Brooklyn Girls Page 23

  “My parents do,” I say in a tiny voice.

  Angie sighs. “They care more about what you’re going to do with the rest of your life.”

  Julia clears her throat. “Uh … excuse me? What coke?”

  “What cheating?” asks Madeleine.

  “And exactly what happened with Eddie?” says Coco.

  Two hours later, I’m all talked out. And, for the first time in years, I feel light.

  “It won’t happen again,” I say. “No more drugs. Ever. I promise.” Suddenly, what I’ve done really sinks in. “But I can’t believe I missed another day of SkinnyWheels. I’ve only got two weeks to make thirteen thousand dollars.” I let out a hysterical laugh. “Let’s face it. It’s not gonna happen. I can’t do it.”

  “Of course you can!” says Coco.

  I shake my head. “I’m gonna call my parents. Get them to bail me out. Pay off the loan. Go work as a PA or whatever the hell they want me to do. This food truck thing was just a really stupid idea.”

  “That’s it! I am so fucking over your attitude!” exclaims Angie, standing up so fast her chair knocks over.

  “What?”

  “I’ve known you for twenty-two fucking years, Pia, and I’ve never seen you as happy as you’ve been the past few weeks. So excuse me if I don’t want to sit here, listening to you make pathetic excuses and accepting failure as inevitable because you don’t want to try. You’re the master of your own downfall, Pia, you always have been, and you are again.”

  I want to say something, but I can’t talk. I just stare at her, helplessly.

  Angie walks to the doorway, turns, and looks at me. “Call me if you decide to stop feeling sorry for yourself. I’d love to help. In the meantime, I’m out of here.”

  She disappears, and a few seconds later I hear the front door slamming.

  Julia, Coco, and Madeleine look as shell-shocked as I feel.

  “She’s right,” I finally say. “She’s totally right.”

  Julia looks at me. “You should…”

  I nod. “Yeah. I know.”

  When I get to the front door, Angie’s already at the bottom of the stoop, lighting a cigarette.

  “Angie!” I shout, running down the steps. “Angie, you’re right. I know you are. I’m going to try. I promise.”

  Angie takes a drag of her cigarette, without looking at me. “Sorry I lost it in there. It’s so not me.”

  “No, it was the right thing to do.”

  Angie grins wryly. “That’s why it’s so not me.”

  “Thank you,” I say.

  “Do we have to hug now, or some shit like that?”

  “Yes,” I say. “We do.”

  Angie rolls her eyes, but we lean in and hug each other tightly. Angie’s so much slighter than I am. I always think she’s taller and bigger because of her personality, but she’s so thin I can feel her ribs and shoulder blades. Suddenly I feel protective of her.

  “Can we talk about you now? And you can tell me what’s been going on with you?”

  “Fuck, no,” she says. “Everything’s fine now, anyway. I’m meeting up with Mani in half an hour. I’ll see you later.” She hoists her bag over her shoulder and strides off down Union Street.

  I’m walking back up the stoop when I hear a voice behind me.

  “Pia!”

  I turn quickly. It’s … skank-face Bianca?

  What does she want?

  “You’re okay,” she says in relief. “When your Twitter went silent today, I thought maybe…”

  Suddenly I see that she’s a mess: pale, jumpy, with mascara smeared around her eyes.

  Looking over her shoulder, she runs up the stoop and pushes me into the house, closing the door behind us.

  “Cosmo,” she says. “Cosmo told me you borrowed from him, too, and I’m so sorry you found him through me, Pia, I really am.”

  “What?”

  “I’m leaving,” she says, her voice shaking. “I borrowed over eighty thousand to start Let Them Eat Cake. Originally I was just going to make artisan cakes, I swear, but then I heard your low-carb high-protein idea and I knew it would work, so I copied you, too. Anyway, I’ve already missed an interest payment, and I can’t … I can’t face him again. I’m not making money as fast as I thought I would, he’s already increased the amount I owe, and then he … I’ll never…” She swallows anxiously, unable to get the words out.

  “He hurt you?” I finally say. “Nicky? Was it Nicky?”

  “Nicky? Nicky’s the nice one,” she says, taking a packet of cigarettes out of her satchel with trembling hands.

  Bianca’s not just upset, she’s terrified.

  “Where are you going?” I ask.

  She shakes her head. “I just wanted to tell you to watch out. Don’t miss a payment, don’t let him get anything on you, and most of all don’t let him into your house. Okay?”

  “Okay,” I say.

  “Promise me!” she says. “He’s not what he seems. Just pay Nicky and get it over with and get away from him.”

  “I promise!” I say. “I’m sorry, but why are you telling me all this? Last time I saw you, you weren’t exactly my biggest fan.” I pause. “And I’m pretty sure you destroyed my truck the other night.”

  Bianca sighs. “I don’t have a lot of, uh, women friends. That’s just the way it is. And yeah, the red paint thing was me. I’m not sorry. It was revenge for Let Them Eat Cock. But being responsible for bringing … that into your life…” She shudders. “I had to warn you.”

  And with that, she opens the front door, runs down the steps two at a time, and jumps into a waiting cab.

  Now I know what I have to do.

  I have to work harder than anyone has ever worked before.

  CHAPTER 24

  This is it.

  My last day of working under the shadow of my debt.

  The last two Sunday payments were flawless: I opened the door with all the girls standing behind me, handed Nicky the envelope, watched him count it, and watched him leave. Without saying a word.

  I’ve worked twelve hours a day, every day, with Jonah (my new employee) by my side.

  And the girls are helping me. Julia meets me to clean up Toto every night, Madeleine helps me prepare every morning, Coco is constantly inventing amazing new low-fat baked goods, and Angie is secretly using her boss’s connections to offer special deals to every food magazine and Web site in New York, resulting in a deluge of the who’s who of the Manhattan food world, a mention in The New York Times last Sunday, and Page Six on Wednesday. Cha-ching!

  And now it’s the last Friday before the big payment is due to Cosmo, and I’ve got the ten thousand dollars.

  All of it.

  Every last penny.

  I’ve been worried about Rookhaven getting robbed and having to earn ten thousand from scratch, so I sleep with it under my pillow and carry it everywhere with me. Right now it’s safely under the carpet on the passenger side of Toto. You can’t even tell it’s under there.

  Everything else is great, too—well, mostly. Coco seems to have bounced back from her morning-after-pill/Eric trauma. Julia went on a date with that guy she met in the karaoke bar, Mason, and is happier than she’s been since we graduated. Angie is still with Mani, and has also spent a surprising number of nights at Rookhaven, just hanging out with us. Even Madeleine seems happy. You know, for Madeleine.

  Now as I drive Toto toward Manhattan, just as I hit the midpoint of the Brooklyn Bridge, the sun reflects off the Midtown skyscrapers one by one, making the whole city sparkle. It’s my Manhattan now, my Brooklyn, my New York. For the first time ever, I feel like I belong … like maybe, if I’m lucky, I’ll get the life I want.

  I suddenly remember a line from The Best of Everything.

  It was all like a dream in which you could have anything you wanted, if you were very, very careful.

  That’s exactly how I feel.

  For the first time in more than seven weeks—maybe ever—I feel invincib
le. Like nothing can stop me.

  Two weeks ago I spoke to my parents and assured them I was working hard “in the hospitality industry” and making good money. They clearly didn’t believe me, but they’re landing in New York City on Tuesday, so I can show them how hard I’m working, that I am finally doing something good with my life. I hope they’ll be proud.

  I park outside Lina’s workplace again, since she texted last night saying her colleagues were begging her to convince me to return. I prep the pancakes; I always have a few ready in advance, so they’re quick but hot off the griddle.

  “Pancakes! Breakfast pancakes, low-fat, gluten-free pancakes!”

  The breakfast line soon stretches down the block, and at the front of the line is Lina, holding hands with her little boy, Gabe.

  “Gabe!” I say, leaning out the window so he can see me. “You’ve got a job already? That’s good, little man. You’ve gotta earn your keep.”

  Gabe launches into hysterical giggles. “I don’t have a job. I’m four!”

  “Our nanny is sick, so I’ve got Gabe till lunch,” says Lina. “We’ve really missed you around here. You’re by far the most popular food truck.”

  “Pancakes!” Gabe is squealing with excitement.

  “Well, then your office must have exceptionally good taste and trim waistlines,” I say. I give them an extra pancake in each order, and throw in three extra agave syrups and fat-free Greek yogurts.

  “Thank you, Grown-Up Pia!” shouts Gabe.

  Lina and I both get the giggles at this. “That’s what we call you at home so everyone knows you’re not little Pia,” explains Lina.

  “No one’s ever called me a grown-up before,” I say. “I like it.”

  I’m so busy this morning that I hardly look up, though I could swear—I mean really, really swear—I see Aidan walk past at one point. My heart jumps into my throat and I do a textbook double take, but he—if it was even him—immediately disappears. That’s the fiftieth time that’s happened since I went full psycho and ran away from our date.

  I shake my head to clear my thoughts of Aidan, and serve the next customer, a girl about my age shouting on the phone. “Hell no, I’m not returning his calls! That was the worst date ever! My life is hard enough right now, right? Okay, honey, call me later, bye.”

  She hangs up, and looks up at me.

  “My date last night phoned his mom at ten to give her a good-night kiss. He’s twenty-nine years old. I said, do you need me to change your diaper? He said, no, I wipe my own butt now. And he was proud.”

  I laugh so hard I almost can’t give her the order. God, I love people. And yes, I know I sound like a total loser by saying that. But they’re just so funny and nice. I’d hate a job where I didn’t get to interact with people all day. Working in a cubicle? Only corresponding with the outside world by e-mail? Forget it. I was born to do this!

  “Let me in!” shouts a voice. It’s Jonah. He jumps in and immediately assumes his usual easygoing I’m-here-to-help-y’all attitude that customers just love.

  “Does he come with the dessert?” asks the dump-date woman.

  “I sure do,” he says, flashing his best I’m-a-good-ol’-boy smile at her. “But I’m full of sugar.”

  “Oh, I think that’d be just fine.” She’s practically meowing. She reluctantly takes her food and leaves.

  “Great line, Jonah,” I say. “Okay, more working, less flirting.”

  “Yes, bossman,” he says. “Hello, sir! How may I help you?” He turns to the next guy in line.

  “I was hoping she would serve me,” says the guy, one of my regulars: a chubby accountant type, cheap suit and a light sweat.

  “She’s busy, but she sends her best regards,” says Jonah smoothly.

  The accountant ignores him. “I just wanted to tell you that I’ve lost ten pounds since I started eating your lunches three weeks ago!” he says triumphantly. I lean over and high-five him.

  “Dude! That’s incredible, well done! Thank you for telling me!”

  “No, thank you! I’ve tried every diet there is!”

  Smiling, I turn to the customer behind him. It’s the Grub Street video blogger, Becca.

  “Hi there!” she says. “Can you give me a sound bite about how you feel about being nominated for a Vendy Award?”

  “Wow! I was? Who would nominate me? I mean—I was?”

  Becca grins. “It’s kind of a big deal, you know. It’s the Oscars of the street food vendor world. Okay, I’ll start filming now.… Speak up, there’s a lot of traffic noise. In fact, shout if you can.”

  “Oh, yikes, thinking on my feet isn’t my strong point,” I say, but before I even have time to panic and get that acid public-speaking stomach and inevitable panic-driven muteness, the little red recording light comes on.

  So I open my mouth and somehow, the words just come out. “I’m Pia from SkinnyWheels, and I’m honored and delighted to be nominated for a Vendy Award. It shows that New Yorkers want a food truck that cares as much about their asses as their taste buds! Go SkinnyWheels!”

  I must have been shouting much louder than I think, because the entire line erupts into cheers and wolf whistles. I blush. Oops. Wow.

  I’ve never even been nominated for anything in my life. Even if I don’t win, this is a sign. Everything is going to be fine.

  We run out of pancakes around 10:30 A.M., as usual, close the window, and put out the CLOSED TO PREPARE FOR YOUR SKINNYLUNCH! sign that Jonah made. (It’s a little perky for me; I might remove the exclamation point.) We clean up from breakfast and prep for lunch. God, it’s so much easier with two people.

  “Hey, guess what. A Meal Grows in Brooklyn is no more. They ran out of money.”

  “No kidding,” I say. “Poor Phil and Lara! Are they okay?”

  “They’re fine, they’re pretty easy come, easy go, you know?”

  “Yeah,” I say. “I guess so.” But all I can think is: what a shame. A Meal Grows in Brooklyn was such a great idea. But it failed anyway. A good idea isn’t enough. You need to work as hard as you can, too. You need to be dedicated. You need to give it everything you’ve got.…

  “Hey, Jonah … would you consider working for me full-time, once I can, you know, pay you more?” I say. He’s working for a criminally low wage at the moment.

  “Can I have time off to go to auditions?” he asks.

  “Of course! Since when do you have auditions?”

  “Since I got an agent last week,” he says modestly.

  “Dude! That’s incredible, congratulations!” I say.

  “Pia, it’s all thanks to you. Remember that Sunday in Carroll Gardens, how you said that the only person who can make my life happen the way I want is me?” he says. “It really shook me up. I’ve been sittin’ around all these years, waiting for something to drop into my lap.… Well, screw that!”

  “Damn straight! Dude, I’m so happy for you, well done! And if you have an audition, you just head right off.”

  “Cool,” he says. “Uh, so I can leave early this afternoon? They’re casting a part for this lawyer show—I mean, it’s totally a long shot—”

  “Yes! Which one? The one with that woman who was in the thing with that guy? I am obsessed with her eyebrows.”

  We talk and prep the food, enjoy an unusually busy lunch period, then Jonah heads off to his audition, and I keep serving.

  Sometime after 3:00 P.M., the line dwindles.

  And that’s when it happens, just as I’m handing over a salad to one of my regulars, a geek in a button-down shirt.

  A huge bang. Toto shakes and lurches beneath my feet, reverberating with a crunch of metal and breaking glass.

  The geek and I freeze and look at each other.

  “Did you hear that?” I say.

  His eyes are wide with fear. “It sounded like Godzilla hitting your truck!”

  I quickly open the back doors: it’s a skinny bald guy I’ve never seen before. He’s wearing a hooded sweatshirt and basketball shor
ts, has an unhinged, ultra-focused look in his eye … and he’s attacking my truck with a baseball bat. He’s already taken out one rear brake light, and the moment I get out of the truck, he slams the bat into the other.

  “Are you fucking crazy?” I scream. “Get the hell away from my truck!”

  “I wouldn’t talk like that if I were you,” he says in a singsong voice, swinging the bat above his head like a professional ballplayer. I suddenly notice that he’s sweating, and one eyebrow is twitching uncontrollably. Shit, he is crazy.

  “Please stop hitting my truck with that baseball bat,” I say, trying to sound calm.

  He ignores me, still swinging the bat above his head. “This is just a taster.”

  “A taster of what?”

  He swings the bat again and slams it into the door, denting it, my truck, my darling Toto.

  And suddenly, I feel a little crazy myself.

  “That’s it! I’m calling the cops! You fucking lunatic! You’re out of your fucking mind! You can’t destroy someone else’s property!”

  Then he reaches into his pocket, pulls out a ringing cell phone, and hands it to me. “It’s for you, Pia.”

  He knows my name?

  I grab the phone.

  “Hello?”

  “Hello, Pia my darling,” says a familiar voice. “Cosmo here.”

  A chill runs through my body. “Cosmo.”

  “I wanted you to meet Nolan. When Nicky can’t do something, Nolan does it.”

  “Oh…” I say, eyeing up Nolan. He’s sniffing and chewing and dipping his head up and down to nonexistent music. He’s not nuts, I suddenly realize. He’s on meth or crack or something. He’s a junkie. And another one of Cosmo’s henchmen.

  Cosmo sounds like he’s smiling. “How are you, sweetheart? How’s business?”

  “Why did you do this? I’ve got all the money, I wasn’t going to.…” I can’t quite get my thoughts in order with a hopped-up addict just inches away from me. “Why beat up my truck?”

  “I thought it might be nice to remind you that I’m a serious businessman. In case that little punk-headed bitch told you otherwise. Get it?”