The Everything Girl

by L. Maleki

  The intercom next to the front door buzzed as I turned off my cell phone. My heart surged, just for a second, wildly thinking my dad had surprised me and flown here, to give me a hug and tell me stupid jokes and make baklava while we discussed what I should do with my life. Then reality sank back in.

  “Who is this?”

  “It’s me. Benji.”

  “How do you know where I live?”

  “You put your address on the form for the photography class. I’m sorry, Paris, I’m not trying to stalk you. You didn’t come to class tonight. You’ve made it clear you don’t want anything to do with me, but this is something else. It’s important. Can I come up and talk to you for a minute? I won’t make a move, I promise.”

  He sounded so sweet, downtrodden even. I had to stay resolved. Is he really that sweet if he’s willing to sleep around?

  “Fine. Just for a minute.” My voice could freeze vodka.

  When I heard footsteps approaching my door, I swung it open before he could knock. I lost my cool immediately. “Does your girlfriend know you’re here?” I demanded, my voice on the edge of a shriek. I’d already asked that question once this week, to Darien. How had this happened?

  Benji, sexy as hell in a tight blue T-shirt and jean jacket, shifted a large package to his right hand, his eyebrows raised in bewilderment.

  “What? What girlfriend?”

  “Don’t screw with me. I know you have a girlfriend. The bartender at The Rooftop.” I layered on the spite with a trowel.

  “Are you talking about Cassie?”

  “I don’t know her name. The one who looks like she runs boot camps.” I crossed my arms, my feet in a basketball stance. I was staying strong.

  He blew out his breath and ran his hand roughly over his chin. His freckles darkened with the flush that crept up his neck to his hairline. The gold in the center of his hazel eyes flashed. “Cassie. She and I went out on a date exactly twice. That was it. I never slept with her, and she was definitely never my girlfriend. She’s nice, but dumb as a box of rocks.”

  “Why should I believe you? One of the servers told me about you two. Why would she make that up?”

  “I don’t know. You’d have to ask her. But seriously, twice. She’s moved on, believe me.” He put his hand over his left pectoral. “Or don’t. But I promise, cross my heart, I am not in a relationship with Cassie.”

  I fidgeted, shifting back and forth, suddenly off-balance. I wanted to believe his words, but was I being a sap?

  It was the unvarnished shock, with a touch of hurt, on his face that sold me. “Paris, I’m sorry you ever thought that. I would never cheat on someone. Not ever.”

  My chest clenched when I realized Benji was a good guy, totally innocent … but I wasn’t. I was the bad guy here. I was the one who, believing Benji had a girlfriend, went with him to his gallery that night, knowing full well what would happen. I’d justified it to myself by saying the martinis clouded my judgment or that it had happened too fast, but neither of those things was true. I was an asshole.

  I was Darien.

  A total asshole.

  And the beautiful man in front of me knew it.

  “Can I come in now?” He held up the package, his emotions masked. Except for a slight downturned mouth, revealing a sadness. “I really do have something to talk to you about.”

  My shoulders hunched, my tail between my legs, I stepped back and allowed him room to step into my apartment.

  He stopped in the middle of the living room and spun, slowly. “This is nice.” He walked over to my red wall and studied my photo collection. His face relaxed into a partial grin. He gestured to the wall and said, “This! This is why I’m here.”

  “What do you mean?”

  He tore the brown wrapping off the package and withdrew an eleven-by-fourteen framed photo with a blue ribbon stuck to the glass cover plate.

  It was one of the photo samples I’d left with him during the first class. The red-and-orange door in front of the Newport bookstore.

  “What’s this?” I’d been keeping my distance, either out of shame or fear of a tongue-lashing, but my intrigue freed my self-consciousness. “How come you have my photo?”

  “New York magazine is publishing it in the next issue, as the grand prize winner in the Up and Coming Artist Contest. No joke.” He pulled off the blue ribbon and handed it to me. On it was printed #1 Mom.

  “Ignore that,” he said when he saw me read the label. “I bought the ribbon down the street. I wanted to hand you something.”

  I laughed, confounded. “I don’t know what to say.”

  “You should be proud of yourself, Paris. This is an accomplishment. A big honor.”

  “I can’t believe you did this for me.”

  “I wouldn’t have if you didn’t deserve it.” He turned his face away from me. “And, yes, I entered the image into the contest long before we slept together.”

  “Oh.”

  “Do you mind telling me what’s going on? I’d thought we’d become friends. I figured you woke up and realized my nose hair was out of control or my housekeeping skills sucked, or that I was just too boring. Was it really because you thought I had a girlfriend?”

  “Yes.” I coughed out the word, ashamed.

  He sighed. “Then we’ve lost time over nothing.” He paused. “On the bright side, that gives us a lot to talk about at dinner. We’re celebrating at Calle Ocho. Best Cuban food in New York.”

  “I—”

  “Shhh. Grab your jacket. We can finish this conversation on the walk over.” He put his fingers on my lips, briefly, but then stepped away with a twinkle in his eye. He wasn’t going to immediately fall into my arms, but that was fair.

  It’s not much of a conversation if I don’t actually say anything, I thought, but my heart felt light as I lifted my coat off the hallway hook. It was lighter than it had been in a long time. I had a chance to be a better human.

  My phone rang as I was locking the door. My dad. “Do you mind if I take this? I can talk as we walk, but I need to make sure my dad is okay.”

  “Of course.” He pressed the elevator button.

  “Dad? Hi, I’ve been trying to reach you. What’s going on?”

  “I am sorry, little one. I was practicing my texting. Everything is fine.”

  “You keep saying that. But you didn’t answer your phone.” I tried to keep my tone nonchalant. “Darien said he heard you might be selling the business. You have to talk to me, Dad.”

  “I … I have been busy. It is true, I am going to sell the business. But that is a good thing. I can get another job, one with less responsibility. Do not fixate on me, I have told you everything is fine here. You worry about yourself. Are you alright? Happy?”

  “Listen, I’m going to send you some money.”

  “No, little one, you save that money. It is time to downsize my life, now that you are gone, taking care of yourself. I might even sell the house, rent something small. I will be fine. This will work out. You need not worry yourself. It is time for you to shine.”

  Going down the elevator with the handsome photographer beside me, who was pretending not to listen, I realized my love life was coming into view on the horizon but the life I knew at home was disappearing. Maybe selling the house? That’s crazy. He loves that house. My dad had said nothing about his problems getting someone to hire an aging Middle Eastern man. He obviously did not want to talk about it—but how was he going to find full-time employment when he couldn’t even get a part-time janitorial job? I didn’t want to shame him, but I couldn’t just pretend this wasn’t serious.

  “Dad, please, wait one more month before you make any decisions. I’ll send you enough to cover your bills for now. Let’s see what happens.”

  “Ah, well, perhaps one of us will win the lottery. You never know, the Powerball is at two million. That is a ‘lotto’ money.” He proffered a weak chuckle that made me want to cry.

  “I love you, Dad.” I hung up.


  In the lobby, Benji politely gave me another minute, pretending to scan Instagram, standing close enough his leg brushed mine. He didn’t ask any questions about my dad, or Darien, as I downloaded the Venmo app on my phone and wired the bonus money and most of my savings to my dad, regardless of his protests. What else was I going to do? I couldn’t let him lose his business or sell the only home he’d known since moving to America. He’d spent his life caring for me. I really, really hated knowing I no longer had him to support me, but I couldn’t selfishly worry about myself, not when he was trying his hardest to keep his life together and being treated poorly for his efforts. I was young and I had skills and opportunities and choices he didn’t have.

  Swiveling to face Benji, who’d been quiet throughout the interlude, I said, “How much does it cost to run an ad? And what’s a good name for a photography service?”

  Chapter 15

  If you have to have two jobs, make the second one pleasant.

  I was lucky to have a skill I could parlay into extra cash, while a good chunk of Middle America was forced into working two or three crappy jobs in order to feed their families. I had an opportunity for two income streams. One paid my rent and the other was not … really paying, not yet, but it was enjoyable, and I could see the potential, if I worked hard.

  During the first week of April, I wandered the city. I stumbled across artistic inspiration and possible backdrops while hanging fliers and talking to businesses who dealt with weddings and big events. I occasionally suffered a twinge of guilt or fear, praying no one from PRCM saw my advertising. I was breaking a firm company policy by moonlighting, but I had weighed the benefits and harms and decided the risk was low while the need to help my father was high. But it would suck to lose my well-paying job, especially before I was making any real money taking photos.

  I felt a surge of pride the day I did a shoot for a mom in my building. She wanted a headshot of her toddler, for her budding acting career. The mother was pleased with the plethora of smiles I was able to get out of the kid—I’d followed Adam Sandler’s lead and smacked my head on an open cupboard and my pain made the kid howl with laughter. The mother referred me to a number of her stage-mom friends, after offering me a box of Band-Aids. I went away with cuts and bruises and a wide smile.

  By the second week in April, I started getting calls from models, thanks to Lucia. A handful of her friends needed to update their comp cards and iPad portfolios. I had to up my game. I couldn’t just run into a wall to get the right shot. These people knew what they wanted and had high expectations.

  “I brought you a prezi,” Lucia said, dropping a leather duffle bag onto my couch. She’d come over with no warning. I was in my after-work, not-for-viewing-pleasure pj’s, while she was wearing a yoga outfit and yet looked like she’d just stepped from the pages of a glamour magazine. At almost nine weeks, she was an advertisement for beautiful mothers-to-be.

  I swiped at the hummus on my pajama top and then pointed to the duffel. “Is there a head in there? I don’t have the strength to deal with that.”

  Instead of answering, she reached down, unzipped the bag, and upended the contents onto the floor: lotions and wipes and insect repellent and nylons and a lint brush and panty liners and dress jewelry and scissors and sunglasses and hair ties and false eyelashes and flesh-colored thongs and pasties …

  I blinked, slowly. “What the hell?”

  With a proud, graceful swish of her arm, she said, “La mia collezione—my kit. If you are going to set up shoots, you will need this. You will not have to stop if someone starts their period or forgets a bra, or if you need a different aspetto.” She prodded a floppy hat with her toe. “A different appearance. A cute hat can changed the tone of a shoot.”

  “You are so right!” I threw my arms around her but the tall model backpedaled and touched her short, spiked hair.

  “Yes, yes, I am favaloso.”

  “It’s true, you are fabulous, Lucia. To behtarin dooste mani—you’re a good friend.” I plucked a child’s plastic teapot out of the heap and handed it to her. “Do all the professionals have this in their quiver?”

  “If they’re intelligente.” She balanced it on her palm, held it at chin-level, and batted her eyelashes at me from behind the child’s toy.

  I laughed. “The blue really brings out your eyes.” A few random, whimsical props couldn’t hurt. “Aren’t you going to need this stuff?”

  She kept her eyes trained on the floor and muttered, “Not for a while,” as she knelt next to the small mountain of items. I helped her put the objects back in the bag, including a hardcover book with the pages torn out and a bag of fake mustaches, waiting for her to go on, to bring up the pregnancy. The baby bump was showing. A few more weeks and she’d be at the end of the first trimester. I thought the baby must have a heartbeat already, but Lucia wouldn’t talk about it. I couldn’t imagine having an abortion after you’ve heard a heartbeat. The baby would start moving at three months. I didn’t want to think about that. If Lucia went through with the pregnancy, it would affect her body, sure, and it would cause havoc in her religious family, but it seemed like her emotional baggage, as a Catholic herself, would be more bearable. She had to decide soon, however, before the decision was taken away from her. What was she going to do?

  I kept my mouth shut. If Lucia wasn’t in the mood to confront the hard stuff that morning, who was I to push her?

  “Have you thought of a name yet?” she interrupted my reverie.

  It took me a second to realize she wasn’t asking me for my opinion on baby names. “For now,” I said, “I’m keeping it simple: Photography by Paris. I can use interlocking Ps as my emblem.”

  Lucia nodded. “Sounds cosmopolitan.”

  After I forced her to hug me for real, she sashayed to my door, opened it, and turned, half in and half out. “I almost forgot.” She dug around in her bag and drew out a carton of Benson & Hedges. Tossing them to me, she said, “I don’t need these anymore.”

  We held eyes for a minute before I said, gently, “So, you’re keeping the baby then?”

  Her gaze became fierce and hot. She stood tall with a hand on her belly, her response firm. “Yes.” Then she nodded, stepped out the door, and said, “Ciao, bella.”

  With that, she was gone.

  New life. New beginnings.

  Invigorated, I threw the cigarettes into a drawer with the other packs she’d given me—I could sell them on Craigslist, if I ever needed some quick cash—and curled up with a pad of paper, a pen, and a glass of pinot. Time to create an actual business plan. I finally felt like I was doing something worthy of my time, helpful to others, and fulfilling.

  As long as Frank didn’t find out. I’d signed at least three different forms stating I would be loyal to PRCM, agreeing I would not take on a second job. Was it worth it if I got caught? I don’t know. I hope so. I don’t know what else to do. I guess I’m not as loyal as I thought I was.

  That thought reminded me of Benji. I’d believed him to be disloyal but had since discovered he’d told me the truth; he had only dated hot bartender a couple of times. Was he ever going to be able to trust me, knowing I’d been willing to sleep with him while thinking he was spoken for? I disgusted myself. For the last few weeks, since the night he gave me the award and took me to Cuban, we’d gone to dinner and movies, but nothing more. He’d told me he wanted to go slow and I had no choice but to go along.

  I climbed into my cold bed.

  As I drifted into sleep, alone, I regretted agreeing to Benji’s plan: hand holding and cold showers. I didn’t blame him for not wanting to dive into anything with me right away. I’d shown a very unsavory side of myself. Benji had no way of really knowing I was bothered by that, too, that I’d always prided myself on being loyal and ethical. Yet, given a chance, I had acted just like Darien. Ugh. I rolled over and hugged my pillow. I deserved to be sleeping in a lonely bed.

  When my cell rang a few hours later, at two in the morning, I popped o
ut of a deep sleep and scrambled for the phone, praying he’d decided to renege on the deal. Maybe he was standing outside my apartment with a toothbrush and a lust-filled smile.

  But no, it was a number I didn’t recognize. Ready to unleash on the bastard who was calling me in the middle of the night in order to find out who I was voting for or if I wanted a spa vacation, I yelled, “Who is this?”

  “Good Lord.” A shrieking roll of laughter. “Paris, bring it down a notch.”

  “Frank? What are you doing? Whose phone is this?”

  “Easy, easy.” He was using his slimy voice, the low drawl he thought made him sound sexy. “I left my phone and wallet at Aquavit. I need you to go get it and bring it out to my house in Oyster Bay.” He had no shame; he knew that I knew his wife and son were upstate. He belched. “You can stay out here.”

  My brain came fully alert, trying to come up with something, anything that would derail the request without pissing him off.

  “Oh, gosh, Frank. I totally would, but it’s after two. I can’t get there before they close.”

  “The hostess is waiting for you. I’ve already spoken with her.”

  “How about—”

  “Ask them if they’ve got any of the Swedish meatballs left.” His slurred muttering over the top of me made me want to tear out my hair.

  “Or, how about if I go get it and bring it to you first thing tomorrow morning? It will take me over an hour to get it and drive out there.”

  “Are you arguing with me? I have four thousand dollars in that wallet. You’re the only one I trust to bring it out here. Don’t fuck with me. I need it tonight. And I want those meatballs. And some of those sugar beignets.”

  Are you for real? Can’t you just write your hooker a check and buy her some pizza? “I’d have to take a taxi—”

  “Fine.” He hung up.

  I grabbed up a pillow and screamed into it, long and loud. My neighbor probably thought I was dying or having fantastic sex or both. Why me?

  I called the PRCM car service but no one answered. I hated taking Ubers or taxis this late at night. I could get kidnapped and no one would realize what had happened for days—Frank would be furious if I didn’t show up, but he wouldn’t think to report me missing.