Chapters (55)
- Cover
- Title Page
- Copyright
- Dedication
- Acknowledgments
- Cast of Characters
- Part One
- One
- Two
- Three
- Four
- Five
- Six
- Seven
- Eight
- Nine
- Ten
- Eleven
- Twelve
- Thirteen
- Fourteen
- Fifteen
- Sixteen
- Seventeen
- Eighteen
- Nineteen
- Part Two
- Twenty
- Twenty-one
- Twenty-two
- Twenty-three
- Twenty-four
- Twenty-five
- Twenty-six
- Twenty-seven
- Twenty-eight
- Twenty-nine
- Thirty
- Thirty-one
- Thirty-two
- Thirty-three
- Thirty-four
- Thirty-five
- Thirty-six
- Thirty-seven
- Thirty-eight
- Thirty-nine
- Forty
- Forty-one
- Forty-two
- Forty-three
- Forty-four
- Forty-five
- Forty-six
- A note on the Author
My agent stared in disgust at the new tattoo on my wrist. He stabbed angrily at his filet mignon.
“I mean, what the fuck is that, Ruby?”
“It’s Latin.”
“You couldn’t get a daisy or a butterfly?”
“I don’t want a daisy or a butterfly. I don’t want insects and weeds that are going to die on my body.”
“It’s not funny anymore, Ruby. It’s not sexy anymore. It’s not Drew. It just looks fucked up. I thought you wanted to do costume drama. There’s no chance in hell we can get you a Merchant Ivory audition if you’re going to keep going this way.
“You know,” he added slyly, “that you can’t be buried in a Jewish cemetery if you have tattoos?”
“Why are you thinking about my burial? What do you know that I don’t, you filthy little kike?”
“Enough, Ruby, enough. When I took you on, you had such potential. You were so willing to work. If you had done what I said, if you had just behaved on the set and left your body alone, you would be a major star by now, instead …”
“I did leave my body alone. I am not in my body right now; I gave it all up. And I got to be a minor star, which is okay because it means that the ones who are really looking, who are really interested, they’re the ones who see me at night.”
“You’re wrong. Being a minor star means that you get paid less. And that I get paid less. Honey, we could have had you in the Natalie Portman league by now.”
I laid my head on the table and put my napkin over my face.
“Hmm. Natalie Portman. She seems so calm. She seems so happy. She still lives with her parents, doesn’t she? Could you really make me like her? I would,” I whispered dreamily, “like that a lot.”
“No, I can’t make you like her!” he boomed. “You’re too heavy, you’ve got too many tattoos, and you have a horrible attitude.”
“This director likes me.”
“Nobody cares about this director.”
“But he likes me. He thinks I’m talented. He says I’m embodying the role just as brilliantly as he knew I would.”
“You’re playing a school shooter!”
“A school shooter IN LOVE.”
“Springtime for fucking Hitler,” he muttered under his breath, then added, out loud, so loud that the other diners twitched behind their menus, “I can’t work with you anymore.”