Brooklyn Girls (19 page)

“I got photos of giant buckets of oil and corn syrup and instant egg!” says Angie.

“Yay!”
we all start cheering. Julia high-fives herself.

“Even better? She’s using generic no-name cake mix! None of this is artisan local organic sustainable, whatever the hell that means—”

“Awesome!” Julia jumps up and down with excitement, then suddenly flops to the ground. “Ow, my knee, ow.”

“Okay,” I say, thinking aloud. “I could e-mail this to all the food truck blogs and Web sites tomorrow morning, really expose her, make a scandal out of it.… Is that going too far?”

“Hell no!” Angie yells, at the same time that Madeleine says, “No way,” and Coco exclaims, “She stole your idea and lied! She deserves everything she gets.”

After we get home, Coco and Julia start watching
Marley & Me,
Angie and Madeleine disappear to their rooms, and I feel inspired to research more salad recipes. I need to get the edge on every other salad vendor in New York and make SkinnyWheels the best. I’ve never felt so committed in my entire life. I think my parents would be proud. For once. Maybe.

Then, at about 11:00
P.M.
there’s a knock at my door. It’s Julia.

“What’s up, pussycat?”

“Pia, I’ve decided it’s time for me to meet a man.”

“Okay,” I say, sitting up straighter, as clearly this is a serious discussion for Jules.

“Here’s my rationale. My job sucks, but I can’t do much about that, right? And I know I could do like a photography course or a cooking course in my spare time, but you know, I’m really not arty or … uh … culinary.”

“Right,” I say.

“So, what’s missing is a dude.”

“Got it,” I say, trying to sound as serious as Jules clearly wants me to. “So … Internet dating?”

She shakes her head. “No way. Too intense. I just want to do what you do. Pick up guys in bars.”

I crack up. “Yeah, because that always works out.” Then I realize she’s not joking. “Okay, well, you just…”

“I know, I know. The eye contact thing you always talk about. It doesn’t work for me, Pia. I don’t look like you.”

“You don’t dress like me,” I correct her. “The right clothes, hair, and makeup will give you confidence. Confidence equals charisma, and charisma equals attention from guys. That’ll make you feel good, so you’ll be more relaxed, funnier, and all that good stuff. You’ll be yourself but, you know, the best possible version of yourself.”

“So what now? A fucking makeover montage like a chick flick?”

I grin. “Yes. Before the next time we all go out, you will have your very own makeover montage.”

“Sweet,” she says. “Thanks, P-Dawg. Knew you’d know what to do.”

She disappears. I’m thrilled: Julia has always resisted my attempts to give her a makeover before. She has gorgeous hair, but it’s permanently in a ponytail, and she has great boobs, but she smushes them by always wearing sports bras (I know, I know). And she dresses like she sets herself a timer in JCPenney once a year and goes on a spree, which, for all I know, she does.

Yikes, I hope my advice pays off. I have always hated telling people what they should do, because it makes me responsible for their happiness. And what if things went wrong? Then they might hate me. But maybe that’s stupid. I’m starting to realize that a lot of things I think are kind of stupid.

Restless, I put on my favorite Elmo slippers and grab
The Best of Everything
and head downstairs to get a bowl of cereal. On the way into the kitchen I run into Madeleine. She’s dressed up in … running gear?

“You’re going for a jog now? Madeleine, it’s the middle of the night!”

“There’s a midnight running club in Brooklyn Heights,” she says, putting her headphones in her ears.

“Why would you want to go jogging at midnight?”

“It helps me clear my head,” she says, and with a swish of her ponytail, heads out the door.

She’s already jogged today. And gone to yoga. And had three showers. That’s weird, right? I keep thinking about that
UGLY UGLY UGLY
writing on the mirror. I wonder if it was her. And if it was, what do I do about it? Tell Julia? How do you confront someone about something that they may have just written when they were in a mood or having a bad hair day or something? We all have bad thoughts sometimes, after all. You just have to hope that the good thoughts outnumber the bad ones.

As I pour milk onto Kashi Honey Puffs mixed with Cheerios, I hear a clink from the deck, and peer out. It’s Angie, drinking and smoking by herself. I open the door and shuffle out. She looks gorgeous, in a tiny green dress I’ve never seen before.

“Is that Marc Jacobs?”

“Affirmative.”

“How the hell are you buying new Marc Jacobs outfits when your parents pay your rent and you steal sushi from your boss?”

She shrugs, and takes a deep drag. “A gift. You like?”

“I love,” I say, chomping my cereal.

Then I notice she’s not smoking a cigarette. It’s a joint. And the drink is pure vodka with a slice of cucumber for garnish.

“Angie. Seriously. I know I’m not the poster child for the anti-drugs brigade, but Julia sure as hell is. And it’s her house. Couldn’t you have waited till you were, like, somewhere else?”

“And get arrested? I think not.”

She won’t meet my eye. Something’s wrong, I realize suddenly. Something’s really wrong. Should I say something? Maybe she’ll talk, like she did the other morning, maybe she won’t do her fly-trap act.

“Are you okay? Has something—”

“Hold this,” she says, standing up. She takes a pair of scissors out of her bag, leans over, and cuts the bottom eight inches off her dress.

“What the—”

“That’s better,” she says, letting the fabric fall down to her heels and scooping it up with the toe of her shoe. “Okay. I’m heading to a bar in Tribeca. Wanna join?”

“Nah,” I say. “Angie—”

“Your loss.” She shrugs, interrupting me again, and drains the rest of her drink slightly unsteadily.

“Listen, Angie, do you wanna talk? Is it Marc?”

“Do you wanna talk about Eddie?” she counters.

Ouch.

And five seconds later, she’s gone.

Then, on my way back to my room, I run into Coco. Oh, Jesus, she’s been crying.

“What? What’s wrong? Coco?”

“Marley dies,” she says, taking a deep shuddering breath.

“Oh, yeah, well … he’s a dog. In. A. Movie.”

“And Eric hasn’t texted me back,” she adds, tearing up. “We kissed and now … nothing. I’ve sent him two texts tonight, but nothing! He’s totally ignoring me!” Ah, so
that’s
the real reason.

“Okay, just ignore him,” I say. “Indifference is like catnip to men.”

“But what if I ignore him and he ignores me and that’s it? What if I could have made something happen, just by making a little extra effort? It can’t be over!”

I know that desperate panic thought-spiral. Thinking like that can make you crazy. “That’s not how it works. Trust me. He’s probably just hungover, or having a quiet night studying back at college.…”

She shakes her head. “He’s still in Manhattan, at a party on Seventy-first and Lexington. He said so! On Facebook! Why wouldn’t he invite me along?”

“Maybe it’s not the kind of party you can bring guests to,” I say. Though, obviously, if a guy wants to see you, a little thing like not having a plus-one invitation won’t stand in his way.

“No, it’s because.… Oh, forget it. It’s just like high school,” she says, and runs up the stairs.

“Coco!” I call. “You want to talk about it?”

“No!” she calls back, her voice sounding unnaturally high. “I’m fine, honest!”

Then she slams her door.

I thought I was the only fuck-up, that everyone else was happy and making life happen, just the way they always wanted.

Guess I was wrong.

Maybe we just have to figure out what we want our lives to be, and how we’re going to do it. And we need to help one another. We’re all in this together—this house, this period of life, this strange predicament of being adult and not knowing what the hell that means.

Suddenly, what I want is totally clear. And it’s not SkinnyWheels. It’s not making the money. It’s not impressing my parents.

I want to be
better
at being me. If that makes any sense at all. I want my life to be all about hard work and good friends. Not meaningless sex and free handouts and Eddie-induced kamikaze partying. And not doing and taking whatever I want with no thought for the consequences. I want to be the best possible version of myself. A new, improved Pia.

And I’m the only person who can make it happen.

The first step? Delete all the photos from the Bianca raid tonight. A prank is one thing. Sabotaging her entire business is another.

Anyway, we’ve renamed Bianca’s truck with the spray paint, and maybe that’s revenge enough.

She’ll find it tough to sell from a food truck that’s now called Let Them Eat Cock.

CHAPTER 15

Pancakes are an amazing invention. They cost six cents to make, cook in about a minute, and everyone loves them. So as the first (and only) item on my breakfast menu, they’re perfect. In just one day I’ve doubled my usual profits.

So, obviously, I’m in a great mood as Toto and I drive through Manhattan this sunny Tuesday morning. I’m singing along loudly to Toto’s magically changing radio, which has found “Let’s Get Loud” by Jennifer Lopez, a song that Angie and I made up a totally sick dance to when we were ten. That was probably the last time Angie was uncool. (Of course, making up dances is extremely cool when you’re ten.)

And I texted Lina, that nice mom, earlier to give her a heads-up that SkinnyWheels will be outside her building today. Her card says she’s VP of Strategy for Carus International, whatever that means.

Humming happily to myself, I park, tweet my location, set up, and start shouting, “Pancakes! Breakfast pancakes, gluten-free pancakes!” (Yeah, it’s totally lame, but it works.) Once a line forms, I can stop yelling. For a food truck, the single best advertising is happy customers stuffing their faces.

Angie helped me brainstorm new salad ideas last night. I’ve added five new, much more sophisticated salads to the roster this week, all high in crunch and taste and some with a little extra low-gluten carby goodness in the form of quinoa and brown rice, and some with skin-nourishing omega fats, like almonds and avocado. I’m getting more inventive with herbs, too: dill, rosemary, basil, mint … they can really gussy up a salad. And yes, I just used the phrase “gussy up a salad.”

Just like yesterday, the line for pancakes is five people long within minutes.

“You should get fat-free Cool Whip!” yells one overly skinny woman.

“I think Cool Whip is pretty high in chemicals,” I say in my best polite voice. “This truck is real food only.”

“But it’s fat-free!” she shrieks, scurrying off on spindly little legs. Anorexics don’t visit SkinnyWheels much, probably because they don’t trust my calorie-counting skills, and they prefer to eat sugar-free Jell-O to real food. There were so many ana girls at my second boarding school, it was practically a trend, like Tory Burch shoes or getting your bath towels monogrammed in a not-really-ironic-at-all way.

By the time the pancakes have sold out it’s 11:00
A.M.
, and time to prep for lunch. I put the serving hatch down and am cleaning up when there’s suddenly a loud knocking at the back of the truck.

I open the back door and look out. “Hi, can I help you?”

It’s a guy, early thirties, maybe Vietnamese descent, wearing a Knicks cap and a furious expression.

“You’re in my spot.”

“Huh?”

He points over his shoulder, and I see a food truck double-parked. It’s called Banh Mi Up.

“You’re in my spot. I park here. Every Monday through Friday. From eleven till four. So move it.”

I try to reply, but my voice has disappeared. Oh, no, not again. I’ll just move, I hate fighting, it would be easier to just back down, right?

Then I think about the new, improved Pia. I can handle this. I have a right to be here, too.

I take a deep breath, and, thank God, my voice turns up. “I don’t see your name on the sidewalk.”

“I beg your pardon? Look, little girl, I’ve been parking here every Monday through Friday for three years. I
am
the food truck movement.”

I get down from the truck, stand right in front of him, and try to look arrogant. “What is your problem?”

He narrows his eyes. “You’re my problem. Get in your pathetic little truck and drive away, princess, or I’ll call the cops.”

“So call the cops! What are they gonna do? The one thing I know about food trucks is they stop wherever the hell they want. You want to serve food in the same spot every day, buy a fucking restaurant!”

“You have no idea who you’re dealing with!”

“Neither do you!”

Flipping me the double bird (seriously?), Banh Mi Up jumps in his truck and speeds away with a screech of tires.

I give Toto a loving pat. How dare he call her pathetic?

“Nice work,” says a voice. I turn around. It’s Lina.

“Thanks,” I say. “Jeez, the food truck world is pretty brutal, huh?”

“Deeply brutal,” Lina agrees. “Try the hotel and restaurant world. It’s like a Roman gladiator battle.”

I laugh. “Having a good day?”

“I’m on my way to a focus group run by market researchers trying to prove why anything innovative and new just won’t work.…”

“Fun,” I say. “I always wondered what ‘market research’ really meant.”

“It means ‘to destroy creativity.’ So, I’m going to send an e-mail to my whole company about SkinnyWheels, okay?”

“Tell them to use the code word Lina for a dollar off the desserts,” I say.

She laughs. “Right on, but let’s not use my name, they all think I’m an egomaniac as it is. The code word should be something else …
Brooklyn
!”

Lina must have some serious pull in her office, because from twelve on the dot, the line snakes almost to the end of the block. One guy likes the low-fat brownie so much, he comes back and lines up all over again for three more, which kind of defeats the purpose of eating low-fat, but whatever. Within two hours, I’m just about out of food, which is when a pretty girl about my age comes up, followed by a guy with a beard and a tiny digital camcorder.