently indestructible, given how many stylists have yanked and teased it over the years.
The upkeep is hell, but she loves the ritual of caring for it.
Even on tour when her mental health was at its worst, there was something soothing about coming back to a hotel room to wash her hair.
After her announcement, she considered chopping it all off as an assertion of freedom.
But then she imagined the headlines, because surely the paparazzi would find a way to twist that act of independence into something sinister.
Ramona Wilder Loses Ten Inches of Hair and Her Grip on Reality.
And with all the changes in her life, she didn’t know if she’d still feel like her without her hair.
There she goes again, obsessing over her appearance. Vowing to be less self-absorbed, she scrunches curl cream through her waves and calls it good.
Janet follows her downstairs. The only sound in this eerie cavern of a house is the gardener trimming the hedges, and then Ramona’s espresso machine.
When she bought this place five years ago—a homeowner at age twenty-one—she was too busy to pick out what she wanted to put in it, so she just said yes to all her interior decorator’s ideas.
As a result, the house has this earthy, mid-century modern feel that Angelenos seem to love but isn’t really her style.
Exposed ceiling beams, round-edged furniture, a billion shades of tan.
The decorator wanted some flashes of punk: a studded leather couch that’s not even comfortable to sit on, a reclaimed-wood coffee table in the shape of a Fender Stratocaster.
She barely uses that living room, too embarrassed by how hard it’s trying.
It looks exactly like the kind of house someone would design for Ramona Wilder—without having the faintest idea who Ramona Wilder really is.
At least there’s enough space for all her guitars and memorabilia to be locked away in their own room, blessedly out of sight.
It occurs to her that maybe enrolling in college is just a drastic way to escape her house.
Her phone blinks with a message from Betty as she’s scraping peanut butter onto a slice of toast.
Good luck today, lovebug!
She hearts it immediately, then sends back a photo of Janet loafing on top of her new UCLA sweatshirt.
DeeAnn warned her about getting too close to any of her industry peers, and maybe her mother was right—because after Ramona retired, every acquaintance shrank away like she was contagious. They were more colleagues than friends, and now that they no longer work together, well…
She’s just really, endlessly grateful for Betty.
Ramona polishes off her toast and grabs her baseball cap for one final attempt at anonymity. And with a kiss for Janet and a few taps on her phone to engage the security system, she’s off to begin her new life.
—
If she can’t find a parking spot in the next two minutes, she might have to burn the entire school to the ground.
This is the third lot she’s tried. The university gave her a parking permit with access to any of the lots on campus, and though she didn’t ask, she has a feeling most students don’t get the same privilege.
She goes up and down each row, mentally cursing out each one of her enemies.
None of them have anything on whoever designed this parking lot.
And there, fucking finally, a spot that looks just her size next to an ancient Toyota Prius that’s the same color as the gunk that builds up in her shower drain when the cleaners haven’t shown up in a while.
Ramona swerves her Range Rover—and she must misjudge the distance, because there’s a harsh scrape of metal on metal as she pulls in. Shit.
“You have got to be kidding me,” she mutters. Right after she got her car back from the shop. She takes a moment to readjust, then eases herself into the spot without hitting the other car this time.
When she gets out to inspect the damage, she sucks in a lungful of air. The Prius got the worst of it, a long crooked line dragged through the copperish, silverish paint. She really can’t tell what color it’s supposed to be.
For a moment, she considers finding another spot. Pretending none of this ever happened. The car’s beat-up, anyway—what are the odds the owner will notice?
Yeah, no. She’s not that much of a dick, so she gets back in her car and goes to work searching for a piece of paper to write her number on. An apology note so the owner can contact her. She recalls DeeAnn doing the same thing when they hit a parked car on the way to an audition once.
Except—is there really no paper in here?
No stray receipts from Starbucks or Del Taco?
The dealership must have cleaned it all out when she brought it in for its scheduled maintenance.
She digs through each compartment. Upends her purse.
Evidently she didn’t think a paper notebook would be useful on her first day of school.
Once again, she weighs her options. Imagines this stranger coming back and leaving her a note, because of course they’d have paper in their car.
They might be reasonable—or, once they realize who she is, might milk this for far more than it’s worth.
Is that a thing? She has no idea, but she doesn’t want to take the risk.
So. She’s an asshole after all, she supposes, grimacing as she backs the Range Rover out of the spot and starts hunting again. Karma, strike her down. If the Prius is still there after class, she’ll come back and write the most apologetic note in the history of car accidents.
She’s late getting to the main office for some paperwork and her student ID.
Grateful when the registrar doesn’t blink twice at her name.
Psychology is up first, and then marine biology an hour later, because she’s mystified by most people and loves most animals, and it might be nice to learn why.
Then Philosophy 101 on Tuesdays and Thursdays, just to really round out her desire to understand what the fuck is going on around her.
Obviously people do this, trade in their celebrity for a normal life.
An actor who played the love interest on one of her favorite TV shows retired and became a lawyer.
A musician she once played a festival with is now an EMT.
Maybe none of them were household names, but the transition still couldn’t have been an entirely smooth one.
And plenty of famous people take breaks and go to college.
Maybe the parking lot debacle rattled her, but she isn’t unique, she tells herself.
This is what she wanted—to be a normal fucking person.
Normal fucking people do not awkwardly loiter inside the bathroom of the psychology building, waiting for their first class to start, and yet here she is.
“Pull it together,” she urges herself. “These are college students. Not critics or label execs.”
The moment she opens the classroom door, the low chatter and rustling of backpacks turn to frantic whispers before dropping to a hushed, agonizing silence.
Even with the baseball cap, every part of her suddenly feels like it’s on neon-bright display, these strangers’ scrutiny a living, breathing thing.
Or maybe that’s just the sound of her own lungs, struggling to keep her body from shutting down.
She’s played in front of thousands of screaming fans, but these twenty-five people are about to level her.
Before she can overthink it, she grabs an empty seat in the second row, next to a dark-skinned girl with box braids and a cute cardigan vest. Exhaling, Ramona slides her bag to the floor and takes off her cap. Smooths her hair.
Slowly, the chatter starts back up, and she tries to pretend most of it isn’t about her.
“I really like your music,” the girl next to her says softly, without even turning her head.
“Oh—thank you. I like your vest.”
The girl gives her a bashful smile. “We’re lucky we got into this class. The professor is supposed to be amazing.”
And that’s it. No drama, no fanfare. She can totally do this. Ramona lets her shoulders relax as she shifts back and forth in the too-hard seat, trying to get comfortable. This classroom could use a few upgrades.