that girl

"No one wants to hear about a kid at all." Meant to be seen and not heard, the heirs of del Bosque, though Andrea was meant to be seen significantly less than any of his half-siblings. It's nights like tonight that lead Andrea to think that if his mother were given the opportunity to scrub him from family portraits, to erase his very existence, she wouldn't hesitate to take the first opportunity that presented itself for her to do so. "Besides, my childhood ended twenty years ago." If he's still lingering on things that happened to him two decades ago, that's his problem, not meant to be shoved upon the unwilling parties that he interacts with on a day-to-day basis.

He doesn't want to be here. The kitchen is too loud, the party too... well, too much of a del Bosque event. All he asks for is some peace, quiet, and privacy, and that's too much to ask for, apparently. He can't stand being trod on by everyone who wants to make themselves feel a little bit bigger tonight. He's forsaken by the sun, the moon, the stars, whatever controls their world. Maybe he was evil in a past life; he certainly doesn't deserve what he's been given in this one.

Of course he has a problem. He has about a million problems. He's heard enough about his problems for a lifetime tonight. Raising a hand to tell her to quit while she's ahead, she seems to not notice. Or ignore him. He's not sure. No point in caring about that, is there. "I'm not doing improve classes." He's a perfectly good liar about the things that matter. He's walked around every day since he was twelve as if Rafael del Bosque were his father, and no one has ever stopped for even a second to doubt the legitimacy of that claim.

Maybe there's a man out there somewhere that can see past del Bosque smoke and mirrors, but even if Andrea did want to look for him, he wouldn't know where to start.

It's a passing thought. The kind of thing you say because you're used to people not listening or you think whoever is listening doesn't matter. Either way, it cuts like a grater, rubbing raw at the live wire that's been electrified in Greta tonight.

She crumples the cloth napkin in her grip, rubbing at Andrea's jacket now instead of a gentle dab.

Whatever whatever whatever.

It kind of pisses her off, the way he seems to think he's the main character in her life, rather than the set dressing. If she's so annoying, if he's so neglected, he ought to do something about it beyond complaining. But he won't. It's not in the script.

It's a good thing, taking control of your own life. Brave. Powerful. Her hand is scrubbing at the jacket. She doesn't have to do what people tell her to. She won't. She has agency. Exercising it is the right thing to do.

She did the right thing tonight.

There's a twinge in her working arm that forces her to still. She casts aside the napkin into a nearby laundry bin and look at Andrea, voice brutally bright. "Aw, you think I care about you? Like we're friends? That's really sweet."

It's about the point, and she's missing it. If she's out here, pretending to be some consummate professional, some child starlet who is about to hit it big, she should understand implicitly why her actions over the last three days have put her at odds with that. "There are thirty-nine private rooms on my floor. If I'm a nobody — Why mine? You could've chosen any other occupant to annoy."

Teodósio watches her scowl, watches her arms fold petulantly over her front as she glares daggers at him. He doesn't care. He's a mastiff with a bone, wanting only one thing from her... Until the young diva starts spitting venom.

'I don't know why you think you're so important... You should be thanking me.'

Unexpectedly, a smile curls over his lips, though it doesn't reach his eyes. Oh, he can't wait to hear this one. "Why?... Because you're a Du Bois? Because a fool with a camera wanted to suck up to your parents and decided to put you on TV?... Because you're so high and mighty?" He wonders whether forcing her company on the infirm is Vivian's idea of charity, or whether it's her family that puts such self-aggrandizing thoughts in her head. Not Vivian, Greta, he reminds himself. Almost sounds like they're extended members of his family. "Who's the one who thinks they're so important, now?"

If he was older, maybe just a little wiser, Teodósio would let her off the hook. Realize that her actions had amounted to nothing but a small ruckus in an otherwise boring and uneventful hospital stay. Another kid might have even thanked her for it. But his pride bristles at the thought that anyone might feel sorry for him, especially a Du Bois.

Especially a little girl. A little girl who's looking at his wrist, at his—

Teodósio grabs the bracelet quickly, flipping it so that the text faces against his skin. He doesn't know if he's fast enough, and curses inwardly as he talks to distract her.

"Don't flatter yourself. I've come to find you once. You've barged into my room thrice. If there's someone doing the stalking, it isn't me." Besides, this is a public area... Or what should be a public area, though it's beyond him why a hospital has allowed a film crew access to floors that should be reserved for staff, patients, and visitors alone.

At thirteen, Greta is standing at the shoreline, her toes bare in the sand as the waters pull back. She thinks she can see it sometimes, the oncoming tsunami of expectation and irrelevance and a battlefield so much bigger than the Du Bois family dinner table.

There are already talks about where her parents might send her for secondary. She and her sisters are filling out into their own people. Conversations have started to spill out from behind closed doors, ones that are above her head but serious enough to even catch the attention of a teenager busy touching up her pedicure.

Wherever she ends up, whoever she ends up, she's going to be somebody. She may not be clever like Salem or graceful like Nora, sweet like Angie, steel like Kass, or a practiced enough to be a tactician that rivals Tati, but she's got that something. Her agent says so.

Teodósio says high and mighty like a slur, but it's the blueprint. She will be liked. Popular. Loved. Bigger than Monarosa. Certainly bigger than Mr. Nobody himself, Teodósio del Bosque.

He's not what she expected. Not that she's spent much time thinking about him, specifically, before this. But she's seen photos of him a handful of times (ironically in the same kind of teen magazine he finds so repugnant). He isn't, a total bad boy! or, a cutie with secrets behind those eyes!

He's just a boy. Too weak to be the embodiment of "capitalistic malpractice" (or whatever turn of phrase it is her parents use.) Too mean to forgive. He doesn't like her, not even a little bit, so she hates him, this forgettable nobody boy who was her only accessible friend over the past several days.

"You're a waste of time," she bandies back at the stunted line of his back. ------

where: calle 365 when: five years later, 17 y.o.

There's usually a rhythm to nights like these– club, another club, a brief sojourn to the bathroom mixed in to touch up makeup and get a boost if whatever the main course is for the evening has begun to wear off. Back to the VIP booth until they're tripping over themselves to make it to the car and head to–you guessed it–another club.

But tonight is different. Tonight is Greta's birthday, and across the entirety of a playground masquerading as an island, there's really only one place to be. Everyone knows it.

Everyone, of course, includes a swarm of paparazzi. Balanced precariously on her tiptoes, draped over the balcony railing to peer several stories down, Greta can make them out against the dark pavement by the winking lights of their flashbulbs. From way up on the roof they look like clustered stars, the night sky in reverse with them down there and her up here. But then, three too many drinks and a trip to the bathroom deep, up has felt like down and down like up for awhile, so maybe up really is down.

Is she making sense?

She squints and leans over the railing further. One foot leaves behind a scrappy heel as it pops up into the air so she can gain better leverage. All those photographers waiting for her to come down just so they can be the one to take her photo at midnight, and none of them even realize if they just looked up they could get a snapshot right now.

"I don't need anyone to care about my cosmic fate, because cosmic fates don't exist." Andrea pinches the bridge of his nose between thumb and forefinger, turning his back to her so he could take a breath without her eyes boring a hole into his being.

As he's breathing, getting closer and closer to regaining his composure, he's grateful for the time alone. The kitchen is loud, he hadn't realized how loud those places could get, all of the restaurants he's been to with open concept kitchens seem to run harmoniously, so why the fuck is there someone shouting about lemons right now? All that being said, it's nice, not having to put on airs for ten whole minutes; they're too busy yelling about lemons to realize that Andrea del Bosque is mere minutes away from a breakdown on top of a box of crates.

And then she's back to talking about his cosmic fate. "Didn't ask..." he mutters under his breath, closing his eyes, taking one more deep breath before turning around to face her again. "You know how I was raised, you don't need to ask a psychic about it." He's a del Bosque, even if only in name – his entire childhood was practically broadcast for the masses. (Admittedly, not literally, like hers was, but still... that's not his fault, is it.)

While he's looking away, finding his inner peace (or whatever his version of that is), she smooths her hands down his jacket, quickly flipping it over to check the lining as well. There's nothing there but a loose thread in the right pocket.

She flips the jacket back over just as he turned back to her.

"I know how you want people to think that you were raised. People lie about their childhoods all their time." She dabs at a splash on the sleeve. "Who wants to hear about an unhappy kid?"

No one. It doesn't sell, unless you're five times that age and writing a retrospective memoir.

There's a tightness in the middle of her chest. She ignores it, pivoting.

"You know, I didn't tell you this when we last hung out." She dampens the napkin a second time, reapplying her efforts, buying more time. "But I think you have a problem." Greta lets that marinate for a beat, sour and abrasive.

It's such an Angie thing to say. What's almost unbelievable is that she actually means it. But she's sincere, Greta knows, down to the meat of it–that emotions are something to be supported, coddled even.

If the evening's events had been different or Nora was sat at their table or their mother had decided to attend instead of dumping the dinner on their shoulders, Greta could likely be nudged in the direction of empathy. But it's a night of stiff spines, the defensive veneer of orthodontic smiles, and making choices not because you want to, but because you have to.

If Greta carried around a bug in her purse to help her feel better when the reality of life hurt her feelings, maybe Luis Bergé would still be alive. Maybe she would be a normal person, a smoke-rasped voice laughs, one who knew about real relationships.

But her clutch is too small, filled with a phone wiped of evidence and a velvet lipstick necessary to keep up appearances. There's no room.

As she sipped her lavender gin spritz -- more perfume than cocktail, but with just enough bite to keep her present -- Grace let her eyes wander across the room, reflecting on how cinema, in its own unique way, had always captured her imagination. She loved the snap and crackle of the reel -- its rhythm, its texture -- the way it pulled her in with a kind of artistry and spectacle that only cinema could offer.

At the sound of words aimed her way, Grace tilted her head, a faint smile playing at the corners of her mouth, "Oh, I wouldn’t say that,” she replied, voice smooth as silk and twice as practiced. “I’ve been mistaken for my mother three times already, naturally everyone thinks I’m here reliving my glory days.”

She gave a light, airy laugh that didn’t quite reach her eyes. “Flattering, if you ignore the implication that I’m pushing ninety.” A beat. A pause. "I'm not."

Grace took another sip and let her gaze fall pointedly to the girl’s glass -- where the mimosa sat limp and listless, the bubbles that should have been there now disappointingly absent.

“The director’s other film,” she said, almost conversationally, “the one with the great flood -- three extras drowned. One lost a leg. Vivienne Westwood caught pneumonia and never acted again. When the cinematographer raised concerns, Kenneth just shrugged and said, ‘They’ll have to take their chances.’”

She let that hang for a moment, like the last note of a requiem when suddenly a sharp crash echoed from across the room -- broken glasses scattering like shattered promises. Heads turned as a heated argument spilled out from a nearby corner, voices rising, too low to catch clearly but heavy with accusation.

Then came the unmistakable smack of a slap, followed by stunned silence.

And the kind of token anecdote that people over the age of forty-five just love. Why do they always do that? Start every monologue with a verbal figure wag and why I remember when.

Something something drowning, something something pneumonia. Greta is only half listening, preoccupied with trying to figure out why the woman also carries an air of familiarity. She's a producer maybe? Could've worked on that one crime drama Greta did a guest spot on, the one where the car trunk she was stuffed in was too tight and she almost suffocated.

They'll have to take their chances.

There's a quality to the air all of a sudden, there's too little of it, the room feels too crowded. Greta breaks eye contact, looking instead to the little raspberry in her glass sticking to the wall of the flute. She swirls the glass, trying to dislodge the fruit. "Yeah, that happens sometimes." She says blandly, as if remarking on the color of the grass or the wet nature of water. "How's it go? People are always suffering for their art."

Other people's business, as it's often wont to do when you make a living off of inserting yourself in it, saves her. Drama Greta knows, regularly eats up by the spoonful, profits off of. If Luis is going to blow her off she might as well get something out of getting up before eleven.

But people are getting shot nowadays, so as much as a shatter and a slap hold promise, it's probably not savvy to head into chaos alone.

"Angelica," she hisses, in a voice reserved for disputes over stolen tops and warring opinions on whether Lavender Rage belonged on Coronado ☆ Culture's list of worst films of the twenty-first centuries. "Be so, so for real right now."

A quick look inside Angie's bag–any lingering and the royal of nightmares might scamper out–and too many eyes glint back.

"Oh gross," Greta groans through a clenched row of cheerful teeth. She flashes them at the stuffy old woman sat opposite them who glanced over in passing interest.

"I don't know what any of that means," he says through gritted teeth, "and how does your psychic know about me if you didn't bring me up to her?" He doesn't believe her lie. Everyone on the island knows any del Bosque with sense wouldn't be congregating with a du Bois regularly, so why would a du Bois' psychic of all people make the assumption that Greta knew Andrea personally? And don't say it's because she's psychic. Psychics aren't real, and he has liquor down his back, and he knows it's going to dry sticky. He desperately wants a shower.

Still, she takes the jacket, draping it over the work bench and dampening one of the napkins with the water and using it to dabbing at the slightly darker stain while also surreptitiously feeling for any notable lumps in the coat lining and inner pockets.

"The fourth house is about home, family. How were you raised, your feelings of belonging." She leans back, taking in the jacket, eyes flitting to his shirt. Black on black. A blank slate that's already been colored all the way in. Bo-ring.

She feels an odd mixture wired and acutely focused. It could be partially credited to draining a flute the moment they sat down for dinner but an unsettled vibration deep in her bones tells her it's more than that, that if she would just sit still long enough to self-reflect, she would be able to name it. Her foot starts tapping along with the radio.

Intellectually, Greta knows that Luciana is a mother. She's so divorced from the schema Georgia conjures up, but in Luciana's own way, she still looks like one. That demure smile, soft waves of hair. You could buy her in a box, a cold plastic mold that doles out vague motherly phrases when you pull the string on her back. Villa Solana is one of the many jewels in this grand nation's coronet, isn't it? How is the night treating you so far?

two minutes later

GRETA: i'm not drunk enough for this

GRETA: it's the pregame

GRETA: afterparty is themed "throwback"

GRETA: we're whittling sun tributes by the light of fish oil lamps. it's the new hot thing

GRETA: you do it topless in waders and palm hats etc etc

Night can't get worse. He's sitting at his table between courses, having just finished a conversation with a table mate – why his mother would've thought to seat him with Chester Marlbank of all people is beyond Andrea, unless she wanted to torture him. She probably wanted to torture him.

Night can't get worse. Until he's soaking wet with some drink spilled down his back. He quickly rises to his feet, biting back every curse he's ever learned; this is still polite society, and a del Bosque can't be seen cursing out guests, no matter the cause. He does his best to sound reassuring as he tells Ornsby that it's fine, that the suit is black, that no one will notice.

One overpriced bottle of sparkling water in hand later, she parks Andrea next to an empty peach crate just off the main kitchen and starts fishing around underneath a work bench for a stack of cloth napkins. "I didn't ask her anything." Lie. "The planets tell her what to tell me. You were born under a super unlucky star by the way. Your fourth house is totally fucked." Probably true.

A radio by the prep station is playing a top-40 ear worm, rhythmic with the twang of a metallic guitar and percussive drum and güira. Greta pops up humming along, a bundle of napkins tucked under her arm. She positions the lip of the water bottle against the edge of the bench and in a single well-practiced downward pull, pops off the cap.

"Is that what we're calling six months of psychological terrorism? Romance? It's been a minute since I did a romcom. Didn't realize there was genre crossover."

She tells herself she just wants things to go back to the way they were before: easy, meaningless, fun. But if that were entirely true, her hand wouldn't be glued to her phone and she wouldn't have a cigarette in her mouth.

What she really wants is to tell him the truth and for him to be on her side in it. If they weren't nipping at each other, he could reassure her that it doesn't matter, this thing that she's doing, because none of it ever does. Absolve her with the unholy water of carelessness.

Protecting her own feelings doesn't matter though, not when her hands are already full coddling Nora's. She stands, drops the cigarette to the floor and snubs it under her heel. Well, she tried. She'll be an honest woman when she tells her mother so.

Greta doesn't bother looking over her shoulder as she heads for the door. The walk-in is cold, but there's still too much hot air that needs let out. "She's a cheap shot and you're a cheaper date. Come find me when you're done getting off on being a dick and want to actually have fun."

[Georgia]: Oh no... I can only imagine what Theo's poor mum must be feeling. Be nice to her, that girl's had insecurities ever since she's come out of the cradle 👶

[Georgia]: I hope she's been behaving, but I keep waiting for the second shoe to drop...

(a few minutes later)

[Greta]: she'll have her swimsuit in a twist either way

~ 1 hour later

[Greta]: oysters good, foam barf. like swallowing someone's spit. ❤️

~ 10 minutes later

[Greta]: mushrooms!! we love!! i give it four out of five missing gigis

~ 10 minutes later

[Greta]: trout good but theo's nose splint fell into hers which is bad obvi

~ 20 minutes later

[Greta]: guy at our table has never had beef before apparently

[Greta]: he looks familiar. did that tax thing you hated mayb?

[Greta]: "it's so tender!" chews chews chews "really, so tender!"

[Greta]: anyway, review is it's so tender