A Love Song for Ricki Wilde (16)
Exasperated, she squeezed her eyes shut. And, like clockwork, Garden Gentleman’s face blanketed her brain. She was losing her mind.
When she opened her eyes, there was Tuesday, wielding a cookie in one hand and—because she was three years sober—a Shirley Temple in the other. As usual, she was trying her best to fly undercover as an anonymous baddie: joggers, chunky sneakers, slick bun.
“You came!”
“Of course I came. Free baked goods were involved.” She batted her eyelashes. “Notice anything about my complexion?”
Ricki appraised her skin. “Excuse me, you’re radiant.”
“My new writer’s block obsession is skincare. I just spent all day ordering luxury Korean skincare online. I wanna look poreless and heavily filtered. Like a sensual cyborg.” She licked frosting off her finger. “Ugh, I’m never gonna finish my memoir. To jest okropne.”
It was startling, hearing Tuesday drop a foreign phrase. “You said what, now?”
“To jest okropne. It means ‘this is terrible’ in Polish.”
“You never fail to surprise, babe.”
“My mom’s Polish! She moved here at eighteen and became a coat check girl at the Roxy, where she met my dad, an aspiring backpack rapper from Houston. They fell in ’90s hip-hop love, had me, and then he got deported for running a fraudulent phone sex service where he’d pretend to be several lusty women. Turns out, he wasn’t Texan; he was a Rwandan refugee and a master at accents.” Sullenly, she chomped her cupcake. “I hate memoir writing. It’s impossible to tell what’s interesting about my life.”
Ricki laughed. “That’s interesting. That’s your origin story. You get your acting talent from your dad, who, given the opportunity, might have an Oscar by now.”
Tuesday beamed. “You’re smart as hell. Can you write my book? I’m useless. Speaking of useless… where’s Ali? Somewhere realigning his chakras?”
“I was just about to bring him up.” Ricki lowered her voice. “I need advice.”
“Kill him.”
“What?”
“What?”
“Tuesday.”
“Look, I stay ready to tussle. Holler if we need to key cars.”
Given Tuesday had won a three-way club brawl with Selena Gomez and a High School Musical extra that made In Touch Weekly covers in 2008, Ricki believed her.
“I always run from relationships,” continued Ricki. “And I need to rebrand. Should I try to turn this fling into a… thing?”
“I’m all about breaking toxic patterns. But for Ali? What do you really know about him? Do you ever even stay at his place?”
“No. But only because he lives with a throuple.”
Tuesday put her hands in prayer pose, fingertips at her forehead. “Biiitch.”
“I know, I know.”
“Does Ali make you feel adored? Do you feel held, physically, mentally, and astrologically? If not, dump him. Not because it’s your usual pattern, but because you should.”
Ricki chewed her lip, reluctant to admit that she agreed. Just then, they were interrupted by a perky blonde in a maxidress.
“Are you Tuesday Rowe? I used to love you. Why don’t you work anymore?”
In the short time Ricki had known Tuesday, she’d experienced this way too often. It took only one person to spot her before the news spread like wildfire. To maintain her sanity, Tuesday always answered the “where have you been” question with preposterous sarcasm.
“What’ve you been doing since Ready Freddy?” said the woman.
“Pursuing my dream of aquarium design.”
“Legend!” The blonde bopped away.
Ricki handed Tuesday her uneaten fudge cupcake. “Here, you need this.”
“Tuesday Rowe?” yelped another guest. “I’m such a fan! What’re you up to these days?”
“Bathing in the blood of my enemies.”
“Slay, villain,” he said, and breezed past them.
Tuesday slid on her sunnies (at 8:00 p.m., indoors). “Love you, girl, but there’s a complexion-boosting vitamin C mask waiting for me at home.”
“I get it. But first, look at Ali over there by the cake pop stand. Is he my future?”
Tuesday peered in Ali’s direction, frowning. “He looks blank. Like he’s waiting for a soaring violin score to tell him how to feel.”
Ricki grimaced. “Nothing there, huh?”
Tuesday air-kissed her in response and was on her way out when Chaka Khan’s banger “Ain’t Nobody” began thumping through speakers. Gasping, she turned back toward Ricki.
“Funny story—I met Chaka Khan’s keyboardist at the Grammys. He said he got the riff after hearing some dude play it at a piano store in Vegas. But he couldn’t remember his name. When Chaka asked him who it was, he said, ‘Ain’t nobody.’ Ha!” Her eyes sparkled. “Seems dope, actually. To be so influential on art but anonymous? No one projecting shit onto you. No one making up lies, feeling ownership over you, deciding if you’re pure or a whore before you even know. But it’s different for men. The culture crucifies girls.” She sighed. “Fame is a prison.”
Ricki shot her a gentle smile. “Your first chapter starts there.”