Downtown, Delali Tamakloe, child star turned “ordinary student,” was sitting in a library study room so ugly she could not have imagined it before stepping out of Hollywood and into the civilian world. For three interminable hours, Delali had been huddled in the library going over line integrals with the TA-assigned study group from her vector analysis class. A collection of socially weird high-achievers and econ bros who needed the credit, they weren’t exactly the kind of people she’d ever choose to spend time with. She’d put painstaking care into cultivating her on-campus friend group, and it was safe to say these people were not included. So now that they’d reached the end of their session, Delali was peeling away from the group as quickly as she could manage without breaking into a run, slinging the straps of her black JanSport over her shoulders as she went.
Normally, Delali wouldn’t give up her off-campus evenings for anything (and it was her birthday, of all days), but Professor Portillo had just decided to move the first quiz of the year up to Monday evening. Considering she barely knew what it was on—it was only two weeks into the school year and she’d already skipped three classes—Delali knew she needed the study session if she wanted to maintain her GPA. Dr. Portillo, the department head, was also her advisor, and had been nagging her since summer to apply for a master’s in math, claiming she was the best student he’d taught in years. A master’s was a stretch, but Delali had had her eye set on winning the Pythagoras Award—an essentially useless plaque that was handed out to the highest-achieving senior in the department each spring, determined based on a mix of GPA and something they called “promise”—since the day she’d declared her major. She’d already spent an unhealthy amount of time fantasizing about it that year: her face on the university website, a formal acknowledgment of her academic excellence, and a resounding fuck you to the tabloids that had called her a vanity admit three and a half years ago. Her GPA was the highest in the department by a full .02, and everyone thought she was a shoe-in.
The study session helped Delali get up to speed, but only because she basically led it. After a quick look through the lecture notes on PupilPortal, Delali found herself grudgingly settling into her tutor mode, teaching the material point-for-point as the study group guys eagerly scribbled into their notebooks. It was a role that, annoyingly, came easily to her. Throughout her teen years, Delali had often helped the other kids on the set of Georgia on My Mind with their homework, a fun fact she’d ever-so-casually mentioned in nearly all of her Georgia-era interviews. The press totally ate up the story of the actress behind Georgia Simmons, girl genius and preteen inventor, spending her free time tutoring her costars.
It was just one part of the image Delali and her team spent years crafting to set her apart from the other tween starlets. Other stars tweeted snarky replies to @TMZ; Delali volunteered with Girls Who Code. Other stars got DUIs before they even had their licenses; Delali got photographed teaching her little cousin how to drive in the parking lot of her high school. And when other stars decided to make the precarious jump from teen star to serious acteur by starring in Harmony Korine films, Delali moved to New York to go to college and “live out of the spotlight and just be a normal girl for a while” (Elle, June 2014).
Like deciding to enroll in college after the show wrapped, it was all part PR move, part sincere. Delali hadn’t been entirely sure what she wanted from her career after Georgia, but she knew it wasn’t any of the overwrought projects people seemed to expect of her: a slew of gritty indie dramas about conventionally attractive drug addicts and whatever true crime podcast the country was morbidly invested in at the moment. God forbid she have to find a way to intellectualize her role in a Marvel movie. Delali thought college would be the perfect time off to figure out what—and who—she wanted to be. But packing her bags with her assistant at the end of the summer, Delali had a realization that she would never voice aloud for fear of proving her LA friends right: college was almost over and she was no closer to figuring out her future than before. All she’d learned in the last four years was that dumb, tasteless people could thrive basically anywhere.
“Hey!” someone from the study group called. It was Tanner, Delali’s least favorite person in the group. She rushed to reach the exit before he could catch up with her, but as she stepped toward the library doors, the light at the top of the doorframe turned suddenly from green to red. The doors clamped shut. What the hell? She moved to push the handle, but it was jammed. She looked around for help, but Tanner was already upon her. He tapped her on the shoulder. Delali feigned a smile as she turned to face him. Tanner was an obnoxious, ’roided up legacy who seemed to think his square jaw and position on the university’s lacrosse team meant he and Delali were on the same step of a school social ladder she was only vaguely aware of. She couldn’t fathom his decision to major in something he was so naturally bad at (“in addition to his econ major,” he’d tell anyone who would listen), but he’d been in the same courses as her since sophomore year. Delali was so not looking forward to seeing him on a presidential debate stage in twenty years.
“Hi,” Delali managed. A couple of members of the group followed behind him, trotting down the carpeted staircase.
“What’re you up to right now? We were gonna go get drinks.” He gestured to the other guys. “You should come with.”
“Um . . .” Delali silently cursed the library door—she couldn’t possibly think of a worse way to spend her birthday than going to some shitty college bar with her shitty study group. “I wish I could, but I have a friend visiting today. He’s flying in all the way from LA, so.” At least this was actually true: her on-screen best friend turned agent, Lionel, was flying in for her birthday that night, and she’d postponed birthday dinner with her school friends so they could catch up tonight. He’d be in the city for a few weeks, and their only plan was to get wine drunk, watch Insecure, and talk shit. One of Delali’s favorite things about being outside of Hollywood was that she didn’t have to make her birthday look cool anymore. Her phone rang.
“Oh, see, that’s him.” Delali held up her phone. “My friend who’s visiting. Hey Lionel, what’s up?”
“Hey baby girl,” Lionel said, and Delali pulled away from the phone: somehow it was on speakerphone, Lionel’s voice blaring through the quiet library. Delali pressed at her screen frantically to fix it, but not before Lionel practically yelled, “My flight’s fucking canceled. Can you believe that shit? The next one I can get is in the morning. I’m so so sorry. You know I so wanted to be with you on your actual birthday.”
“That’s fine,” Delali said quickly, trying to remain calm. As she spoke she made eye contact with Tanner, who raised his eyebrows excitedly. “Just send me your new ETA.”
“Of course baby girl. I think it’s two tomorrow, but let me text you. The airlines are a fucking mess these days.”
Delali hung up and faced the group.
“It’s your birthday?” Tanner asked. “Ah, come on! Let us buy you a drink. Come on, guys, tell Delali she should come out with us,” Tanner said to the final members of the group as they approached. “It’s her birthday,” he announced.
The others were immediately excited. Delali almost declined again, but then she thought of why she had come to college in the first place, after LA had started to alternately bore and disgust her. Wasn’t this the crux of it, drinking mediocre beer with some randoms in her major at a venue that didn’t have a list at the door? Wasn’t this the kind of authentically pedestrian experience she’d been searching for when she’d left it all behind? Maybe she could text her fuckbuddy Darren, the only normal person in the department, after drinks. Then the night wouldn’t be a total waste.
“Sure,” she found herself saying. “I’m down for one drink.” As soon as the sentence was out of her mouth, the library door blinked green and opened again, as if by magic.