Read Online Oh! You Pretty Things by Shanna Mahin - Free Book Online

tattered vintage concert tees and Havaianas and special-ordering coffee like it’s their day job.
    But celebrities are treated differently, of course. Even the sticky-pawed toddlers waiting in line with their stay-at-home moms gawp in appreciation when Pamela Anderson blows in wearing sheer white leggings and knee-high faux shearling boots. Actually, little kids are the only ones who stare.
    The rest of us—patrons, baristas, and even the occasional homeless person—have perfected the L.A. art of the un-stare. It’s just one of the many tacit understandings that make this city function: we pretend, at least in public, that we’re not interested in the gods who walk among us, usually by studiously attending to a small grooming matter or the contents of our cell phones whenever they come into range.
    I don’t even have to bother with the un-stare today. Jake Gyllenhaal and Taylor Kitsch could be oil wrestling in the middle of the floor and I wouldn’t take my eyes off Tyler’s milk order. I’ve opened with a gambit of rudeness, and that’s a good way to end up with something in your drink that is unfit for human consumption. I mean, hypothetically, of course. I’m sure no one at Starbucks would ever do anything like that. Certainly not the girl who is radiating death lasers at me as she plunks my order on the counter and growls “Have a nice day” at me through gritted teeth.

Eleven

    T he next day, Megan leaves three drunk messages at five in the morning, telling me I should come to Hawaii, that I
need
to come to Hawaii. There’s some problem with the shoot, so she’s stuck in Maui indefinitely, boo-hoo. But when I call back, it goes straight to voice mail.
    â€œNo permanent job offer yet,” I say after the beep. “But I haven’t been fired. I’ll call that a victory. Enjoy the sun!”
    I add the last bit because I saw a picture on one of the tabloid blogs of her sitting by a big hotel pool in a black catsuit and a giant straw hat. The caption read “Megan Campion takes her sunscreen seriously.” Yeah, well, she’s playing a fucking vampire.
    Then I get a FedEx envelope with a bunch of hundred-dollar bills and a note:
The per diem on this show is insane. Shove half in a drawer for a rainy day. The rest for a plane ticket.Miss you.
    A smiley face? She’s definitely getting laid.
    I haven’t had sex since a random friend of Pete’s—the Date Palm manager—came to town to look at business schools. In my defense, I’d just finished a three-day juice fast and my stomach was so flat it seemed like a waste not to let someone appreciate it. Totally lost on the business-school dude, who drank four shots of tequila, then pinched the inch of flesh above my Hanky Panky boyshorts and asked if I wanted some Adderall. The humiliating part is that I still blew him after that.
    The sexual hierarchy is weird in my life. When Megan’s around, I’m the sassy sidekick, the girl who the boys all cozy up to in order to get closer to her. I’m embarrassed to admit it, but that’s a comfortable role for me. And it takes the place of having to worry about my own life. It’s easy to be that person. God knows I had years of practice with Donna.
    Not that Megan’s anything like my mother, but there’s a certain type of woman who just pulls focus when she walks into a room. Angelina, Charlize, any number of Jennifers. It’s what this whole town is built on.
    My mother had it.
    Megan has it.
    Me? Nope.
    But being in Megan’s orbit makes my own star shine a little brighter. When she’s gone, it’s like an eclipse, the dark side of the moon. Am I still shining if nobody sees?
    According to my mother, no. Just another of my failures. I was a shy child with lank hair and a pudgy body despite her constant, grinding efforts. I wanted to hide in my bedroom and read books, but instead there were photo