Killing Monica
“How’s she going to walk across the stage in that getup?” Pandy hissed to Judy.
“She doesn’t have to. The stage is revolving.”
“Like a turntable?” Pandy was aghast.
“They call it a lazy Susan. Don’t worry, you’ll be fine. You only have to be onstage for a minute or two,” she said over her shoulder. Quickly she walked away to where SondraBeth was being lifted onto a trolley to be driven to the stage. Judy hopped into the seat next to the driver. “Don’t go far, Hellenor. We may need you as well.?
?
“Okay,” Pandy agreed.
She inhaled deeply, trying to calm herself as Judy and SondraBeth sped around the corner. She took a step to follow, but her legs felt as if they were made of rubber. How big was this production going to be? It had to be large if there was a revolving stage. Heart pounding at the thought of having to get up in front of all those people, Pandy decided she’d better have a cigarette to relax. Stumbling through the nearest exit, she nearly knocked over a girl holding a tray of champagne.
“I’m sorry,” Pandy said.
“I probably shouldn’t be standing in front of the door. Come in. Would you like a glass of champagne?”
“Well, sure.” Pandy took a glass and stepped to the side, nearly bumping into a mannequin dressed as Wonder Woman.
Pandy laughed as she straightened the dummy. She smiled fondly at the mannequin of Joan of Arc placed next to Marilyn Monroe. She was in the Woman Warrior Hall of Fame, a somewhat hokey display that was a traditional part of the awards. Attendees were meant to wander through the hall during the cocktail hour.
The crowd was beginning to trickle in. Pandy stopped to shake her head at poor old Mother Teresa’s ragged costume. She and SondraBeth had come to these awards together, years and years ago when they were still friends. They’d done a tiny line of cocaine in the bathroom, “for Dutch courage,” SondraBeth had said, and then they’d strolled into the display.
There was a tap on Pandy’s shoulder. Three young women were standing behind her.
“Sorry to bother you—”
“But are you Hellenor Wallis?”
“You are. We saw you on Instalife this morning!”
“Can we get a photo?”
“Well, sure.” Pandy smiled, and then remembered to wipe the smile from her face.
“Your sister meant everything to me,” the first girl murmured, tilting her head next to Pandy’s and holding out her device for a selfie. “She was my idol. I wanted to be just like her.”
“I need a picture, too!”
“Just one more? I’ll die if I don’t get a photo.”
A crowd of women was gathering around her. Two handlers broke through, trying to shoo them away. “Ladies, please.”
“But I came all the way from Philadelphia!”
“I don’t mind.” Pandy smiled reassuringly. For a brief moment, she was back in her element. Motion the woman closer, arm around the shoulders, heads cocked together, smile! Next.
And the ladies kept coming. “I love Monica. I love her so much.” Their eyes a little glazed. “I hope you love yourself just as much,” Pandy replied, wanting to shake them and tell them not to hold too tightly to a fantasy.
She imagined this was how SondraBeth must feel every day—literally heady—her head swelling from the attention, the frenzied excitement, the irresistible fawning. And in the middle of this bubble, the oddest feeling—the guilt of a hypocrite.
“Hellenor.” Judy was suddenly beside her, pulling at her arm. “We have to go. They need you in rehearsal, too.”
* * *
“Right this way,” said the PA, leading Pandy along a ridged mat secured with reflective green tape. She guided Pandy to a set of metal stairs and quickly ushered her to a small platform, in front of which was an enormous round disk covered in tape.
The dreaded lazy Susan.