The Wild One Read online

  Because hard wax is sticking my underwear to my entire vagina.

  And I have to pee. Really. Badly.

  CHAPTER 7

  This would only happen to me.

  Think logically.

  Okay. I can’t call the girls for help, I don’t have my phone, and I can’t just shout for them because they’re all the way on the other side of the bar. Anyway, they’d find it insanely hilarious for weeks and Angie and Pia would tell everyone, including telling their boyfriends, and I don’t want Aidan and Sam knowing that I did this.

  I am never waxing again. Ever. Angie was right. Why the hell would we put something as destructive as wax on our most sensitive skin and rip out the hair and call it beauty? It’s so weird! It’s, like, über-fucking-weird!

  Focus, Coco, focus.

  Wax. What will melt wax?

  I once read a Martha Stewart tip that when you get candle wax on your clothes, you should iron them with a newspaper over the top. The iron heats the wax, the newspaper absorbs it, and boom, problem solved.

  But I can’t iron my goddamn vagina, Martha.

  Wait! The hand dryer! The hot air will melt the wax, right?

  The hand dryer is all the way over next to the door, so I quickly shuffle out of the cubicle, take my jeans off one leg, then realize I don’t want my jeans to touch the disgusting bathroom floor, so I take my jeans off entirely, keeping my shoes on so my bare feet don’t touch it either. Oh, God, I need to pee, I need to pee …

  Then, with one hand pressed against the door to keep it shut, I throw one leg up the wall like a ballet dancer stretching, and try to angle my underwear toward the nozzle.

  Yes. I am trying to mount the bathroom hand dryer.

  But I’m not flexible or tall, which means by the time the hot air reaches my … you know … it’s not that hot or that intense.

  “This is bullshit! This wouldn’t melt an ice cube!” I cry out, and then quickly cover my mouth. Jesus. I need to shut up. What if someone comes in?

  I now have to go so badly I could cry. Trying to distract myself with that little I-need-to-pee bobby-jiggle, I catch my reflection in the dirty mirror over the sink, and I look so ridiculous that I burst out laughing instead and nearly fall sideways, only righting myself at the last minute. Come on! Maybe the dryer will get hotter. I press it again, maintaining my ridiculous spread-eagle pose.

  “Hello?” There’s a male voice from outside. Shit! Before I can throw myself against it, the door pushes open.

  Joe.

  We meet eyes.

  And then he looks down.

  I can’t move. It’s like one of those dreams where you’re cemented to the spot, unable to scream or run. But this is real. I was mounting a hand dryer and cackling like a madwoman.

  I think I’m going to throw up.

  Quickly putting both feet back on the ground, I hold my jeans over my body like a shield. OhpleaseGoddonotlethimseemythighs.

  “What the hell—” Joe somehow gathers himself and quickly turns around, leaving the door open a crack for him to talk through. “I’m sorry, but what are you doing?”

  “I … I um…”

  Man up, Coco.

  I mean, woman up.

  “I administered a home bikini wax before I left my house this evening. And I need to go to the bathroom, but I seem to have leftover wax on my, um, and my underwear is now stuck to my—to my—to me.” There. That was as matter-of-fact as possible.

  There’s a pause.

  “I think I understand,” Joe says.

  “I don’t know what to do, and the bathroom is so dirty. This is so bad, I’m, um, I’m freaking out.”

  “This bathroom is dirty?”

  “Are you kidding? It’s disgusting.”

  “Would you like some scissors?”

  “Um … I don’t see how that will help because it is really stuck. Tight. To my … all over … under … bits.”

  I close my eyes. Whywhywhy is this happening to me?

  “Look, I don’t want to get into a whole anatomy discussion with you, but I think perhaps you can use the scissors to alter your, uh, undergarments to relieve yourself of, hmm, your immediate urinary needs? And then deal with the rest when you get home.”

  “Okay,” I say.

  There is something so old-fashioned and delicate about the way Joe is handling this, it’s incredibly kind. If it had been Julia or Pia or Angie, they just would have screamed with laughter and made it even more of a thing.

  He’s back within thirty seconds, carrying scissors, and knocks politely at the door.

  “Um … are you still in there?”

  Where does he think I’ll go?

  I open the door an inch and he gives me the scissors, handle-first.

  “Thank you!” I call.

  “Anytime!” he calls back.

  I suddenly start giggling helplessly. Anytime?

  Still giggling, I carefully snip in a sort of H shape.

  By the end, my underwear is in rags, there’s a belt of elastic hanging uselessly around my waist, and I’m sweating slightly from stress, but I can finally pee.

  Is there anything better than peeing when you’ve been waiting a long time? It’s, like, painfully good.

  Then I put my jeans back on, wash my hands and the scissors, and walk out. I currently have the remnants of a pair of underwear stuck to my vagina with hard wax. But I don’t need saving. I don’t need anyone to look after me. If I can handle this, I can handle anything.

  I can sure as hell deal with Ethan when he turns up. That little asswipe.

  I walk—no, I swagger, with the kind of arrogance someone with underwear rags stuck to her junk should not feel—back to the bar and slide the scissors down to Joe, who accepts them with a nod and a wink, just as the band starts its first song.

  It’s “Leader of the Pack,” that hilariously dramatic song by the Shangri-Las. The drums and guitar dominate the opening chords, and Madeleine faces the crowd with a confidence that I’ve never seen in her before. Amy walks over and leans into the microphone.

  Madeleine opens her mouth and starts to sing.

  “Birds flying high, you know how I feel…”

  It’s “Feeling Good,” the Nina Simone song. But with a rock-pop edge. Everyone is mesmerized.

  Pia whispers: “We should put this shit on YouTube. She’s a superstar.” I nod. She totally is.

  Tonight, more than ever before, I’m blown away by Maddy’s voice. When Madeleine sings, you smile.

  I look over behind the bar and see Joe checking his phone and uttering a soft “fock” under his breath. That’s how “fuck” sounds in his accent: fock.

  “Everything okay?” I ask.

  I feel like we’re war buddies after what we just went through together. He probably has post-traumatic stress disorder. I know I do.

  Joe shakes his head. “My bartender was late and just texted to tell me he quit, and my boss has been hinting about selling the bar. Another shitty night and no staff would be the last straw. The end of Potstill.”

  I look around. Would anyone care if this placed closed? But I don’t say that. “I bet you could easily get a job in another bar?”

  “That’s not the…” Joe sighs, picking up a lime and slicing it swiftly. “Potstill has been a bar, more than that, an Irish bar since 1891. It’s got stories, you know? Nothing in Brooklyn has a real story anymore. Everything is new and shiny. I know Potstill is a shithole, but … it’s got soul. It’s worth fighting for.”

  I look around at the bar through new eyes. Maybe he’s right. This really is a good bar. It just needs a little love and attention, that’s all.

  “I could do it.” The words are out before I’ve even thought them through.

  “You?” Joe looks up at me.

  “I could be your emergency bartender tonight.” This time, my voice is louder, stronger. I almost believe it myself.

  “Really? Wait, what’s your name again? How old are you? Do you have any bartending ex
perience?”

  “My name is Coco Russotti. I’m twenty-one. My only work experience is as a preschool assistant, but how can bartending be any harder than running around after small children?”

  Bartending is much harder than looking after small children.

  I discover that pretty fast.

  But Joe helps me out. He shows me where the most frequently ordered drinks are, shows me how to work the register—though I screw that up more often than not—and where to stash my tips.

  After an hour, I decide working in a bar is awesome. It’s like a night out, without the stressful stuff. I get all the fun—Madeleine’s band, Pia and Angie riffing each other, Julia high-fiving anything with a pulse—but I don’t have to worry about saying or doing the wrong thing. In fact, I’m having more fun than I have on a night out, maybe ever.

  When Spector finishes its first set and takes a break, Pia, Angie, and Julia are still on their barstools, acting like they own the place, holding court with some too-cool bearded Brooklynites.

  “What is with the beards, you guys?” Angie is saying. “Are you aware that you all look like extras in a movie about the Gold Rush? I can’t tell you apart with those things.”

  “What about the man bun? Do you secretly want to be a ballerina?” asks Pia. “And what’s with all the plaid and the trapper hat? What do you call that, lumbersexual?”

  “Maybe they symbolize that you don’t work for ‘the man’,” says Angie, putting bunny ears around “the man.” “Wow, you’re all such independent thinkers. Except that you’re identical.”

  “Harsh,” mutters the guy with a beard and a man bun.

  “Way harsh,” agrees his buddy in the plaid and the trapper hat.

  “I work for the man,” says Julia, holding her drink up. “And I don’t give a rat’s ass—oops! Dropped my purse! Oh, thank you—” Julia meets eyes with a tall, cute, very clean-shaven guy in a suit who just picked up her purse. “Another corporate whore!” Jules holds her hand up. “Nice suit! What the hell are you doing in Brooklyn? Fivies!”

  “Double fivies!” he replies, holding both hands up for a double high five.

  “Hey!” Angie turns to Man Bun. “Being in touch with your feminine side doesn’t mean touching my ass. Get lost.”

  Joe glances up from his frantic lime chopping. “Everything okay? That guy bothering you?”

  “Everything is fine, Irish,” says Angie, turning away from him just as the crowd clears a path for Madeleine to get to the bar. Funny, she has a little celebrity glow even off the stage. People are staring at her, and a couple of guys move in closer, trying to stand next to her. Wow. Madeleine has groupies.

  “Can I get a Diet Coke, please, Joe?” Madeleine asks. “Coco? You’re working here now?”

  “Yes indeedy,” I say.

  “She’s the best emergency bartender ever,” says Joe. “So, Coco. You want to work here for real?”

  “Yes.” My voice squeaks. Goddamnit.

  Joe frowns. “You sure you’re up to it? The hours are long, the work is hard, and the patrons are scum.” He grins at the crowd behind the bar, so charmingly that even calling them “scum” sounds like a compliment. “You need to be fearless. Are you fearless, Coco?”

  I open my mouth to say yes, but then I look over at the front door of the bar and suddenly lose my voice.

  Because Ethan, my boyfriend Ethan, my cheating boyfriend Ethan, has finally arrived.

  He is smiling congenially in his smug little way, green rucksack on his back, tan windbreaker zipped up tight to the neck, hair fluffy as ever. As though nothing is wrong. As though he didn’t cheat on me less than a week ago.

  Forgetting to reply to Joe, I spin 180 degrees so my back is to the bar, and try to catch my breath. All week, while I’ve been hiding behind my phone, I never thought how it would feel to actually see him in the flesh.

  It feels bad. It feels really bad.

  But wait, why the hell am I freaking out like this? I invited him here. This is part of the revenge plan that Angie and I worked out on the stoop this afternoon. But I can’t do it … I can’t, I can’t—

  Yes, you can. You’re in control.

  That voice again. The spark.

  You can handle Ethan. You can handle anything.

  When I turn around, Ethan is standing importantly between Angie and Pia.

  “Hello, mademoiselle!” Ethan calls, his voice unnecessarily loud and pretentious. “You’re behind the bar? Marvelous! I’ll have a chenin blanc!”

  “This is a whiskey bar.” My voice is barely more than a whisper.

  Ethan claps his hands. “Excellent! Barkeep! A vat of your finest whiskey!” God, has he always been this much of a dick? What the hell was I thinking?

  “What’s your poison?” says Joe.

  Ethan puffs up his chest, preparing for a speech. “Something Scottish, of course, Islay preferably—”

  “Of course?” echoes Joe. “Ireland makes whiskey too.”

  “Irish whiskey?” Ethan wrinkles his nose, looking around the bar with sudden distaste. “I read a book—”

  “Get out,” I say, my voice suddenly loud and clear.

  “What?”

  “I saw you cheating on me.” Everyone at the bar grows quiet, listening, all my roommates and Joe and a dozen strangers, but I don’t care. “I saw you kissing a girl at the Jane Hotel last weekend.”

  “She—no—” Ethan stutters, blushing bright red.

  “You cheated on me. I saw you. Don’t lie. We’re over, Ethan. I am breaking up with you.”

  My voice is shaking, and for some incomprehensible reason, my eyes fill with tears. I blink them quickly away. This is not a time for crying. This is a time for being angry.

  My entire body tingles with shock that I’m doing this, high with the power of saying whatever the heck I want. “So get the … the fuck out of my bar and don’t ever speak to me again.”

  “How dare you—”

  “How dare you?” Julia turns on him. “You cheated on my perfect baby sister, you little dickslime.”

  “I—”

  “Screw you, asshole.” Julia throws her drink at him.

  Splat. It hits him in the face, and for a moment, the entire bar goes completely silent. A split second later, before he can back away, Angie throws her drink at him too, and so does Pia. And then Madeleine’s entire glass of Diet Coke. Splat, splat, splat.

  Ethan doesn’t even stop to wipe his face. He just picks up his rucksack and runs out of the bar.

  The moment the door slams behind him, the entire bar erupts into applause.

  “Jeez, people love a little bar theater,” comments Angie.

  I can’t stop smiling. At this moment, I love everyone and everything in this bar. I love the world. This is what victory feels like.

  Joe leans into me. “Nice work.”

  I grin at him. “Sorry about the drama.”

  “Don’t worry about it. If you hadn’t kicked that asshole out for cheating on you, I would have done it for badmouthing Irish whiskey.”

  Joe holds up two little glasses with a half inch of whiskey in them.

  “A toast to breaking up. It’s never a bad decision.”

  “Breaking up is never a bad decision,” I repeat, taking the glass of whiskey.

  “This is Kilbeggan. Smooth, warm, just sweet enough. Very easy for the first-timer.”

  I take a glass and try to maintain eye contact with Joe as we both drink.

  The whiskey goes down easily. Then I start coughing helplessly. “That doesn’t have a lot of fire?”

  Joe grins. “You’ll get used to it. Give it time. Welcome to Potstill. You’re hired.”

  CHAPTER 8

  “Guess who got laid last night?” Julia skips into the living room and flops down on the sofa between Angie and me. “Moi!”

  “Ew,” says Angie. “Have you showered?”

  Julia throws her arms around Angie, rubbing her nose against Angie’s cheek. “Nope.”


  “Dude. You stink of cock.”

  It’s Saturday morning, and I’ve been watching TV and doing Facebook admin while Angie sews vintage buttons onto a jacket she made. It was so easy to defriend Ethan and everyone I met through him, it’s like he never even existed. I can’t believe I ever let him kiss me, I think, shutting my computer with a decisive good-riddance click and turning my attention to the girls.

  I hear the front door slam, and Angie and I quickly look out the front window and see a guy bounding down the steps.

  “That’s him? What’s his name?”

  “Why didn’t you ask your hook-up to stick around for breakfast?”

  “Because I’m not that kind of girl. His name is Peter. And he was magnificent.”

  “Peter the Magnificent?” Angie snorts with laughter.

  Julia sighs contentedly. She is red-faced from kissing, her hair a tangled nest, eyes glassy with happiness and hangover. “What are you making, Angelique? It’s like being in little house on the goddamn prairie with all this sewing and peacefulness.”

  Angie smirks. “Seriously. Wash yourself. I could be pregnant just from sitting next to you right now.”

  “Gee whiz, is that how it happens?” Julia says, biting her finger in mock stupidity.

  Angie arches her eyebrow and is about to say more when Pia and Madeleine walk in, fresh—or not so fresh—from SoulCycle. “Oh, God. Don’t tell me how much you love your fucking spinning class. I don’t want to hear it.”

  “Seriously, it’s amazing, Angie,” says Pia, who is glowing with good health. “Exercise is the best hangover cure.”

  Angie turns back to her sewing. “I grow weary of this shit.”

  Madeleine stretches, touching her forehead to her knees with remarkable ease. “I’m taking a shower.”

  “NO! I have to shower first!” shouts Julia. “I stink of cock! I stink of Peter the Magnificent!”

  They both run for the hall, pushing one another. Madeleine easily wins, pounding up the stairs with glee. Rookhaven actually has two bathrooms, but only one shower is really good, and if both showers are on at once it does bad things to the water pressure, i.e., makes it disappear.

  “Why are you smiling?” asks Pia.

  I look up. “I am?”