Jocelyn U-turned across four lanes of traffic and seconds later crashed to a halt at Rachel’s. I could see her buzzing around her bedroom as her window faced onto the street.
Things with my Best Friend Forever were rocky from the get-go. For one thing, even though I’d told her twelve times to be ready, Jocelyn still had to honk for approximately ten minutes before Rachel emerged from the house. When she did, she kept spinning around to wave goodbye to her parents. The other problem was Rachel’s outfit. She was dressed for a mother-daughter luncheon at the Junior League, not a scuzzy bar with shower curtains separating the toilet stalls. “A million sorries,” she said after hugging me, looking like she’d just robbed a Laura Ashley store.
“I just hope we can get in, is all.” I tried to prevent my lip from curling at her floral-patterned dress.
The night started out disaster-free: The bouncer was busy plugging the jukebox back in when we arrived, so Rachel got inside without a fake ID. Though I was too exhausted to take advantage of the Texas Tea special—two dollars for a full pint of Long Island iced tea with tequila instead of whiskey—Carmella Rothman, my fake ID persona, still came in handy. With Carmella’s help, Rachel bought about a hundred teas, and the first thing she whispered to me when the drunkenness kicked in was “Well? Have you noticed? I got highlights!” and tossed her hair back and forth. I was trying to come up with a response that didn’t sound too condescending when Rachel exclaimed: “And I had my first orgasm, can you believe it!!!”
“Omigod, really?” I said. “With Dave?”
“Dave? With Steve. Who’s Dave?”
“Oh—no one,” I said. Steve: right, of course. Who was Dave? I grabbed Rachel’s Texas Tea and took a huge gulp. “Steve’s what I meant, duh. You know how I always get one-syllable names mixed up.”
I was saved by the appearance of Chad Hutton, this guy from Ariel’s class who was now a freshman at Tulane and home for the first time since college. He came up and looped his arm around my waist and led me, without even saying hello, onto the Marquis’s grimy dance floor. As soon as the repaired jukebox kicked in to blast “Pancho and Lefty,” Chad and I started to pretzel and two-step and spin and dip. I was having the most fun since La Guardia when Ariel suddenly yanked me away and shoved me into the ladies’ room, where Rachel was waiting for me.
“What’s up with you, Mimi?” Ariel screeched. “We’re taking you home. You’re hammered.”
“I’m what? I am not!” I protested. “I’m way too hungover to drink! I just had one sip of Rachel’s tea. Didn’t I?”
I felt crazy, like someone who is trying to convince others she’s just witnessed a UFO landing. “I don’t know,” Rachel said, refusing to meet my eyes. “Why else would you be lambada-ing with Chad Hutton, who as you know perfectly well—!”
“What do I know perfectly well?”
Ariel started to shake me. “Listen to me. I don’t know what’s going on with you tonight, but Chad is totally bad news, and I would never have brought you here if I thought you’d act like such a total skank! Remember what I said about your reputation, Mimi? Well, I have one, too, and it sure doesn’t help my chances during Bid Week to have my fifteen-year-old sister getting down with Chad Hutton on a national, like, religious holiday! Everyone knows Chad and I hooked up all summer, so it becomes total, like, incest if you do the same!”
“Yeah,” Rachel echoed, as if she and my sister were partners on a cop show and I had held up a convenience store clerk at gunpoint.
“But what about the Vanilla Gorilla?”
“Yeah, exactly, what about him? My God, if Vanny ever found out . . .” Ariel shivered. “C’mon, we’re getting you out of here ASAP.”
“But I don’t want to go! I didn’t do anything! We were just dancing!”
Ariel drove me home in Jocelyn’s Jeep, screaming at every intersection: “I’m risking an MIP and a DWI for you—I hope you’re happy, you little brat!”
She was too pissed off even to drop me off outside our house. Instead, she pulled up outside our neighbor’s place, and—before I had even closed the passenger door—gunned the engine, then sped off into the night. I couldn’t believe it. I felt humiliated and depressed—and I hadn’t even done anything! The worst thing was, Ariel had left Rachel at the Marquis without me, huffing, “Some people are responsible enough to be left with grownups!”
I stormed into the living room furious and smelly and exhausted. The last twenty-four hours had royally blown, and now all I wanted to do was sleep for the remainder of my visit. If I had to stay four more days in Texas, I could at least spend them in a coma.
Creeping through the kitchen, I collided with a two-foot-tall seatless rocking chair that Maurice had tried to weave out of firewood. “Ouch!” I screamed. I probably would’ve burst into tears if my mother hadn’t called out my name just then.
I found her crouched over the coffee table in the den, doing a crossword puzzle and drinking tea from her favorite DON’T ASK ME—I JUST KNOW EVERYTHING mug. Everything except her awful haircut and humongous bathrobe were straight out of some bad Doris Day family-values movie. I had no idea why she was awake—the woman lives on this extremely insane schedule, bedtime at ten, coffee and paper at six, power walk around Rice at six-forty-five, and so forth.
“Mims,” she said, her voice slurred with fatigue. “I’ve been waiting for you for hours. What time is it? I wanted to have a little H-to-H with you before the big meal.”
I edged back toward the kitchen. “What? Are you talking about hemorrhoids or something? I think that’s definitely a boundary, if you don’t mind.”
“Mims, don’t be snide with me, please. This is serious,” she sighed, a note of desperation rising in her voice. I was starting to feel sorry for her but then I looked up at the mantel above the living room fireplace and noticed a photograph of herself and Maurice in the black leather picture frame—the same frame that once housed a photo taken at a pizzeria in Rome of me, Ariel, Mom and Dad. “Look,” she went on before I could, “I don’t want to put you in an uncomfortable position here, honey.”
“Then don’t,” I said, and turned on my heel. “And don’t call me ‘honey,’ either,” I added under my breath as I skulked down the hallway and into my room—or what used to be my room, before Maurice hung posters of The Great Gardens of the World on the walls.
I had just crawled under the covers when the door creaked open to reveal my mom peeking in. She started speaking right away in that muffled, exhausted voice: “Listen, I have to ask you, because I don’t know anybody else who I can turn to. Is Roger doing all right? Whenever we talk, he sounds so”—she paused to let off a great horselike sound—“distant, you know? Is there something going on I don’t know about?”
What incredible nerve. She wanted me to rat on my dad but didn’t care one bit about how her own flesh and blood was holding up. I couldn’t believe that this same woman had once lullabied me, picked me up at Jungle Gym Jamboree and handwashed my leotards, kissed my scrapes and cuts, and held me when I cried. I felt exactly zero connection to her. She was some random midlife-crisising stranger with the fashion sense of a substitute science teacher.
“Mom,” I said, “I think I’m going to go home early.”
“Home?” she repeated. “Home? But what do you mean, Mimi? This is your home!”
But right then, I knew that it wasn’t, and never would be again.
Back in the Saddle
“DID YOU BRING US BACK ANY LASSOES?” Pia demanded.
“Or cowboys?” said Jess. She grimaced—she had heard from Preston only once in the past week—then sighed. “Do they make preppy cowboys down in Texas?”
The girls and I were celebrating my premature return with a shopping trip in the East Village. It had been my idea. After seeing all those color-coordinated pantsuits in Houston, I was in major need of retail therapy. The rest of my stay had been an unqualified catastrophe, especially our Thanksgiving meal. Maurice, who had overnight decided that bec
oming a vegan might alleviate his intestinal problems, made “nut loaf” instead of turkey, and for dessert Ariel served unripe cantaloupe: one slice each. My mother seemed distant and fake, and Myrtle had attempted to snort Maurice’s vegan dressing out her nose.
I succeeded in leaving a day early only by concocting a complicated lie about a group marine biology project that was taking place on the shores of the East River the Saturday afternoon before school started again. My mother—still hoping that it least one of her daughters had inherited her academic passions—reluctantly agreed that school was more important than family. I headed for the airport, visions of Quinn and the takeout menu drawer dancing in my head.
But Quinn was still in Ohio, and my dad was so happy to have me home a day early that he didn’t even mind when I made plans to take off again while still in the cab from the airport.
“But Mimi, don’t you want to take a father-daughter walk, how ’bout it?” That tradition had never materialized, and I wasn’t about to initiate it now. I could tell by my father’s crinkled brow that my mother had called him that morning.
“Not really, Daddy. Nothing personal, but I’ve had enough family time for one holiday season. I’ll be back for dinner, I swear!”
He seemed satisfied, then allowed me to hijack his cell phone and call the girls. I was in the mood to shop. Jess had suggested Bloomingdale’s. Lily demurred—“I refuse to enter any store that sells my mother’s linens”—and Viv suggested East Seventh Street instead, home of the coolest (and most expensive) vintage shops in Manhattan. This time it was Pia who objected—“The last time I went to the East Village, I never got rid of the stench”—until Vivian described the size-four Balenciaga zip-up dress that she had just seen in one of the windows.
Luckily, the dress was still there, and it was perfect for Pia. She paid, I am proud to say, with her dad’s platinum card.
The only good thing about my trip to Hell—I mean, Houston—was the euphoria of coming home. Until that point, I had treated New York like one crazy extended vacation: I was loving it, but I still didn’t quite feel as if I belonged there. Thanksgiving changed all that. Because I no longer belonged in Texas, by process of elimination, New York took the place of home.
Our spree began at a store called Fab Purple 109, a tiny space run by a tiny Japanese woman wearing awesome metallic yellow eye shadow. The store was hardly big enough for two racks of clothing. The remaining wares were stapled to the wall like animal hides.
“I would have brought you guys something,” I said, flicking through a rack of cardigans, “but the hot accessory in Texas these days is a huge gold ring in the shape of a saddle. And it’s not meant ironically.”
I stopped at a small red sweater and examined it carefully. It had a Peter Pan collar and a band of fuchsia lace across the chest. It was a perfect companion to messy hair and my new pleated miniskirt. Throw in a pair of fishnets and I’d be totally seventies glam rock.
“Don’t even think of getting that,” Lily warned under her breath, pointing out a nasty coffee stain near one of the armpits that I hadn’t noticed.
“Saddle-shaped rings,” Vivian whistled. “That sounds cool. Like a horse saddle, right?”
“Exactly.” I nodded. “One guy I saw in the airport was wearing one with four holes, so the saddle took up four fingers.”
“Hot,” Vivian said, “very, very hot. I think you could rock that look, Mimi. If only your accent were noticeable, you could be our pet cowgirl.”
“This is amazing—check it out!” Lily held up an itty-bitty blue hooded sweatshirt that looked like it had been stashed in a gym locker since around the Franco-Prussian War. “Isn’t it?” Amazingly, no matter where you took her, Lily always dug out clothing identical to everything she already owned. Even at a Chanel sample sale, she’d unearth the one item featuring terry-cloth and drawstrings in seconds.
“Truth?” Pia arched an eyebrow. “Not amazing.”
Lily’s face fell.
“Not even close to amazing. This, on the other hand, is. Totally.” Vivian reached up to pull out the price of a lilac Valentino butterfly top that hung on the wall. “And better yet, going for a mere two hundred dollars.” Vivian thrust the shirt toward Lily. “You’re getting it, and no buts!”
“It was made for you,” the beautiful lady at the register agreed, looking up from her Italian fashion magazine.
“I can’t—” Lily started.
“My treat,” said Vivian. “Don’t even think about putting up a fight. Daddy just won another humongous case and he’s going through one of his manic postvictory stages. He’ll never blink an eye.”
For herself Viv scored a blue wraparound dress that called attention to her fragile collarbone, and she was so pleased with the way it made her look, she insisted on buying me a vintage white suede belt and a pair of black silk parachute pants with slits running up the sides. Usually I dress more conservatively than that, but after Houston I would’ve worn a black vampire suit: anything to prove that I was back in New York for good this time. And, after all, when you have friends rich enough to buy you designer castoffs, you have no choice but to accept them.
“What time is it?” said Jess. “I’m freaking famished.”
Vivian looked at her watch. “Almost two.”
“Two?” Pia asked, looking up suddenly from the store’s other rack. We all nodded. “Shit, I’m supposed to be in Astoria in fifteen minutes. I’m going to have to reschedule or something.”
“What on earth are you doing in Astoria?” I asked. “Isn’t that in Queens?” The girls exchanged awkward glances, but no one said anything. Then I remembered the truth about Pia: bitchy hottie by day, compassionate tutor by night.
While Pia called her student to cancel, Viv cajoled us to visit “Rotate This.”
“Rotate what?” Jess looked almost as confused as I felt.
“It’s the coolest-ever music shop, right across the street,” Viv explained. “It specializes in old school vinyl records and only ever has, like, three CDs. Even eight-tracks are too newfangled for this place.”
It sounded awful, like one of the places Sam was always trying to drag me to, full of undernourished dudes and their bossy overly made-up girlfriends. I even hated the way those places smelled, with all that dust and incense.
One by one we all squeezed outside the tiny shop, making every effort not to knock over the high-fashion mannequin tilted over the doorway. Once on the street, Pia retreated onto a stoop with her cell phone.
“C’mon, Rotate This is right here, let’s go,” Viv said, leading the rest of us across the street.
As we walked single-file inside Rotate This, another absurdly narrow store, Lily curled up her lip and said to Viv, “No offense, but do you even own a record player?”
“No, but I’m getting one soon. It’s a major purchase, so Sam’s helping me pick one out at some point in the near future,” Vivian answered, strutting toward the register.
Before I had a chance to ask Vivian exactly when she and Sam had made their electronic shopping plans, I noticed a familiar head of hair hunched over the “Neo-Punk Fembot” section near the back. Of all the spin joints—
“Speak of the devil!” I exclaimed.
Looking up, Sam dropped one of the gazillion records that were gathered near his chest. Vivian scurried over and picked it up.
“I have the EP of this,” she said in a nervous voice an octave higher than usual. “It’s got a remix with David Bowie beats and it’s awesome.” After handing Sam the record, Vivian started fiddling with the sparkly cherry barrettes holding back her short black hair. I prayed to God that Sam would exercise the right to remain silent.
Her barrettes resnapped, Vivian mumbled, “I’m going to check out the ‘Indie-Outie’ section.” She walked quickly to the other side of the store, leaving me alone with Sam.
“Why aren’t you in Houston?” Sam asked me. “Did you miss your flight or something?”
“Unfortunately, no. On
e more minute alone with Maurice, and I might be locked up in juvie by now.”
“That annoying, huh?”
“It’s going to be some time before I appoint him my personal sex god.”
Yuck-o. I regretted using the word sex in front of him, given the circumstances, but Sam seemed unscarred and laughed.
“No dirty talk,” the skinny, possibly cross-eyed employee yelled from behind the register. “This is a family institution!”
“Ignore Bart,” Sam said. “He just likes fucking around with the customers. Anyway . . .” Sam coughed and shifted from one foot to the other. He seemed mega-nervous again, which made me feel pretty mega-nervous myself. I tried to keep my cool, but flashbacks of his naked shoulders in the dark of my bedroom kept popping into my head. I took a step back, fearing the girls might be able to sense that something was up between the two of us.
After a quick lap around the store, Vivian called out to us haughtily, “Everyone’s ready to go, Mimi. We’re waiting outside, so whenever you’re ready.” The Rotate This door slammed behind her.
“What’s with her?” Sam asked.
“Beats me,” I shrugged, backing toward the door.
“She’s so weird sometimes,” he said.
“Right.” I rolled my eyes. “Weird’s the first word that comes to mind.” I had no desire to define the Completely Obvious fact I had just that instant figured out: Viv liked Sam. “Anyway, looks like duty calls. So, I guess I’ll be seeing you around.”
“Yeah? When?”
In response I only waved.
“Sam is so weird,” Vivian observed on the cab ride to Chinatown.
“Funny you should use that word.”
“No, I mean, he has, like, zero social skills,” Viv persisted.
“Sounds like Preston,” Jess said.
Somewhere around Essex Street on the Lower East Side, Lily switched her Knicks T-shirt for the shirt that Vivian had bought her. I could see the cab driver readjusting the angle of the rearview mirror to get a glimpse of a half-naked fifteen-year-old. Her belly definitely had a few rolls, and I wanted to tease her and grab a handful of them (in Texas we used to call this “Roll Call”), but I held back, seeing no need to intensify Lily’s self-consciousness about her perfectly normal body.
The Rise and Fall of a 10th Grade Social Climber Page 19