You Will Never Be Me

1

MEREDITH

I'm stalking my best friend. There's no use denying it. When I first started, I told myself we were so in sync that we were like the same person torn into two halves, and those two halves were linked by an invisible thread that was always pulling us back to each other, so of course we'd constantly be running into each other. Simpatico. That's what we always used to say. Simpatico! Followed by a wink, content and smug, because out of almost eight billion humans in the world, the two of us somehow managed to find our soulmates in each other, and what is that if not pure and beautiful magic?

And anyway, it's not really stalking, not like the kind you see in the movies with the stalker prowling in all black (contrary to popular belief, black is not for everyone; it certainly does my skin tone no favors), a chloroform-soaked rag in one hand and zip ties in the other. I'm not trying to kidnap Bestie. It's more like . . . Stalking Lite. I just want to know how she's doing. I need to see if our earth-shattering fight mauled her the way it did me. That's reasonable. And I sure as hell won't find out anything through her social media accounts, which are all glossed over with giddily jubilant content. No, if I want to see signs of the wreckage underneath, I need to see her in person-catch a glimpse of the tightness around the right corner of her mouth, or the way she licks her lips like a lizard does (a rapid twitch that does nothing to moisten them).

And that's why I'm sitting in a car around the corner from the twins' school, waiting for her car to appear out of the drop-off line. Damn it, I know it sounds bad; I'm literally parked outside of her kids' school. But this has nothing to do with her girls, even though I miss Noemie and Elea so much (and I'm sure they must miss Aunt Mer), and Luca misses little Sabine.

"Don't you, Luca?" I coo, glancing back at my eight-month-old son. "You miss baby Sabine, don't you, sweetie?"

He's too busy sucking on his toes to give me a reply. But I can tell. I know he misses Sabine. Sabine is two months older than Luca, and he hasn't spent a single day away from Sabine's side up until her mother and I had our catastrophic fight. It's not fair to the kids. Why can't she see that?

I tap the steering wheel impatiently, my eyes scanning each car as it leaves the school. Have I missed her already? I'm not cut out for this spy shit. What if she sees me? What if she recognizes the car? I was careful-ish. I switched cars with Clara this morning, telling her that I had plans to drive up to Griffith Park for a shoot and needed her four-wheel drive. Of course, I've driven my sister's car a few times, so maybe Bestie will still recognize it. Maybe I should drive home. What the hell was I thinking?

But just then, I spot it. Her SUV pulling out of the school driveway. My breath catches in my throat, emotion welling up at the painfully familiar sight of her car. I can practically smell the inside of her car already-her Miss Dior perfume, the girls' raspberry shampoo, and homemade kale chips. Then, as it drives past, I catch sight of her face, her eyes hidden behind her oversized Chanel sunglasses and her hair falling in loose mahogany waves down her shoulders, and tears rush to my eyes (behind my similarly oversized Jimmy Choos). Damn it, but I miss that bitch, Aspen. A bitter snort tumbles out of my mouth at her name. Aspen. I gave that to her. What's in a name? Well. A name is the beginning of your brand, so, what's in a name? Everything. In a way, you could say I made Aspen into who she is today. She owes me everything.

Eight Years Ago

I know it's en vogue to hate LA-the dry heat, the fake cocaine- and wheatgrass- and matcha-fueled cheerfulness of everyone, the way that the checkout girl at the supermarket looks like she just stepped off a runway-but honestly? I love it. I can be as manically cheerful as the best of them, and I don't even snort coke (except when I'm trying to lose weight, but ever since I started doing the celery juice fast, I haven't done any lines). Back in Ohio, I was always "too much," but it turns out that in LA, you can never be "too much." Everyone here loves me. Some people-I won't name names-even describe me as their "happy pill."

I'm invited to so many parties that some evenings I literally spend just five minutes at each venue-just enough to make the rounds (Hi, sweetie! Oh my god, you look FAB! Ah! OMG, it's been too long! We must catch up soon. We MUST! Oh, let's take a selfie, you look AMAZING!), kiss cheeks, and make sure we're photographed-before I make my exit (Sorry, gotta run. Chell is celebrating her birthday at the-yes, we MUST catch up soon! Okay, love you, bye! Bye! Kisses!). Then I zip down the 405, billboards grinning and winking at me like we're all in on some great secret, to another party, glitzier than the one before; then to another party, more exclusive; then another, and another.

(Do you hate me? You mustn't. I'm just a girl trying to make it big. Trying to thrive.)

It's at one of these parties that I meet her. Ryleebelle. I only notice her because among the skinny, shimmering LA bodies and glinting fake smiles, she looks so out of place. Picture this: a nonskinny Asian woman in an ill-fitting black dress (black is less cruel to her than it is to me, but still-who wears an LBD to a party in LA, for fuck's sake?), both hands clasped around a martini glass that she's holding against her chest like a shield. Too much eye makeup. A terrified look on her face. I'm about to glide past her when she glances up and I catch the look that crosses her face.

Pure and unadulterated admiration. Imagine a fan being called backstage after a BTS concert. That's the look on her face. More than just a fan. A worshipper. It seizes me (and do not try to tell me that it wouldn't have seized you too).

I give her a kind smile. I'm gracious, generous. I like to help. There's a special place in hell for women who don't help other women, etc. When she sees my smile, the relief that goes through her face is that of a drowning person who's just been thrown a lifeline. I go to her.

Pause for a second. I need you to fully understand what a huge favor I'm doing here. Because the other thing is that I'm Asian, but she looks very clearly like an Asian person from Asia, and not even the right parts of Asia-not the ones that inspire weeaboos or Koreaboos. I was born and raised in Ohio, and I had to learn a long time ago how to fit in-which parts of my Asian-ness to highlight and which ones to hide. One of the things I quickly learned to do was to dissociate from other Asians who weren't conforming. It might sound cruel, but know what else is cruel? High school kids in Ohio. It was a long and brutal road for me to become The Right Kind of Asian. The kind that doesn't bring anything with a face on it for lunch. (One time, Raj Singh's mom packed him a fish head curry in fifth grade. I looked Raj up on Twitter the other day; he is now an alcoholic. I bet I can trace everything that went wrong in his life back to that fish head curry. It smelled dope, though. I'll give his mom that.)

So for me to now approach this plump-okay, she's not plump, but her collar bones aren't jutting out the way that LA likes them to-this nonskinny Asian woman is a huge risk for me to take. She has everything to gain from catching my eye; I have next to nothing to gain from being kind to her.

Anyway, so I go to her with a kind, empathetic smile and say, "First time at one of these things?"

The "one of these things" we happen to be at is a rooftop mixer for models / actors / singers / social media influencer wannabes, with agents and photographers prowling among us like sharks. She's actually quite pretty under the heavy makeup, but like I said, not skinny, so obviously she's not a model. I bet she has a luscious voice and thinks she can win America's Got Talent or whatever horror talent show they've got going on nowadays.

She gives me an apologetic smile. "That obvious, huh?"

Only the slightest hint of an accent in her voice. And it's actually a nice accent, not one that would get her made fun of. A point in her favor. One less thing to change. "Only because I've been in exactly your position before."

"Really? You?" She gives me a once-over that's overflowing with admiration. "I don't believe that."

I brush imaginary lint off my sequined dress. "Hey, I'm from Ohio, so when I first moved here, I was probably the epitome of uncool."

"I know," she says. Seeing my look of surprise, she adds, "I know you're from Ohio. I follow you on YouTube and Instagram. Your beauty advice is amazing. I'm such a fan."

Clearly, she hasn't taken my beauty advice to heart, though. Is that a mean thought? Damn it, one of this year's resolutions was to stop being so mean, and it's not even February yet.

As though she's read my mind, she flushes a little and says, "I know, I probably have too much makeup on. I know your mantra: less is so much more! But when I get nervous-god, it's like a tick-some people bite their nails, I dab on a little bit more makeup."

"Let me guess: you were very nervous tonight?" Oh my god, why am I being so catty?

Instead of telling me what a bitch I am, she laughs. A full-on laugh-shout from deep in her belly. And I find that I really like her, this woman who doesn't mind laughing at herself.

"Dude, I was so nervous, I almost chickened out of coming out here tonight. I mean . . ." She gestures at everyone else around us, and I see them through her eyes. How ridiculously, painfully beautiful and fashionable everyone here is. How stunningly blonde. "I don't belong here, do I? I can't believe I moved all the way to America thinking I might make it."

"Hey, just because you don't fit in yet doesn't mean you won't ever fit in. I wasn't always this fabulous. You should see my middle school photos. I wore mom jeans. Like, seriously, I was a twelve-year-old who wore mom jeans and thick glasses."

She's laughing again, and there's nothing I like more than making people laugh, so I keep going. "I mean, where the hell did I even get those jeans, right? They don't make them in kid sizes. They're called mom jeans for a reason."

"Well, you've come a really long way."

"It's been a hell of a journey." The unspoken question between us: Am I going to take her on that journey? Make her my mentee? Maybe this can be my good deed for the year.

"I'm Ryleebelle," she says, holding out her hand.

I take it. She has a surprisingly strong grip. I like her. And I promise it's not just because she follows my Facebook and Instagram accounts. In this moment, I make a decision. I'm going to help her. "No, you're not," I say.

She blinks. Laughs hesitantly. "Sorry?"

"What are you trying to be?"

"Huh?"

"Singer? Actor? No offense, but obviously not a model."

"Oh. Right! Um, singer. Well, trying to be."

"So you're on YouTube?"

She nods eagerly. "Yeah, I'm Ryleebellesings on there."

Ryleebellesings. Dear god. "And how many subscribers do you have?"

"About five thousand."

"Change your name and you'll probably get another five thousand." Okay, I mean, I don't know that for a fact, but I'm willing to bet money that her name is holding her back.

Her eyes widen. "But-"

"No one is going to take Ryleebelle seriously." I tilt my head, appraising her. "I'm thinking . . . some sort of plant? Not a flower, ugh. A tree name. Rowan? Hmm, you don't strike me as a Rowan. Oh, I know! Aspen."

The moment I say it, I know we both feel it. The click. The puzzle piece slotting into place. It fits. The uncertainty melts away from her face, and she gazes at me with wonderment. She really does look quite pretty. After my makeover-or rather, my makeunder-she's going to look stunning.

"Huh," she breathes out. "I like it. Aspen. It sounds so . . . American."

I know exactly what she means. In many Asian cultures, people like to give their kids Western names. But they don't have a good grasp on Western culture, so then they reach for the "fancier-sounding" ones and make the spelling "unique," and that's when you get atrocities like "Ryleebelle." They don't get that, like makeup, with names, less is more. And because Aspen gets it, I know she's going to get everything I'll do for her. She'll get that I am giving her the most valuable gift: the gift of fitting in.

2

ASPEN

It is not yet nine in the morning, and I've almost snapped at Elea three separate times.

The first was when I was trying to get a photo of the beautiful stack of sourdough pancakes to post to my Stories, and she stabbed her fork through it before I said they were okay to eat. She totally knew what she was doing too; I could tell from that glint in her eyes. Taking a deep breath, I said, "Sweetheart, wait, please," and she moaned, "But Mommy, I'm hungry. And Noemie's blood sugar is probably getting low." Weaponizing Noemie's diabetes is a recent tactic that Elea's picked up. It drives me insane because let's face it, Elea doesn't give a shit about Noemie's blood sugar. She only does when it suits her.

"I'm okay," Noemie said softly, next to Elea. I gave her a grateful wink, and she smiled at me. My sweet girl. Elea ignored me and ripped out a huge chunk of pancakes. I sucked my breath in, in a sharp hiss, barely holding myself back from snapping at her, but somehow, through some superhuman effort, I managed to bite my tongue.