“I said no wild parties. When we all moved in, that was the rule.” God, Julia is scary when she wants to be. “What the fuck were you thinking, Pia?”
“It just sort of, um, happened.…” I say, chewing my lip. “And I’m sorry about this, too, um, there’s an old dude at the door? He said his ceiling caved in? I’ll pay for it! I have the money and—”
“Vic?” says Julia in dismay. “I swear to God, Pia, I can’t live with you if you’re going to fucking act like this all the time. I mean it!”
She’s going to kick me out of Rookhaven?
“I won’t!” I exclaim. “I’m sorry! Don’t overreact!”
“Start cleaning up!” she shouts, thundering down the stairs.
She’s going to kick me out. I thought I finally had somewhere that I could call my own, somewhere that wasn’t temporary, and somewhere I might actually not have to wear shower shoes. Yet again I am the master of my own demise. Mistress. Whatever.
I walk back into Coco’s room. “Can I get you anything, sweetie? I’ve got rehydration salts somewhere.”
“No,” she croaks, smiling cherubically at me from the pillow. “I had fun last night. You were so funny.”
“Oh, well, that’s good.” What the hell was I doing?
There are hundreds of books on Coco’s floor. I think they’re usually in the bookshelves in the living room. They’re all old and tattered, with titles like What Katy Did by Susan Coolidge and Are You There God? It’s Me, Margaret by Judy Blume. I loved What Katy Did, I remember. The sequel, What Katy Did at School, was one of the reasons I thought boarding school would be awesome. Stupid book.
“Why are these here?” I ask.
“I didn’t want them to get, um, you know, trashed at the party,” says Coco. “So I picked up all the ones that my mom loved the most and brought them up here.”
“It must have taken you a while,” I say.
“Every time I made a trip, I had a shot.…” Coco starts puking again.
“Hey, ladybitches,” says Angie, sauntering in with an unlit cigarette propped in the side of her mouth.
“For you, Miss Coco.” Somehow, Angie has found an icy-cold can of Coke.
“Wow, thanks! I normally drink Diet Coke, but—”
“Trust me, Diet Coke is bullshit. Okay kids, I am officially over this post-party chaos thing. Let’s clean up.”
At that moment, my phone rings. Unlisted number. I answer.
“Hello?”
“Pia, it’s Benny Mansi.”
Benny Mansi is the director of the PR agency where I work. My parents know his family somehow and got me the interview back in June. I started working there last week. Why would he call me on a Sunday? Is that normal? Perhaps it’s a PR emergency!
I try to sound professional. “Hi! What’s up?”
“Are you aware that there’s a photo of you on Facebook, dancing on a table topless and drinking a bottle of Captain Morgan rum?”
WHAM. I feel like I just got punched.
“Um, I—”
“Pia, we’re letting you go before your trial period is over.”
WHAM. Another hit.
“You’re firing me … for having a party?”
“Captain Morgan is one of our biggest clients,” Benny says. “As my employee, you represent the agency. You’re also Facebook friends with all your brand-new colleagues. You were tagged, they saw it. I applaud your convivial approach to interoffice relations, but that sort of behavior is just … it’s unprofessional, and it’s completely unacceptable, Pia.”
“I know.” A wash of sickly cold horror trickles through me, and I stare at the yellowed glow-in-the-dark stars on the sloping ceiling in Coco’s room. They lost their glow long ago.… Oh, God, I can’t be fired. I can’t be fired after one week. “I’m so sorry, Benny.” Silence. “Did you … tell my, um, father?”
He sighs. “I e-mailed him this morning. I didn’t tell him why.” I don’t say anything, and his voice softens. “Look, Pia, it’s complicated. We made some redundancies a few months ago. So hiring you, as a family friend, really upset a few people, and that photo … my hands are tied. I’m sorry.”
He hangs up.
I can feel Coco and Angie staring at me, but I can’t say anything.
I’ve lost my job. And I’m probably about to get kicked out of my house. After one week in New York.
My phone rings again. It’s my parents. I stare at the phone for a few seconds, knowing what’s on the other end, what’s waiting for me.
I wonder if Coco would mind if I borrowed her puke bucket.
I need to be alone for what’s about to happen, so I walk back out to the stairwell and sit down. I can hear Madeleine playing some angsty music in her room on the floor below, mixed with Julia’s placating tones and Vic’s grumbly ones from down in the front hall.
Then I answer, trying to sound like a good daughter.
“Hi, Daddy!”
“So you’ve lost your job already. What do you have to say for yourself?”
My voice is gone. This happens sometimes. Just when I need it most. In its place, a tiny squeaking sound comes out.
“Speak up!” snaps my father. He has a slightly scary Swiss accent despite twenty years living in the States.
“I’m … sorry. I’ll get another job, I will, and—”
“Pia, we are so disappointed in you!” My mother is lurking on the extension. She has a slight Indian accent that only really comes out when she’s pissed. Like now.
“You wanted the summer with Angie, so we paid for it. You wanted to work, so we got you a job. You said you had the perfect place to live, so we agreed to help pay rent, though God knows Brooklyn certainly wasn’t the perfect place to live last time I was there—”
“You have no work ethic! You are a spoiled party girl! Are you sniffing the drugs again?”
They’ve really honed their double-pronged condemnation-barrage routine over the years.
“Work ethic. Your mother is right. Your total failure to keep a job … well. Let me tell you a story—”
I sink my head to my knees. My parents have the confidence-killing combination of high standards and low expectations.
They also twist everything so it looks terrible. They told me if I got good grades they’d pay for my vacation, and that I’d never find a job on my own, and they offered me an allowance, so of course I said yes! Wouldn’t you?
“… and that is how I met your father and then we got married and had you and then lived— What do you say? Happily ever after…”
Yeah, right. My parents hardly talk to each other. They distract themselves with work (my dad) and socializing (my mother). They met in New York, where they had me, then moved to Singapore, London, Tokyo, Zurich … I went to American International Schools until I was twelve, and then they started sending me to boarding school. Well, boarding schools.
“Life starts with a job, Pia. You think we will always pay for your mistakes, that life is just a party. We know you’ll never have a career, but a job is—”
“A reason to get up in the morning!”
“And the only way to learn the value of money. Do you understand?”
I nod stupidly, staring at the wall next to me, at the ancient-looking rosebud wallpaper. At the bottom the paper has started to peel, curled up like a little pencil shaving. It’s comforting.
“Pia!” my mother is shouting. “Why are you not listening? Do we have to do the Skype again?”
“No, no, I can’t, my Skype is broken,” I say quickly. I can’t handle Skyping with my parents. It’s so damn intense.
“We are stopping your allowance, effective immediately. No rent money, no credit card for emergencies. You’re on your own.”
“What? B-but it might take me a while to get another job!” I stammer in panic.
“Well, the Bank of Mom and Dad is closed unless you come live with us in Zurich and get a job here. That’s the deal.”
“No way!” I know I soun
d hysterical, but I can’t help it. “My friends are here! My life is here!”
“We want you to be safe,” says my mother, in a slightly gentler tone. Suddenly tears rush to my eyes. “We worry. And it seems like you’re only safe when you’re with us.”
“I am safe.”
“And we want you to be happy,” she adds.
“I am happy!” My voice breaks.
My father interrupts. “This is the deal. We’re vacationing in Palm Beach in exactly two months, via New York. If you’re not in gainful employment by then, we’re taking you back to Zurich with us. That’s the best thing for you.”
The tears escape my eyes. I know I’ve made some mistakes, but God, I’ve tried to make it up to them. I studied hard, I got into a great college.… It’s never good enough.
How is it that no one in the world can make me feel as bad as my parents can?
“Okay, message received,” I say. “I gotta go.”
I hang up and stare at the curled-up rosebud wallpaper for a few more seconds. Then, almost without thinking, I lick my index finger and try to smooth it down, so it lies flat and perfect against the wall. It bounces right back up again.
With one party, I’ve destroyed my life in New York City. Before it even began.
ALSO BY GEMMA BURGESS
BROOKLYN GIRLS
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Gemma Burgess spent her twenties getting lost, drunk, dumped, fired, or in a state of mild hysteria, and still managed to have some of the best times of her life. She lives in New York City with her family. You can find out more at www.gemmaburgess.com.
This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
LOVE AND CHAOS. Copyright © 2014 by Gemma Burgess. All rights reserved. For information, address St. Martin’s Press, 175 Fifth Avenue, New York, N.Y. 10010.
www.stmartins.com
Cover design by Olga Grlic
Cover photograph © copyright Allija/Getty Images
The Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is available upon request.
ISBN 978-1-250-00086-6 (trade paperback)
ISBN 978-1-4668-4201-4 (e-book)
eISBN 9781466842014
First Edition: March 2014
Love and Chaos: A Brooklyn Girls Novel Page 31