Little Black Dresses, Little White Lies

by Laura Stampler

  * * *

  We wake up early the next morning for a full day of sightseeing and stuffing our faces.

  “I’m completely excited to act like a tourist today,” I say as I grab a banana from the kitchen. “This is actually the first time I’ve busted out my sneakers all summer.”

  “Not for my lack of effort,” Aunt Vee pipes in. “Before the end of this summer, I’m taking you to a workout class.”

  Before we leave the apartment, Aunt Vee slips me an envelope.

  “It’s from Benjamin,” she says. “Maybe it’s about the pug prom tonight.”

  I haven’t told Aunt Vee about the Ben fiasco. My face burns just thinking about it.

  “Aren’t you going to open it?” Kristina asks, when we squeeze in between two manspreaders on the 6 train on our way to the Empire State Building, which Kristina can’t believe I haven’t been to the top of yet. “Also, what’s a pug prom?”

  “Later,” I say. As much as I want to know what’s in there, I don’t want to know what’s in there. “For now, I just want to focus on me and my bestie’s day of fanny-pack and selfie-stick levels of tourist adventure.” I fold the letter and put it in my purse, into the zipper pocket I never use so that my hand won’t run into it whenever I try to find my wallet. “Tomorrow we’re going to brunch with my friends in the Meatpacking District, but today I have you to myself.”

  Any weirdness between us seems to have evaporated.

  “After that brunch, we should check out the High Line,” she says, pulling out a dog-eared guidebook from her backpack. “It’s right there. It’s an abandoned elevated railroad track turned awesome garden.”

  We push our way out of the subway to our first destination. “Maybe. Let’s see what Carter and the rest of them are up to after, though. I can’t wait for you to meet him. Oh, and my friend Gigi wants to get mani pedis before.”

  “Chlorine is brutal on nail polish.” Kristina examines her nail beds while we exit through the turnstile and walk up to the street. “But I can just hang while you guys do it. I’m game to meet a cantaloupe.”

  “A cantaloupe?”

  Kristina looks at me in disbelief. “Hello? Cantaloupe. Filler fruit friend?”

  Shoot, did I actually forget that? That conversation on the walk home from Bobby McKittrick’s party feels like it happened a lifetime ago. I recover quickly.

  “Of course!” I say. “It’s just, she’s actually pretty cool. Not mango level, there’s only one mango”—Kristina grins—“but maybe she’s a raspberry or something.”

  We link arms. Kristina’s the perfect tourist buddy except for her ability to power walk forty blocks without getting winded. We do more sightseeing in half a day than I’ve done in almost two months. And to top it off, I finally get to take my trip to Serendipity for dinner and frozen hot chocolate.

  If the Mad Hatter were to switch from tea parties to ice-cream socials, he’d throw them here. Complete with stained-glass chandeliers, dozens of small circular mirrors that pop off the walls, dainty white furniture, and explosions of pink paint, Serendipity has a whimsy that makes me feel like Alice the moment she first beheld Wonderland.

  Kristina waits for me to settle into my goblet of icy chocolate and whipped cream before she brings up Ben’s letter.

  “You can’t tell me that you aren’t even a little bit curious about what it says.”

  I swallow so fast, I get brain freeze.

  “If you don’t, I’ll read it for you.” Kristina grabs for my bag while I’m distracted by the fact that my brain is exploding. “It’s for your own good.”

  Kristina rips open the envelope and starts to read.

  Harper,

  We both know who the writer is between the two of us, but I needed to do more than text to let you know what a complete idiot I was. Not for saying I like you, because I do. I’m sorry for making you feel uncomfortable because you don’t like me back. I won’t bring it up again. But can we go back to being friends?

  I really missed you this week. I should have called as soon as those dbags started tweeting about your blog post, but I was nervous to talk to you after Saturday night. I was embarrassed. Another example of how I was an idiot.

  Oh, and idiot example #3: Why did I say you shouldn’t come to pug prom? Please come. There’s something I’d like you to see, and Princess could use the support, too. It took a lot to get her into that dress.

  I hope I didn’t mess everything up, but I understand if I did.

  Your friend either way,

  Ben

  Kristina reads the end of the letter slowly, her eyes peeking up above the page every few sentences to see my reaction.

  “Whoa.” I put down my spoon.

  “I can’t believe he wrote you a letter,” she says in genuine awe. “And it was so nice.”

  “He is nice. He’s really nice. I mean, I’m with Carter but . . .”

  “Yeah.” Kristina carefully folds the paper into the envelope and hands it back across the table. “I think you have to go to pug prom. Apart from the obvious perks of attending the weirdest-sounding event ever, it sounds like he’s really sorry and really gets it. And you do want to stay friends, right?”

  “Definitely.” It’s not even a question.

  “Although how you could only want to be friends after getting a letter like that—I feel like I have butterflies for Dog Walker a little.”

  Wait, Kristina and Ben.

  I won’t have to feel bad about hurting Ben anymore if they hit it off instead. As I told him, she’s definitely more his type. It will be a win-win-win: Ben gets his post-Delilah, fun rebound; Kristina gets a cute athlete to make out with; and I can stop feeling guilty about both of them. I can’t believe I didn’t think of this before.

  34

  HOW FANCY CAN A PROM for pugs be?

  Very fancy.

  Extremely fancy.

  As soon as we breach the balloon archway leading into the ballroom in our sundresses, we’re acutely aware of just how underdressed we are. I’m talking ball gowns, corsages, diamond tiaras, and well-tailored suits—on the pugs and their owners. The room might be full of female dogs, but we’re clearly the basic bitches of the party.

  Walking across the dance floor, under the sparkle of the disco ball, I scan the room nervously, wondering when I’ll spot Ben.

  Kristina and I pass a tuxedoed man swaying with his little black pug, also in a tuxedo. The man lowers his monocle to ask the person dancing next to them where her dog (wearing a structured dress fit for a queen) got her gigantic, Elizabethan-style, ruffled white collar that sticks out so far, the pug has trouble lifting her head.

  “Once I found out that the collar is technically called a ‘ruff,’ I had to get it,” the woman gushes. “I didn’t care if it was five hundred dollars. Do it for the pun, I say.”

  Kristina squeezes my hand. “Tell me I just imagined that.”

  I squeeze back. “I should have known there would be a lot of puns at this paw-ty.”

  “Oh my God, I don’t understand how you can still be so terrible at puns.”

  “Harper, over here!” Aunt Vee is waving to us from across the ballroom. She’s standing next to a cluster of pugs lapping up water from a gigantic bowl labeled “punch.”

  One of the pugs is Princess, a vision in her poofy purple-taffeta dress. And it seems like Atticus has rubbed off on her. Princess is running around the other pugs, making friends and sniffing whatever nonpantalooned butt she can find.

  “I can’t believe how incredible she looks,” I say as I carefully hug Aunt Vee, scratching my bare arms against her dress’s sequins. “And so energetic.”

  “All thanks to Benjamin.”

  I assume my casual, hand-on-the-waist pose and attempt a casual (or at least not crazy-uncomfortable) voice. “Where is he, by the way?”

  “Probably off taking pictures somewhere. Did you know that the pug prom committee hired him to be the photographer? He promised me some glamour shots. . . .” />
  “You didn’t tell me he was a photographer,” Kristina says.

  “This must be what he wanted to tell me.” I look around the room again, this time brimming with excitement rather than nerves. I don’t care that things are awkward with us right now. I’m just really happy for him. And maybe a little bit proud. He did it. He actually did it. “Why can’t I find him?”

  “Maybe try the guy behind the big camera?” Kristina says.

  And there he is, not with an iPhone but with a fancy camera I’ve never seen before. Crouching down to get the perfect angle on a shot of a group of women in chiffon toting their bedazzled pugs around like purses. The pugs’ couture aesthetic is only enhanced by the fact that most of their tongues permanently hang outside of their mouths, creating the perfect juxtaposition of goofy and grandiose.

  I don’t approach until Ben finishes his shot.

  “Hey.” I tap him on the shoulder as he’s examining the pictures on the fancy camera’s screen.

  “Harper!” Startled, Ben drops the camera, which luckily is secured by a strap around his neck. “You came? I’m so happy you came.”

  He reaches in for a hug but stops short, jerking back.

  “I got your letter. We’re good.”

  “Yeah?” His face relaxes, but not all the way to normal. “I was worried. I didn’t want to make you uncomfortable. . . .”

  “We’re good,” I repeat. I try to find the words to ask him how he got the job and tell him that I’m proud of him, but he extends his arm toward Kristina. She’s been hanging back talking to a dog—not his owner, the actual dog—to give us space.

  “Kristina, right?” Ben says. “The best friend. I hear you’re awesome. Nice to meet you.”

  “Same.” Kristina doesn’t hesitate in her hugging. It’s how she greets everyone, so I don’t know why it makes me feel restless. “Sorry I’m so underdressed for your event.”

  “Don’t worry about it. You both look great.”

  “Nice camera!” I say, unsure of what to say next.

  “Thanks. It’s new. Thought I should finally put the dog-walking cash toward more than video games,” he says, at first to us and then over us. I turn around and see a group of ladies in boas waving Ben to their table. “Um, I have to get back to it. I’ll find you. Don’t go.”

  As soon as Ben heads off, Kristina pulls me closer and stares me right in the face. “Are you sure you don’t think of this guy as more than a friend?”

  “Of course I don’t.”

  “Really? Because he’s really cute and I was sensing this, like, weird energy between you.”

  “Weird energy or awkward energy? I’m one hundred percent not into it.”

  “It’s okay if you are. I’ve been confused too, you know I have.”

  “Actually, I was thinking he might be more your type. He’s in mega-rebound mode, but it could be a fun way to kill time when I’m at work.”

  Kristina is studying my face, but my eyes are projecting nothing. This isn’t a test. There are no lines to read between.

  We spend the night petting pugs and dancing. Aunt Vee spends most of the night flirting with the head of the pug prom committee, trying to secure Princess’s vote for prom queen. (Only to be horrified to find out that this year it was a total waste of time because of an unbecoming streak of egalitarianism in the new pug prom committee that eschews titles.) Every so often Ben waves at us in between shots, but he’s mostly occupied taking photos of conga lines—which, it turns out, pugs are horrible at.

  After Kristina and I belt “I Will Always Love You” along with Whitney Houston for the final song of the dance, Ben reemerges to ask what we have planned for the rest of the weekend.

  “Late brunch and maybe some sightseeing,” I say. “You?”

  “I’m pretty boring. I have to start editing these photos and, I dunno, maybe run the Central Park Loop to get back in shape. Don’t wanna die when the lacrosse season starts.”

  “That’s been on my to-do list, too,” Kristina says. It is, I’ve seen the list.

  “You should do it. It’s really nice and it’s only about six miles. Give or take.”

  “I’m sorry,” I chime in. “But did you say only six miles?”

  “I guess it’s actually six point two.” Ben’s eyes light up and he asks me, “Why, would you be interested? We could go before your brunch!”

  The thought of me running any distance, let alone a freaking 10K, by choice is so funny that it’s not even funny. Kristina is laughing like Ben just told the most hilarious joke in the world. Which I guess he kind of did.

  “Harper has been walking the mile out of protest in PE every year since the fifth grade.” Kristina tries to compose herself only to start laughing again. “Remember how mad Coach Kessler used to get that you weren’t even trying?”

  “It’s like he was auditioning to be a coach on The Biggest Loser !” I puff out my chest and lower my voice a few octaves to give my best middle school gym teacher impression. “C’mon, Anderson. Every winner was once a beginner. Punch that laziness in the face!”

  Kristina grabs my hand. “And then you’d be all like, ‘Sorry, Coach, but isn’t physical violence against the student code of ethics?’ ”

  “So that’s a no, then,” Ben says, grinning at Kristina.

  “That’s a hell no.” I punch him in the arm, jokingly, like always. God, this is feeling so much better. “See, I told you we were incompatible!”

  Ben’s entire body stiffens. His smile disappears. The dimple is gone.

  Okay, not that much better.

  Do I pretend I didn’t say it? Do I apologize? DO SOMETHING.

  “You two should do it, though,” I say quickly, trying to recover. I look at Kristina, whose hand is over her mouth. “You didn’t want a mani pedi anyway. You can just meet us for brunch after.”

  Kristina searches for a response. “I don’t think—”

  “No need to think.” I take both of their hands. “You both like jogging. You should freaking jog!”

  I don’t let us leave until they agree.

  35

  KRISTINA CHECKS APPROXIMATELY NINETY-SEVEN times to make sure that it’s okay to go. “Because I could just check out the Loop tomorrow when you’re at work.”

  “It’s fine. You need a jog, and I need a manicure.” I wave my chipped orange fingernails in front of her face to emphasize my point. “The bouncer won’t even let me into brunch if I try to get into Bacchanal with these cuticles.”

  “Ha. Ha. Such a comedian,” she says sarcastically. She pushes my hands away and finishes tying her running shoes.

  “You’re acting like I’m joking.” For all I know, Bacchanal will have a bouncer. The word basically meant “crazy party” in ancient Greece, and I read a New York magazine review that says the restaurant lives up to the name. “Get ready to dance on some tables. If you can still stand after your marathon.”

  “I’m pretty sure I’ll survive.” Kristina looks down at her wristwatch. “Okay, if you’re positive you don’t mind, I guess I should head out.”

  “Go! Just don’t be late for Bacchanal. I don’t want to keep Carter’s group waiting.”

  Kristina agrees and kisses the top of a slumbering Princess’s head good-bye. The pug, who still has residual glitter in her fur from last night, doesn’t even stir from her deep, post-party sleep.

  * * *

  I’m picking out my nail polish colors when Gigi pushes through the salon doors.

  “I’m late,” she announces to me and half a dozen women sitting in a row of massage chairs, their feet submerged in soapy water for their pedicures.

  “What do you like better,” I ask, holding up an Essie bottle in each hand. “Starter Wife or Where’s My Chauffeur? Wow, I didn’t realize how horrible those names were until I said them out loud.”

  “Definitely Where’s My Chauffeur.”

  I put the light pink Starter Wife nail polish back down.

  “Well?” Gigi says expecta
ntly. “Aren’t you going to ask me why I’m late?”

  “Hot date?”

  “Better. McKayla e-mailed me this morning to ask me to write a story.”

  She hands her manicurist an ivory Chanel nail polish from her purse (“Only amateurs don’t bring their own.”) and continues. “Jenni Grace went on a Twitter tirade about breaking up with her boyfriend, and McKayla asked me to write it up. I think it’s because my blog post is doing so well.”

  “What story?”

  “I wrote a blog about purge watching Gossip Girl ! And some other sites aggregated it because they thought it was funny,” she says. “This is my first time being on the Leader Board with something that isn’t ridiculous. With McKayla asking me to write something this morning, I think I might actually have a chance of getting the magazine spread.”

  Um, wasn’t I the one who called it purge watching? I feel a tug in my stomach. I start to turn and say something, but my manicurist slaps at my hand and tells me not to move.

  “Well?” Gigi says, examining the cuticle on her right hand. “Isn’t that exciting?”

  “Yeah, just . . . maybe tell me when you’re going to write about one of my ideas next time. Maybe I was going to do a blog about it.”

  I didn’t have plans to write about it before, but now funny lines that I could have written cram into my head. But my annoyance is disrupted by a look of genuine worry on Gigi’s face.

  “Oh no,” she says. “I should have asked if it was okay. I didn’t think about it.”

  Gigi turns away, which in June I would have interpreted as angry but I now register as a sign that she’s upset.

  “I overreacted,” I say. “We’re good.”

  “Yeah?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Good.” Gigi pauses and then quickly exclaims, “I’m glad we’re friends, Harper.”

  “Me too.”

  Not one for a mushy moment, Gigi quickly changes the subject to gossip about Jamie getting fired for the rest of our mani pedi. But we walk out of the nail salon linking arms, careful not to get our heels caught in the Meatpacking District’s cobblestone streets on the way to the Bacchanal. There’s a big crowd outside the restaurant.