Addicted. Zoey Williams
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no, don’t worry about that. You need to help me figure out what I’m going to wear.”
Sydney’s eyes widen as she raises a hand, her index finger pointed toward the ceiling. “Wait. I think that’s in the patient-behavior manual the rehab sent you.” Sydney sifts through the piles of stuff on my bed until she finds and lifts up a two-inch binder stuffed with pristine white paper.
“Okay, let’s see. Clothing, clothing...” She chews on her bottom lip as she flips through the thick stack of pages like a deck of cards. “Okay, here we go.” She clears her throat before reading from the manual. “‘Female patients are not permitted to wear any sexualized items of clothing, including too-tight tops and pants. Skirts and dresses, no matter the length, and all forms of makeup are not permitted. Sweatpants and loose-fitting tops are encouraged. Jewelry, as long as it’s small and tasteful, is allowed.’” Sydney looks up at me. “Got it?”
“So that means I shouldn’t bring my nipple clamps? Because in some circles, they are considered jewelry,” I say thoughtfully, twirling a strand of my jet-black hair between my fingers.
She rolls her eyes. “Come on, we’re going to be late.”
“Okay,” I say on an exhale.
I walk to the far left side of my closet and gather up a section of grungy workout clothes in a bear hug and tug them off the rack, then throw them into one of my open suitcases on my bed next to Sydney, hangers and all.
“Seems good enough to me,” I say through gritted teeth, grunting as I struggle to zip up the bag.
Sydney eyes the pile and sighs.
“What?” I say innocently. “You said we didn’t have a lot of time.”
She glances back at her watch and makes a sound like she just choked. “Yes, yes, you’re right. Let’s get going.”
She bends down to grab my bags—there are three in all—but I put a hand on her arm to stop her.
“Syd, can I ask you a question?”
Most likely surprised by my earnestness, Sydney looks around for a second before responding, “Of course. What’s up, Tal?”
“What do you think of this whole rehab thing? Do you really think it’s going to change the public’s perception of me? And what if I do it and the Zombie Prom investors still hold their ground and I end up doing this whole thing for nothing?”
Syd puts both her hands on my shoulders like she’s a coach giving the star football player a pep talk during halftime. “You’re going to put in your two weeks and it’ll all work out. I’ve got a good feeling about this.” She shakes me gently and a piece of her straight brown hair falls out of her ponytail.
“Really?” I brighten at the thought. “So you think this’ll work?” I ask, genuinely surprised.
“Hell if I know,” Sydney remarks, her green eyes sparkling with amusement. “But it’ll be fun to watch you and find out.”
* * *
We make it to the plane two seconds before they close the gate, Sydney shooting me that I-told-you-so look she’s been perfecting lately as we take our seats. Because we bolted from the limo to the gate—Sydney’s clompy black shoes no doubt leaving tire mark-like tracks on the airport’s shiny polished floor—none of the paparazzi at LAX saw us. But when we land in Nashville, it’s an entirely different story.
Once we pass through security, a sea of eager faces begin yelling at me and thousands of cameras flash like a lightning storm. The crowd is mostly comprised of men with scruffy beards and scraggly hair that looks like its been unwashed for days. Many of them wear all black from head to toe, squinting one eye closed, concealing half of their faces as they draw large cameras to their cheeks. I recognize a few of them, having seen them lurk around Los Angeles many times before; I’m a little shocked that they’d come all the way out here, waiting for me. In true Dottie fashion, she must have tipped everyone off.
“Talia! Over here! Smile for me, Talia! You look beautiful—pull your shirt down a little!”
“We heard you’re going to sex-addiction rehab, Talia. How many guys have you slept with?”
“You look a little skinny, Talia—are you eating? Doing any drugs?”
I roll my eyes, never surprised by their brashness and bold questions. How would they like it if someone said that to their sister or their mother? I can’t help but think. I feel an elbow press against my ribs and, as always, they’re too close. I want to yell at them to back it up, give me some space, but if I do I know they’ll instantly turn on me. My face will be on the front cover of a newspaper with some sort of damning headline—Bad Girl of Hollywood Assaults Photographer—and that’s not what I signed up for. I’m nice Talia now—naive, virginal—and so I lower my head with a meek smile.
I was told to always leave them wanting more—including the paparazzi—and so I silently follow Sydney, who is carving a path through the throng of people like Moses parting the Red Sea, saying “Out of the way, out of the way” in a raised but bored voice like she’s done this millions of times before, which is because she has.
I lift the complimentary blanket I stole from the plane over my head and for a split second wonder if I should frame it around my face like a nun, but them decide that may be a little over-the-top. Instead, I drape it over my shoulders and my arms outstretched in front of me, looking like a child’s impersonation of a ghost on Halloween. Shielding myself from the camera flashes, I look down and follow Sydney’s steps as I scuttle behind her blindly.
After a few hundred steps, the paparazzi still swarming on either side of me, the drone of questions being shouted at me so loudly I can’t differentiate one from the other, I feel the mild Tennessee weather momentarily surround me, realizing that we’re finally outside, before I hear the click and swoosh of a car door opening. Suddenly, I feel Sydney’s hand on my elbow as she leads me into the private car like a blind person.
I flop myself on the plush leather backseat.
“Woo! I haven’t seen a crowd as big as that one since the day I quit my show.”
“That was madness back there,” Sydney remarks, swiping her forehead with the back of her hand. She exhales and lets her head fall back, closing her eyes briefly. “I still don’t think I’ll ever get used to that. I’m exhausted.”
I, on the other hand, feel nothing but exhilaration. After hearing the thunk of our bags being loaded into the back by an airport worker and the trunk being slammed shut, we’re off. It isn’t until the private car passes through the airport exit and merges onto a highway that I finally remember to turn my cell phone back on since I had it off during the flight. It lights up every few milliseconds, pulsing like a strobe light. Ding, ding, ding. Every bell and whistle on my phone goes off, sounding like I’m playing slots and just hit the jackpot. Hundreds of email, Twitter and text-message alerts chirp and beep. I open Twitter and scroll through all the Tweets mentioning me, my thumb cramping after a few minutes of nonstop scrolling. There are thousands of them.
Stay strong, Talia! You can do it! #WeSupportTaliaTruman
We love you, Talia! #WeSupportTaliaTruman
So proud of you, Talia! #WeSupportTaliaTruman
And just like that, I’m trending worldwide. Jackpot indeed.
I open my inbox and there are at least twenty news articles from major publications and networks forwarded from Dottie’s account. Beloved Child Star Enters Rehab; Talia Tries to Get Her Life Back on Track; Talia Truman Repents for Boy-Crazy Lifestyle, Gets Help in Nashville. One of them is accompanied by a picture of me from my children’s television show days—my hair is in two braids so long they fall on either side of my rib cage—juxtaposed with a photo shoot I did last year for an alternative magazine that barely anybody saw. In