I sign Vic up to Facebook pretty quickly, and within twenty minutes, he’s requested about fifty friends, and messages keep popping up. Jeez. He’s eighty-something years old but has more Facebook fun than I do.
“You’re so popular,” I say.
He shrugs. “You live this long, you meet a lot of people,” he says. “Imagine if half my friends weren’t dead.”
I laugh despite myself. It does not seem appropriate.
Vic stares at the screen for a few moments, then frowns. “So, what does it do now?”
“Um, nothing, you have to, you know, find people you know, or find things you like.”
“And then what do you do when you find things you like?”
“You press the Like button.”
“Why?”
I pause. Why? “So everyone knows what you like?”
“Who cares what I like? I don’t care what everyone else likes.”
“Oh,” I say. I do. I really care what everyone else likes. It’s how I learn what’s important.
Vic stands up. “Well, this has been great, but I gotta get down to Esposito’s before they sell out of my lasagne. Want to join?”
“No … I think I’ll stay here and try to think about what would make me truly happy.”
Impossible things would make me happy.
That my mother was still alive.
That I’d never slept with Eric … I shake my head quickly, before I can think about the termination and everything that happened that day and after. I’d be happy if I’d never dated Ethan, especially when I didn’t really like him at first, I just liked that he liked me. If Ethan never cheated on me.
If I had a body like a Victoria’s Secret Angel, and I could magically erase every piece of junk food from my eating history.
If my former best friend who slept with Eric on prom night gets alopecia so all her hair falls out.
If I never have to work at Little Gardens again.
But, gradually, I whittle it down.
This is a secret list—I’ll never show anyone—and it’s the bare essentials.
These are the three things missing from my life, the things that I need in order to truly be happy.
My Happy List
1. Be thin
2. Fall in love
3. Figure out what to do with the rest of my life
If that’s my happy life … no wonder I’m so unhappy now. I am so far from all of those things.
Thinking this, I lie on my bed, staring at the ceiling, at the tiny glow-in-the-dark stars my mom put there when she was a little girl. A few of them were traced around in colored pencil and then removed, leaving little star stencils all across the ceiling. My mom was very naughty when she was little, apparently. I never would have done that. You know how all families have roles that everyone plays? Julia was the spirited one, always pushing boundaries and having tantrums and time-outs, and I was the opposite. I was quiet and shy and never got in trouble. I was the good one.
That’s it.
The good one.
I’ve always been the good one. I’ve always done everything right, everything careful and obedient and considerate. And look where it’s got me.
Guys treat me like crap, my boss thinks I’m an idiot, no one expects me to achieve or be able to handle anything.
I lie to myself, telling myself things are okay when they’re not. I told myself that my job was fine and my relationship was good enough when they weren’t. I never have the confidence to say what I’m thinking, I second-guess myself at every turn. I spend all my time in my head, or in the kitchen. Or both.
The only way I can be happy is by being the exact opposite of the person I’ve always been.
So from now on, I don’t want to be the good one.
I’ll be the wild one.
CHAPTER 4
I can’t start being wild while I’m dating a douche bag and hate my job, right? So I have to quit working at Little Gardens and break up with Ethan. When you think about it like that, these are the next, the only, logical steps.
So the following Friday afternoon, after all the kids have gone home and I’ve finished all my cleanup jobs, I walk over to Miss Audrey and clear my throat.
“I’d like to talk to you. And Mrs. James,” I say. “Now. Please.”
Her little dried-apple mouth flickers in surprise. I haven’t spoken without her addressing me first in … ever.
Once we’re sitting in front of Mrs. James, her smiling warmly at me in that well-rehearsed grandma way, I take charge. It feels strange. And amazing.
“I’d like to give notice,” I say. “Effective immediately.”
Their mouths drop open.
“I am allowed do that,” I add. “I read over my contract. It says that once I’m on probation, I can be fired with no notice period, and I can also resign without the standard notice period.”
“That’s correct, but”—Mrs. James looks at Miss Audrey—“we really thought—”
“I am sorry. I’ve enjoyed working here, but this isn’t the job for me.” Wow, the more I say exactly how I feel, the better I get at it.
“You picked a fine time to decide,” snaps Miss Audrey. “With just weeks to go until the end of the school year.”
“You picked it, actually, when you put me on probation,” I meet her gaze steadily.
Her eyebrows shoot up in surprise. That would normally be enough to scare me into mute submission. But instead my voice is strong; I’m maintaining eye contact … That fire bursts to life in my stomach again, the spark that started whispering to me the other night at the Jane Hotel.
Suddenly I know what that voice is. It’s me. The me that has never dared to speak up for herself before.
Where the hell has she been?
I stand up, feeling stronger than I think I ever have before. “Look, Mrs. James, you said you wanted me to be happy. Well, I can never be happy while I’m working here with—that woman.”
Mrs. James glances at Miss Audrey, who looks like she might throw up.
“Thank you for your time,” I say. “Good-bye.”
Then I turn and walk out of Mrs. James’s office and straight out of Little Gardens. Forever.
CHAPTER 5
Of course, by the time I get back to Rookhaven, I’m completely freaking out.
What do I do now?
How can I survive without a job? My rent is taken care of because Julia and I inherited Rookhaven—the other girls pay rent directly to our dad and he uses it to take care of maintenance and stuff, like fixing the place up after the storm earlier this year. But what about bills? What about food? What about Metrocards and tampons and toothpaste? It’s not like I’m a big spender, but simply being alive costs money. What if I can never get a job again? Will I have to move home to Rochester and live with Dad? Would Dad just give me my inheritance? I doubt it, but even if he did, it wouldn’t last forever, I’d still need a plan …
Seriously. What do I do now?
I walk into the kitchen and find Angie, dressed like some kind of albino Hells Angel in a white leather dress.
“What up, ladybitch?”
“Nothing,” I say. “What up, uh, I mean, what’s up with you?”
“I just got a present from Sam!” Angie squeals uncharacteristically, pulling two martini glasses out of a cardboard delivery box in front of her. Sam is her absolutely gorgeous, totally nice boyfriend. He’s currently working on a boat in the Greek islands or something.
“He sent you a present?”
“Yup. Martini glasses and a shaker, and vodka and vermouth too! Isn’t that so thoughtful?” A dreamy look comes across her face.
“He just ordered you a present for no reason?”
“Well, you know … I guess just to let me know he’s thinking of me. Anyway,” she continues, opening the bottle of vodka, “work finished early since it’s Memorial Day weekend and everyone in the studio wanted to get the fuck out and get drunk, so I figured I’d go ahead and christen them. Besides, we should pre
game before Maddy’s gig.”
“Oh. Um … cool. Nice dress, by the way.”
Angie looks down at herself. “You like? White leather? I don’t look like I belong in a Whitesnake music video? I was working on it all day, so I figured I could borrow it for the weekend.”
I sigh. I could never fit into that dress. Angie is extremely slim. And she eats whatever she wants. It’s totally unfair.
I watch her shaking the martini. Her arms are so toned, they don’t even jiggle. My arms are one of my least favorite parts of myself.
“Are you okay?” asks Angie, concerned. “You look stressed out.”
I take a deep breath. “I just quit my job. And I am going to break up with Ethan.”
Angie’s face lights up. “That is fucking outstanding news.”
I wince slightly. I’m getting used to how much my friends swear, and I get it, that’s just how they talk … but sometimes it still shocks me.
Angie checks herself. “Sorry. I just meant, I knew you didn’t like that job, and he’s a nice guy but, um, you are way out of his league.”
“Like I’m out of anyone’s league,” I say.
“Coco, don’t be silly! Now, and this may be the most important question I ever ask you”—she turns deadly serious—“how do you like your martinis?”
“Um…” I have no idea. “Strong?”
“I like them icy-cold, dry, and dirty. I’ll make you one like mine, and if you hate it, we’ll try another approach. Now, go change your outfit to cleanse your sartorial karma, and come back.” She glances at me. “Scoot!”
Ten minutes later I’m showered and dressed in my favorite jeans and comfy old black top, and I walk out to the stoop. Angie assesses me.
“No.”
“No?”
“Go to my room. There’s a top resting on the chair next to my sewing machine.”
“I’m not skinny enough to wear your clothes, Angie.”
“Just do as I say, ladybitch.” Angie has been experimenting with her eyeliner lately, replacing her usual thick rings of black with thicker rings of navy, and the result is somehow even edgier. And more intimidating. It’s hard to say no to her.
So I head up to Angie’s room and on the chair is a silky blue top. I’m positive it’s not going to fit me, but put it on, trying not to breathe in case I split it in two.
It fits.
I am stunned. I quickly glance in the mirror to confirm I haven’t somehow made a mistake and not put it on properly, but it’s really me. I take a second to look. Big boobs, round face, blond bob … Same old me. No. New me.
“I can’t believe I fit into your top!” I exclaim, running back out to the stoop. “That is insane!”
Angie drops her cigarette in delight. “I knew that would look amazing on you! I bought that top at AuH2O in the East Village, and my tits are too small. Yours are magnificent.”
“Um, thanks.”
“Ladybitch, your clothes are too big and droopy. And I say that with love. Wearing clothes that oversize doesn’t do anyone any favors.” Angie lights another cigarette. “When was the last time you went funderwear shopping? My boss says that when she learned how to dress for her boobs, everyone thought she’d lost, like, eighty fucking pounds.”
“Oh,” I say. “Gosh.”
“The right structure means the twins reach out to the future, not down to your knees. Dig?”
Angie has such a ballsy way of talking sometimes; I’m never sure what to say in response.
“I wish I was skinny up and down like you,” I say.
“Well, I wish I had perfect boobs like you, and an ass that didn’t droop like a sad balloon. Everyone is different.”
She hands me my martini, clinks her glass to mine, and we both take a sip.
It’s strong.
“That’s pretty good,” she says thoughtfully. “I went to a bunch of Web sites to figure out how to make a perfect martini. How did people learn anything before the Internet? Like, seriously.”
“I don’t know.”
“Tell me about work and Ethan. No! Wait! Screw work. You hated it, you quit. Just tell me about Ethan.”
I take a big sip of my martini. “He kind of cheated on me last Saturday…”
Angie chokes on her drink. “He fucking what? Why didn’t you tell us? And what do you mean ‘sort of’?”
“I just…”
I stare at my martini for a second.
I hate talking about myself. Particularly about why I do the dumb shit I do. Then I remember. I need to be the exact opposite of the person I’ve always been. That doesn’t just mean being wild instead of always good, it also means being open and honest, even about things I’m embarrassed about, things I think no one else could ever understand.
I clear my throat. “I was scared.”
Angie frowns. I bet she’s never been scared in her life. “Scared of what?”
“Of being single, of being alone,” I say. “If you’re single, then you just sit at home all the time waiting to meet someone, but you never do because you’re at home all the time! And let’s say you do meet someone, and against all odds, he actually likes you … He still might hurt you, you know? He might lie to you or dump you, or, um, cheat on you, though I guess that happened anyway since Ethan lied and cheated … And you know, guys with whom you might make the mistake that I … I made with Eric…” I pause briefly, before the sweet rush of confession spurs me onward. “I never slept with Ethan.”
“Say what?”
“We tried once and I freaked out and made him stop,” I say. “You know. Because my only other time was Eric.”
Angie nods. She knows about my horrible Eric story. Okay, I haven’t told you the whole thing yet … So. Imagine having a crush on a guy for years, all through high school, even after he slept with your best friend at prom. Like a massive, heart-stopping crush of adoration and lust. Imagine finally hooking up with him, years later, and losing your virginity to him. Imagine getting pregnant, because he wouldn’t wear a condom. Imagine that afterward, he won’t even return your calls or texts. Imagine getting an abortion. That’s the Eric story.
See? It was horrible, absolutely the worst.
Angie was so good to me during that time. She and Pia really looked after me. It amazes me, when I look back, how understanding and supportive and nonjudgmental they were. I would never have expected them to be so nice to me. I don’t think Julia and Madeleine would be like that. I guess that’s why I haven’t told them about it.
“Do you want to talk about it?” Angie asks.
I think for a moment. “No. Not really.”
Sometimes there’s nothing to say. I feel sad and sick and tiny inside when I think about that day. I don’t regret it—I totally do not regret it—but I still wish it hadn’t happened. I think that’s how everyone who has to have an abortion probably feels. All of us millions of women, feeling sad and sick and tiny inside when we think about the memory that will never go away.
“Who’d be a chick, huh?” I murmur.
Angie cracks up. “It’s better than being a dude. Can you imagine? Having a dick jangling around all the time? Ew.”
“Do you think I’ll ever want to sleep with someone again?” I ask Angie. “I will, right? Ethan just wasn’t right, you know? He’s a really bad kisser, and his mouth tastes wrong, somehow. I don’t know how, just wrong.”
“Well, sugarnuts, if his mouth tastes wrong, you can sure as shit bet his dick wouldn’t taste right.” Angie swallows another gulp of martini. “Of course you’ll sleep with someone again. And it’ll be fucking great. Now. Tell me all of Ethan’s dirty little secrets.”
An hour later, we have a plan.
“Text Ethan now! Now!” says Angie. “Invite him to Maddy’s gig tonight. We’ll nail his balls to the fucking wall.”
“He’s not in New York. He’s on a train back from Philly. He was there all week for work.”
“Ew. Trains.” Angie wrinkles her nose. “Send the text.”
I tap out the pre-agreed text. Then there’s a beeping on the street, and Pia rolls up in Toto, her original Skinny Wheels food truck. She has a small fleet of food trucks now, but Toto is still special to her.
“You’re not supposed to park that on the street,” calls Angie. We’ve had some complaints from the neighbors.
Pia shrugs, walking toward the stoop. “Fuck it. I’ve had a merde day. Is that vodka?”
Pia bounds up the stoop, takes a huge slug of Angie’s drink, and then plucks the cigarette out of her mouth and takes a drag.
“Are we having a party?” a voice calls.
Julia and Madeleine are walking up Union Street toward home, still in their work clothes. Julia is wearing her huge gym backpack that would, I swear to God, take out an old lady if she turned too quickly on a crowded subway.
“Coco quit her job and is going to dump Ethan!” calls Angie.
I feel embarrassed to have all the attention on me. “Angie, stop it…”
“Coco. You need to own your drama,” she says sternly.
She’s right. Being the opposite of the old me means being loud(er), without caring about the consequences or worrying that I don’t deserve people’s attention.
I take a deep breath. “I totally quit. And Ethan cheated on me and we’re taking revenge tonight!”
“That little shitweasel,” says Julia. “Are you okay? Why didn’t you tell me?”
“There was nothing to tell … until now.” I used to tell Julia everything, but she works so hard these days that she’s never around. Besides, it’s not like I have to tell her everything. I’m a grown-up. Adult. Whatever. “I think it’s time for me to be wild. Whatever that means.”
“Getting drunk,” says Pia. “At work.”
“Having casual sex,” says Angie. “Also at work.”
“Speaking your mind,” says Madeleine. “No matter what.”
“Telling your boss to fuck off,” says Julia. “Or is that just my fantasy?”
“I already did that,” I say. “Kind of. I mean, I didn’t want to hurt her feelings or anything … Hey, how come you’re out of the office before nine?”
Julia grins. “You know that deal I was working on until, like, three A.M. every night this week? It died. Hundreds of millions of dollars down the drain.”
The Wild One Page 3