“What did you figure would happen when the story got out?”

Silence.

“Michaela?”

“Maybe TV.”

“Getting on TV?”

“Reality TV. Like a mixture of Punk’d and Survivor and Fear Factor but with no one knowing what’s real and what isn’t. It’s not like we were trying to be mean. We were just trying to get a breakthrough.”

“What kind of breakthrough?”

“Mentally.”

“What about as a career move?”

“What do you mean?”

“Did you think it might get you a part on a reality show?”

“Dylan thought it might,” she said.

“You didn’t?”

“I didn’t think, period...maybe down deep— unconsciously— I thought it might help get through the wall.”

“What wall is that?”

“The success wall. You go on auditions and they look at you like you’re not there, and even when they say they might call they don’t. You’re just as talented as the girl who gets called, there’s no reason anything happens. So why not? Get yourself noticed, do something special or weird or terrific. Make yourself special for being special.”

She got up, circled the office. Kicked one shoe with the other and nearly lost balance. Maybe she’d been telling the truth about being clumsy.

“It’s a suck life,” she said.

“Being an actor.”

“Being any kind of artist. Everyone loves artists but they also hate them!”

Grabbing her hair with both hands, she yanked, stretching her beautiful face into something reptilian.

“Do you have any idea how hard it is?” she said through elongated lips.

“What?”

She released the hair. Looked down on me as if I was thick.

“To. Get. Anyone. To. Pay. Attention!”

CHAPTER 5

CHAPTER 5

I saw Michaela for three more sessions. She spent most of the time drifting back to a childhood tainted by neglect and loneliness. Her mother’s promiscuity and various pathologies enlarged with each appointment. She recalled year after year of academic failure, adolescent slights, chronic isolation brought on by “looking like a giraffe with zits.”

Psychometric testing revealed her to be of average intelligence with poor impulse control and a tendency to manipulate. No sign of learning disability or attention deficit, and her MMPI Lie Scale was elevated, meaning that she’d never stopped acting.

Despite that, she seemed a sad, scared, vulnerable young woman. That didn’t stop me from asking what needed to be asked.

“Michaela, the doctor found some bruising around your vagina.”

“If you say so.”

“The doctor who examined you said so.”

“Maybe he bruised me when he was checking me out.”

“Was he rough?”

“He had rough fingers. This Asian guy. I could tell he didn’t like me.”

“Why wouldn’t he like you?”

“You’d have to ask him.” She glanced at her watch.

I said, “Is that the story you want to stick with?”

She stretched. Blue jeans, today, riding low on her hips, midriff-baring white lace V-top. Her nipples were faint gray dots.