The Daughters Break the Rules

by Joanna Philbin

  Hudson nodded, looking down at her half-eaten sushi. “Yeah, you guys are probably right,” she agreed. “My mom says I just know too much. I’m not as naive about it all as she was. She says that I just have to turn off my mind.”

  Carina and Lizzie looked at each other. They both knew Hudson couldn’t do that.

  After lunch, Carina was rushing to get to her locker before English when someone tapped her on the shoulder.

  “Hey, you.”

  She turned to see Carter McLean right next to her, so close that his right arm was almost grazing her left. His eyes were even more green and piercing than usual. “What’s up?” he asked, flashing his sexy smile. “You never Facebooked me.”

  Her stomach did a somersault. “Oh. I wasn’t home last night.”

  “Well, you still have a phone, right?”

  Carina paused. There was no good way to tell him that her phone was older than he was. “Yeah, but my e-mail isn’t really working on it right now. But hey, are you around tonight? Like, later on? Around eight thirty?” That would give her plenty of time to go see Alex downtown.

  “Sure,” he said, looking pleased and a little impressed. “We can hang out at my place and watch a movie or something.”

  Score one for Carina Jurgensen, she thought. “Awesome.”

  “Here.” He leaned over and shoved a piece of paper in her hand. “So now you don’t have any excuses.” His warm fingers lingered on hers, making her heartbeat triple. Then he smiled at her and loped off down the hall.

  Carina staggered into class, holding the piece of paper. She could still smell his boy scent of soap and sweat, and it was making her heart knock against her chest.

  They had a date. Tonight. At least five weeks before the trip.

  When she was safely sitting down, and sure that nobody was looking at her, she opened the piece of paper. There, written in adorably messy boy handwriting, was

  CARTER

  555-2322

  She folded the paper back up before anyone could see. He liked her. He definitely liked her.

  chapter 14

  Once upon a time in the far distant past—or, more specifically, before last week—the Meatpacking District had been one of Carina’s favorite neighborhoods. With Lizzie and Hudson at her side on a Saturday afternoon, she’d hit Martin Meloy, Diane von Furstenberg, and Stella McCartney, and then pop into Pastis for a café au lait and pain au chocolat. Now as she walked through the rain into the triangle of cobblestoned streets, her plastic umbrella threatening to blow apart in the wind at any moment, she felt like those days had been part of someone else’s life. Someone else’s extremely fun, extremely lucky life.

  She tried to ignore the store windows as she walked toward Café Luz, but the pull was too great. At Catherine Malandrino, she marched right up to the glass and looked inside. A blond girl about her age was trying on a beautiful, fluttery, purple baby doll dress. Standing in front of the mirror, she turned around and around as the hem of her dress twirled up around her knees and the white price tag swung innocently from its safety pin.

  Carina stepped closer, almost pressing her nose to the glass. She could practically feel the silk on her skin and smell that new-clothes scent. She wanted that dress. She needed that dress. It would have looked even prettier on her. Then her eyes drifted over to the display in the window. On one of the silver mannequins was the yellow halter top. Her yellow halter top. It was still beautiful, still in style, still perfect for her in every way…

  Get a grip on yourself, she thought as she turned around and stomped back out into the rain. It was just clothes, for God’s sake. Nothing important, and nothing she couldn’t live without. But they were important. Inside her stomach she felt a strange, gnawing void, as if she were denying herself a piece of cake. Maybe she really had liked to buy stuff. Maybe the Jurg had been right about her.

  But no, he hadn’t been right about her at all because here she was, on her way to meet with Filippo Mucci, chef extraordinaire, for the Snowflake Ball. When Filippo had heard that she was trying to reach him through the manager at Café Luz, he called her right back and told her that she absolutely had to come down to the restaurant, where he’d meet with her in person. She had a good feeling about this. And with any luck she’d get to eat.

  She crossed the street and walked toward Café Luz, a tiny white carriage house from the nineteenth century that had been converted into a den of fabulousnesss. Even in the rain a small crowd of people waited outside for a table. Only Filippo’s latest restaurant would have a line at five thirty in the afternoon.

  “Good evening, can I help you?” asked the maître d’ when she walked into the restaurant. He wore a dark suit and tie, and his shaved head shone in the candlelight. Behind him, Carina could make out a tiny, candlelit space with only about a dozen tables, all of which were filled. No wonder those people were waiting outside, she thought. This place was the size of her closet.

  “Yes, I’m here to see Filippo. I’m Carina Jurgensen.”

  “Please, this way,” he said, beckoning her toward a tiny vacant table for two that she hadn’t noticed. “Filippo will be right out. But while you’re waiting he’d like you to try some sample appetizers first.”

  “Wonderful!” she said a little too loudly.

  After the maître d’ had shown her to her seat, she took a look around. The gold-painted walls and wooden tables and chairs gave Café Luz a rustic feel, like being in a Tuscan farmhouse, but the small saucers of greenish olive oil and woven silk place mats screamed high-end New York. And the smell of butter and garlic wafting from the kitchen definitely wasn’t cheap, either.

  Suddenly a tall waiter in a black T-shirt and jeans arrived with a plate of tiny bacon-wrapped goodies. “The pancetta-wrapped dates,” he said, placing them in front of her.

  Quickly she speared one with a fork and popped it in her mouth. The taste was rich and sweet, with an irresistible gooeyness. They had to get these for the party. Before she knew it, she’d eaten all of them.

  Like magic, the waiter appeared again. “Tuna tartare on crispy tortilla chips with avocado,” he announced.

  Carina looked down at the mounds of raw tuna topped with a dollop of avocado and said a small prayer to the gods of luxury. She cleared the plate in a matter of seconds. Another definite, she thought. People were going to love those.

  The waiter returned. “And now,” he said dramatically, “our famous macaroni and cheese.” He put the plate down in front of her with an extra flourish. “White cheddar, Gorgonzola, Gouda, and Parmesan. Topped with shaved black truffles.” He took out a small bowl of what looked like large raisins and sprinkled some on top. “Buon appetito,” he said with dead seriousness, and disappeared.

  Carina dug right into the bubbling casserole. As she took her first bite, there was an explosion of cheese and buttery goodness on her tongue. This was possibly the best macaroni and cheese she’d ever had in her life. Ever.

  She opened the menu that she’d put aside and scanned it for the macaroni and cheese. It was fifty-five dollars. She almost stopped chewing in shock.

  “Buona sera, Carina.” The round, Santa-bellied Filippo Mucci stood next to her table and held out his arms for a hug. He was the size of a small bear, but his thin brown hair tied back in a punkish ponytail and his constantly twinkling brown eyes put her at ease.

  “So you like?” he asked, pointing a meaty hand at her quickly disappearing plate of mac and cheese.

  “This is incredible,” she gushed. “We’re going to definitely want this.”

  “Bene,” he said, clapping his hands. “So. How many people are we talking about?”

  “About two hundred,” she said.

  Filippo squinted his eyes and cocked his head for a moment. “Okay!” he cried. “Let’s do it!”

  She grabbed his hand with relief. “Oh, you’ve saved my life, you have no idea.”

  “Don’t worry about anything, my Carina, we do this and make it benissimo,” he said grand
ly, spreading his arms wide.

  “Except you know this is a benefit,” she said carefully, “and the food would have to be, um, donated—”

  Filippo shook his head. “Please, please, I know. That is no problem. But my Carina,” he said, holding on to her hand, “do you think you can do me a favor?”

  “Sure,” she said. “What?”

  Filippo’s gentle brown eyes began to look pained. “The last time I cook for your father… last spring… for his birthday, ricordi?”

  “Yes, I remember,” she said, uncertain what this was all about.

  “There was a problem with the bill,” he said in a lower voice. “My business partner, he overcharged your father—by mistake!—and now…” Filippo hung his head. “I invited him to the opening here but he didn’t respond. I’m afraid he’ll no longer use me. Ever again.”

  She hadn’t heard about this, but she believed it. The Jurg did not like to be overcharged. “I’m sorry, Filippo, but I really don’t know anything about it—”

  “If I do this party for you, do you think your father will use me again?” he asked, grabbing her hand. His eyes were as large and imploring as a baby deer’s.

  Carina looked back at him, unsure what to say. If she said yes, he would do the food, Ava would be happy, and Carina could at least check one thing off her interminable to-do list. But she couldn’t do that. Her father wasn’t the type to change his mind about someone, especially if he thought they’d tried to cheat him.

  “I’m so sorry, Filippo,” she said, pulling her hand away. “But I can’t say for sure that he will.”

  Filippo’s eyes filled with disappointment. “I will do it anyway,” he said with a stoic nod. “It is my pleasure!”

  “No, Filippo, that’s okay,” she said, pushing her chair back and standing up. “And I’d say that I’d put in a good word for you, but my opinion doesn’t mean a whole lot right now with my dad.”

  She could barely look at his crestfallen face. It was killing her to turn him down, but she knew that she was doing the right thing.

  Filippo looked up at her with astonishment. “But you’re leaving?” he asked. “No, please, you must stay! Do you like zabaglione?”

  “I can’t. But thank you. The food was amazing. I enjoyed it more than you know.”

  With both hands on the table, Filippo helped himself to his feet with some difficulty. “Please tell your father he’s always welcome here,” he said sadly. “I’ll even close the restaurant for him.”

  “I will,” she said, even though she knew that her father didn’t deserve such an extravagant favor. Then she picked up her umbrella and headed for the door.

  So Lizzie had been right, she thought as she slipped past the maître d’s podium. She should never have tried to score favors using her dad’s name. No wonder Filippo had given her a meeting right away: he just wanted to rectify things with her dad. And Matty had just wanted another six-figure gig. These people didn’t care about her. They didn’t really even care about her dad. They cared about his money. For some reason, she’d never figured that out until now. From now on, she was going to have to plan this party on her own.

  She stepped outside. The pattering rain had become a storm. As she tried to open her flimsy umbrella, a gust of wind turned it inside out and cold rain splattered her face.

  “Ugh!” she said out loud. This whole trip downtown had been for nothing, and all she wanted to do right now was go home, take a nice hot shower, and then meet up with Carter.

  But she still needed a DJ. She dug into her bag and pulled out Alex’s wrinkled flyer. She still had no clue where East Broadway was, but right now, DJ Alexx was her only chance.

  The wind suddenly snapped her umbrella back into place. Hudson would have said that was a sign. Maybe this time, she thought as she made her way back down to the cobblestones, it was.

  chapter 15

  By the time she walked up from the F train subway station, the rain had stopped, and there was only a damp, briny-smelling wind blowing down East Broadway. She ditched her wind-mangled umbrella in a metal garbage can, and then turned to the left and right, searching the block for Club Neshka. From what she could see, East Broadway was definitely not the Meatpacking District. Instead of fancy boutiques and crowded bistros, this street was lined with a shabby-looking liquor store, a dry cleaner, and a tiny Chinese restaurant with a blinking neon sign that read JOLLY CHAN’S. Above her, the roar of cars on the blue-lit Manhattan Bridge was almost deafening. There didn’t seem to be a club in sight. No wonder she’d never heard of East Broadway, she thought. There was nothing here.

  The creaky whine of an opening door made her spin around. Down the block, a young bearded guy and a girl in a white peacoat emerged from a building onto the street. Something told her that they’d just come from Club Neshka.

  “Wait!” she yelled.

  The couple held the door open for her until she reached it. Luckily, there was no bouncer in sight. She slipped past them and ducked inside, or almost ducked inside.

  Club Neshka was so packed that she could barely get through the door. Rail-thin, scruffy guys in skinny jeans and waifish girls in vintage flea market dresses blocked the entrance, chatting and dancing and drinking their bottles of beer. It looked like every twentyish hipster in a five-mile radius had come to this desolate part of town just to hang out at this club.

  She edged her way farther inside. If the Luxelle had been trying hard to be chic, this place was trying hard to be cheesy. Strands of blue and white Christmas lights and bunches of silver tinsel were draped along the fake-wood paneled walls. A disco ball spun from the center of the ceiling, and framed pictures from a Russian clothing catalog hung on the walls. It looked like a demented Russian grandmother’s rec room. And even the music sounded weirdly retro. The song on the PA sounded like an old Motown number. It had a thumping bass line and blaring trumpets and a woman singing, “One hundred days, one hundred nights…” A handful of people danced and swayed to it in the center of the room, mouthing the words.

  Finally, she found Alex. He stood behind his turntables in the far corner of the room, looking like someone’s kid brother who was sitting in for fun. He held a pair of headphones up to one ear and nodded to the beat, his brown eyes unblinking and totally focused. He almost seemed to be in another world. On the turntables were several milk crates stuffed with albums. Maybe it was all the DJ equipment and how lost he was in the music, but Alex seemed cuter tonight than he had at Luxelle. Except for his T-shirt silk screened with the cover of The Queen Is Dead. Of course, she thought. It was practically a law that artsy guys be into the Smiths.

  “Hey,” she said, walking up to him.

  “You made it,” he said, genuinely surprised as he put down the headphones. “I didn’t think you’d come.”

  “Well, it turns out I do come downtown for other reasons than to shop,” she said, dropping her bag to the floor and walking behind the turntables. “By the way, you were right,” she said, looking around. “Cool place.”

  “No cover, six-dollar drinks, and the best sound system on the Lower East Side,” Alex said. “Always a crowd.”

  “So what are we listening to?” she asked, glancing down at the turning record.

  “Sharon Jones and the Dap-Kings,” he said.

  “Cool, I love Motown.”

  “This isn’t Motown. They played Radio City last week.”

  “Oh,” she said, turning back to the albums, pretending not to be embarrassed.

  “I’m gonna have to teach you that there’s more out there than Lady Gaga,” he said dryly.

  “And I’m gonna have to teach you that being into the Smiths is soooo over. Don’t you use an iPod?”

  “First lesson of DJing,” he said, selecting another record from the crate. “Only use vinyl.”

  “Why? Because it’s so retro?” she asked sarcastically.

  “No, because it’s easier. DJing is really just about mixing.”

  “What’s mixing?”
she asked.

  “Here,” he said, dropping the record onto the empty deck next to the one playing. Then he pressed a button. The turntable began to move. “This is mixing,” he said.

  He held the headphones up to her ear. She could hear another song under the Sharon Jones and Dap-Whatevers, but the bass line of this new song was faster.

  “Watch this,” he said. He moved his hand to the console between the two turntables and slowly moved a dial to the left. Now both records were playing through the speakers. The new song’s bass line had slowed down to match the one from the first song but was just a tiny bit different. She recognized it now: “I Feel Good” by James Brown. The crowd heard the James Brown, too, and a small cheer went up in the room.

  “Isn’t that cool?” he asked, watching the room. “That’s what DJing is all about. Making sure one song blends into the other, and timing the tracks.”

  “How do you know which songs will blend with each other?” she asked.

  Alex shrugged. “You try stuff. Here, check this out.” He put her hand on another dial on the mixing board. “You can either turn up the bass or the treble, see?” he said, putting his hand on hers.

  She shivered at the warm touch of his hand. But I’m not even into this guy, she thought.

  “This is taking away all the bass,” he said as he moved her hand to the right. Now she couldn’t hear the bass, only the high-pitched cymbals crashing in the music. “That’s the treble,” he said in her ear. “Now, here’s the bass without the treble.” He moved her hand in the other direction and all she could hear was the thump of the bass line. “See how many parts there are in a song?” he said. “It’s like a whole landscape. And you’re in control of it. That’s DJing.”

  He kept his hand on hers, which gave her a funny, lurching feeling in her stomach. “Wow,” she said. She’d never thought of a song as a landscape before.