18. Noa
NOA
“This area, at this hour…” I shake my head. “I avoid it like the plague.”
She laughs. “But isn’t there something so magical about Timothée Chalamet leering down at you from the world’s biggest movie poster while an impassioned wannabe-priest audibly assaults you via megaphone about finding Jesus?”
“You do make a compelling case,” I laugh. “I’ll have to–”
Aarti’s phone buzzes loudly in the console between us. She checks the number and answers.
“Hey, just getting off set, what’s–”
Her eyes go wide with alarm.
“I’ll be right there.” She hangs up the phone. “Fuck.”
Aarti looks over her right shoulder and does some Hollywood traffic voodoo, cutting her way into the far right lane.
“What’s going on?” I twist around to glance at the driver of the pass van trailing us back to CBT.
“Diti,” she says, making a hurried turn toward East Hollywood. “My sister.”
She looks at me as if she’s just remembered I’m there, then to this busiest corner of Hollywood, like she’s finding somewhere, anywhere to dump me.
“DO YOU HEATHENS HAVE ROOM FOR THE LOVE OF JESUS IN YOUR HEARTS?” the megaphone man shouts at us.
“Not tonight, buddy,” Aarti says, zipping us around the corner, nearly running him over.
We pull up to a familiar Silver Lake strip, a long line of extremely cool, extremely pierced patrons lined up in front of a cement facade.
Aarti slams on the brakes, hardly putting the car in park before leaping over the door to storm the bar.
All eyes are on her as she races to the front and demands entrance.
Hipsters in line mutter amongst themselves–something about C-list celebrities –and sneak glances at me in the car.
I can feel the heat of their gaze and shrink down into the convertible that now feels like a fishbowl.
Aarti must’ve made it in as I feel everyone in the line move on from their stares.
I hope that was my fifteen minutes. As I scooch up in my seat, I see two young women several paces away from the line.
One is doing what appears to be an interpretive dance as she attempts to waltz into traffic while the other, a tall blonde, frantically grabs her arm.
“Please just stop for a second!” the blonde pleads.
The dancing woman spins around dramatically. “I am a DOCTOR! Well, like, twenty percent. I diagnose you with being a buzzkill!” She points an accusatory finger, nearly poking her friend in the eye.
Without thinking, I stand and call out, “Diti?”
Both women turn toward me. The dancer waves and nearly collapses. I bolt out of the car and approach them.
“Who are you?” the blonde asks cagily.
“I’m Aarti’s… friend. Noa. This is Diti?” I ask, but I don’t need to. The precariously balanced girl is the spitting image of Aarti, but with a fuller, angelic face.
“NOA!” Diti shouts and tries to give me a high five but claps a passing stranger on the shoulder instead.
“I don’t know what happened,” Steph says, voice cracking. “She said she pregamed but she seemed fine before we got here.” Tears well in her eyes. “I’m trying to be a friggin’ doctor and I don’t know what to do!”
“Home is where the heart is, and my heart is at the BAR!” Diti protests. “I haven’t even shown them my signature dance move! It’s called ‘The Appenendo–nope–appdec–appendectomy!’”
Aarti darts out of the building and clocks us each holding onto one of Diti’s elbows as she attempts to wriggle free.
“Where did you find them? Steph, what the hell is going on?”
The blonde looks at Aarti and the dam of tears breaks. I don’t blame her–Aarti scares the shit out of me, too. “She won’t listen to me. She kept trying to diagnose the bouncer with ‘acute grumpiness’ until he threatened to call the police. I didn’t know what else to do except call you.”
“AARTI!” Diti yells, even though she’s inches away from her sister’s face. “I’m being KIDNAPPED by responsible people! This is DISCRIMINATION against fun doctors!”
Aarti fixes her sister with a true death glare capable of penetrating even the thickest of tequila goggles.
“Get. In. The car. NOW.” She spits each word through clenched teeth.
Diti balks but simultaneously relaxes from trying to wriggle out of our grasp as we steer her into the backseat of the convertible.
Aarti climbs in beside her sister, who immediately slumps against her and mutters, “Don’t tell Maa I failed the fun test.”
I hop into the driver’s seat without hesitation.
“You drive stick?” Aarti asks. I can feel the worry emanating from her.
“I drive stick.” I give her a reassuring smile in the rearview.
Aarti gives me the address to her condo miles away, but Diti’s begun oscillating between catcalling passersby and clapping her hand over her mouth, gagging.
I make an executive decision and yank the wheel toward my brother’s backhouse just three blocks from where we are.
I’ve barely thrown the picture car in park before Diti tumbles out and christens Aiden’s lawn with vomit, narrowly sparing the convertible’s interior.
“Where are we?” Aarti asks, rushing to Diti’s side on the grass to hold her hair back.
“My brother’s place is back here,” I tell her. “Maybe we take a beat and clean her up in his bathroom?”
“Is he home?”
I shake my head and relief etches her face.
She checks her phone with her free hand. “Only eighty-three texts and twenty-seven missed calls from Madge, cool.” She taps away. “I dropped a PIN, production can come pick up the car.”
I help Aarti hoist Diti around my shoulder so she’s mounted over both of us. She’s a tiny thing, but she’s gone from dancing queen to a pile of deadweight.
“I can walk!” Diti protests while her feet drag. “I have LEGS! Two of them! That’s the normal amount!”
“Steph, I’ll call you a ride home. And don’t even think about texting our parents.” Aarti attempts to shoot Steph a glare over Diti’s head.
“Yeah, of course not,” Steph says from where she’s still seated in the backseat, giving Aarti a petrified half-thumbs-up, half-salute.
I manage to pull out my keys and open the door. Aarti and I make our way through the slight frame, counting to three to heave Diti over the threshold.
We plop her upright onto Aiden’s velvet couch and I can hear him in my mind. I am fully in support of you caring for a sick girl but Noa that is SALVAGED MILO BAUGHMAN.
“Spinny spinspin,” Diti mumbles, flopping face-first into the cushions. Aarti heaves her back up.
“I’ll get the shower going for her. Aiden’s got the best robes,” I tell Aarti. “You can call Steph’s ride?”
Aarti nods, not taking her eyes off Diti.
An hour later, Steph is gone and a stick-proficient PA has picked up the convertible. Aarti and I have managed to wrangle Diti into a shower that finally pushes her over the edge from belligerent to catatonic, and tuck her in.
We collapse on the floor of Aiden’s living room, completely worn out.
“Do you need anything?” I ask from my splayed position on the wooden floorboards.
Aarti lets out a soft laugh. “No. Thank you.”
We lie there in silence for a moment. The adrenaline from the evening is finally wearing off, leaving me feeling oddly floaty.
“I know we had a major detour at the end there,” I venture, “but do you think the shoot went okay? Be honest.”
I don’t know what it is about Aarti Nair that keeps making me lay myself vulnerable in front of her intimidating brashness, but I do. Maybe it’s like how dogs roll over in front of bigger dogs–some primal instinct to show I’m not a threat.
“I think it went well,” Aarti says, rolling up onto her elbows to look at me. “Surprisingly well, actually.”
“Yeah?” I prop myself up on my elbows too, mirroring her position. “Even though I’d never heard half the songs that were formative to young Aarti?”
Her smile crinkles her eyes. “Part of your charm.”
“Oh, good.” I’m glad the lights are dim so she can’t see me flush.
“What’s the story there, though?” she asks. “Growing up with no TV, ten CDs at your local library. Fundie kid? Raised in a fallout shelter?”
I grab a merman stuffed animal off the couch and toss it at her.
She blocks it with her elbow. “I’m just asking! I’m a renowned interviewer, you should be honored.”
“Nothing that extreme,” I laugh. “My mom died when my brother Aiden and I were two, and my dad didn’t entirely know what to do with us.
It was the ’90s, there was lots of boogeymanning about letting TV raise your kids, so he just kinda veered to the extreme as a parent and told us we had three options to occupy our time: go outside, read a book, or make art. ”
Aarti’s eyes dance around Aiden’s menagerie of out-there sculptures and paintings. “I think I can guess what your brother chose to do.” She looks at me. “What about you?”
“The great outdoors. My first love was running.”
Her mouth quirks. “Ah. It’s all coming together. You did sprint like a pro after that Gretchen meeting.”
I duck my forehead to the floor in embarrassment, but pop back up when I hear Aarti scooting toward me.
“Hey! Truly impressed by your athleticism. I may have long limbs but they’re better for tripping over myself to get laughs than taking majestic strides.”
“For the record, I’ve never seen anyone crawl out of a window, or a dumpster for that matter, with such grace. That takes skills .” Maybe I shouldn’t be bringing it up again, but when she rolls her eyes at me, it’s fond rather than annoyed.
“I have to say, your particular skill set came in pretty clutch tonight.”
“My skill set of… having a brother with a nearby backhouse?”
“No,” she says, and her voice goes quieter, more serious. “Your skill set of staying calm in a crisis. I pride myself on keeping a level head, but when it comes to my sister…”
She trails off. Her playful energy from moments ago shifts.
“Thank you,” she says hesitantly. “For not asking questions or judging the situation too harshly or–”
“Aarti,” I interrupt. “You don’t have to thank me.”
“I do.” She sits back on her heels, facing me fully now. “I know I probably haven’t made your life any easier since, I dunno, the moment we met?”
She’s looking anywhere but at me. I wait until her eyes finally snag on mine, not in some show of dominance, but because I really, really want her to know I’m being genuine when I say: “You haven’t made my life easier, but you’ve already made it better.
I’ve been doing things on autopilot for a while.
I’m totally freaked out about being on television and screwing all of this up for you and Gretchen hanging my severed head from a flagpole in front of CBT Studios, but…
I’m happy to be here. I promise not to sprint away again. ”
I’m so intent on holding her gaze that I don’t even bother to brush off the wayward ringlet that escapes my bun. Her brow furrows, and at first I think it’s something I said, until she reaches out and tucks the curl behind my ear.
The brush of her fingers sends electricity through me. My pulse quickens. We’re so close now I can see the exhaustion around her eyes, mixed with something new.
“Dr. Noa Hart saved the day,” she says softly, her hand lingering by my cheek.
I catch the dart of her tongue grazing her lips, and my breath hitches audibly enough for her to hear. The volume of the rest of the world is suddenly muted as Aarti leans in ever-so-slowly, giving me every chance to pull away, but I don’t.
I feel the warmth of her breath commingling with mine. I part my lips.
And then the front door opens.