Chapter 39
39
We each get a bungalow.
Yes. Each.
Ten whole bungalows for ten Belladonnas. I have trouble grasping the magnitude of Bella Marie’s wealth. And to think there are families out there even wealthier than hers.
The wooden bungalows run in a row along the shore, like an isolated street, each with its own little garden brimming with tropical plants and a wooden fence for privacy. A crooked mango tree shades my thatched roof, its branches old and gnarly as they reach toward the ground, almost begging in their shape. There’s a small window overlooking the front porch. The blinds are pulled shut. Sand scuffs the cobblestone pavement leading up to the entrance, which is accented by a wooden plank that reads: Chloe.
There’s a padlock on the outside of the door, but no lock on the inside. I guess it’s because no one is going around stealing stuff on a private island. The lock on the outside is probably there to barricade against storms or wild animals.
The bungalow’s interior is glorious. Tall ceilings, light brown wood flooring, rattan chairs and sofas, intricate, handwoven rugs, and a king-sized bed with plush white sheets and gigantic sleep-inducing pillows. The bedposts have some wear and tear, as if something was tied around them, sanding down the veneer, but otherwise, they look brand new. Slatted french doors lead to a small patio facing the ocean. The bathroom stone tiles are rugged beneath my feet. A long, well-lit mirror sits above a sink that’s simply a large rock with its insides scooped out. The freestanding bathtub and shower are outside, surrounded by a bamboo fence and a twisting bush to shield from unsuspecting eyes.
We have two hours until lunch. Bella Marie said we’re free to get acquainted with the island— your home— during this time: walk around, explore, tan, and socialize with the locals—er, staff.
But there’s only one thing I’m yearning for.
I find my luggage stowed in the closet. I dig through my shoes, shirts, SLEEPY BEARS container, and pull out my laptop. Cracking it open, I click on the top bar for Wi-Fi.
No network available.
I stare at it for a while, hoping it might change. It doesn’t.
Groaning, I clap my laptop shut and throw myself down onto a rattan chair. How could Bella Marie do this to a group of influencers who depend on their little apps for their careers? Technology is crucial to my existence. I’m not even sure if I have an identity outside of the internet. She’s stripping away my livelihood!
Is this what it feels like to be an addict? If so, I think I might be addicted to the refreshing animation on Instagram. The sound of notifications. The sight of views going up. The support of my Chloe Crew. The rush of compliments and praise at my fingertips. I’m itching for it—the fix of social media. Without it, I’m empty, a void. An iPad kid without her iPad.
To distract myself, I spend some time putting away my clothes, arranging my skincare and makeup by the sink, showering off the fumes from the plane, and changing into a billowy linen sundress. After I blow-dry my hair, I reach for my phone, anticipating word from my aunt. She’s conditioned me to expect her pernicious messages at random times of day, and the absence of her texts is unsettling. I hadn’t told her about this trip because I couldn’t give her an opportunity to ruin it. But that also means she doesn’t know I’m gone. What if she sent me a message and I hadn’t received it? What if she’s demanding more money, right now ? What if she interprets this week of silence as the cold shoulder? That I’m not going to make good on my end of the bargain? What if she leaks the tapes with my confession?
I smack myself in the head, annoyed that I hadn’t planned for this before hopping on the plane. I had been too excited, too optimistic. A group trip—what could go wrong? But I’m continually forgetting that I’m not just a regular influencer. I’m a fraud.
Desperation clogs my chest as I sprint outside with my device stretched toward the sky. I go so far out, the warm ocean licks my ankles. “Just one bar. God, please, I’ll do anything. Just give me the smallest bit of signal.”
Nothing.
I would have screamed if there weren’t a line of bungalows housing Belladonnas behind me. Then I hear the sound of someone’s feet kicking at sand. I spin around and see Iz. She’s reaching her phone toward the clouds too, a lit cigarette in her other hand.
She catches my eyes. We freeze in our ridiculous poses, devices outstretched like we’re imitating the Statue of Liberty, and burst into laughter.
“We look insane right now,” Iz shouts, heading toward me.
I meet her halfway. “We’re on this beautiful island and all we want to do is go on our phones. We’re awful.”
“It’s only been a few hours and I feel myself going crazy. And it’s going to be like this for a week. A whole week!” She throws her arms into the air, ash scattering onto the beach. “How did you do it all these years?”
I bite my lip, thinking of Chloe. Was she also this addicted to her phone? “You get used to it after a while.” And at least she didn’t have a parasitic aunt on her tail.
We fall into a bout of defeated silence, staring at our dark screens.
“Hey,” Iz says, her head rising with a grin, “we can’t post about our trip, but it doesn’t mean we can’t take pics to commemorate. We should make the best out of our time here.”
Her buoyant smile chases away the dread in my chest. She’s right. Even though I can’t get in touch with my aunt, I shouldn’t spend this entire week moping about it. My foul mood will bleed out and infect everyone. I’ll deal with my aunt when I must. For now, I need to stay positive.
“Let’s do it.”
Iz stubs out her cigarette and we doll ourselves up in her bungalow.
I’m curling my lashes when Iz sighs. “How crazy is it that her family owns this entire island?”
“I can hardly imagine that type of wealth.”
“All from a damn pocket watch. What did Nikolai do? Suck God’s dick?”
I laugh.
“And those family portraits,” she continues. “They are just… maybe this is mean to say, but the whole time I kept thinking about how her family definitely owned people. Like, owned them.”
“Oh, one hundred percent. Her dad probably called Asians ‘Orientals.’ There are at least ten war criminals represented in those portraits. Blood money shit.” I apply a thick coat of mascara to my lashes, pausing mid-sentence to focus. When I’m satisfied, I continue, “But honestly, I’d trade my life for Bella Marie’s in a heartbeat.”
She laughs. “It makes sense how Bella Marie got to her level. She literally has the world at her fingertips. A quintessential nepo kid.”
“I guess.” But I feel like Iz is discounting Bella Marie. Sure, she has her privileges, but she still worked hard to get where she is.
Iz drops her voice low. “I mean—god, I feel terrible for saying this when she literally invited us onto her island—but frankly, doesn’t it just make you a bit sick? Seeing all they have? And not just Bella Marie, the other girls too. Like, they’re so unaware of their place in the world, so blasé about their privilege. And some of the things they say…” She shakes her head. I wonder if she’s thinking about Emmeline’s tweets. “I don’t know. Maybe I’m just jealous, but it almost makes me angry . Sometimes, I feel like I’m holding myself back from checking them every time they say something off-base. And the only reason I stop myself is because I’m sure they get catty when things don’t go their way—because things always go their way. They can’t live in a world where people say no to them. Like on the plane with the pills. That shit was fucked .”
I see what Iz is saying, but how many other rich people would let women like us into their lives? And it’s not like Bella Marie asked to be born that way. Hell, if I was her, I wouldn’t be half as compassionate.
“I get that,” I say, not trying to argue. “Hopefully things go smoothly for the rest of the trip. If anything, this is your time to LARP as a rich white person. When else will you get the chance?”
Iz doesn’t laugh at my attempt at a joke. Maybe it wasn’t funny.
I clear my throat. “I’m just saying there’s nothing to lose from being on their side. Once you’re in with Bella Marie, you’ll be at the top of the world. Think of everything her connections will bring. Take it from me: this is your chance to break into the industry, to get sponsorships that will pay for your children’s tuition and then some. A weeklong beach vacation is hardly a sacrifice, even if they get on your nerves a little.”
“I guess.” Iz fingers her curls. “I’m just scared I’m going to accidentally upset one of them.” She presses her mouth into a line, observing me in the mirror. “How do you keep your mouth shut? You have so much self-control.”
It helps when you’re hiding almost every aspect about yourself. “It’s all worth it in the end. Trust me. I’m on your side.”
This makes Iz smile. She leans in and nestles her head on my shoulder. “I’m so glad you’re here.”
We head out in our best fits and take photos of us running through the water, posing by the sand, swinging on the hanging daybeds. We change into bikinis and smear our butts with tasteful amounts of sand. I feel like a Sports Illustrated photographer as I take gorgeous photos of Iz, her skin shining. I’m in all different poses to get the right angle. Squatting, stomach in the sand, crouching in the bushes, knee deep in water. Iz does the same for me. She keeps shouting compliments as I pose: “Gorgeous! Stunning! Yaaas leg! Look at that booty! Abs for days! Slaaaaaay!” Both of us give our best efforts, even though no one will see the photos—perhaps it’s more fun since I know no one will see the photos. I don’t have to struggle for the perfect pose or angle. Curate my image. Suck in my tummy. I don’t even have to strain for a smile since I’m genuinely having fun.
Time flies by, and I’m already feeling the relief of no internet access. Maybe time away from social media is exactly what I need.