“Hello?” she said, her voice cracking.
“Hey! Are you cured yet?” Sydney’s raspy voice drawled on the other end of the line.
“I think so?” Baby sat up and surveyed her surroundings, smiling in approval. Now that her room was clean, instead of filled with piles of books, clothes, and random magazines, it actually seemed kind of open and airy.
Good, because it’s getting a little cold to sleep on the hammock on the terrace!
“Actually, I do feel a lot better. Do you think I could come over and talk to your mom?” she asked, suddenly feeling shy. After all, even though she’d cleaned her closet, Lynn had never officially agreed to take her on as a client. Baby still needed the twenty hours of therapy to stay at Constance.
“She’s hosting one of her weird group therapy things this morning, but I guess so.” Baby could practically hear Sydney shrugging.
“Great!” Baby quickly flipped her phone shut and flung open her closet door. She’d cleaned so much out that she hardly had anything to wear. Finally, she pulled on a pair of black American Apparel leggings, a flowery dress she’d bought in Barcelona, and a huge heather gray Abercrombie sweater that most likely had once belonged to Owen. She belted the sweater, stuck her feet in a pair of Converse, and ran out the door.
She crossed the park, marveling at how awake the city seemed so early in the morning. The sidewalks were full of families with strollers, kids running in and out of corner delis, and couples sipping coffee and walking hand in hand. Before, so much activity made Baby want to escape. Now it seemed almost exciting, as if she were a part of the city’s frantic energy.
She rang the buzzer to Sydney’s building and quickly clambered up the stairs, not waiting for the elevator.
“Baby C! Come in, come in, darling!” Lynn flung open the door and ushered her into the living room, where a group of women were gathered. They were crammed onto the worn blue velvet love seat and seated on maroon cushions on the floor. Enya-type music flowed through the room and they were all drawing in sketchbooks.
“I’m doing a group. You want to watch people with problems?” Lynn stage-whispered. Baby glanced over at the women’s work. One of the pictures was of a group of elephants standing in the middle of a store that looked sort of like Barneys. She didn’t even want to know what the symbolism of that meant.
“We’re doing some drawing therapy. Apparently, it’s all the rage. I think it’s bullshit, but then if it pays the bills, who am I to judge?” Lynn winked conspiratorially. “Besides, if people feel like it helps, then it helps. Like I said, not that complicated,” she added.
“I don’t want to interrupt. I just want to say—”
“Thank you?” Lynn interrupted. “Honey, don’t thank me, I didn’t do a goddamn thing! All I did was remind you that you’re doing fine,” she said. “Now, is there anything else I can help you with?”
“Actually…” Baby rooted in her lime green Brooklyn Industries messenger bag to find her therapy form. She still had eighteen hours left, and she’d already burned through two different treatment styles. “I’m supposed to go through twenty hours of therapy to stay in school. Do you think you could recommend someone normal… or maybe I could see you again?” Baby asked, feeling shy. What if Lynn said no? “I’d pay, of course!” she added.
“Nonsense,” Lynn vigorously shook her head. “Give me that form!” She pulled a pen from a chipped coffee mug on the counter and signed the paper with a flourish. “Consider yourself as beautifully and perfectly neurotic as the rest of us!”
“Thanks!” Baby said in disbelief. Just like that, she was done! She felt like a huge weight had been lifted from her shoulders.
“Any time, kiddo. Sydney’s in her room, hiding out. Why don’t you two tear the city up?” Lynn gave Baby’s shoulder a squeeze. “Now scoot and let me work my magic!” she said, pushing Baby down the hall and marching her to Sydney’s bedroom.
Baby knocked on Sydney’s bedroom door. “Hello?”
“Come in!” Sydney was lying on the patchwork quilt on her bed, listening to her iPod and staring up at the ceiling. She was wearing a tiny green corduroy skirt and a black DARE TO SAY THE F WORD—FEMINISM T-shirt.
“I’m cured!” Baby announced, twirling around the room.
“Finally! You’ve been so lame, you have no idea.” Sydney shook her head. “I’m meeting with Webber and his roommates. They’re doing this no-pants subway ride. It’s what they do to usher in fall. Want to come with?” Sydney grinned devilishly.
“I’m there!” Baby exclaimed.
So what if she liked attention from boys and having fun and never staying in one place? That was her. The real Baby was back.
Boys, line up!
reunion
Owen dove into the pool on Saturday morning, enjoying the cold shock of the water against his skin. He quickly pulled to the surface, then loosened up by doing a few quick butterfly strokes before launching into an easy freestyle. He always loved how he could really have time to think, uninterrupted, while he swam. And he definitely had a lot to think about. Namely, that everything about him and Kelsey was wrong. It felt right—physically. But emotionally… it was impossible to deny that there was nothing really there. They’d never so much as had a real conversation. Once he reached the end of the wall, he pulled himself into a tight turn, only to be stopped by someone pulling on his ankle. What?
Owen stopped and stood in the shallow water.
“Hi!” There, crouching by the end of the pool and looking completely inappropriate in a black sweaterdress, tights, and high-heeled suede boots, was Kelsey.
“Someone brought their cheering section,” a male voice boomed.
Owen’s stomach sank as he saw Coach jauntily walk out of the locker room, twirling his whistle.
“Sorry, sir!” Owen didn’t want Coach to think he was blowing off his captain duties, especially after their conversation on Thursday. He hurriedly pulled himself out of the pool and hustled over to Kelsey. “You shouldn’t be here,” Owen hissed. The meet didn’t start for an hour, but Owen had come early to warm up before the rest of the team arrived. They already hated him, and seeing him with Kelsey would make them even less likely to listen to him.
“Well, should we go someplace else?” Kelsey smiled wickedly, then stood on tiptoe to nibble Owen’s earlobe. Something about her attitude was so… desperate. Had she always been such a nympho?
Um, it takes two to tear each other’s clothes off without exchanging names….
“Come here,” he muttered, pulling her in the direction of the girls’ locker room, knowing it’d be empty. The pool was closed for the meet this morning.
Instead of dented blue lockers, the girls’ locker room was filled with pink ones, but it still had the familiar smell of BO and chlorine. Not very romantic, which was probably a good thing. Just to be sure no one would see them, Owen escorted Kelsey inside an equipment closet that housed kickboards and flippers.
Kelsey’s eyes widened in lusty delight and she placed her hands against Owen’s chest. Could she feel how fast his heart was beating?
“Listen… we can’t,” Owen said heavily, leaning against a soggy mountain of kickboards. He felt like he’d spent more time breaking up with Kelsey in the past few weeks than they’d actually spent having fun together. He wrapped his thumb and index finger easily around one of her wrists.
“Why?” Kelsey asked, her lower lip trembling slightly.
Fuck! Why did this have to be so hard? Why couldn’t he just grow some balls and do the honorable thing?
“Kelsey, please.” He pulled away. “We can’t be together. For real this time.” His voice broke slightly. Kelsey’s lip was quivering more, and tears were shining in her eyes, just about to fall.
“Why?” she asked again. “I don’t understand.” She reached to put her arms around Owen’s neck.
“It’s…” Owen paused. “It’s this,” he said suddenly, pulling away from Kelsey and feeling his entire body
relax. It was like they were like magnets. They couldn’t be close without touching. But that wasn’t the way a relationship worked. A real relationship was about more than physical connection.
Kelsey bit her bottom lip. Owen continued to back away from her. He couldn’t touch her.
“Owen?” Kelsey asked, hugging her arms to her chest. She looked like she was about to cry.
Owen wanted to run his hands through her strawberry blond hair and tell her everything would be okay. He wanted to touch the small of her back and pull her to him. But he couldn’t. “You deserve to be with someone who really knows you,” he said in a rush of words as he practically sprinted out of the equipment room, leaving her standing among a bunch of kickboards. He knew she’d be confused at first, but that eventually she’d get it and be better off. As he left the locker room, he’d never felt more certain that he’d done the right thing.
a is not a gotcha journalist
It was noon on Saturday as Avery burst into the empty Metropolitan offices. As soon as she woke up from her drunken haze, one thing was clear: She needed to stop the article on Jack from running. But she didn’t know how exactly to do that. It wasn’t like she could call and stop the presses. She was hoping she’d come up with some sort of idea now that she was here, but so far all she’d done was sit in the closet.
“Miss Carlyle?” Ticky wavered by on her infamous sparkly Miu Miu pumps, looking surprised and bemused to see her there. “Aren’t you the eager beaver! I do hope we’re not working you too hard. Especially since you were out last night!” she clucked.
“I need to talk to you,” Avery squeaked, her mind racing.
“Of course, darling. Come with me to my office.” Ticky’s brown eyes flashed in concern and she pressed her red-polished fingernails into her arm as she escorted Avery into her opulent office.
“Sit, talk.” Ticky gestured to a bright pink chair in front of her desk. Avery felt like she had the one time she was called to the principal’s office at Nantucket High. Of course, she’d been called down to be informed she’d won the position of sophomore class vice president, but the initial terror had been the same. And this time, Avery definitely wasn’t going to get any good news.
“The Jack Laurent and Dick Cashman story can’t run,” Avery blurted. She felt like she might throw up on Ticky’s antique Provençal writing desk, bare except for a typewriter. She concentrated on a framed photo above Ticky’s head. It was Ticky, younger but just as skinny, her hair just as high, dancing on a table with Mick Jagger. Avery grimaced. When Ticky was young her antics seemed to have been cool and one-of-a-kind. Not disastrous pseudo-dates with self-centered journalists. “It just can’t,” Avery added desperately.
“But why?” Ticky asked smoothly. She leaned back in her Eames chair and crossed her skinny arms over her chest. “Avery, you’ve been a stellar intern. You remind me of me a little bit.” She nodded encouragingly. “It’s natural to be nervous. It’s your first story! And all New York will be talking about it. It’s exciting.” Ticky smiled benevolently, then waved Avery away with a gnarled hand. “Go, it’s the goddamn weekend! I need you to go out there and find more stories. It’s the only way to get over this hump,” Ticky said grandly.
“Um, thank you.” Avery tried to get her footing back. “It’s just… the story about Jack… It’s not…” She sighed heavily. What could she say? Jack and I both sort of hated acting like adults at the party and instead of going through with the interview decided to drink crappy beer at a dive bar?
“Wait.” Ticky pulled the large proof off her inbox and studied it. Right now, it was just waiting for her swirling initials in her signature Montblanc pen with purple ink. She pushed her delicate Prada reading glasses up on the bridge of her beaklike nose and looked up sharply. “She’s not having an affair with that old man,” Ticky said flatly. Avery nodded in relief.
“I should have said something before. You can fire me if you want, but you have to pull the story. It’s just not true. It’s not true,” Avery said again, feeling even more sure that the champagne and beer swirling in her stomach from last night was going to make an unwelcome cameo appearance very soon. She needed to get out.
“I’m sorry!” Avery squeaked as she fled the room and ran into the bathroom. She splashed cold water on her face. In the mirror, she looked red and blotchy and very, very tired. Not Metropolitan material at all. She left the bathroom and stalked over to her desk, grabbing one issue of the magazine and stuffing it into her cranberry-colored Marc Jacobs bag. Scarlett Johansson was on the cover, wearing a plaid Prada skirt and looking in control and confident. Unlike Avery.
Just then, she heard the familiar sound of Ticky’s heels clicking across the tiled floor. Great. Now she’d really lay into Avery. Avery squared her shoulders, sort of wishing she’d thrown up in the bathroom before.
“Avery?” Ticky’s voice wavered as she got closer.
“Here,” Avery squeaked.
“Dear, what are you doing?” Ticky looked at the bare desk. “You’re acting like my goddamn ex-husband. One bitchy moment from me and he’d be packing his stuff. Then, when I actually did kick him out, that bastard seemed so surprised!” Ticky shook her head bemusedly. Avery smiled politely.
“You’re right. Let’s kill the story. It’s based on a salacious rumor, which is simply not Metropolitan. Do you agree?” Avery nodded, dumbfounded. She wasn’t in trouble? “I shouldn’t have put you with James. Although you certainly held your own with him,” Ticky mused. “Now, let’s get you working on a real story. What do you want to do?”
Avery thought. She tried to imagine running around with a tiny tape recorder, asking people what they were wearing and how they liked the party, or even some of the more hard-core questions Metropolitan liked to ask, like their worst childhood memory or their biggest fear. But she couldn’t. In every single image she had of her ideal New York life, she was the one in the spotlight, answering questions.
“Actually…” Avery shook her head. Before, all she’d wanted was for Ticky to accept her and say she was Metropolitan material, as if that’d be her magical key to New York. But it wasn’t really that simple. She didn’t want to become like McKenna or Gemma, desperately clawing their way to the top. “You’ve always been a role model to me, especially after my grandmother passed away,” Avery began shyly. “But I just don’t think this is the right industry for me,” she said, hoping Ticky wouldn’t be offended or ask her to explain further.
Surprisingly, Ticky nodded thoughtfully. “I’d like to think you’d reconsider in a few years. You’ve cut your teeth already. And once you have a taste for magazines, as bitter as it is, you’ll always crave more. Besides, God knows this industry needs some people with real class. I can’t do it alone,” Ticky said ruefully. She rested her garishly polished red fingernails lightly on Avery’s arm. “But guess what? For your work and honesty, I’m going to offer you the Ticky special. Metropolitan won’t write anything nasty about you. Unless you want it, kiddo. Deal?”
Avery beamed, hardly able to believe what she was hearing. Ticky had the ultimate say in what was, and what was not, said about practically everyone in the city. It was a promise that she mattered. Just like her grandmother.
“I don’t know how I can thank you,” Avery began earnestly.
“Just keep this city interesting.” Ticky winked and turned to go.
Avery leaned down and picked up one of the ridiculous sequins that had become detached from her pumps. “Wait!”
Ticky turned mid-step, balancing on one foot like an under-fed flamingo.
“You dropped this,” Avery explained shyly, holding out the sequin.
“Keep it!” Ticky crowed. Even though it was sort of sentimental, Avery carefully shoved it in the never-used change purse pocket of her black Prada wallet.
Well, it’s not like she was expecting a Pulitzer.
Avery sighed in relief and headed toward the elevator. She was looking forward to her last journey to the lobby
of the Dennen building.
As the elevator doors opened, she found herself face-to-face with James. He wore blue checked shirt, a plaid bow tie, and a herringbone jacket. Yesterday, Avery would have thought he looked urbane and cool. Today, he just looked like he was trying too hard.
“Oh good, pet, you’re here!” he exclaimed, pulling her over and kissing her on both cheeks. Avery stood stiffly. Pet? “I can’t wait to hear your stories, even though I couldn’t find you at all when I was ready to go. You missed a lot,” he warned.
“No, you did,” Avery countered smoothly. She studied James curiously. She couldn’t believe that she’d fallen for the accent and the job title when all he was was a self-obsessed jerk with a really lame personal shopper. “But let me catch you up to speed: I’m not working here anymore. And the profile isn’t running, because Metropolitan doesn’t do salacious rumor mongering. Can’t wait to read your next story!” she called over her shoulder, just before she exited through the revolving doors.
r remembers some house rules
“I’ll invite you over for a party next time,” Lucas said seriously as he took a long drag of a joint. He blew the smoke upward, toward the cathedral-like wood-beamed foyer of the Sterling town house. Lisa, Vince, and five or six other kids Rhys had never seen before were circled around him as if he were their new guru, each holding tomatoes in their hands.
“Thanks,” Rhys said tightly. “Look, man, hope there’s no hard feelings, but you guys have to go.” Now. He opened the large heavy oak door. “I’ll see you around,” he croaked. Yeah right. As if he’d ever hang out with the dirty, smelly kids who’d almost ruined his life.
“I’m going to use these fuckers for my pasta sauce. These heirloom tomatoes are to die for,” Lucas mused, as if he were Mario Batali rather than a super-stoned teenager. He picked up two of the tomatoes and began throwing them in the air in a lame attempt at juggling. Rhys felt his heart speed up. Maybe be was about to have a heart attack. Could pot do that to someone?
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