I woke up thinking about Potstill and my new job and my new boss Joe, and I guess I’ve been smiling ever since. I’m in the best mood. My Ethan problem is dealt with. My job problem is dealt with. Which means I’ve taken the first steps toward changing my life.
But I don’t say this out loud, of course. I’m just, you know, I’m not like that. Instead, I do a joyous wiggly dance in my seat, until Angie gives me a look and I stop.
Pia is now stretching in front of the TV with considerably less finesse than Madeleine.
“Why are you working out, Pia? You don’t even need to lose weight,” I say.
“Working out isn’t always about weight loss, Coco. It makes me feel more in control of my life,” says Pia, pulling herself up into a downward dog. “Maintaining a long-distance relationship and a career is hard. Working out regularly helps me handle my high-pressure existence.”
Angie catches my eye and mouths “high-pressure existence”? I try not to laugh, but a bursting sound escapes me.
“Whatever, bitches.” Pia lifts one leg back and up behind her, wobbling frantically. “The point is, I’m not thinking about Aidan. I’m focusing on my career. I have a big meeting today with that restaurant guy, Ray. He is considering partnering with me on a new food truck venture, so I’m taking him to this food truck festival thing, and—shit!”
Pia falls over with a squeak, and Angie laughs so hard she falls off the sofa.
This is what I love. I love all of us together, like nothing bad has ever happened or will ever happen. I love everyone being funny and silly. I don’t want anything to change, ever.
At that moment, the doorbell rings. I skip to the front door to open it.
It’s Vic, and a woman I don’t recognize. She’s in her forties—or fifties, I can’t quite tell—and must be the daughter or maybe granddaughter of Vic’s sister Marie, because she looks just like her: tiny, strong, and impish.
“Coco!” says Vic. “This is my niece Samantha, the smart one I was telling you about.”
Samantha reaches out and shakes my hand. I’m never ready for handshakes; my hand is slippery and awkward.
“I was hoping we could talk to all of you girls. Is everyone home?”
“Julia and Madeleine are upstairs,” I say. I don’t add, “Julia is taking a shower because she smells like Peter the Magnificent’s penis.”
“We can wait!” Vic says. “Any muffins this morning, Coco?”
“I—oh, no, sorry, I haven’t had time to bake this weekend,” I say. For once, baking hadn’t even occurred to me. “I’ll get Julia.”
I run up the stairs as fast as I can to Julia’s room and open it without knocking. Julia is lying on her bed, wrapped in a towel, eyes closed, cuddling her old teddy, Dolch, to the side of her face. My mother always said Julia couldn’t pronounce “doll” when she was little, so Dolch it is.
“Julia! Vic is here. With his niece.”
Julia sits bolt upright, staring at me. “What? Oh. Vic. So?”
“They want to talk to us about something. I think it’s important.”
“Crap.” Julia’s hangover has eclipsed her postsex glow. She looks terrible. “I’m still waiting for Madeleine to finish. I’ll be ten minutes. At least. I can’t move fast, Coco. Don’t make me move fast.”
There’s a knock at the door. “Shower’s free!” shouts Madeleine.
“Entertain them,” says Julia. “I’ll be as quick as I can.”
Ten minutes later we’re all out on the back deck overlooking Vic’s backyard, with cups of coffee and some old ginger snaps I baked last week. Strangely, my crippling shyness comes back around Samantha. I never feel this way around the girls or Vic, or even with Joe. Some people are just more intimidating than others.
“I can see the family resemblance, Samantha,” says Angie, lighting a cigarette. “You have the same beautiful eyelashes as Vic.”
Samantha laughs. I wish I could be as nonchalantly friendly as Angie. She’s never shy. She just opens her mouth and says something cool and everyone thinks she’s amazing.
“Hey, Vic, I’m picking up some lasagne later,” says Pia. “Can I get you a—”
“Absolutely not!” says Samantha sternly. “He’s having grilled chicken and steamed green beans for dinner and that’s the end of it.”
Everyone laughs.
Damn you, effortless small talk, why do you always evade me? I should say something. Stop thinking, Coco. Start doing.
I clear my throat.
Everyone looks at me.
But I have nothing to actually say.
Then, thank God, Madeleine comes out, her hair still wet from the shower, wearing a long-sleeve T-shirt and jeans, like always. Maddy doesn’t wear tank tops even in the middle of summer.
“Hey, everyone,” she says. “I’ll just make myself a herbal tea and be right back.”
“So, Coco. You work at a preschool, right?” says Samantha.
“Um…” I take a sip of coffee to stall and look up at the blue sky. It’s that fresh premidday blue, when you know it’s going to be superhot later on, but right now the day still feels sparkly and new. “I quit, actually. I work in a bar now.”
“Preschool teaching is tough,” says Samantha. “Everyone thinks it’s all singing and sweetness, but it’s not. It’s intense and exhausting.”
I glance at her curiously.
“I started as a preschool teacher,” she continues. “I very quickly realized it just wasn’t for me and went back to college and started again.”
“You did?” I’m stunned. I never heard of anyone doing that. I mean, sure, there’s grad school and medical school and MBAs and all that, but starting all over again from the beginning? “You mean like … a do-over?”
Samantha laughs. “Sure. A do-over.”
“I don’t even know what I’d do,” I say. “Like, I don’t know what I’d study.”
“Ever looked into the options?” asks Vic, just as Madeleine comes back out with her tea.
Suddenly everyone looks at me.
Since when is this a counsel-Coco-on-her-career-choices session? I try not to answer, but they’re all looking at me with such friendly openness, waiting.
But then, out of nowhere, comes the truth. “Um, well, I guess I would study literature or something. But it’s so stupid. What job would I get after?”
Samantha smiles, throwing her hands into the air. “There are a million options.”
“I don’t want options,” I say. “I want to know.”
Samantha and Vic laugh as though I made a hilarious joke. “You’ll figure it out as you go along, like the rest of us.”
I gaze at her for a second, trying to digest this.
Figure it out as I go along? That’s never been part of our family dialogue. According to my father, we have to know what we want and then make it happen. That’s what Julia always does.
If we can’t, then someone will tell us what we want and make it happen for us. I remember looking at colleges online—Smith, Vassar, Wellesley, Bowdoin—feeling the strangest mix of longing and fear. It was what I wanted most, and what I was most scared of. But my dad and Julia both thought it wasn’t a good use of my time, that I needed something smaller, simpler, something that wouldn’t stress me out.
But truthfully, they thought I wasn’t smart enough. And I thought they must be right. Why did I listen to them? Why didn’t I tell them what I wanted?
Because I didn’t know how.
Maybe I could go back to college now …
But then I’d have to leave Rookhaven and my friends. Start over, in every possible way. I’d have to choose a college and share a room and meet new people. Oh, God, they’d probably just dismiss me straightaway. None of the girls would be friends with me, and I wouldn’t get invited to parties. It would just be a more intense version of high school, a big clique from which I’ll be excluded. I’d probably flunk out too, and the whole thing would be another huge mortifying mistake. And it would be all my fa
ult.
How long have I been gazing into space, just thinking like this? Samantha and Vic are still looking at me. Angie is picking mascara out of her eyelashes, and Pia is texting.
I force a smile at Samantha. “Thanks. But I’m fine right where I am.”
“Samantha!” Julia bounds out of the kitchen, her hair still wet from the shower, wearing shorts and a surprisingly booby tank top. “So nice to see you! Hi, Vic!”
“Julia,” says Vic, smirking slightly at her bloodshot eyes and still-flushed face. “Late night?”
“Me? No.” Julia can’t meet his eyes. We Russottis are not good liars.
Samantha doesn’t waste any time. “Well, girls, I’m here to ask your help. A group of my grad students are doing a study on millennials.”
“Millennials?” says Vic.
“That’s us!” Pia pipes up. “People born in the ’80s and ’90s.”
“Right.” Samantha nods. “And I’d like you and your friends to come in and tell us what it’s like to be young, living in a big city, trying to start adult life.”
“It blows,” says Angie.
“Aren’t your grad students in our generation too?” asks Julia.
“Yes, but they can’t answer questions impartially and honestly,” says Samantha. “Lying little bastards.” We all look at her in shock. “I’m kidding! Honestly, I’m just trying to get a good cross section of people. Plus, it pays a hundred dollars!”
“Is this a trap?” says Angie. “So you can paint us as a useless, self-absorbed generation of brats?”
“Angie!” Pia and Julia are shocked.
“Sorry, Samantha, but it’s not my bag.” Angie stubs out her cigarette and stands up. “I’m not a lab rat. You can’t study me.”
“That’s really not the—”
“See you soon, Vic.” Angie kisses Vic on the cheek, and a moment later she’s gone.
There’s an awkward silence.
“Um … well, I think it’s cool,” says Julia.
“Me too,” says Pia, less convincingly.
Samantha claps her hands, a gesture that reminds me of Vic. “I’m glad you think so! Right, so, the study is taking place on a Friday in August—”
“I work on Fridays,” says Madeleine. “And now I gotta go. I’m meeting Amy. Good luck.”
A second late, Madeleine vanishes.
“Sorry, Samantha,” says Pia. “Normally I’d love any excuse to talk about myself for an hour, but I have a job.”
Samantha looks at Julia and me. “Looks like it’s just you two.”
“I can’t do it either, I have to work, I—” Julia suddenly looks very pale, like she’s going to throw up.
“Are you okay?” asks Samantha.
“I feel strange,” says Julia, her voice soft and whispery.
Pia immediately takes her by the wrist to check her pulse, though I don’t know why, since obviously if she was dead we’d know by now. “Have you eaten today?”
“I haven’t eaten since…” Julia’s voice trails off, as though finishing her sentence is too hard.
“Coco, get her a juice,” says Vic quickly, and I run into the kitchen. By the time I’ve come back with the drink, Julia’s lying flat out on the deck. She’s breathing quickly, and her mouth and lips are a strange pale blue.
“She fainted!” Pia likes to make dramatic, obvious statements sometimes.
“I’m okay,” Julia mumbles, her eyes closed. “I’m just not feeling too great.” She takes a sip of Coke, then coughs, spitting most of it back out onto the deck. “It was a busy week … at work. Just … a little tired.”
Vic shakes his head. “Julia, not for nothing, but not eating and not sleeping is about the stupidest thing you can do.”
“My boss says sleep is a state of mind,” murmurs Julia.
Samantha turns to me. “Which bank does Julia work at?”
I tell her.
Samantha purses her lips. “One of my neighbors’ kids worked there. Had a breakdown. It’s not normal to work that many hours a week. It’s dangerous.”
Within minutes, Julia’s blue tinge has dissipated, and she looks normal again. Pale, but normal.
“Sorry, everyone. I’m fine, honestly, I’m fine. I’ll just take it easy today.”
Vic sighs, looking at his watch. “If you’re really sure you don’t want to go to the hospital, then Samantha and I had better get going. We’re headed to Hoboken.”
“I really would love to help with your study, Samantha, but I just don’t have the time,” says Julia. “Coco can, though.”
I can? I instinctively want to say, “No, I goddamn can’t, I have a life too,” but I don’t know why. So I just nod. Anyway, she’s right. I have nothing else to do with my days. And extra cash sounds nice.
Samantha swaps numbers with me. “Excellent! Thank you so much. I can’t wait!”
“Take it easy, little Julia, okay?” says Vic, standing up. “No more all-nighters.”
When Vic and Samantha leave, Angie comes back out to the deck and lights up again.
“Smoking will kill you,” says Julia.
“So if I quit I’ll live forever?”
“I can’t believe you fainted from too much sex,” says Pia. “Like seriously. How big is he?”
“I didn’t!” Julia starts laughing. “I hadn’t eaten or slept!”
“Oh, mah Lord…” Pia puts on a Tennessee Williams voice. “Ah was overcome by the fluttahs of exhaustion after a nahght of lurve-may-kin’…”
“Ah’m shakin’ from pleasure lah-ke a magnolia bush in a summer storm,” adds Angie.
“Magnolias grow on trees, you moron,” says Julia, grinning. “I’m fine. Drama over.”
“When Ah’m around, the dramah is nevah ovah,” says Pia.
Then my phone rings.
Joe. From Potstill.
I quickly turn my back on everyone else, let it ring four times—the way Pia taught me—and then answer as coolly as I can.
“This is Coco … oh, hi, Joe!”
Angie makes a whooping sound ending in an “ow!” as though Pia punched her.
“Hey, Coco. Can you work today around four?”
“Sure,” I say.
“Cheers, Coco. You’re the best. Well, after my mother. She’s the absolute best. But you’re a close second.”
Moments later, I hang up, giggling, and turn back to the girls. They’re all looking up at me expectantly.
“Sounds like someone’s got a date!” says Pia.
“Better than that,” I say. “I’ve got a job.”
CHAPTER 9
The first thing Joe does when I get to work is hand me $20 and send me on a coffee run.
“Iced coffee, please,” he says. “And some cake. Something that tastes homemade but looks manly, you know?”
“A manly cake,” I repeat. “What does that mean?”
“No frosting,” says Joe, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “Maybe one of those crumb cake things you New Yorkers love so much. You know, the first time someone offered me a crumb cake, I was, like, a cake the size of a crumb, are you fecking mad?”
On my way to get us iced coffees and crumb cake, I take a quick detour to the old hardware store on Court, the one that’s been around for generations, and buy the yellowest lightbulbs I can find.
Then I head to the old Italian bakery near President Street. There’s no crumb cake, but I buy some biscotti, because they seem like the kind of tough cookie he was talking about. I return to the bar with my purchases, feeling exuberant.
“Biscotti are manly?” Joe looks doubtful.
“Yup,” I say. “They’re practically butch. Now. You need to get a better cleaning service, and we need to change the lighting.”
“Why?” Joe bites into a biscotto. “Ouch. Are biscotti supposed to hurt?”
“Yes.” I try sounding as self-assured as my roommates always do. “And Joe, girls want lighting that makes them feel pretty. This lighting is too harsh. We a
lso like bathrooms that don’t feel like they might give you the plague.”
Together, we change the lights in the bar, and suddenly, like magic, Potstill is transformed from bleak and ugly to warm and charming. Even the chipped bar looks chic. (Well, chic-ish.)
“I feel prettier,” says Joe, batting his lashes. “I really do. Do I look prettier?”
I try to think of a good comeback, but I just sort of giggle inanely instead. Goddamnit. Why can’t I think of funny things to say when I need them?
Then we change the bathroom lights (while I try not to think about the underwear-waxed-to-my-vagina situation) and I add something else highly necessary I bought in the hardware store: a soap dispenser to affix to the wall. I’m fast running out of my pathetic savings from my preschool job, but to hell with it: I suddenly want to help Joe, to do everything I can so Potstill has a fighting chance at survival. And that means a decent toilet with nice soap.
“This looks so much better!” I exclaim.
“I found this the other day in the storeroom,” says Joe, holding up a huge old-fashioned metal fan. “If we have this at the back of the bar, and we open the windows at the front, it might not be so stuffy, right? And it looks kind of—”
“Industrial chic.” I try to sound like I know what I’m talking about. “Totally.”
Next I sit at the bar, while Joe trains me in the art of bartending. The top whiskeys, the register, which glasses go where and what we use them for, how the ice machine works …
Then he invites me to join him behind the bar.
After confidently charging around the place changing lightbulbs and planning décor for the last hour, I suddenly feel strangely nervous. There’s something physically and emotionally intense about being in this narrow little bar area with Joe when there are no customers here.
It’s such a tiny space. I am acutely aware of how close he is to me at all times, of where I’m looking, what I’m doing with my hands, the fact that I seem to be constantly in his way, how tall he is, how … attractive. I mean, I don’t like him like that. I really don’t. And yet … I feel sort of giggly and shy around him, like I find myself smiling so much around him that my cheeks hurt. What is that about? Lame.
I clear my throat. “That’s it? We only make five cocktails?”
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