Killing Monica

“That’s the bitch. Well, she must really hate you, because guess who’s been seen all over Paris with Drug Stoner?”

“Lala Grinada?”

“You got it, sista.”

“Oh.” Pandy listlessly rubbed the sun cream into her skin, trying to digest this information. She lay back and sighed. Doug had been too good to be true after all. “I guess that explains it, then. He’s with Lala Grinada.” She sighed dramatically and got up to pour herself another glass of rum punch from the pitcher in the refrigerator. “Meanwhile, I am once again alone. And fat. Because I was so upset when Drug Stoner dumped me, I ate ice cream with whipped cream five nights in a row. And that was after the pepperoni pizza!” she shouted through the kitchen island to SondraBeth.

“I hate her!” SondraBeth shouted back. “I hate her for what she’s done to you.”

“Her?” Pandy asked, strolling back outside. “What about him? He’s the one who swore he’d never be with another actress again.”

SondraBeth raised one eyebrow. “Obviously, he lied. Fucker.” She held up her empty cup for a refill.

“Dickwad,” Pandy seconded, taking the cup and returning to the kitchen for the pitcher. It felt good to swear; to be juvenile in the face of rejection. Indeed, it felt so good that she had to do it again. “Rotten rat bastard son of a pimp-nose!” she shouted.

“Ha! What is that?” SondraBeth called back.

“Joseph Heller. Catch-22. My sister and I memorized it when we were kids. I mean, come on!” Pandy poured more punch into SondraBeth’s glass. She looked at the pitcher, thought, Fuck it, and brought the glass and the pitcher back to the terrace. “Lala Grinada? Pleeeeeze. She literally has three hairs on her head. And she’s not even a good actress.” Pandy put down the pitcher and took a sip of SondraBeth’s drink before handing it over. “Even if she were okay, he still wouldn’t respect her. He basically told me he couldn’t stand to be around any actress.”

“He said that?” SondraBeth’s eyes widened as her expression froze.

“Oh, come on, Squeege. I’m sure he didn’t mean you.”

“I wouldn’t care, except that you don’t know what it’s like. You really don’t know.”

“I’m sorry.”

“You never even come to the set.” SondraBeth sounded hurt. “I would think being the creator of Monica would be like being a parent. Going to the set would be like going to watch your kid’s baseball game.”

“Except that going to a baseball game isn’t usually considered work.”

“And writing is?” SondraBeth scoffed. “Of course, I understand that you have better things to do, but you never come at all.”

“It makes me uncomfortable, okay?”

“But why?”

“It’s all those people. ‘People, touching other people. It’s the creepiest thing in the world,’” Pandy sang out goofily.

SondraBeth pointed her finger. “Aha! I knew it! That’s the reason you never come to the set. You secretly want to be an actress.”

“What?” Pandy laughed. Where the hell had SondraBeth gotten that idea?

“That little thing you just did. That is what people do when they think they can maybe act. They try it out.”

“No,” Pandy countered cautiously. “I only ever wanted to be a writer. I swear.”

Even to her own ears, she didn’t sound convincing, probably because SondraBeth was right: She had fantasized about acting when she was a kid. Who hadn’t?

“I’ll bet you practiced monologues. With your sister,” SondraBeth posited cleverly.

“So?” Pandy said.

“So, I want to see. Show me your monologue.”

“Now?”

SondraBeth parroted the island’s pet refrain: “Do you have something better to do?”