Lauren 1: The Fall

Welcome to the first chapter of the 2025 reboot of The Dirty Girls Social Club, where I bring the beloved characters from the hit 2003 novel and its sequels into today’s world, as they close in on 50, a chapter a day. Lauren’s back — older, maybe wiser, and about to have her life upended by a sunrise hike, a knock on the head, and the fact that her best friend is now… thin? Buckle in, sucias. It’s going to get weird. - Alisa

Some things never change.

Usnavys, for instance. Though we are older and hopefully wiser than we were when we first met as freshman communications students at Boston University 30 years ago – holy shit, has it really been 30 years? – she is still not a morning person. And she still does not want to hike. Not just, like, today. Ever. She does not ever want to hike.

“Get up, please,” I call, through the door of the luxury Airbnb bedroom. She has taken the biggest of the seven bedrooms, because of course she has. It has a panoramic view of the red rocks, a soaking tub big enough to baptize a sinner, and gold-threaded throws draped over every available surface. The scent of palo santo still lingers in the air from last night’s group grounding ceremony. There are crystals on every windowsill, charging like little soldiers.

Her grumbling response, graveled with hints of last night’s champagne, is as simple as it is classic Bostonian Boricua: “Pa’ na’, sucia. Vete al carajo.”

Now, those who know me know that I, Lauren Fernandez, did not learn Spanish growing up, despite having a Cuban exile father, because he did not raise me. My Louisiana white-trash mother raised me. In a trailer. On bologna sandwiches and ‘orange drink’. But I learned Spanish, eventually. Mostly because early in my career, back when I was an angry newspaper columnist who thought she could change the world through a consistent application of sarcasm to the papers’ pages, my editors all expected anyone with a name like mine would have naturally been born speaking the language. Because they think language is genetic, apparently. Anyway. All of this to say, I do know that she just told me, and it was basically this: No way, bish. Go to hell.

“Get. Yer Sweet. Ass. Up.” Just as Usnavys can channel her inner Taino princess, I can channel my bayou swamp queen.

“Go without me,” she says.

“You promised,” I remind her, meaning she promised to do all the activities during the weeklong retreat, hosted by yours truly.

“Y que?” she asks, finally opening the door a crack. I see one of her pretty brown eyes squinting at me. The other is covered by a frizzy mess of her bedhead hair. “Find me one woman who’s never broken a promise.” She stares at me. “I’ll wait.”

Falling into her trap, I start to think. There has to be one. Someone. At least one woman in the history of womankind who has never broken a promise.

“Mother Teresa,” I say.

“It was a rhetorical question,” she says. “Also, by ‘I’ll wait,’ I meant I will wait here, at the house.”

“It’ll be good for you.”

“A sunrise hike is not good for anyone. Also, hike should not even be a word. Hiking is just walking for people who waste their money at REI.”

“Please?”

The door closes, and then she shouts, “Me quedo aqui y ya.”

I take a deep breath through my nose, hold it for a count of five, and exhale through my mouth. Three times. Then three more times. Then three more again, before I give up and move on.

There are three pairs of women friends waiting for me in the zen garden, dressed for the hike. The desert morning is crisp, air sharp with juniper and sage. A gentle breeze carries the faint sound of wind chimes from the back patio. The smooth flagstone beneath our feet is still cool with nighttime desert chill. The rosemary bushes lining the path release a pungent, herbal tang as we brush past. For a moment, I worry I’ve forgotten their names, even though we’ve been here for two days already. Then I remind myself that this, this voice, this negative, self-sabotaging voice that still sneaks its way into my heart sometimes, is old and does not serve me anymore. I am not an imposter. I deserve to be here. I deserve to lead this group. I have actually helped them. I am worthy of being the woman I’ve become. And just like that, their names come to me. Charlotte and Camille, best friends since childhood in Augusta, Maine. Jules and Ramona, self-proclaimed straight and married “work wives,” who might or might not be having an actual physical affair, but it’s not my place to ask. And Hannah and Zoe, the youngest two, both of them Gen Z gamers hoping to become “way more offline.”

“Good morning,” I say. I press the palms of my hands together above my heart chakra, and smile. As they smile back at me in this mildly starstruck way, I have to push her down. The old Lauren. The one who says I don’t know why anyone would think I deserve to be loved this much, so much that each pair has paid $15,000 to be here. I have not told them that my own best friend will not be joining us, both because they do not need to know and also because it might undermine my authority as a spiritual leader of a retreat called Healing Women’s Friendships.

Don’t laugh.

Some things do change.

Me, for instance.

The morning is beautiful as we wind our way along the Devil’s Bridge Trail. The trailhead is rimmed with rust-colored gravel and scrubby mesquite, and every few steps the desert blooms seem to change—prickly pear pads dotted with yellow flowers, desert marigolds waving like tiny suns. Our boots crunch softly against the dusty red earth. In the distance, a hawk glides silently over a sandstone bluff. The sun’s just cresting the horizon, light pouring in gold filigree over the cliffs. The air smells of iron and sagebrush and new beginnings.

We walk silently and mindfully, taking in the spectacular views with reverence and awe and wonder. The fall happens so quickly I almost don’t have time to register it. My foot hits a loose patch of earth at the bend in a switchback, and the trail gives way. I remember a flash of vertigo, a sudden weightlessness, like a misstep in a dream.

Then pain. My body slams against the slope. Dust flies up in clouds. A blinding white hot crack splits through my skull.

Darkness.

I open my eyes. Where am I? The sky is pale blue, and all around me are these orange bluffs and cliffs. Not Boston. There are women with their arms crossed standing around me, with worried eyes. A man is kneeling by the side, strapping me down.

“Ms. Fernandez?” he says. He’s cute. I wonder if he's single?

I don’t know who he’s talking to. But he’s looking at me. Why is he calling me that?

The world wobbles and I rise, unsteadily, still on my back. I’m on a cot of some sort, and the cute guy is carrying me, with the help of two other men.

“We got you, okay?” says the cutie pie. "Just relax, as best as you can."

“What’s your name?” I ask.

“George."

"Are you married?"

He laughs. "Not yet. How about you?"

"I was engaged to this fool, Ed the Bigheaded Texican. And now I've been seeing this Dominican drug dealer named Amaury, but I think he's cheating on me. If I boot him to the curb, will you take his place?"

"Um, Can you tell me your first name?” says George. He and one of the other paramedics share a bemused but worried glance.

I feel insulted by the question, until I realize… I can’t. I can't tell him my first name.

"What the hell?" I say. "How do I not know my name?" I begin to panic.

“Okay, don’t worry,” he says. "Everything is going to be alright."

“Paramedic,” I say. Then I realize he might think I’ve just told him my name is paramedic. “I mean, you are. I'm not. You're a paramedic. And I'm in a stretcher.”

“Yes, I’m a paramedic. You’re in good hands. We’ll have you off the trail in a minute or two, just hang tight for me.”

"What trail?" I look around again. Desert. I live in Boston, not in any place like this.

“Where are we?” I ask. Then I remember. “No, don't tell me! New Mexico?” Of course it’s New Mexico. I’m at the Tamaya Resort, with the sucias, for our yearly get together. Rebecca picked it, because of course she would. Next year, if I have my way, we'll go somewhere interesting, like Paris.

“We're in Sedona, Arizona,” says George. "On the Devil's Bridge Trail. You had a fall."

“No,” I say. “You are mistaken. This is New Mexico.”

George tells me to try to stay quiet and keep my mind blank, not to get upset.

"We're almost there, hon," he says.

"You're gay," I say. "God damnit. The hot ones are always gay. No straight man has ever called me 'hon.'"

"Shh," he says.

---

“I need to throw up,” I say, once we’re in the ambulance. The motion is making me sick. George holds a pink plastic tray shaped like a kidney bean to my mouth. This is familiar, this act of vomiting. Something I do. Vomiting, my old friend.

“Lauren!” I tell him. The memory comes. Me, in a circle with other people, sitting on fold-out chairs in a church basement. Hi, my name is Lauren, and I’m a bulimic. And their answer: "Welcome, Lauren."

“Good,” says George.

"I binge and purge," I tell him.

"Uh huh," he says distractedly, making a whirling hand motion to one of the other paramedics.

As they wheel me into the hospital, a thin, glamorous older woman, all cleavage and designer everything, maybe in her late forties, jogs alongside the gurney. She smells like Tom Ford and cocoa butter. She reminds me of Halle Berry, but old.

“Oh, my God, Lauren!” she says. “What the actual fuck?”

I try to place her. The voice is familiar. So are her eyes. She’s babbling some kind of apology about how she should have come with me, but she took Ambien and melatonin and it can be hard for her to get up when she does that. "Also," she says, "I hate hiking."

“I’m sorry,” I say. “Who are you?”

The woman looks at George, her mouth dropping open. “Is that a joke? Is she joking right now? Because I'm not in the mood.”

“She hit her head pretty hard,” he says, and the woman stares at me with grave concern.

“Sucia,” she says. “You tellin’ me you don’t know who I am? Me? Your best friend for 30 years?”

I shake my head, but the motion sends a stabbing pain straight through the center of my skull.

“My best friend is fat,” I say. “But beautiful. She wears it well. And she wouldn’t be here because she’s probably getting it on with the golf pro right now. She cheats on her husband. Also, I’m only 32, and I doubt I met you when I was two, unless you were, like, my babysitter, but my parents didn't believe in babysitters when there was a perfectly good television in the house.”

The woman’s face screws up and she looks shocked.

“Lauren,” she says. “Are you fucking with me right now?”

“I don’t even know you,” I say. “Why would I fuck with you?”

“I’m Usnavys,” she says.

I stare at her, and start to laugh. But then I see it. The same eyes. The same mouth. But this woman is old, and thin. She frowns, but pats my arm. Her fingers and wrists drip with gold and diamonds.

“Don’t worry, m’ija,” she says. “We’ll get the best doctor they have, and if she’s not good enough, I’ll get Trevor to send a plane and we’ll get you to the best doctor in the world.”

"Trevor? Who the fuck is Trevor?"

---

💅🏽 Wait—you're really gonna stop here? After that fall, that throw-up tray, and that mystery hottie named George?

Come on, sucia. You know you want more.

While this first chapter is free for everyone, the rest of them are going to be available for paid subscribers only! But don’t worry. Subscriptions are only $1.50 a week.

For just $6/month, you’ll get:

• Full access to this hot mess of a reboot

• New chapters every week (unless I fall off a cliff too)

• Bonus drama, secrets, and probably a scandal or two

• My eternal love and maybe a handwritten note if you're cute

Subscribe now, or be haunted by Usnavys whispering “Vete al carajo” in your dreams.

Also, do you have someone in your life who loved The Dirty Girls Social Club? Share this chapter with them!