Chapter 20
20
Ripping off the Slate Stan dress feels like unclasping a million bras from my body. I can finally breathe!
After my shower, I plop into bed, and immediately pick up my phone.
I upload the photos Fiona edited to my Instagram. I thought she’d touch up my makeup, but she slimmed my body three sizes and gave me a nose job. Rude. But whatever. I tag Slate Stan and paste the description Fiona made for me. The second it uploads, likes pour in. Though I’ve experienced a similar brigade of dopamine hits with Julie’s death post, it’s even better when the likes are about my appearance. I spend some time interacting with commenters and delete spammy messages about cryptocurrency.
Iz comments on my post: U inspire me.
Grinning, I DM her right away.
It was so nice meeting you at the event tonight!
I sit in the chat room for a while, but she hasn’t seen the message, so I move on to my next task: a deep dive into the women I didn’t recognize at Bella Marie’s table.
Social media makes stalking easy.
Snow White is Ana Klein. @analuvsu. Four million on Instagram, eight million on TikTok. She’s hot. That’s it. That’s her content. She’s just fucking hot. Giant tits, soulful eyes, plump lips, nice ass. She posts off-rhythm dance videos on TikTok and gets millions of views because her boobs bounce. I can understand the appeal. Sometimes she writes poetry. Here’s her magnum opus:
When I’m with you
my emotions
emote
like emojis.
It takes keen talent to write something less profound than the back of a shampoo bottle.
Smoky Eye is Maya Smith. @mayasmakeup . Five million followers on Instagram, twenty-eight million on TikTok. She’s one of those new-age influencers who exclusively posts short-form content. Her feed is cluttered with makeup tutorials where she slathers half a bottle of foundation onto her face as a base. She’s teasing a makeup line, One Drop, where only one drop of foundation is needed. Pretty genius, all things considered. Recently, she denied plastic surgery allegations on a podcast by claiming her nose naturally shrank due to Accutane.
Sophia Chambers is the blond woman who spoke to me before I left. @sophchambers. Three million on Instagram, five million on TikTok, one million on YouTube. She was a Team USA volleyball athlete until she broke her arm in a freak accident a week before the 2016 Summer Olympics. Now she’s a full-time fitness influencer moonlighting as a SoulCycle instructor for fun. Her ventures include a fitness app and a clothing collab with a popular sports bra company. Most of her posts are things like, It’s a great day to have a great day . Or Remember to be happy! Or When you are feeling sad, think positive thoughts. Her followers eat it up. I think depression is scared of her.
In addition to Angelique, Emmeline, Lily, Kelly, Iz, Bella Marie, and me, these three women make up what I presume to be the Belladonnas.
This assumption is confirmed when I discover Chloe had muted and archived all their DMs. But she didn’t just mute them on Instagram—she muted them across all social platforms and iMessage. I find the Instagram group chat nicknamed Hot Girls Only and read the latest messages.
Maya: I can suggest an amazing therapist, she’s done heaven’s work for my grief.
Angelique: We’re always here for you.
Sophia: Think of all the positive memories you have of Julie.
Lily: You’re in my thoughts.
Emmeline: I’m sorry for your loss.
Kelly: We are family.
Ana even penned me a poem:
Death.
Everyone will face it
At some point in
Time.
Hope you feel better.
Well. It’s the thought that counts.
The most recent message is from Bella Marie herself: We’ve all experienced significant loss. You know where to find us when you are ready. Xoxo.
My lips spread into a smile and my chest warms. Older messages are mostly the girls sending support to one another, asking for advice in negotiations for brand deals, pooling connections for potential partnerships, questions about which photos to place on the cover of carousels, etc.
I don’t understand why Chloe muted them when they’ve only been supportive. So what if they seem a little superficial at times? They’re influencers, what can you expect? They live busy lives, have photos to post, brand deals to negotiate, companies to build. Yet they still took the time out of their crowded schedules to send supportive messages. If I had friends like them while I was Julie—a social safety net, a community, people who cared and followed up with me— everything could have been different.
I take the chat out of my archives and unmute every Belladonna. By the time I’ve replied to each of them in earnest, I’m drained, but my heart is abuzz. I’m enamored with this new world I’ve claimed for myself. All these new, genuine connections.
I glance at the time. Two fifteen a.m. I want to stay up and absorb this moment for longer, but I’m crushed with fatigue. Five hours of pretending to be Chloe is not easy. Thankfully, it went off without a hitch. I think I’m getting the hang of this.
After dimming the lights and turning my phone to do not disturb, I sink into the memory foam and try to rest.
But without the bright LED screen shining in my eye, the constant ping of notifications, the silent darkness becomes a confrontation, and every sense that I dulled with my distracted scrolling suddenly sharpens. A swollen unease burgeons in my stomach as Chloe’s fragrant apricot shampoo infiltrates my nose like she’s in bed next to me. I shift, trying to find comfort.
Something sharp pricks my thigh. I flinch, turn on the light, and examine my leg. A long, black hair has pierced my skin like a splinter. It looks like mine yet I’m sure of it.
It’s Chloe’s.
Only her hair would try to skewer me in my sleep. Heart racing, I pull it out and rush to the bathroom, flushing the hair down the toilet like it’s a bug that could come back and bite me, watching, breathless, until I’m sure it’s been swallowed by the swirling water.
Stripping the bed, I toss everything into a giant black trash bag. I consider using the other set of sheets I spotted in the linen closet, but I’m uneasy. What if there are little remnants of Chloe in there too? Instead, I lay a towel on the bare mattress and rest on top of it. I’m scrunching my eyes hard, willing sleep to arrive so I can escape the disquiet thumping in my brain, when my phone rings.
Didn’t I silence it? I grab the device and squint at the screen. Nothing pops up.
The phone is still ringing.
I smack it like a broken remote. The screen shows nothing.
Then I realize it.
The sound is coming from somewhere else.
It’s not Chloe’s phone that’s ringing.
It’s my phone.