Good Mistakes

3: Walk of Shame, Walk of Fame

There are people in the lobby of my building so I keep my eyes trained on the patterned tile all the way to the elevator, and then down the hall to the door. I feel peoples eyes on me and I hate them, just a little, but I understand. It's not everyday someone walks into this disgustingly overpriced building barefoot and disheveled with a too big flannel wrapped around them like the armour of God and shoes in their hands.

Thank god my roommate/best friend Allyson is so trusting and never locks the door. I'd hate to have to knock and lose all chances of evading her in my current state. I open the door and tiptoe paste the ugly red couches she put in the living room. Her room door is open and some obscure rap gets louder the closer I get to it. Why did I choose the room at the end of the hallway?

Go. Ten more steps.

Three more steps.

Why is my door creaking?!

"Lena!"

Fuck.

"Come see my dress for tonight!" She calls, and I can't say no because then she'll really be suspicious.

I walk into the room with my eyes fixed to the carpet. I don't see her face when she sees me but I hear her dramatic gasp and bite my tongue. What do you expect from an actress? One deep breath, then another and look up to her face blue eyes scanning me from foot to hair and then foot again. She smirks and continues to stare and I hate it when she does this. She's going to stand and wait for me to speak, so I will, just so we can get this out of the way.

"I stayed with someone last night. A guy."

"I didn't ask," she giggles out, smirk growing quickly into a (shit eating) grin, and I groan because why does she do this to me?

"I was very drunk because you took me to a party full of rich and famous people and abandoned me to go 'network', also known as kiss some a-list celebrity and director, producer and probably even poolboy ass. I got drunk on expensive liquor and met someone and ended up sleeping with them. And so you can't judge me because really it's all your fault that I did any of that Ms. Up And Coming Actress Ally Jane because why was I there anyway? I didn't belong there you made me go and now I'm a little hungover and very irritable and a little ashamed. And I wanna go shower and sleep and not discuss this anymore." I say all of this with one breath.

"Well," she breathes out, turning back to the floor length mirror hooked to her closet and playing with the ruffles (seriously?) on her much-to-expensive red dress. "Let's ignore your three New York Times bestsellers, pretty big checks as a result of those books and online fan club because you aren't rich or famous, of course not. Not like the movie premiering tonight is based on your novel or anything. Now that you've confessed your sins, what do you think of this dress?"

I frown. "It's not the same kind of fame. And the dress is hideous. It doesn't look like something you would wear and since I'm already a little nauseous I might go ahead and ruin it to spare everyone else from having to see it." She rolls her eyes and calls me a bitch which really just means that she loves me as far as I'm concerned, so I tell her that I love her, too. "Doesn't matter anyway," she says, "because Allyson isn't wearing this. Ally Jane is wearing this to the premier of her first major movie, you know, the one in which I got to kiss Chris Hemsworth?" I sigh louder than necessary to remind her of just how dumb I think it is that she has to keep up this personality-less bimbo facade for the cameras.

"It's still ugly." At this point I'm just being mean because I really do want to go shower and sleep.

"Whatever. Tell me about this mystery guy." And gosh I liked talking about her dress more than this. But she won't give in if I don't answer her questions.

"There's no mystery. I got drunk and woke up in Michael Clifford's bed."

"That guy from that band?" I nod. "Wow. From staring at your old dorm room poster longingly to actual real life coitus. Props." And my face is hot and I hate her so much for saying that but maybe i'm a little proud, too. I don't know.

"Well how was it?" she urges.

"I don't know. I don't even remember most of last night."

"So you finally banged Michael Gifford or whatever and you don't even know if he's any good? You nearly pissed yourself when you found out of his bands songs was going to be in the movie soundtrack."

"It's Clifford. And I could barely walk this morning."

"Oh. Oh shit."

"Yeah."

"Did you get his number? Are you seeing him again? What are you going to tell Kyle? Holy crap babes."

"I'm not telling Kyle anything. We aren't exclusive and we aren't even involved in...that way. And no I'm not calling or seeing Michael Clifford. Even if I wanted to I wouldn't because he probably sleep with lots of people oh god I should get tested. And anyway he travels and is busy and I just submitted my outline for this book and they'll be hounding me for chapters to start editing and I just can't. I'm busy. That'd be ridiculous. Ugh. I need to shower. You look nice."

And I leave her room and hear her giggle and call me weird but I don't have it in me to call her anything back. I strip and get into the shower and try to wash Michael Clifford from my memory.

____________________________________

"Wake up babes. We don't wanna be late for the premier"

"Fuck you."

"Get up. Car will be here in two hours and I'm not curling your hair."

I'm positive that Allyson Anne Janetsky (or Ally Jane or whatever the hell her name is now) is the devil in a three thousand dollar dress and a blonde wig because she knows that I can't curl my hair well by myself and I hate letting strangers fix it. So I get up and pull off my pajama bottoms and the idiot flannel (that's just really comfortable and doesn't smell like Michael at all) and get out of bed.

This dress is too short and too tight and these heels will have me in tears by the end of the night. My make up took too long and I don't have time to curl my hair so I pin it back, and finally I'm ready. Uncomfortable and ready to complain the entire time, but ready. Allyson should be glad that I love her.

The car ride is long and Allyson can't sit still and I'm tempted to ask her if she took her Ritalin but I don't. And then we're walking the carpet and there's people and cameras and I'm fake smiling so hard my mouth hurts. All I did was come up the characters and type some stuff up. Why do they want my picture? Why do I even have to be here? I'm not John Green I rarely even came on set when they were filming. Allyson and Chris and the director and literally everyone else contributed more than I did to this movie. So these pictures of my face shouldn't be necessary. And then we're inside and I'm squeezing Allyson's arm to remind her to keep the ass kissing to a minimum. People keep touching my arm and shoulder and congratulating me (why?) and throwing compliments about the movie and book and my dress (scraps of fabric) and it's a lot. Too much. After Katy Perry hugs me like we're childhood friends or something and then I recover from the shock of Katy Perry hugging me I let go of Allyson and head towards the nearest restroom because I just can't.

Go go go go go ouch.

"Oh shit I'm so-" and "Watch where the fu-" get mixed together and then I'm looking him in the face and I laugh. Because this is more cliché than anything I could have ever written.