Brooklyn Girls Page 12

  Madeleine jumps up and rinses out our bowls, and my words trail off. A really long silence follows. I’m staring at Madeleine and she’s staring into the sink.

  “I’m sorry about that night,” she says finally, without turning around. “I was embarrassed about it, and then I was angry at myself. I guess I just took it out on you, and then it was just sort of the way things were.”

  “But why … why did you say that stuff?” I ask. “I thought we were friends.”

  Another long silence.

  “Everything is—or was—always easy for you,” she mumbles finally.

  “What?” I say. Did I just hear her right?

  Madeleine turns around, chewing her bottom lip.

  “You always seemed to have everything so easy. At college. Your parents are rich, you’re thin, your skin is perfect, you make friends easily, you always look just right. You’ve never had a problem in your life.”

  My jaw drops open. “That’s why we haven’t spoken in years? Because you think everything is easy for me? That’s not even true!”

  “Whatever,” she says. “And that night when I said that stuff, I’d heard the, um, guy I liked talking about you. He was crazy about you and you were totally oblivious. I was, I don’t know—”

  “Jealous?” I say. “Who was the guy?” I don’t remember Madeleine liking anyone in freshman year, she was all about studying.

  Madeleine sits down and picks up the pack of cards, shuffling them awkwardly. “Does it matter? I guess I just thought, it’s not fair. Nothing ever goes wrong for you. You’re always at the center of everything. People always automatically like you. When you say something, everyone listens. It’s like you have … a sense of social entitlement or something.”

  “Social entitlement?” I don’t know whether to laugh or cry. Or slap her. “But—but I just try to be friendly. This is hilarious. I’ve spent my entire life trying to look like I belong and never feeling it, and it worked so well that you hate me!”

  “But you never look nervous. Or awkward.”

  “Just because I act like that doesn’t mean I’m not a total mess on the inside, dude,” I say. “And everything has not been easy for me. I was kicked out of two boarding schools, okay?”

  “You were? Why?”

  “I don’t want to talk about it right now,” I say, my voice shaking. These are the hot, shameful memories I try to bury deep inside of me. Deeper than my Eddie memories, deeper than anything else. The memories that make me hate myself.

  Madeleine still won’t let it go. “But I bet you were popular.”

  “Popularity is a myth,” I say. “And I never fit in anywhere, not really. I don’t keep in touch with anyone from any of my boarding schools. I had panic attacks.… I still do, sometimes. After I was expelled the second time, my mother told me she was ashamed to have me for a daughter.” I close my eyes, willing the memory to go away. Even thinking about that makes me feel sick. It was the worst fight ever. “Things between my mother and me have never been the same.”

  “Your parents love you. They call you all the time. My dad hasn’t called me since my thirteenth birthday. And my mother prefers my stepbrothers to me. It’s like a family joke, it’s so obvious.”

  “Maddy, this is ridiculous. Are we competing over whose life is the shittiest? I don’t know what it’s like to be you, you don’t know what it’s like to be me, so how can you judge?” I feel tears coming on. Oh, God, no, please don’t let me cry. “I’m just trying my best, Madeleine. Jesus!”

  “Okay, I’m so sorry,” she says. “I was wrong. I’m sorry, please don’t cry!”

  Tears are escaping out of my eyes and running down my face. “I hate crying, it’s so itchy. And I wasn’t even sad.”

  “Sometimes crying just feels good,” says Madeleine, and we both laugh through our tears, sorry to sound like an episode of fucking Gilmore Girls, but it’s true. “I didn’t mean to upset you. I’m fucked up.” She pauses, staring into space. “I’m totally fucked up.”

  “Everyone is fucked up in different ways!” I say. “That’s what makes us special.”

  Madeleine laughs.

  This is nice. Slightly awkward, but nice.

  “So … what’s with you and my brother?”

  For a second, I’m too shocked to reply.

  “Um … nothing.”

  “What, do you think I’m blind? I saw you making out at the party! And he told me you guys have been flirting over text!”

  We have? Oh. Merde. That textual healing tutorial for Coco.

  “Well, Mads, you know, um, I think your brother is an incredibly nice guy, and really funny and good-looking, but…”

  “You just hate those nice, funny, good-looking ones, huh?”

  “Ha,” I say, thinking about that Aidan guy from the cab the other night. He was perfect. But I’ll never see him again. And there is no such thing as perfect.

  Madeleine sighs. “Just promise me you won’t break Mike’s heart. He’s only had one girlfriend.”

  “I won’t,” I say. As if I could break his heart! Jesus, we only kissed once. Okay, we had sex. Whatever. “I promise.”

  Madeleine jumps up again, looking through her herbal tea collection. With all the serious stuff out of the way, I can’t think of anything to say. How do you start chatting normally after so many years of ignoring each other?

  “I love living here,” she says finally, looking around the kitchen. “I feel like it’s the only thing in my life that works right now.”

  “You don’t love your job?” I’m surprised.

  “I wouldn’t say love … I mean, it’s fine. I just feel stressed about how much I have to do sometimes.”

  “Yeah, you work really long hours.”

  “No … I mean, like, how much I have to prove. I need to get on the fast track for promotions at work, and that means impressing the right people, and I need to find a boyfriend and then a husband, and get married and have children, all by thirty.”

  “That’s, like, eight years away,” I say. I never think about being thirty. Hell, I never think about being twenty-five.

  “But that’s a lot to do. And I’m the only person who can do it. No one is going to do it for me. What if I fail?” She’s staring into space, chewing her lip. “Sometimes I feel like getting through school and college and landing my first job was this long, exhausting marathon, and now someone’s said, okay, whatever, now you have another marathon right away. I’m right back at the starting line. It’s like everything I’ve done so far doesn’t count.”

  “Everything will work out just the way you want it to,” I say. “At least you know what you want.”

  Madeleine laughs. “I do not! I just know what I’m supposed to want! And what if it doesn’t work out? What if I’m the person who ends up unemployed and single and living at home with my mother, watching Jeopardy?”

  “Then … you’ll probably be totally happy with that decision.”

  “I don’t want to be happy with that decision! I don’t want it!” Madeleine slams her hands on the table.

  “Okay, Maddy, calm down.…” Then I say the four words I never believe when I say them to myself. “Everything will be fine.”

  Madeleine looks over at me. “I hope you’re right.”

  CHAPTER 11

  It’s Sunday afternoon. Cosmo’s coming over in a couple of hours for his first thousand-dollar interest payment. I’m looking forward to catching up with him.

  Once I pay him, I’ll only have three hundred left in my Barbie lunchbox. I admit, I was kind of expecting to earn a bit more, or for the ingredients to cost a bit less, you know?

  But it was only my first week. I had a lot of unexpected expenses. And you need to spend money to make money, right? It’s weird for me to be so work-focused, but I love it. I still have ages before I have to repay the entire loan (and before my parents arrive), and by then, I’ll be rolling in the Benjamins, as they say. (Yeah, they totally say that.)

  Want to he
ar something shocking? Maddy and I are definitely friends again! It’s making life at Rookhaven so much easier. Take yesterday afternoon, for example: we hung out in the kitchen as I was experimenting with low-fat banana bread recipes, and then Angie, Julia, and Coco tested them with us and then—this is the real kicker—we all played cards around the kitchen table. It was Angie’s idea; she’s a poker fiend from way back. Talk about good clean fun: it was like something out of a goddamn Norman Rockwell painting. If, uh, Norman Rockwell characters played poker for matchsticks and drank beer.

  And from what I can tell, Angie’s recovering from her meltdown. She’s currently at some all-day boozy brunch in Manhattan. Julia’s gone to a kickboxing class, dragging a reluctant Coco along with her. I think Madeleine is upstairs. And I’m eating leftover ham and pea soup that Coco made last night and writing out tomorrow’s menu.

  Salad 1 = chicken + avocado + snow peas + beets + cherry tomato + reduced-fat feta + baby greens

  Salad 2 = turkey + watercress + almonds + apple + celery + reduced-fat cheddar + baby greens

  Salad 3 = (tuna + low-fat mayo) + boiled egg + sweet corn + cannellini beans + iceberg

  Salad 4 = avocado + cherry tomato + sweet potato + spinach

  Salad 5 = cottage cheese + apple + ham + almonds + baby greens

  Dessert 1 = brownie (– fat)

  Dessert 2 = banana bread (– fat)

  It’s not exactly the most exciting salad menu ever, I know. But it’s getting there.

  I take a moment to send a tweet. 11am tomorrow: 23rd and Park. Savor your food and save your ass with SkinnyWheels x PS first 10 to RT get a free brownie.

  I’ve also expanded the dressings. There’s a tzatziki one called Angie, a ginger-miso one called Coco, and a low-fat ranch dressing after Madeleine. Ranch has never been my favorite, but it’s growing on me. Ha.

  At that moment, my phone rings. Mike.

  Again? He’s called almost every night this week. And texted, and Facebooked.

  I contemplate ignoring it—he’ll get the message, right?—and then I remember Madeleine’s request. I really don’t want to ruin this new détente we’re enjoying.

  Apparently I need to make my feelings clear. Simply ignoring him in the weeks since we hooked up clearly wasn’t enough.

  So I make my voice super-chilled and calm.

  “Why, hello.”

  “You’re alive! Okay, I’ve gotta go, there are some Saint Bernards patrolling the streets right now looking for you.…”

  I can’t help laughing. “I’ve been a busy girl, Michael.”

  “Michael! Wow. Nobody’s called me that since I was seven and stole an Oh Henry! bar from a grocery store in Maryland.”

  “You stole an Oh Henry! bar? Does anyone even eat them?”

  “I love them,” Mike says, sounding hurt. “Seriously. They’re the best candy bar ever.”

  I laugh, but I’m waiting for him to get to the point. C’mon, dude. I have to get up early tomorrow.

  “Well”—he clears his throat—“I was wondering if you’d like to have a playdate next weekend. You know … go to the park, play on the swings, feed the ducks.…”

  “Dude, that’d be great, but I’ve started this business. I’m experimenting with low-fat cookie and cheesecake recipes.”

  “You bake?” he says, barely containing his amusement.

  “Affirmative,” I say, trying not to sound annoyed. Why does everyone find it so hilarious that I bake now? It’s not rocket science. Julia came into the kitchen this morning and saw me wearing Aunt Jo’s frilly apron and oven mitts, and laughed so hard she fell over and hit her head on the doorframe.

  “I’ll help you,” he says. “I know a guy who keeps chickens in Red Hook. I’ll get you some eggs.”

  “Are you kidding?”

  “Nope,” he says. “Best eggs you ever tasted in your life.”

  At that moment the doorbell rings. Cosmo!

  “Aces,” I say quickly. “That would be awesome. Can you bring them over? Maybe next Saturday?”

  There’s a pause. “I’m your egg delivery boy now?”

  “Uh, I didn’t mean it like that,” I say, walking out of the kitchen toward the front door. Why is Mike so damn touchy? Sheesh. Just like Madeleine. “How about we grab a drink or something on Friday night instead and you can give them to me then.”

  “Friday night, eight o’clock? Brooklyn Social? It’s a date!”

  “It’s a drink,” I say firmly as the doorbell rings again. “I gotta go.” I hang up, reaching for the door. “Cosmo!”

  But it’s not Cosmo.

  It’s a giant. A Transformer-shaped giant in a tight black T-shirt and black jeans with huge beefed-up shoulders and no ass. The kind of guy who thinks he’s buff because he takes steroids and pumps iron, though the reality is acne-studded fat city. So not my bag.

  “I’m Nicky,” he says in an unexpectedly high voice. “Cosmo is in the car.”

  I look behind him and see a Prius double-parked next to Toto.

  “Cosmo drives a Prius?”

  “He’s highly evolved,” says Nicky. I grin at him, thinking he’s being funny. He’s not. “I’m here for the money.”

  “Sure, I’ve got it upstairs, why don’t you come in and have a seat?” I say.

  “No, I’ll wait here.”

  Nicky folds his arms and a sudden realization washes over me: Nicky is a heavy. He’s the brawn, the muscle, the bad guy.

  And all of a sudden, I’m scared.

  “I’ll … just … get it now.”

  I leave the front door open, because closing it on his face feels kind of rude, and run upstairs. Then I run back, as fast as I can, a clutching fear in my stomach, and hand over the envelope.

  “It’s there, the full thousand, you don’t have to count it.”

  “If it’s all the same to you, I will anyway,” says Nicky. I nod, and watch as he meticulously counts the money twice over, then nods. “Next week, have it ready,” he says. “Cosmo doesn’t like waiting.”

  Nicky walks slowly down the stoop, back to the Prius, and gets in the passenger side. Cosmo turns to talk to him, then looks out the window and up at me in the open doorway for a second.

  Then he drives away.

  At that moment, I hear Vic coughing from his customary early-evening position on the bench outside his apartment.

  I lean over the stoop. “Good evening, Vic!” God, I hope he didn’t hear any of that.

  “You fraternizing with those guys in the Prius?” he asks.

  “They’re just friends.”

  “Friends like those,” he mutters. “You watch yourself, Pia, you hear me?”

  “I will, I promise,” I say, trying to sound lighthearted. “Don’t worry about me.”

  Vic doesn’t reply, so before the silence can get awkward, I say, “Night!” and head inside.

  CHAPTER 12

  But by the end of the week, I’ve decided that the whole Nicky-Cosmo thing is fine. Totally fine.

  Nicky can’t help being a roid-droid. Well, he can, obviously, but whatever. Maybe he’s insecure. Maybe he was a skinny, helpless little teenager who got picked on by the bigger kids. Judge not lest ye be judged, and all that shit.

  Anyway, I’ve had another awesome week on the SkinnyWheels trail. I’ve easily made enough money to pay Cosmo back this week and everything. I’ll have no problems making it all back, I know it.

  I think Toto is in a good mood, too: her radio magically tuned into a local station’s Village People hour when I parked in Washington Square, and I’ve been singing along to “In the Navy” and “Milkshake” all morning.

  And that’s when I see her.

  Skank-face Bianca.

  Driving a brand-new, glossy black food truck with “Let Them Eat Cake” painted in red letters on the side.

  That truck is brand-new! It looks like Darth Vader! It must have cost tens of thousands! Did she borrow that from Cosmo? She’s blasting “Low Rider” by War over loudspeakers
, so everyone turns to look at her.

  When Bianca is no more than ten feet away, her truck slows down to a crawl. She smiles at me smugly as our eyes meet.

  Her slogan reads, “Salads and cakes with all of the taste and none of the calories.”

  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.