Chapter 16
16
I have a mere four hours before Bella Marie’s event.
The glam squad is scheduled to arrive in thirty minutes and I’m on the toilet fighting for my life. Have been for the past few hours.
Last night, I found Chloe’s diet teas growing dusty in the pantry. She’d done a few paid posts for them in the past but stopped after people complained that she was promoting eating disorders.
I brewed six packs. Yes. Six.
I know, I know, a terrible decision. I’m probably stripping my intestines of good bacteria and weakening my colon. But I’m desperate, okay? How bad can it be? It’s just laxatives.
Okay, fine.
It’s pretty fucking bad.
I’ve been on the toilet so long, I think the Toto has made permanent indentations in my butt cheeks. I’m dehydrated and sweating from the intense abdominal cramps, and my asshole is on fire. I’m pretty sure I’m about to pop a hemorrhoid. Maybe two.
But it’s all good. When I had a brief moment of reprieve, I weighed myself. Lost a staggering five pounds! It’s probably all water weight that I’ll gain back, but I can see the bloat in my stomach decreasing. And while I was waiting for the teas to take effect, I found several pairs of shapewear, size XXXS. If I layer a few pieces, figure out how to stop breathing, and whisper a few prayers, I think I might be able to fit into the dress.
Someone knocks on the door.
Must be Fiona. I flush, wash my hands, spritz ylang-ylang spray all over, and wobble out of the bathroom. Each step makes me dizzy. I haven’t consumed anything in the last twenty hours.
I open the door.
Fiona glances at me, a makeup artist and hairstylist behind her. She puckers her lips and nods. “You look skinnier. Good. I was worried because you looked horrible yesterday. Grief doesn’t wear you well.” She doesn’t mince words.
I vaguely recognize the makeup artist and hairstylist from my cyber-stalking, but I hide in my bedroom and go on Instagram to remind myself of their names. The makeup artist is Fernanda. The hairstylist is Kim.
I return to the living room and try to remember how to have a conversation while they set up, stomach roiling. Butt in the makeup chair, I listen to Fiona’s rundown of the event: who’s going to be there, who I should take photos with, who I should avoid because they are close to getting canceled or are (allegedly) grooming underage fans. All the while, Fernanda is beating me with a beauty blender and Kim is pulling on my tangles. (I may have been fisting my hair in pain while I was on the toilet earlier.)
“Oh, and make sure you introduce yourself to Isla Harris.”
“Isla Harris?”
Fiona shows me her iPad. @iloveisla, 312K followers. Her bio reads: “ Digital Creator, single mom to two powerful Black girls . Romans 3:23 .” I scroll down her feed. A few reels of makeup videos. Some edgy magazine editorials. Candid pics of her family. She’s censored her children’s faces with emojis to protect their privacy.
“What’s so special about her?”
“I was talking to some of the other assistants, and we all feel like she’s going to be the newest Belladonna.”
While on the toilet, I researched the Belladonnas. From what I could gather, Bella Marie has a habit of taking small-time influencers under her wing. Without fail, they explode in popularity after entering Bella Marie’s orbit. These influencers are referred to as the Belladonnas because some haters find the group toxic, like the plant. (Pushing capitalism, overconsumption, vanity, unrealistic body types, selling out to major corporate brands, refusing to acknowledge their privilege, general tone deafness, etc.) The term is mostly used on catty gossip forums and hasn’t caught on in the general social eco-space. I guess Fiona learned this label and started using it unironically.
Out of curiosity, I looked into when Chloe met Bella Marie.
Five years ago, Chloe had 300K on YouTube and 71K on Instagram. A year after becoming an alleged Belladonna, her following doubled. Since then, her socials have grown exponentially. Chloe had metamorphosed from a cringe YouTube try-hard to a certified A-list influencer.
“But why Isla?” I ask.
Fiona makes a duh expression. “Emmeline?”
I recognize Emmeline’s name from my googling. @em94. Eleven million on Instagram and five million on TikTok. She’s Bella Marie’s cousin, equally blond and thin, but instead of piercing blue eyes, hers are brown. Earthly instead of heavenly. Her niche is travel and fashion. She has a podcast where she complains about her luxurious life, waxing philosophical about apparent “discoveries”—conclusions that regular folks had come to in their teens. I’d describe her niche as: I’m rich and sad but also beautiful in that seemingly attainable way, so follow me, you peasants! She runs a pet account for her dog, Madeline, a white Yorkie who looks like she’d bite your ankle for sport. The dog has two hundred thousand followers.
Recently, netizens uncovered years of racist tweets where she compared minorities to animals and complained about the influx of migrants. I wouldn’t say any of them are horrifically racist—my bar is in hell—but they were very uncomfortable to read. She has since apologized in a tear-soaked video: This was eight years ago. I was only in my teens. I have changed and am still growing. I surround myself with powerful people of color every day and live to uplift them. I am sincerely sorry for any hurt I have caused. Her fans forgave her fast, probably because she’s so damn pretty when she cries. She’s young, commenters said. It was eight years ago! People change!
“You should be friendly with Isla,” Fiona says, “seeing as you two will be the only people of color in the group.”
I nod, which annoys Fernanda, who is trying to wing my eyeliner. I mouth a sorry .
While lurking the subreddit /r/chloevansnark I learned Chloe received some flak for only hanging out with white people. Chloe Van Huusen is a typical case of internalized racism, one commenter said. I don’t think I’ve seen her around a single Asian person, even though she lives in the most diverse city on the planet! Not to mention, she only dates white men. She’s begging for her body to be colonized. She probably wishes she were born a yt.
Only Chloe received these criticisms. No one complains when Bella Marie posts with her Scandinavian-featured friends. It’s like they give Chloe a harder time because she’s a minority and should be one of us . These commenters are clearly idiots. Even though she’s biologically Asian, she grew up certifiably white. The Van Huusens look like the type of family who brag about distant ancestors being on the Mayflower as a show of their ancestral hardship while lounging in garden estates paid for by their generational wealth. Given her upbringing, it’s no surprise Chloe ran around pale-faced crowds.
Still, I’m surprised Chloe’s never pushed back at these people. Fiona is a POC; isn’t that proof enough? And I’m sure she has other friends of color too. (I hope.)
I admit, it’s unhealthy crawling around a Chloe snark subreddit. But it’s impossible to resist. Every scroll and every mean post builds a tower of horrid fascination within me, each brick proving that I was right to take over Chloe’s life.
The rabbit hole sucked me in and spat me out with the wildest conspiracies. Like how the Van Huusens only adopted Chloe because they said racist shit in a press conference for their green energy company. Something about how American-made solar panels are superior to the cheap products manufactured in the east. This slipup avalanched into Chinese investors pulling out of their projects. Considering how much capital China pours into renewable energy, they realized their fuckup fast. Regardless of their sociopolitical beliefs, anyone capitulates when enough dollar bills are ripped from their hands. As a result, they adopted a Chinese kid to prove they weren’t actually racist. Wild, I know. It must be complete fiction, parasocial freaks making up degrading stories.
Then again, from what I’ve observed, it doesn’t seem like Chloe had the best relationship with her adoptive parents. Their last text was in August, half a year ago, confirming attendance for dinner. And any messages before that were stilted and oddly formal. Since then, there’s been a long stretch of no contact. They didn’t reach out after my breakdown went viral either.
There was a press release stating the Van Huusens had retired a year ago. Maybe they’re on vacation, lounging in Thailand with limited Wi-Fi.
Either way, it’s better if their relationship is cold. If anyone were to find out I’m not Chloe, it would be the couple who raised her.
There’s another thing I read and want to ask Fiona about.
Some believe that Bella Marie takes the Belladonnas on an annual trip in June. They go to some private island for a week, bankrolled by Miss Melniburg herself.
Except, here’s the interesting part: while you’d expect these attention-hungry influencers to post every hour about the luxurious trip, the Belladonnas always keep it under wraps. Followers only caught on during the first year of Instagram Stories because influencers who’d live-post about their day went radio silent for a week. Upon deeper analysis, followers noticed that many of their static feed posts or videos were prescheduled. Then, a week after their silence, they returned to their selfies with a freshly bronzed glow, like they’d been relaxing on a beach, soaking up tropical sun.
Normally, I’d chalk this up to your typical internet conspiracy. But I noticed a week in June was blocked on Chloe’s calendar for the last five years. Same this year.
“My brain is totally fried. Can you remind me about the trip in June?”
“The trip in June?”
I nod. “Where are we going this year? It’s only a few months away.”
She narrows her eyes. “Is this a test?”
“A test?”
Fiona frowns. “Last time I asked about the trip you ripped me a new one and told me to never bring it up again or you’d, like, literally kill me.”
That’s weird. I thought Fiona would know everything about Chloe’s life. This only increases my curiosity.
“You passed!” I say, inhaling a breath of banana-scented setting powder, trying not to sound suspicious. “Congratulations.”
Fiona rolls her eyes. “Julie seriously fucked you up.”