Brooklyn Girls (25 page)

“Well, he’s a much nicer person than you are,” she says. “And much less slutty.”

Ouch. “Well, that’s true. I’m not proud of how I treated him, and I’m going to call him to apologize.” I think for a second. “Look, I’m not going to fall in love with him and get married and have babies. I can’t help it. I didn’t feel that thing … that thing you’re meant to feel, and I can’t pretend I do.” Madeleine finally looks at me, her face unreadable.

“I don’t know why you’re telling me,” she says. “I don’t give a shit.”

Suddenly I feel very tired.

“Madeleine, at some point, you’re going to have to decide if you like me or not. And if you do, we need to be unconditional friends,” I say wearily. “I would never try to hurt you. I would never judge you for anything you do. But I expect the same from you. We are on the same side.”

Before she can respond, I turn around and walk out of the house.

Even though it’s past eight and it’s late enough in the year that the leaves are starting to turn, the stoop is comfortingly warm against my butt. I gaze at all the lit windows framing Union Street, with all the families and people and lives behind them, and sigh.

No matter how deep I breathe, my chest still feels tight, like there’s some air I just can’t quite exhale.

Secretly, in my heart of hearts, I’m not anywhere near as confident about making the money back as I said I was. I’m tired. And scared. And juggling so many worries that it’s like a carnival ride of thoughts in my head, round and round and round: Cosmo, my parents, Nicky, Madeleine, Coco, Bianca, Eddie, and let’s not forget I’m supposed to have a date with Aidan on Thursday night.

I wonder if I should go or not.

I can’t even tell what’s a good idea anymore.

“Everything is
merde,
” I mumble.

“Hey, girlie,” says a voice. I look down over the stoop and see Marie coming out of her house, holding a glass of something sparkling, and taking a seat on the bench.

“Oh, hi, Marie,” I say. “It’s me, Pia.…”

“Ah, the truck driver,” she says. “Come on down here so I can see you.”

I skip down the stairs and sit down next to Marie.

“You wanna tell me what you’re cursing in French about? You’re young, you’re beautiful.…”

“I don’t feel young or beautiful,” I say. “I feel tired.”

Marie laughs: a surprisingly youthful cackle. “You can sleep when you’re old, and everyone you know is dead.”

“That’s so cheerful, Marie, thanks,” I say.

She cackles again. “Okay, okay. Sorry, everyone’s problems are serious when they’re theirs. Tell me more. What’s wrong with your life?”

“Um, it’s complicated.… Money. And my job … you know, the truck. And people are never what I expect them to be. And I seem to make mistakes no matter how hard I try to do the right thing.”

“Well, making mistakes is what makes you human. And like it or not, life
is
complicated. My mother always said life is like the Hydra.”

“The what?”

“The Hydra. A many-headed monster killed by Hercules. Every time he lopped off a head, a new one grew in its place.… Life is like that. Every challenge that you overcome will be replaced by a new challenge.” She pauses, thinking. “And that’s the way it should be. The only way to find success and happiness in life is to take a risk sometimes.”

“Is life ever easy?”

“Not if you’re doing it right. But it will be interesting. And fun. And filled with joy.”

I suddenly want to lean my head against her shoulder. Both my grandmothers died before I was born. I wonder if they were like her.

“I’ll try my best. But what’s going to happen next? How can I survive?”

“You survive with laughter … and with the support of people who you love,” she says gently. “Your family. Your friends.”

“I love my friends. But I haven’t spoken to my parents in weeks,” I say, a lump in my throat. “They think I’m a child.”

“Of course they think you’re a child, they’re your parents. They saw you screaming, naked and covered in blood, when you were one minute old. They’ll never see you as an adult,” she says, sounding almost cross. “But they’ll always love you. And they want what’s best for you. Maybe they think leaving Brooklyn is what’s best.”

I nod. “They definitely do.”

“Well, try to see it from their point of view. So much garbage is talked about parents and children and—what’s that stupid phrase?—emotional neglect. Jeez! They love you, but they won’t be your best friends. They shouldn’t be. They’re your parents. You can’t change them and they can’t change you. All they have to do is love you. And all you have to do is let them love you, and love them back.”

She makes everything sound so simple.

“Walk me inside, honey,” she says. “I’m getting cold.”

I help Marie up. “My hips,” she explains when it takes her several seconds per step down to their apartment. Inside, it’s warm, well-worn, and comforting. Sort of like Marie.

Vic’s sitting back on one of the La-Z-Boys, watching some old black-and-white movie and eating candy corn.

“
The Philadelphia Story,
Vittorio? Again? And that sugar will rot your teeth.”

“It happened to be on,” he retorts. “And I’m seventy-eight years old, Marie. If my teeth were gonna rot, they’d have done it by now.” He looks at me. “Hey, girlie.”

“Looks like a great movie,” I say.

“It is,” he says.

We all watch Katharine Hepburn in silence.

“She’s beautiful,” I say.

“And so like Eleanor,” says Marie. “Real class, with a sassy mouth.”

My ears perk up. Eleanor! Vic’s wife?

Vic turns to look at Marie and smiles, but his eyes look shiny and sad. “I was just thinking the same thing.”

I want to ask them to tell me more about Eleanor, and what happened to her, but I already feel like I’m intruding. Vic changes the channel abruptly and hands the remote to Marie.

“Go on. I know you want to watch your show.”

“What’s your show?” I ask, expecting her to say
Jeopardy,
or
America’s Got Talent.

“
True Blood,
” she says. “My grandson bought me the box set. I like that Eric Northman. He’s got something.”

Vic rolls his eyes at me and grins.

I pause at the front door and turn.

“Thanks for your advice, Marie.”

“Anytime, girlie. Remember, life is about taking risks.”

On the way up to the house, I reach into my pocket, pull out a quarter.

Heads I go on the date with Aidan. Tails I stay home and work on SkinnyWheels.

I flip it, catch it, and slap it down on the back of my hand. I take a deep breath, and look down.

Merde.

CHAPTER 20

“Which one of you hellbitches stole my hair serum?” I yell.

Silence.

It’s Thursday night. Seven o’clock. I’m in my bedroom in panties and a bra, my hair wrapped in a towel, my body greasy from the moisturizer I’ve just slathered on. I got back twenty minutes ago from another unbelievably busy SkinnyWheels day and now have exactly an hour before I’m due to meet Aidan at Minibar. And I’m already running late on the beauty schedule.

“My hair is air-drying and soon it will be beyond human control all night and it will be all your fault!” I yell. Goddamnit! Why don’t I live with boys? I would not have this missing-beauty-item problem if I lived with boys.

“Dude, do you really think Coco, Maddy, or I would know what the hell to do with hair serum?” Julia is pausing at my doorway, eating a banana.

I pause. “Good point.” I march upstairs to Angie’s bedroom and open her door. Typical: it looks like it was just hit by a sartorial tsunami, leaving a high tide of fashion detritus on every surface. I spy my hair serum propped against a stack of photos and sketches, and make my way through the orgy of belts, bags, and bras on the floor to grab it.

“Why would she even need this? She’s got silky fairy hair!” I mutter.

“Why are you so tense?” says Julia, leaning against the doorway. “You’ve had a million dates.”

“I … uh, I don’t know,” I say, hurrying past her and back downstairs.

“Can you please put some clothes on?” she calls after me. “I really don’t need to see you in your underwear.”

“You’re such a prude!”

“You’re so European!”

“Ha!”

I apply the product, section my hair in butterfly clips, pick up my hair dryer and brush, and start blow-drying. It is so unfair that I have this much hair. So unfair.

There’s a tentative knock at the door. “Can I help?” says a voice. “I’m good at blow-outs.” I look up and see Madeleine.

“Really?” I say. “God, yes, please.”

We’ve barely spoken since the showdown the other night. Is this a sign that we’re friends again? Properly friends?

Madeleine sits down behind me, her sleeves pulled down low over her hands as usual, and picks up the brush and hair dryer.

“Are you nervous?”

“No,” I say automatically, then meet her eyes. “Okay, yes. I’m so nervous that my tummy is itching on the inside.”

“I hate that!”

Perched on the floor in front of my mirrored closets, with Madeleine expertly drying my hair, I quickly apply makeup: a natural blend of foundation and illuminator to make me look glowy but flawless, and me-but-better blush, eyes, and lips. My hands are shaking so much I mess up my eyeliner, so I just smudge it and hope it looks a bit punk.

I realize that in the scheme of things to feel nervous about in my life right now, a date with Aidan should rank somewhere behind “making $13,000 to pay a loan shark” and “figure out a way to escape parental pressure to leave New York.” But for some reason, it’s not. I’ve convinced myself—yet again—that I’ll make the money through sheer hard work: I worked from 4:30
A.M.
until 10:00
P.M.
every day this week, and made over $4,500. If I can keep it up, and not fuck up again, I’m not going to have a problem paying back the money in full and then I’ll have a working business to impress my parents with. Right? Right. (See how good I am at putting thoughts out of my head? It’s a gift, it really is.)

Now. WhatthefuckamIgonnawear?

The problem with a meet-me-at-a-bar date is that I want to look as great as possible, without looking like I’ve made too much effort. Dresses feel too dressy, skirts too girly, tanks too booby, shirts too worky, and then of course we have the whole shoes issue. Lastly, let’s not forget I’m in Brooklyn, not Manhattan, and Brooklyn requires a kind of knowing nonchalance. I can’t look like I’ve made too much effort.

Usually, focusing on what to wear helps me to control my nerves. Not tonight.

I’m about to see Aidan again.

“Merde!”
I shout.

“You okay?” says Madeleine, putting the hair dryer down.

“Fine, good, fine, fine … wow! You’re done already? That’s perfect! Thank you!”

“Pre-date snack!” says Coco, coming into the room bearing a tray. “Toasted cheese sandwiches. You need to line your stomach.”

I’m too nervous to eat, but I take one and smile at her. “Thanks, Cuckoo.”

Coco beams. “So, what are you gonna wear?”

“Okay!” I stand in front of my open closet, Madeleine and Coco sitting on my bed like an audience. “Let’s start with these boots.”

They both nod seriously.

“And let’s pair them with something low-key, but surprising. Like this little white dress.”

“Nice!” says Coco.

“But … what if that’s too much?” I say. “Or too plain. Or what if I spill something? I don’t even know if we’re eating.”

“What about shorts?” says Madeleine.

“Good idea,” I say, nodding quickly. “Like this?” Black shorts, skinny knit black top.

“Yes! Cool but not too cool, dressy but not too dressy.…”

“And tie my hair in a loose side-braid,” I say. “I don’t do legs and hair at the same time.”

“Right,” says Madeleine. “This isn’t the Real Housewives of Brooklyn.”

“Oh, my God! That would be so awesome if it was,” says Coco.

“God, I feel like I’ve just finished an exam. Dating is so exhausting.”

I spray on my perfume, look at my phone. I’m going to see Aidan in twenty minutes.

Suddenly, I’ve got that shaky breathless feeling that is almost like— Oh,
merde
.

I drop to the floor and lie flat on my back.

“Are you okay?” says Coco. “Do you want a paper bag?”

I stare at the ceiling. Oh God, oh God, oh God—

“Ignore her, she’s being a drama queen,” says Angie, sauntering into my room with a tall glass of ice water and a blue clutch. She hands them both to me. I sit up, take a slug of the drink, and choke: it’s pure vodka, not water.

“Jesus, Angie.”

“For courage. And borrow my clutch. Mani gave it to me. Alexander Wang.”

“Wow, seriously? Thanks!”

“Remember, find out if that chick is his girlfriend,” says Julia, standing at the doorway. “That is question numero uno! And if she is, throw a drink in his face.”

“And don’t let him pay for everything,” adds Madeleine.

“And take gum for fresh-breath emergencies,” says Coco.

“And if you decide to bail, just fake a cramp,” says Angie. “Like, a menstrual one.”

“Okay, that’s enough moral support, thank you,” I say, charging out the door. There is just too much estrogen in this house sometimes.

“Good luck!” shouts Julia as I head downstairs. “And remember question numero uno!”

“Oh, my God, it’s just a stupid date,” I mumble as I close the door after me.

I reach the bottom of the stoop, close my eyes, and take another slow, deep breath.

“You’ll be fine, honey-nuts.” It’s Angie. She bends over for a second to do up the straps on her heels, then takes out two cigarettes, lights them both, and saunters down the steps, holding one out for me. “I’m walking you to Minibar. Then I’m heading into SoHo to meet Mani.”

“You’re spending a lot of time with that dude,” I say as I take the cigarette. “I smell a crush.”

“Actually, it’s Chanel Bois des Iles, but you can call it a crush if you want.” Angie swings her bag over one shoulder and we head down Union Street. She’s wearing a new gray dress with hot pink heels and looks, as usual, like she just stepped out of a high fashion magazine, one of those edgy ones with the girl on the cover snarling instead of pouting. I feel impossibly low-key in comparison, but I’m comfortable. And I feel like me.