The Wig, the Bitch & the Meltdown Page 2

  “It’s somebody’s name.”

  “Joe’s Shanghai?”

  “That’s it! Crab dumplings. Get seven orders.”

  “Seven?”

  “I’m starving! Oh, and order the delivery under the name Crystal Lite. My doormen know what to do.”

  After adding the new delivery address to his profile, Pablo processed the order with his Apple Pay. “All done.”

  An hour later, they’d devoured three platters of dumplings and were staring down the last one when Keisha shook her chopsticks at Pablo and said, “I think we were meant to meet.”

  “I was just thinking the same thing.”

  “It’s like serendipity. And don’t think I dunno what you did for me tonight.” She stared down the plate. “So, what’s your story? How did you end up my knight in shining armor?”

  “Well, you know, Midwest boys love to rescue damsels in distress.”

  “Midwest to Manhattan? Come on, tell Mama.”

  He smiled shyly. Was Keisha Kash really interested in lowly Pablo Michaels? “Well, I studied photography and marketing at Parsons, and my senior project was to produce the entire concept for the fashion class’s runway spectacle.”

  Keisha twizzled her chopsticks. “Short version.”

  He was boring her. “Anyway, Fern Mallis herself was in the audience,” he blurted.

  “Wow.”

  Fern Mallis was none other than the woman who had created 7th on Sixth Productions—or New York Fashion Week, as it was now known.

  “Fast forward, Fern recruited me. I became her assistant and then she recommended me to Michael Kors. And here we are.” He popped a cold dumpling into his mouth. “Ta-dah.”

  Keisha squealed with delight. “I love rags-to-riches stories! This calls for ice cream and more champagne.” She pointed to the double door Sub-Zero refrigerator.

  Pablo got up and opened the unit’s doors. Her fridge was bigger than the bathroom in his apartment. Hell, it was bigger than his bedroom. And there was room enough to sleep in it. There was nothing but champagne and leftovers on one side, and quarts of ice cream on the other.

  “My KonMari consultant organized it by flavor.” She was now behind him, peeking over his shoulders.

  Pablo couldn’t believe Keisha had a certified tidying specialist organizing her frozen treats. It was a rainbow of flavors: coconut, blue moon, green tea, mint, limoncello, tangerine, raspberry, red bean, cookie dough, chocolate, caramel, latte, coffee…Pablo had never seen so much ice cream in one person’s freezer.

  “What’s your poison?” She giggled like a little girl, pulling out a tub of Häagen-Dazs Dulce de Leche, and headed back to the sofa.

  “That looks good to me.” He followed, champagne in hand.

  She sat the tub between them, stabbing it with two spoons, as he popped the champagne cork and poured.

  Scoring the top of the ice cream until she had a mound on her spoon, she began to lick it like an icicle pop. “I’ve been feeling really low, ever since Veronika’s Privates made a big deal about bringing me in to model plus sizes,” she confided. “And then when Kors started in on me tonight, I just wanted to die. You have no idea how hard it is to be me.”

  Pablo nodded empathetically.

  “When you came along and told those skinny bitches off…” She bit into her ice cream. “You made me feel so much better about myself.”

  “How could you feel anything but? You’re wonderful and—”

  “I’m actually very insecure.”

  “You’re an icon!”

  Keisha stared into the ice cream carton.

  “Seriously. Come on.” Pablo flicked her spoon, trying to get a reaction. “I’m not joking around. Why are you looking all sad?”

  Keisha paused, sucking on her ice cream. “I was bullied by my brother.”

  “No.”

  “Whenever I didn’t have my weave in, he used to call me Gollum, like in Lord of the Rings.”

  “That’s horrible.”

  “I know. But hashtag truth? Every time I step out of the shower after my braids are taken out, I look in the mirror and see a bug-eyed Mantis with a potbelly who’s not accepted in real fashion circles anymore.” Tears were slipping down her million-dollar face and into the carton, making it salted caramel ice cream.

  “You gotta stop that old childhood shit. First, it’s not true. At all. You are not some pasty creature hanging out in a cave. And you have almond eyes, not bug eyes. Your skin is flawless. Where’s your brother now? Huh?”

  “In a psych ward.”

  Pablo bluffed the shock by making his I-told-you-so face. “Hashtag, just saying.” He crossed his fingers in the air. Keisha’s eyes squinted at the gesture and then she stabbed the ice cream, twice.

  It was one of those moments where one secret divulged deserves another. Pablo inhaled and prepared to spill his own beans. “I’m adopted.”

  “My mama’s in prison.”

  They both burst into tears.

  “I’ve always had to fend for myself,” she whimpered. Her crying seemed somewhat manufactured. Rehearsed perhaps? “So, I armored up. I’ve never had my feelings truly heard before. I don’t even think I like any of my family.”

  “I didn’t know much about my birth mother. Only that she was a teenager and white. My biological father was young and black. A mistake in so many ways. My adoptive parents were the answer to any child’s prayers, but I was also an answer to theirs. As devout Catholics, my mom told me she’d prayed to get pregnant until she was forced to have a hysterectomy at the age of twenty-seven. ‘Then, God told me he had a special soul for me in heaven,’ she’d say. ‘I just had to be patient and wait for my blessing to come into the light. And then one day, here you were.’” Pablo had spent much of his childhood experiencing the empty feeling of depression, and it always set in when he talked about his past. Zoloft, however, had become his savior at twenty-two, and it kept his unhealed trauma in check.

  “OMG, that’s beautiful.” Keisha scooped more Dulce de Leche into her mouth. “My fucked-up, cheating dad left my mom when my brother and I were little kids. I barely remember him. Then, when I was thirteen, my mama got locked up. We had no real family growing up.”

  “That’s horrible.”

  “I have PTSD from it.”

  “I have PTSD just from hearing about it. How’d you manage then?”

  “We lived with distant cousins. My real name is Kiki Grimes.”

  “Mine is David…something. I don’t even know.” Pablo felt his eyes get hot again. There was a lot more to his adoption story, but something deep down told him it wasn’t time to spill all the beans. Plus, he wasn’t even ready to face it. The tears leaking from his eyes, however, betrayed his stoic expression.

  “We’re gonna need more ice cream.” Keisha jumped up and ran to the freezer. Moving from size zero to plus had its advantages. “You wanna watch a movie or something?”

  “Sure,” he said, wiping his eyes and trying to act normal.

  Moments later, they’d settled on the couches in the living room, each holding their own quart of ice cream. Pablo dug into his Rainbow Swirl. An old black-and-white movie flickered across her supersized screen.

  Keisha had a curious look in her eye. “You know, I don’t think I’ve ever known somebody who was adopted. Isn’t that so weird?”

  Pablo didn’t think it was that weird, but they’d been drinking champagne and eating a lot of sugar.

  “I don’t think I could handle the rejection. I mean, your own mother abandoned you.”

  “I wasn’t left in a basket like Moses,” Pablo said as he sat back, trying not to feel offended. Keisha was clearly abandoned, but he didn’t dare bring that up. He chirped, “Besides, she gave me great parents. My mom is supportive about me finding my birth mother if I want to, but I’m not interested.” He dabbled with his ice cream. “She was just a carryi
ng case for nine months, you know? I don’t even wanna know about my birth family. What would I do after I meet the woman who gave birth to me? Send Christmas cards and chat on the phone once a month?”

  Keisha shook her head. “That’s all I get to do with my mom, and she birthed me.”

  Pablo felt like one of the bulimic models on a binge. Keisha had probably been one, once. “Life is so hard,” he murmured.

  “I feel like all I do is fight people who are trying to take me down.” Keisha finally shifted her gaze from the ice cream to look Pablo in the eye.

  “Hey, you fought your way to the top and had to challenge the powers that be. That doesn’t mean you’re ugly or a bad person. It’s hard for women. Hell, it’s even harder for black women.”

  “Truth.” She zeroed in on him. “I need someone like you. Someone I can trust. Someone who gets me.” Pablo mashed the ice cream beneath his spoon and nodded. He was loyal, empathetic, hardworking and besotted. Could she be…

  “I used to be full of dreams. I used to think the entertainment world was all about everyone getting along, helping each other, supporting each other.” She stared into the second empty tub of Dulce de Leche. It was all soupy at the bottom, and she was stirring and sipping it from her spoon now. “But it’s so cutthroat and superficial, you’ve gotta have someone you can trust to stay sane. You were meant to come into my life, I know it.”

  Pablo didn’t know what to say. They barely knew each other, yet Keisha was so earnest in her affections towards him. Strange. It made him feel a little uncomfortable. This friendship was clearly going to develop fast. Superfast. Did all Supermodels operate in the fast lane? Pablo certainly didn’t know. Nonetheless, she was the dream BFF he’d always wanted. That was the blessing. And no one is so rich as to throw away a friend.

  On the giant flat-screen TV that reigned supreme over the living room fireplace, Pablo recognized the black-and-white Turner Classic film. A young Judy Garland and Mickey Rooney were hugging each other and running toward a barn. “Babes in Arms,” he whispered. “Ever watch it?”

  Keisha looked at the screen and turned up the sound.

  “Let’s put on a show!” Judy was saying to Mickey.

  “It’s so much easier when you’re a white girl,” Keisha scoffed.

  “Who can sing,” Pablo added. They both burst out laughing.

  “Mr. Pablo, you wanna know a secret?” Keisha’s voice suddenly sounded like that of a five-year-old girl’s.

  Pablo tilted his head away from the screen to glance at her. Of course, he wanted to know a secret.

  “I used to watch the Oscars when I was a little girl and I knew I would be there one day.”

  “Me too,” he blurted.

  “OMG.”

  “And the Emmys too,” Pablo said. “But, you know what I’ve always secretly wanted?” Pablo paused for a moment. He’d never told anyone his dream job, but he felt like he could tell Keisha anything. “I wanna have a talk show and really help people.”

  “You are such a good person. I can totally tell.”

  Tears sprang back into Pablo’s eyes. He’d never found a reason for so many tears as he had this night. He was so moved that she really did see him. And for the first time, he felt like he was on the path his life was meant to follow. “What about you?” he asked. “Do you have any dreams other than being who you are right now?”

  “Now? This is a nightmare, not a dream. I’m just this objet d’art that gets picked apart every chance they get. Nothing I ever do is good enough.” Keisha’s voice cracked. “I’ve never heard anyone tell me I’m beautiful other than my mama.”

  “What are you talking about? I hear people say it at least twenty times a day. You’re stunning. Believe that.”

  “No, Pablo. Keisha Kash, the celebrity, is beautiful, not me. They see the hair, the makeup, and the clothes. They see the fantasy. That’s all a lie.” She wiped her face and stared at his chin. “I wish that people would see me for a change, the real me. Maybe then I could love myself more. Who am I really when I’m not Keisha Kash, Supermodel?”

  Pablo could not believe what he was hearing. How could someone so stunning be so insecure, so vulnerable, and so fragile? So much like him? He wanted to protect her and help her. “But you are you.” His voice was soft and reassuring.

  “Oh,” she gasped, her lips quivering. “That’s so profound.” She looked at Pablo with those amber eyes that had inspired contact lens companies to create a new color in her honor. “I love you.”

  “OMG, I love you too.” Pablo blurted. And that was the clenching moment. Their relationship was a narcissist’s dream come true.

  * * *

  Fashion Week was a polar vortex of revelry amid hard work and fawning fans. Now, everywhere that Keisha went, Pablo was sure to go. He didn’t have much choice. She wouldn’t let her new BFF out of her sight. She bragged about him to the press, touted him at after-parties, and munched on French fries in his ears during one-on-one tête-à-têtes at Buddakan and Per Se. Since she’d fired her assistant, it seemed only natural for Pablo to step into that role. He was free too. Swept up in the Supermodel’s wake, it took him a few days to realize that he was actually working for Keisha. It was quite a wake.

  Pablo was the perfect foil for the temperamental trade winds of Keisha’s erratic personality, but he didn’t take any of it personally. Deep down, he knew how vulnerable she was, and to his surprise, sensitive. They swanned around town like two lovebirds. Keisha posted a selfie of the two of them smiling and crossing their pinky fingers with #BestFriendsForever written across it. It went viral. His Instagram account blew up with new followers. People began to recognize him on the street, even when he wasn’t with the Supermodel, which wasn’t often. Most of the nights during fashion week, they’d collapse in her loft, streaming Judy Garland and Mickey Rooney singing and dancing their way through the 1940s.

  “Which one are you?” Keisha asked one night.

  “Dunno. Which one are you?”

  “I can’t sing,” she confessed.

  “Can you dance?”

  “Not really.”

  They giggled, and she rested her head on his shoulder. Pablo loved the affection Keisha gave him. Maybe she’s my soulmate? he thought. He was in bliss.

  In the afternoons, a change of clothes and a shower later, Keisha would be back in the hallways and on the staged runways of Lincoln Center, swishing, a perpetual smile on her face for the best designers and fashionistas in the world. The cameras never stopped flashing. Pablo, himself always smiling now, finally understood why models frown and pout. Smiling used too many muscle groups. It hurt.

  By the end of Fashion Week, Pablo and Keisha were an item on Page Six, US Weekly and Women's Wear Daily. Vinny, Keisha’s stockbroker boyfriend, finally showed up for her last standing ovation and together, they attended the big bash ending the season. It was the most grueling fashion week Pablo had ever lived through. With Vinny by her side, he knocked back one too many drinks and slipped away unnoticed. Pablo was dog-tired and just wanted to go home for a change.

  An Uber later, he was in his tiny Hell’s Kitchen apartment, happily falling into his very own bed for the first time in six days. He was ecstatic. Sprawling atop the down comforter covering rumpled flannel sheets, he stared up at the ceiling. Musing about his whirlwind friendship with none other than Supermodel Keisha Kash and how it could possibly change the trajectory of his career, he wondered what was in store for him now that fashion week was over. “I had no idea being a celebrity was so exhausting,” he mumbled into his pillow. You’re definitely not the same person you were a week ago. This was the last thought he had before sinking into well-deserved slumber.

  3

  A SHOW IS BORN

  THE ANNOYING BACK-UP beep of the early morning garbage truck shrieked below his window. Hungover and tormented by a dream, Pablo moaned. After the past week’s gypsy lifestyle of sl
eeping on couches and beds in Keisha’s apartment, it took him a moment to recall where he was.

  Beep. Beep. Beep.

  He threw a pillow over his head and fell back on the bed. His cubby wasn’t the dream apartment Keisha had manifested for herself, but it was his. The second-floor walkup did not offer soundproof walls or a private elevator, but he’d long gotten used to bouncing up the stairs. The reality of life in New York hadn’t entered his mind when he’d begged his parents to let him move to Manhattan. He’d made all sorts of promises to get their support: “No, I won’t do drugs. Yes, I’ll wear a condom. Yes, Mom, always. No, I won’t go home with strangers. Yes, I’ll floss twice a day.” Finally, they had agreed to help with the steep deposit—first and last month’s rent, and the promise of the first-born grandchild required by Manhattan landlords.

  “You’d think you’d at least have an elevator for this price,” his mother had said after huffing and puffing up the narrow stairs of the brownstone. She was even more distressed to discover that Pablo had lost a coin toss with his roommate, Malaki, and ended up in the front room of the small, dusty, overheated box he now called home. At least he had the fire escape for a balcony.

  Amid the beeping of garbage collection outside, his iPhone was now buzzing around on his nightstand. Pablo fumbled for the device and squinted at the screen. The selfie of Keisha and him illuminated his phone. It was 5:16 a.m. He’d only been asleep for three hours!

  “Hello?”

  “Ohmigod. I got it. It just came to me, and I couldn’t wait to tell you.”

  “Do you know what time it is?” Pablo croaked as he sat up in bed, pulling his comforter over his head.

  “This is your destiny wakeup call. You ready?”

  Never a morning person, Pablo mumbled something unintelligible.

  “What is everyone really obsessed with on Reality TV? Supermodels. Not fashion. The problem with most model competition shows is, they’re looking for the next real Supermodel.