Brooklyn Girls (16 page)

Oh, my God.

That bitch stole my idea!

My fists clench and my face grows hot. I am so angry it is actually
painful
.

Next to her shiny behemoth, my darling Toto looks like an old toy missing half its fur. No one loves an old toy except the owner. Everyone loves the shiny new toy.

I must calm down. Work first. Anger later.

I plaster a big smile across my face, get back in the truck, and start serving. When my day is over, I start Toto, head for home, and e-mail all the girls from my cell.

That skank-face waitress copied my idea. Pleeeeeease check out @letthemeatcake or the FB page and if she’s anywhere near you, go buy something. I need details. Then I need revenge.

Just think: all that time I was giving my little speech at the Brooklyn Flea, she was making fun of me—but secretly noting it all down so she could start an identical business, too!

“Cockmonkey!” I scream as I drive down Houston. Even swearing doesn’t make me feel better, and you know swearing when driving is emotionally restorative. The radio creeps stations, as it does whenever I’m driving, from “Macho Man” by the Village People to “I Hate You So Much Right Now.” “Damn straight, Toto!” I yell.

By the time I get back to Brooklyn, I have e-mail replies:

From Angie:
Want me to cut the bitch?

From Coco:
Oh no!!!!! That is SO UNFAIR!!!!! I’m doing afterschool activities will be home soon to talk!!!! xxxxxx

From Julia:
M and I checked it out. Very similar salads, low-fat cookies etc. Bought one of everything. Taste-test tonight. We can deal with this.

From Madeleine:
Don’t worry, her truck looks like Darth Vader. And I stuck gum to the window when she wasn’t looking. Mx

I love this new supportive Madeleine.

But skank-face Bianca has put me in a foul mood. It’s Friday night! I should be focused on finding a decent happy hour, getting drunk, and hooking up, like every other twenty-two-year-old in the world. Not fuming and worrying.

I get back to the commissary and clean the truck, my brain going at a hundred miles an hour. I can’t offer a truck as big, shiny, and pretty as skank-face’s, but if I work hard enough, maybe I can come up with more ways to impress customers. If they like the food, they’ll tell a friend the next day, right? All I have to do is work harder.

I’ll start doing breakfasts on Monday, I decide, walking back to Rookhaven. Maybe that would give me the edge over Bianca’s stupid Let Them Eat Cake truck. I could make egg-white omelets, maybe, or do low-fat pancakes. The profits on pancakes must be insane. And what about a SkinnyWheels loyalty card? A tell-a-friend campaign? Yes! I could print up postcards with the SkinnyWheels logo on them; they’re cute and people might send them to their friends, and then when their friends bring the postcards to the truck, they get 50 percent off their first order! Yes! Yes! I punch the air with joy, garnering a strange look from a woman walking past.

It’s still only 4:00
P.M.,
so I head upstairs for a very long bath in the second floor bathroom (there’s only a shower on my floor). It’s very old school: pale pink, with a claw-footed bathtub that you can practically swim in. I do a full de-stress treatment: face mask, hair mask, leg shave, body scrub, the lot. But my brain still won’t stop. Bianca copied me. I’m only barely making enough money to pay Cosmo back. How am I going to pay Cosmo back? What if I can’t do it? And what about my parents?

I’m working myself up into a frenzy. A might-have-a-panic-attack frenzy.

Breathe,
I tell myself.
You’re fine. Everything will be fine.

And for once, I actually listen.

When I get out of the bath, feeling slightly calmer, I notice some words just visible in the misty mirror. Someone obviously wrote them on the mirror in steam this morning and forgot to rub them out, so the fresh steam brought them up again.

UGLY UGLY UGLY.

Holy
merde
.

Who would write that? The most likely culprits are obvious: Madeleine or Coco. They’re the ones who use this bathroom, along with Angie, but Angie showers at night. And Jules and I use the shower on our floor.

The heaven and hell of shared living: there are no secrets. If one girl at boarding school is bulimic, everyone knows about it. Ditto if she’s fighting with her sister, or crying over a guy, or her parents are getting a divorce. I learned early how to protect my privacy. Not writing anything private down, ever, is the most important rule. Including on mirrors.

Maybe whoever wrote it was just having a bad morning. Maybe it’s not a big deal. Who knows.

That’s it, I want a drink.

I put on my motorcycle boots, because I feel like kicking some bitchy skank-face ass, and my backless black dress. I take the book I’ve been reading,
The Best of Everything,
as it’s pure escapism. Purse, gloss, keys, done.

As I walk down Union Street, my mind wanders to Aidan. My knight in shining yellow cab.

Odds are, in a borough of 2.5 million people, I won’t run into him again … and yet I can’t stop secretly thinking about him. I tingle at the idea, a funny squirmy buzz that sort of makes me feel sick. I wonder where he is right now.

The flipside of Aidan though, is the memory of Eddie and all the reasons I can’t get involved with Aidan, even if I have the chance.
Flight risk.
I never want to go through a breakup like that again. Ever. If someone as kind, strong, smart, and steadfast as Eddie looked into my soul and saw that I just wasn’t good enough, that I wasn’t—let’s face it—worth loving, how could any other half-decent guy act differently?

Exactly.

I’m staying single.

Usually, I turn right at Court Street, but it makes me think of driving into Manhattan for work. So today I turn left, and walk past Carroll Park, past people out enjoying the last of the summer sun … till I find myself outside Minibar.

Where Aidan likes to drink.

There’s no harm in checking it out, is there?

(I believe they call this stalking lite.)

Minibar is exactly the
bijou
little drinking den that the name implies. Exposed brick, tin ceilings, wood floors. I order a vodka on the rocks and take a seat at the booth next to the window.

This place is sort of cool, but dignified. It’s not trying too hard to impress you, but it’s not unfriendly, either. It’s just right. No wonder he likes it.

I text all the girls to join me as soon as they can. Only Angie replies.

Worst day ever. FUCKING EDAMAME PHOTOSHOOT. In a drink. Having bars. Join? Think tonight is gonna get wiiiiiiiiild.

Ah, great, kamikaze Angie is back.

I’ve never been the type to worry about my friends, but I’m starting to wonder if everyone is actually a total mess. It’s like we’re all pretending to be fantastic but secretly freaking out, all the time. I wish college had warned us.

I sigh deeply.

“Long day, baby?” calls the bartender.

He’s cute, but for once in my life I’m not in the mood to flirt, so I just smile/grimace at him and stare out the window. God, it’s nice to sit in silence. After the go-go-go of the past few weeks, I can look out the window and just … be.

After a few minutes, however, “just being” gets pretty boring. So I pick up
The Best of Everything
and start reading.

He’ll never call me, Barbara thought, so I can think what I want about him. It’s perfectly safe to have fantasies.… It’s just a crush, but I
feel
it.

God, that’s just how I feel. I wonder where Aidan is right now. He has to be somewhere. Sometimes living in New York seems like an endless version of that movie
Serendipity
. You could almost-but-not-quite run into the same people, the same potential friends or enemies or lovers, for years. How many times have I come close to bumping into Aidan in the past few weeks? What if I almost-but-not-quite run into him forever?

At that moment the phone in the bar rings, and the bartender answers it.

“Aidan! Dude, yeah, I’ve still got it.…”

Aidan! Aidan, Aidan? My Aidan, Aidan? I mean, he’s not
my
Aidan, Aidan, obviously, but—

“Well, if you’re gonna let your dog sleep in my bar all night, I’m gonna hang on to his stupid chew toy, you know.” I hear a squeaking sound, and look over. The bartender is holding up a giant rubber bone, the kind that dogs carry around with them sometimes, like a canine security blanket. “Yeah, yeah, I’ll make sure no one else takes it. It’ll be safe. Have a good weekend, mate.”

And he hangs up. The way he said mate was the way you might talk to a British person to make fun of their accent.
May-t. May-t
.

“Hi!” exclaims a voice, and I look up. It’s Coco. “This is awesome! I didn’t even know this bar existed!”

“Sit down, Coco, I’ll get you a drink. What’ll it be?”

“Oh! Um … okay. Oh, God!” Coco gazes at the menu. “I don’t know.… What are you having?”

“I’m having vodka on the rocks,” I say.

She makes a face. “I’ll have a glass of wine. White. No, red. No, white.”

I go to the bar to order Coco a glass of chenin blanc.

“Is she twenty-one?” the bartender asks.

“She sure is,” I say, with my widest smile. Actually, she’s twenty, but she can handle it. The rest of the civilized world lets you drink at eighteen, for Pete’s sake. I’m trying to figure out how to ask him about Aidan. I can’t, I realize. Not without looking like a crazy stalker. And worse, he’d probably tell Aidan about me. I’m annoyingly easy to describe.

Merde.

“Tell me all about this biyatch who’s copying you!” says Coco when I get back.

Yes. Think about work. Not Aidan. “Well, it’s skank-face Bianca, the waitress from Bartolo’s, the one who was flirting with Jonah at the Brooklyn Flea,” I say. “Anyway, she listened to everything I said about SkinnyWheels, then went and copied me.”

“Why would she do that?”

I look at Coco, confused. Why would Bianca copy me? Because that’s how some people work. Because she’s the kind of competitive girl who just wants to succeed at all costs. Because something about me annoyed her. Who knows? Who cares?

Instead of saying all that, though, I shrug.

“Let’s talk about something else till Julia gets here.”

“I have so much to tell you,” says Coco. “Remember the texts we sent to Eric the other weekend? Well, he totally replied. Let me show you.”

We go through all of Eric’s texts, one by one, and I offer the best analysis I can. Actually, the dude sounds like a dumb jock to me, but who am I to judge? I’ve been that soldier. I’ve fought that battle.

“And he’s in New York! Tonight! I think he might want to see me!”

She shows me his last text.
Pre-gaming from 3pm. The blackout express is on its way to party town.
Urgh.

“I’m going to play it cool,” says Coco. “Can you help me plan what to say? Do you think he likes me?”

Coco and I spend the best part of the next half hour planning her text reply. She’s so nervous, you’d think she’s never been on a date, never had a boyfriend, never had se—

Oh, my God. I bet she’s never had sex. She’s held a torch for this guy for, what, six years? She hasn’t had a boyfriend in the time I’ve known her, she’s certainly not the barhopping social-animal type, she’s never mentioned another guy.…

I don’t know anyone my age who’s never had sex, except for, you know, the Bible thumpers at college. And most of them were probably doing it in secret; one of them dropped out to have a baby (I don’t get it—do they think if there’s no condom, it doesn’t really count?).

I look at Coco thoughtfully. She’s brushing her blond fringe out of her eyes, like a little kid. She looks so damn vulnerable. I just want to protect her and make life better for her. She seems like she needs it.

“I am sure Eric likes you,” I say. “It’s impossible he’s never wondered what might happen between you guys. You’re far too gorgeous.”

“No! You mean that?” says Coco, blushing pink with pleasure. “I … oh, wowsers, let’s just send this text.”

In the end, we settle on
Have a blast. Let me know if you need any tips, big guy.
Coco is almost sweating with nerves as she sends it.

“Hands up if your day sucked ass,” says a voice. I put my hand up and turn around. It’s Julia. “I’m getting a beer. And a tequila.”

“We’ve been working on this deal,” she explains, once she sits down. “I did my one tiny part perfectly, and everyone was happy with me. But then I corrected my boss in front of everyone and—actually, he’s not my boss, he’s just more senior in my team—and anyway, he literally screamed at me to, and I quote: ‘shut the fuck up and fuck the fuck off.’”

Coco and I gasp. “Are you serious?”

“That’s nothing,” she says. “My work is so aggressive. It’s kill or be killed, it’s like the fucking
Hunger Games
. It makes me feel sick. I actually have”—she lowers her voice—“diarrhea from nerves sometimes.”

“Ew,” I say. Julia’s never been so honest about her job before. Most of the time she paints it perfect, in her determined little type A way.

Julia rubs her eyes. Only girls who don’t wear mascara or eyeliner can do that. If I even touch my face, I become a giant inkblot.

Jules sighs. “I didn’t think it would be like this. I thought I’d finally fit in somewhere … but I don’t. I never do.”

“You don’t?” I’m surprised. Jules always seems so confident. Captain of everything, so smart and loud and sure of herself …

“I just can’t imagine doing this for, like, the next forty years.” Julia suddenly looks like she’s trying not to cry, and I’m overwhelmed with the desire to protect her at all costs, too. She deserves to be happy.

“Maybe you shouldn’t think in terms of forty years. Think about short-term goals,” I suggest, trying to be practical and helpful, the way she would for me. “Like, from now till Christmas.”

“But I’m a long-term goal person. I’ve reached my first long-term goal—a banking job—but I don’t feel like I thought I would.” She pauses, and hiccups a waft of booze. “I don’t … I don’t … feel like me.”