Chapter Eleven

Sadly, I can’t skip group. I was really only interested in attending if Wade was going to be there and I could support him through some angst and emotional drama, or at least flirt with him. Since that’s not going to happen, I’m not enthused.

And besides, despite my talents for verbal embroidery, I do worry about being unmasked.

But hopefully I can get through it by remaining inconspicuous. Otherwise I’m probably going to have to make up a bunch of lies about myself and my family, which is hard work, not to mention risky. Things are supposed to be confidential here, but please; I’m not that naive.

Sadly, the second I walk in, flanked by Talia and Jade, I can tell inconspicuous is out.

First, there are only six of us in the group.

Second, the woman who must be the therapist—an African-American woman with strikingly deep dark eyes and a mane of beaded dreadlocks—gives me a long, hard look, then a curt nod, and motions me to sit at the large round table. I can tell already that this is a woman who takes no shit, and who is expecting trouble from me. I guess I left inconspicuous behind when I freaked out in the lounge this morning.

“I’m Mary,” the therapist says. “I’m a recovering addict with eight years.”

“Hi, Mary,” I say. “Wow, eight years. That’s great.”

“Perhaps you could introduce yourself,” she suggests. “And tell us why you’re here.”

“Um, okay. I’m Lola. Lola Carlyle.”

Talia’s eyes widen.

“Carlyle, oh my God, Jules! I knew you looked like her! And Jules and Ben! Didn’t they have, like, the worst breakup ever?” she says, almost jumping out of her seat. “I knew you were famous!”

“I’m not really—”

“Whoa, whoa,” Mary says, then turns to me with a glare. “We don’t normally use last names. None of that matters here.”

“Sure it does,” one of the girls pipes up.

“Why would you say that, Emmy?”

“Uh, because if she didn’t have famous parents she’d still be in solitary after the shit she pulled this morning,” Emmy says.

“That’s bullshit!” Talia says.

“Yeah? Then how come I was stuck there for two whole days last week?”

“Maybe because you were acting like a psycho!”

All of a sudden, the two of them are standing up, shouting and swearing at each other across the table. I look around, amazed at how the rest of the group, including Mary, is taking this in stride.

Finally, just as I’m starting to worry there’s going to be an actual fight, Mary raises a hand and says in a loud, low voice, “That’s enough, girls. Sit down.”

And after a moment, they do.

“Emmy,” Mary says, “Lola and Adam have dealt with what happened, and we are moving on. Lola may have some anger issues to work through and if so, we’ll get to it. Talia, Lola can defend herself if need be. Everybody here is responsible for themselves, and for treating everyone else with respect. Let’s move on. Please continue, Lola. Why are you in rehab?”

Because I’m a fool.

“Uh, binge drinking.”

My one main drinking episode was a binge.

“Why do you drink?”

“Wow,” I say. “That’s really getting to it.”

“Why?”

“Well…lots of reasons. Lifestyle, partly. I mean, everybody in Hollywood drinks and no one cares if you’re underage. So, I let it get a little out of hand. You know how it goes.”

“I don’t, actually. I don’t know how it goes for you.”

“Oh.”

“We’re not so interested in the surface reasons here, Lola. Like, what pain are you medicating for, what’s missing in your life? We want to know the deeper why.” This doesn’t even sound cheesy, coming from Mary.

“The deeper why. Gotcha.”

“So?”

“I suppose it’s related to the quiet place and my inner addict?”

“Sarcasm isn’t going to help you.”

My heart thumps as I feel everyone staring at me. Staring at me like predators, like vultures, waiting for me to show the right weakness (disguised as the deeper why) so they can tear me apart.

As if.

And yet I have to give some kind of answer, and the best lies are ones that are closest to the truth.

“When you put it that way,” I say, speaking slowly like I’m searching deep inside, “I guess my life might be lacking normalcy. And…stability? Like, it sounds so glamorous, the parties and awards ceremonies—my dad loves to take me to those. And I can buy whatever I want, do whatever I want. But it’s disruptive, right? It’s lacking in structure. And I guess on some level, you know, talking about the deep why thing, I’m restless and looking for something to fill the void.”

“The void, huh? Are you lonely?”

“Lonely? No,” I say quickly.

“But that question bothers you.”

I shake my head and give a baffled look.

“Hmm. How much do you drink?”

“Oh my God,” I say with a shrug and a big, self-deprecating roll of my eyes, “I lose track. But I love tequila.”

Talia and one of the other girls give sympathetic chuckles.

Mary studies me; I stare back.

She asks a few more questions. Everyone seems to be watching and listening to my every word as I fill in more of the story about my supposed addiction. I’m glad I spent time working on my “history” before I arrived because Mary has some very specific, pointed questions—everything from what was my first drink and the reason I took it (I say someone handed me a glass of champagne at a party when I was thirteen) to whether I’ve ever blacked out to what made me realize I had a serious problem.

I admit to having blacked out—I actually did—and make up a story about partying too hard and passing out in a bathroom stall at an industry party as my rock-bottom moment.

“Sort of like Charlie Sheen, but with my clothes on and without the porn star or the coke on my face,” I say. “But it wasn’t good when my dad’s assistant found me and had to sneak me out back into the limo. That’s when I realized, you know, that I needed help. My parents are so awesome; the last thing I want to do is embarrass them.”

Around the room, heads are nodding and I feel simultaneously exhilarated and ill.

“Congratulations on taking the first step,” Mary says, and everyone claps.

And I exhale. They believe me. I can do this.