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junk in the first fucking place.”
    “She didn’t ‘shoot’ anything,” I stress. “It was a purely nasal habit.” Pause, check my fingernails again. “She’s just very unstable right now.”
    “What? She gets a blackhead and wants to kill herself?”
    “Hey, who wouldn’t?” I sit up a little more.
    “No Vacancy. No Vacancy. No Vac—”
    “Axl Rose and Prince both wrote songs about her, may I remind you.”
    “Yeah, ‘Welcome to the Jungle’ and ‘Let’s Go Crazy.’” Alison walks out of the closet wrapped in a black towel and waves me off. “I know, I know, Chloe was born to model.”
    “Do you think your jealousy’s giving me a hard-on?”
    “No, only my boyfriend does that.”
    “Hey, no way do I want to get it on with Damien.”
    “Jesus. As usual, you’re so literal-minded.”
    “Oh god, your boyfriend’s a total crook. A blowhard.”
    “My boyfriend is the only reason, my little himbo, that
you
are in business.”
    “That’s bullshit,” I shout. “I’m on the cover of
YouthQuake
magazine this month.”
    “Exactly.” Alison suddenly relents and moves over to the bed and sits down next to me, gently taking my hand. “Victor, you auditioned for all three ‘Real World’s, and MTV rejected you
all three times.”
She pauses sincerely. “What does that tell you?”
    “Yeah, but I’m one fucking phone call away from Lorne Michaels.”
    Alison studies my face, my hand still in hers, and smiling, she says, “Poor Victor, you should see just how handsome and dissatisfied you look right now.”
    “A hip combo,” I mutter sullenly.
    “It’s nice that you think so,” she says vacantly.
    “Looking like some deformed schmuck and suicidal’s better?” I tell her. “Christ, Alison, get your fucking priorities straightened out.”
    “My priorities straightened out?” she asks, stunned, letting go of my hand and placing her own to her chest. “My priorities straightened out?” She laughs like a teenager.
    “Don’t you understand?” I get up from the bed, lighting a cigarette, pacing. “Shit.”
    “Victor, tell me what you’re so worried about.”
    “You really want to know?”
    “Not really but yes.” She walks over to the armoire and pulls out a coconut, which I totally take in stride.
    “My fucking DJ’s disappeared. That’s what.” I inhale so hard on the Marlboro I have to put it out. “No one knows where the hell my DJ is.”
    “Mica’s gone?” Alison asks. “Are you sure she’s not in rehab?”
    “I’m not sure of anything,” I mutter.
    “That’s for sure, baby,” she says faux-soothingly, falling onto the bed, looking for something, then her voice changes and she yells, “And you
lie!
Why didn’t you tell me you were in South Beach last weekend?”
    “I wasn’t in South Beach last weekend, and I wasn’t at the fucking Calvin Klein show either.” Finally the time has come: “Alison, we’ve got to talk about something—”
    “
Don’t
say it.” She drops the coconut into her lap and holds up both hands, then notices the joint on her nightstand and grabs it. “I know, I know,” she intones dramatically. “There
is
a compromising photo of you with a girl”—she bats her eyes cartoonishly—“supposedly moi,yada yada yada, that’s going to fuck up your relationship with that dunce you date, but it will also”—and now, mock-sadly, lighting the joint—“fuck up the relationship with the dunce
I
date too. So”—she claps her hands—“rumor is it’s running in either the
Post
, the
Trib
or the
News
tomorrow. I’m working on it. I have people all over it. This is my A-number-one priority. So don’t worry”—she inhales, exhales—“that beautiful excuse for a head of yours about it.” She spots what she was looking for, lost in the comforter, and grabs it: a screwdriver.
    “Why, Alison? Why did you have to attack me at a
movie premiere
?” I wail.
    “It takes two, you naughty boy.”
    “Not when you’ve knocked me