The Everything Girl

by L. Maleki

  Maybe they were about to go batshit crazy on their daughter, but at least they were there. Even if they were angry, they cared. They weren’t ignoring her, like my dad was ignoring me, like Benji was ignoring me …

  Dad, I texted, if you don’t call me back, I’m filing a missing person’s report.

  I couldn’t decide if I was more worried or mad when I realized I was likely going to have to fly home if I wanted answers. I rubbed at a knot in my neck. Where was home? Why did everyone have to be such a pain in the ass?

  You know what, Benji? I texted next. You might be over me, but I was only trying to do what was right for everyone. I went on an errand for my boss so I could keep my job and help my dad. What did you expect me to do differently? You selfish bastard.

  I deleted the last line. Then I typed it back in and hit send.

  I heard chuckling from the row of chairs behind me. I glanced over my shoulder, irritated someone was allowed to be in a good mood in a hospital. A pair of beautiful hazel eyes locked on mine. It was Benji, phone in hand. He’d read my message.

  “I’m the selfish bastard, huh?” His smile darkened; I could feel the anger dancing through him.

  Oh my God. I finally stand my ground and this is what I get for it. “What are you doing here?”

  “Gina told me what’s going on with Lucia. She said no one else knows about the baby except you and me, and Lucia could use cheering up. So here I am.”

  “How noble of you,” I snorted. A pain stabbed my chest. He’d come to see Lucia but not me.

  “You don’t have to be snotty. I like Lucia. I don’t know her that well, but I wanted to come, if I could help.” He stood up, threw a small teddy bear in my lap. “Anyway, looks like it’s time for me to go. That’s for Lucia.”

  “You’re willing to hang out with someone who’s practically a stranger, but you can’t talk to me?”

  “Oh, you want to talk? You seem more like you want to yell at me—which I don’t deserve, by the way.”

  “Really? I tried to tell you why I couldn’t make it to the job you set up, but you just shut me down.”

  “Huh. That’s funny. I seem to remember texting you while you were in Galveston, even after you ditched me at a dinner with your friends and then made it so I had to take your place at the photo shoot—without any warning or real apology. You ghosted me. You either respect me or you don’t, Paris. You proved that you don’t.” He strode toward the doors. “Tell Lucia I’ll check in later.”

  “I didn’t ghost you!” I said to his retreating back. But I had. I’d been too cowardly to reach out to him, and then I blamed him for it. I clenched the small teddy bear in my hands, twisting it. A pink bowtie popped off. I was not made for juggling this many problems at the same time.

  At midnight, I was sitting in the break room at PRCM, eating Nicki’s Lean Cuisine lasagna from the staff freezer and smoking a cigarette I’d bummed from Kwan. I’d also helped myself to the good vodka in Frank’s office, drinking it from one of his heavy crystal tumblers. No red plastic Solo cups for me. This ain’t no frat party.

  I was slightly drunk. But, dude, I am on fire.

  I’d gone back to the office. Frank had finally gotten Todd the last of the information on the trades, and Todd had finished a draft of the yearly report. He’d left it on my desk; I was supposed to go over it one more time, looking for typos, and then make copies. I had every intention of finishing before the investors’ meeting. Instead, I found evidence that Frank was an embezzler.

  I took a long slug of Stoli Elit, which was roughly six hundred and seventy dollars per sip, and fixated on the reports in front of me.

  I knew it. Frank hadn’t given Todd the information on the unlabeled trades. They weren’t even mentioned. I had known there was something screwy about how he’d refused to go over the trending activity when I was trying to finish the yearly report. Every time I’d tried to find out which trader was making some of the unlabeled trades, he’d sent me off on stupid errands. Which was why there was so much lime Gatorade in his office.

  I had proof Frank was a cheating jackass. I may have been exhausted but I wasn’t done celebrating. I wonder how that Gatorade would taste as a mixer.

  Chapter 28

  My dad finally texted me. I wasn’t so sure it was comforting, only more confusing.

  Forgive me, he texted, I know you are trying to reach me. I am fine, letting a room from a nice Russian woman in the neighborhood. I have a job now and house will sell next week.

  I immediately tried calling him.

  “Hello?”

  “Dad! Hi! I’ve been trying to reach—” My heart sang with relief. I’d only had a couple hours of sleep, and I needed to know what was going on with him before I made any rash decisions about my future with PRCM.

  “Hello?” my dad repeated, cutting me off.

  “Dad, hi, it’s me, Paris, I’ve been calling—”

  “Speak up! I can’t hear you!”

  I opened my mouth to start screaming into the phone when there was a long beep and then an automated woman’s voice saying, “Leave your message now,” followed by another beep.

  “Damn it, Dad!” I yelled into the speaker. I hung up and threw my phone across the room, where it bounced off the couch. This was not how I wanted to spend my morning.

  I screamed in frustration. I needed to know details, if I could save the house or not. Darien’s mother had not bothered getting back to me, or even Darien, which wasn’t surprising, but it was frustrating.

  Gina came out of the bathroom wrapped in a towel, hands on her hips. We’d agreed to meet at my apartment and figure out a game plan. Lucia was going to be occupied for a couple of hours, going through a battery of tests. I needed to work, and so did Gina, but we hated leaving our friend alone. Especially with her parents. They were threatening to remove her from Sinai and take her back to a small, rural hospital outside their hometown. There, they could supervise Lucia and make sure the baby was immediately handed over for adoption, if it lived, and then Lucia was to move in with them. That was their plan. Not Lucia’s.

  “What are you screaming about?” Gina demanded. “The neighbors are going to call the cops.”

  “I’m going to be on a first-name basis with them pretty soon, anyway,” I grumbled under my breath.

  “What? Who? Your neighbors or the cops?”

  “Don’t worry, I’m not about to get caught subletting. But I might have to move back home anyway. At least, back to Newport.”

  I went into the kitchen to prepare some oatmeal and dates. Me and my big mouth. Why did I say anything?

  “What’s going on, Paris? Does this have to do with your dad?”

  I sighed and threw up my hands. “Yes! Alright? Yes! I know how I can get the money to save his house, if it’s not too late. But I’m not sure I have the balls.”

  “Are you planning on robbing a bank?”

  “Listen, I stayed with Frank’s freak show because I thought I’d learn something and move on, and then it was only because he promised me a raise. But that’s not going to come soon enough. My dad needs my help now.” My voice was getting louder and louder. “Frank is cray-cray. I can’t do this anymore. And I don’t have to. I found out something about Frank that I can use against him. I’m going to make him give me the best severance package ever and a fantastic letter of recommendation. He won’t have a choice.”

  “Um, are you talking about blackmail?”

  “No … well, maybe you could look at it that way, but I’m hoping he’s going to do it because he realizes it’s the right thing to do. In return, I will promise to keep my mouth shut.” Defending my plan made my blood pressure rise.

  “So, yeah. That’s blackmail. Plus, if Frank broke the law, you’re also aiding and abetting if you don’t report him. Slippery slope here, Tehrani. I think you need to walk yourself back down the other side.”

  Why couldn’t she see I needed to do this? “You’re wrong. That’s not what I’m doing.”
>
  “Potato, puhtato, Paris. You’re playing with semantics. ’Cuz, dude, this is blackmail.”

  “I will make this work, Gina, you’ll see. It’s either this, or my dad ends up living on the street—”

  “Or he could live with you here, maybe a two-bedroom—”

  “He would never do that. Besides, he won’t even answer his phone anymore. Maybe because he’s too embarrassed … but I don’t know, because he will not fucking tell me! I’ve got to get a handle on this before it’s too late.” I felt like my eyes were bulging out of my head from the pressure building up in me. “There’s no one else but me that’s going to do it.”

  She held up both hands, placating. “Alright, alright. I hear you. I’m just sayin’, your crazy scheme ain’t gonna work. This would bite you in the ass in the long run. Also, I don’t have a lot of money for bail. We’ve got a baby to think about.” She barked out a laugh. “What an interesting thing to hear myself say.”

  Gina’s cell rang. It was the hospital. After a couple of one-word replies, she hung up.

  Her voice was cracked and heavy. “We need to go back. Lucia is asking for us. The baby’s heart stopped again and they’re afraid she’s going to miscarry.”

  Lucia’s mother met us in the hallway outside her door. She would have been pretty, like an older Sophia Loren, if she wasn’t so dour.

  “You are not welcome in my daughter’s room. This is because of you. Lucia was a good girl. But now … sei una puttana. Partire!”

  I was astonished by the hostility, but Gina seemed ready for it, remaining even-keel in the raging Catholic mama’s storm. “I will not leave, and I am no whore. Neither is Lucia. She is a good girl. But she made a mistake. Non hai mai fatto un errore?”

  “I have not made a mistake such as this. It is a sin!” The mother’s smooth face crumpled, crushed under the weight of her fear. “My baby will go to hell now, to burn in fire forever!”

  While I could empathize with her worrying about Lucia, I was suddenly very glad I’d not been raised to believe in a hell. There was little room for error with such a belief system. I’d be on my knees in confession every Sunday and still end up roasting in an eternal fire. I wanted to be a good person and do the right thing, but the world didn’t always give you a choice.

  “We’ll go,” I said. “But the baby … is the baby okay?”

  “Pah!” The woman spit to the side. “It would be best if that baby died. But God has seen fit to keep it alive another day.”

  I sucked in a breath.

  “Not it—she.” Gina widened her stance and put her balled fists on her hips. “Lucia is having a daughter. You have a granddaughter on the way.”

  Something flitted across the older woman’s face, a deep, fleeting sorrow, but it was quickly masked by outrage. She put a finger in Gina’s face. “Leave. Partire.”

  Gina didn’t flinch. I was proud of her.

  The mother left us in the hall then, going into Lucia’s room, where we could see our friend lying on the bed, eyes closed, skin pallid, a doctor assessing the many machines hooked up to her. There were no blaring alarms or hordes of nurses and doctors, though, so it appeared she’d stabilized again. It was hard to picture the young waif striding down a runway, aloof and in control, her confidence making her perfect, willowy frame seem eight feet tall. The poor, barely conscious girl lying in a hospital bed with metal handrails—bars—seemed to be lost to the whims of doctors and parents who would force her to follow their beliefs, no matter who suffered.

  I’d often thought about how different my life would be if my mother had lived. Like my father, she would not be like this, so rigid and ugly. My mother would never hurt me in such a way. Nor would my father, not on purpose. I’ve been blessed, I thought.

  “That rotten bitch,” Gina growled. “I feel terrible she got here before us. Lucia doesn’t need her Old Testament bs.”

  “What does she need, though? What can we do?”

  “We can be for Lucia, not against her. Offer her love and kindness. Pick up the pieces.”

  “You’re a good person. A good friend.”

  She grinned. “I just ask myself, ‘What would Jesus do?’ And, occasionally, I do it. When I’m not too busy being a puttana.”

  The next few days were hectic, trying to get ready for the investors’ meeting and taking turns at the hospital, when Lucia’s parents were gone for the night. Lucia didn’t want to talk. She slept or quietly stared at the ceiling, her mind far away. One time, though, she broke her silence while I was beside her, looking over some reports.

  “I am keeping this baby, Paris. I will not fight this hard for her, only to give her away.” She closed her eyes, starting to drift away. “I will be her mama.”

  She must have said the same thing to her parents, because they did not come back the next day. I admired her strength of will. We were in our mid-twenties, having grown up in America, but her parents had not let go the old-world ways. Once again, I gave thanks to my parents, especially to my dad for bringing me here and raising me to be good, but also to be free, to be my own woman. Since moving to New York, I had been doing that. I hoped. Who was I now? I hoped one day I would be as strong as Lucia, as clear and determined as Gina.

  And despite what Gina said, I felt the bravest, best decision I could make right then was to take advantage of Frank’s crime in order to help my dad. It wasn’t like I was hurting anyone.

  On the day I planned to confront Frank, the subway ride into work did nothing to calm my nerves. The mother next to me was trying to get a colicky baby to breastfeed, while her two-year-old repeatedly pulled down the mom’s shirt and nursing bra on the other side, going for some nipple-time himself. The college student across from us pretended to read something on his iPhone but I was pretty sure he was recording the scene. I glared at him until he turned away.

  I picked up a discarded paper. I needed something to look at other than the exhausted mom’s boobs. Flipping through the pages, I suddenly sat up, gobsmacked. What the fuck? I thought. This cannot be real.

  There, at the top of the Lifestyle section, was a picture of Darien. Darien and his newest girlfriend. Her family proudly wished to announce to the world their little girl would be marrying my ex-boyfriend at their family synagogue, with a traditional Iranian wedding feast to follow.

  The girl looked just like me. Creepy—though the ratio of forehead to face was startling. Thank God I don’t have that huge expanse of real estate to deal with. And I’m pretty sure those are extensions.

  The story was above the fold. Darien must have stumbled into a richer, more Jewish, form of me. They were staring lovingly into each other’s eyes, her left hand strategically placed to show off a diamond the size of an orange.

  A flash of rage burned through me. I crumpled up the paper fiercely, which drew the attention of the toddler. His eyes were big, instinct likely telling him he was close to a crazy person. He hid under his mom’s legs, spying on me from under her skirt.

  Why do I care? I’ve been avoiding Darien forever now. I don’t want him. I leaned back, rested my head on the wall, and closed my eyes, forcing my fists to unfurl.

  But I do want stability.

  I didn’t need to be married. I didn’t need anyone to take care of me. But to know that my dad was doing okay, and also to have a loyal companion, someone to share space and events with me, day after day … like Benji. I’d tried calling him after our argument at the hospital, to fall on my sword and apologize. I was the one who’d initiated every misunderstanding we’d had. But he must have felt he’d given me enough chances. I hadn’t heard back from him. I considered going to his gallery but figured that might just make him more angry, invading his space when he’d made it pretty clear he was tired of my crap.

  But was it crap? If he’d let me explain, he’d see I’d had good reasons for most of what went wrong. That made another flash of rage sweep through me. He didn’t deserve me anyway. He didn’t give me a chance. Screw Benji. And screw
Darien.

  By the time I’d made my way into the PRCM building, I’d worked myself up into a fine lather, but I was no longer nervous.

  “Hey, Paris. Are you okay?” asked Kwan, coming out from behind the security desk, adjusting the belt under his bulbous stomach. “You look like you could use a smoke.”

  “Nah, I’m not really a smoker, thanks,” I said. He raised an eyebrow at me. We’d been sharing smoke breaks for a couple weeks now. “I was flirting with it for a while, but I’m done.” I took a step and then turned back. “But maybe, if you don’t care, I could bum one? It’s gonna be a long day …”

  He dug Camels out of a tight back pocket and held one out. “Mr. Coyle is back today. He doesn’t look so good. I think you’re gonna need this.”

  Everyone is worried about my mental health these days but not so much my physical health, I thought, thanking him and tucking it into my bag.

  I sat at my desk, nervous, unsure of my next step. The investors’ yearly report was done, the rough draft sitting in a neat stack next to me.

  Todd appeared out of thin air. “Paris,” he said with a nod of his majestically graying head.

  “Oh, hello. Sorry I was late, but my friend is still in the hospital—”

  “The report is edited and ready for tomorrow’s meeting?” he said, picking up the stack of papers.

  “Yes—”

  “Good.” He flipped through the pages. “I know Frank is in today, but, like I said, no need to bother him with this. I’ll take care of it from here.”

  “But don’t you want me to make copies—”

  “You’re going to have to earn my trust back, Ms. Tehrani. But not with something so important.” He nodded toward Frank’s door. “Why don’t you make sure his refrigerator is stocked?”