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“But then you won’t believe that I watch the show.”
He reached out and patted my shoulder. “It’s okay. I believe you.”
I dropped my hands and let out a relieved sigh. “Thank you.”
He picked up the remote and pressed a button, bringing the television to life. “We’ll watch,” he suggested. I nodded in approval and watched as a beach scene unfolded. I’d seen the episode before and smiled as a lobster ran through the crowds, a rescue raft in hand.
After a few minutes, Wesley moved his seat closer to me. I smiled at him and returned my attention to the television. We spent the next two hours, like that, side by side, watching SpongeBob. He knew almost every word, sang along with the songs, and laughed at the top of his lungs at the obvious jokes, though he missed some of the more adult ones.
It was the most fun I had that week.
17
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EMMA
The brands, Vidal taught me, were the key. The three F’s (fame, fortune, and followers) only worked if you had the fortune to create the life interesting enough to grow the other two legs of the table. And the money came from the brands. When we were lucky, they helped with exposure too.
We created a list of three hundred potentials. Half of the list were brands I genuinely liked and used — from toothpaste to hair products to soda. The second half were brands that were attainable. I looked down the second list. “I haven’t heard of any of these.”
“No one has,” Vidal snipped. “But their ad budgets are limited to micro-influencers, so that makes them of interest to us.”
“Can’t I just do energy drinks and teeth whiteners?”
He put down his pen and linked his long tan fingers together, looking at me with an expression befitting of world trade talks and not lipstick and bathing suit accessory lines. “Listen to me very carefully, Emma. Every brand that you align yourself with tells the world something about you. And in this world you are only allowed to make a mistake once or twice before you die.”
“Before I die?” I laughed.
“Die.” He put air quotes around the world. “Lose relevance. Drop followers. Cease to exist in the public awareness.”
That was how serious he took it. How serious every fame-chaser in Los Angeles took it. I looked back at the list and shrugged. “Fine. Whatever.”
I don’t know how Vidal did it, but I made three thousand dollars that month, spread over fourteen posts. I posed at the Santa Monica Pier, holding an ice cream cone from Eddie’s Creamery. I tucked my hair behind my ear and displayed a bracelet made by Erica Saint. I kicked a pair of fourteen hundred dollar heels up on a theater seat while holding a popcorn bag, the theater location and account tagged. All for baby paychecks, which Vidal said didn’t matter—not at this stage. What mattered was the pipeline we were creating. The social proof. The baseline of engagement that we could measure and then start to grow.
I spent that three grand on a camera and backdrop and converted the long wall in my living room into a set. And there, under the demanding eye of Vidal, I filmed my first live stream.
18
#nofilter
EMMA: 72,440 FOLLOWERS
That first broadcast was scathing. I’ll be the first to admit it. I took all my pent-up emotions of Cash and dunked them in acid, then spewed them onto the screen. I talked about his mother. His lack of job. His attempt to connect with commoners when we all know he was born with everything. I even told them what he said to me on our date. My voice—on that part of the video—trembles a little bit. No one caught it then, but later, once I had fangirls and the documentary and a giant microscope perched above my head… that line was dissected. Ran through voice analyzation programs. My slight hitch of breath was turned into a Jonah Whale of emotional blubber.
“Easy,” he had said, leaning close into me so that no one else would hear. “Your white trash is showing.”
That… that stupid line is why I was able to do it. His tone was what fueled every horrible thing I said about him. Just thinking about that line, and even now—my skin gets hot. I feel like a failure. I’m taken right back to every moment in my childhood where I was picked on. Laughed at. Pushed down a ramp and onto my knees in the dirt. Ridiculed for having the same pair of tennis shoes two years in a row, or having to eat a peanut butter sandwich every day at lunch because my parents hadn’t paid my lunch account. I was, and still am, white trash. And Cash Mitchell taught me that hearing the truth hurts the worst.
The only thing I didn’t mention in that video was Wesley. And that night, after it was posted, and after the views and followers started to tick into ridiculous and unimaginable numbers, I drove out to the Ranch and shared a bucket of strawberry ice cream with him. Not because I was a good person, but because I was bad. I knew making that video was wrong, but I willingly stepped over that line, desperate for another splash of attention.
