“With all due respect,” Nick says, as though he himself is holding on to some of Audrey’s anguish, “what makes her so special?”
As he says it, he thinks back to that concert. Ramona Wilder strutting around the stage in combat boots and ripped tights, everyone in the arena half in love with her. He didn’t really care for the music, though some of the songs were catchy, but she had such a confident command of her voice—he remembers that, how she knew exactly when to hold back and when to belt. How she flirted with the audience. A well-timed smirk. A jut of her hip.
Even in this grainy Wikipedia photo, she’s objectively beautiful. Long hair hitting mid-back as she leans over the stage, microphone an inch from deep red lips. He supposes being pretty is simply part of her job—surely it must cost a lot of money to maintain it.
That’s what celebrity means to him: a wholly manufactured sense of superiority.
“There’s a good chance a lot of your students will have grown up with her,” Dean Eckhart says. “We just want to make sure to foster a learning environment whereallour students feel safe and comfortable.”
“I consider it a privilege,” Marshall says, and then, with zero cynicism: “I’m sure she’ll have some fascinating insights on free will and determination. I look forward to hearing them.”
It doesn’t matter, Nick decides after the meeting, that Ramona Wilder’s net worth is $28 million—he googled it—or that she has three Grammys. Some of his colleagues might fawn over a pop star, but in his classroom, everyone is equal.
Once the quarter starts, she’ll be just another student.
And he fully intends to treat her that way.
3
She has nothing to wear.
Of course, it’s an exaggeration. Ramona has too much to wear, designer samples and custom couture and beautiful dresses with bad memories. It’s like trying to find something to watch with the entire history of film and television at her fingertips, so she spends the whole night scrolling before dozing off ten minutes intoThe Holiday. Before Jude Law shows up, which frankly isn’t even worth it.
The truth is that Ramona doesn’t know how to dress for her first day of classes without attracting attention. She isn’t so out of touch that she’s unaware of what’s fashionable, but she’s going to be at least five years older than anyone else and doesn’t want to look like she’s trying too hard. Doesn’t want to stand out any more than she already will.
A terrifying thought occurs to her. Her future classmates—they wouldn’t ask for selfies on the first day, would they? They’ve got to have more tact than that.
From Ramona’s bed, Janet lets out a distressed purr, as though the sight of Ramona at her walk-in closet is deeply foreign to herafter all these months of hibernation. She adopted the orange tabby after an assistant’s cat had an unexpected litter of kittens, and she loves her more than anything in the world.
“I know, baby girl,” Ramona says, bending to scratch her underneath the chin. “I’m going to miss you too.”
She decides on a jersey midi dress that’s tighter around her hips than it used to be and a faux leather jacket cropped at the waist. Black to blend in. Polished, but not overly so. For makeup, she goes with liquid eyeliner and tinted lip balm. A dab of coral blush on her cheeks.
Then there is the problem of her hair.
Her entire career, her long dark hair has been her trademark, thick and wild and apparently indestructible, given how many stylists have yanked and teased it over the years. The upkeep is hell, but she loves the ritual of caring for it. Even on tour when her mental health was at its worst, there was something soothing about coming back to a hotel room to wash her hair.
After her announcement, she considered chopping it all off as an assertion of freedom. But then she imagined the headlines, because surely the paparazzi would find a way to twist that act of independence into something sinister.Ramona Wilder Loses Ten Inches of Hair and Her Grip on Reality.And with all the changes in her life, she didn’t know if she’d still feel likeherwithout her hair.
There she goes again, obsessing over her appearance. Vowing to be less self-absorbed, she scrunches curl cream through her waves and calls it good.
Janet follows her downstairs. The only sound in this eerie cavern of a house is the gardener trimming the hedges, and then Ramona’s espresso machine. When she bought this place five years ago—a homeowner at age twenty-one—she was too busy topick out what she wanted to put in it, so she just said yes to all her interior decorator’s ideas. As a result, the house has this earthy, mid-century modern feel that Angelenos seem to love but isn’t really her style. Exposed ceiling beams, round-edged furniture, a billion shades of tan. The decorator wanted some flashes of punk: a studded leather couch that’s not even comfortable to sit on, a reclaimed-wood coffee table in the shape of a Fender Stratocaster. She barely uses that living room, too embarrassed by how hard it’s trying. It looks exactly like the kind of house someone would design for Ramona Wilder—without having the faintest idea who Ramona Wilder really is.
At least there’s enough space for all her guitars and memorabilia to be locked away in their own room, blessedly out of sight.
It occurs to her that maybe enrolling in college is just a drastic way to escape her house.
Her phone blinks with a message from Betty as she’s scraping peanut butter onto a slice of toast.
Good luck today, lovebug!
She hearts it immediately, then sends back a photo of Janet loafing on top of her new UCLA sweatshirt.
DeeAnn warned her about getting too close to any of her industry peers, and maybe her mother was right—because after Ramona retired, every acquaintance shrank away like she was contagious. They were more colleagues than friends, and now that they no longer work together, well…
She’s just really, endlessly grateful for Betty.
Ramona polishes off her toast and grabs her baseball cap for one final attempt at anonymity. And with a kiss for Janet and afew taps on her phone to engage the security system, she’s off to begin her new life.
