A new memory: Mara in a black slip and smudgy eye makeup, holding a cold compress against my head, hissing into a landline: Can’t go anymore—my stupid sister.
Is that right? Did she miss prom for me?
“It’s always been about you,” she says. “Your future, your dreams. Dad left it all to me. He didn’t even ask.”
“I know,” I say helplessly. “I’m sorry—”
“You had no right to make a decision like this without me,” she shouts. “It affects me, and it affects my daughter, and you made it without me because you’re selfish and you’re stupid.”
“Hey,” I snap. “Back off. I did ask you about the test. I can’t live my life based on your needs. I have a right to take control of my health, which is what I’m doing, with or without your help. I’m not stupid, and I’m not selfish, and if you call me those things again, we’re through.” I snatch up my jacket. “You know what’s interesting, Mar? If Mom had gotten this test, she might not be dead. She could’ve done what I’m going to do, and we’d still have a mother. Storm would have a grandma. But if it was solely up to you, you’d have told her not to do it and she’d have gotten cancer and died. Think about that when you make a decision that could save your daughter’s life.”
I tear out of the house, a hurricane of dark feeling. I drive less than a mile before I have to pull over on a quiet back road dappled with sunshine. I switch off the engine, put my head against the steering wheel, and start weeping. I cry as a release. I cry because I love and hate my sister. I cry because I feel exhausted and alone. After ten or so minutes, I switch the engine back on, and I drive myself home to Brooklyn.
26.
* * *
April
New York is a town of many unspoken rules, and most of them revolve around the subway. Never get on an empty subway car: it’s empty for a reason. Always have your MetroCard in hand when approaching the turnstile. Never eat on the subway, or worse yet, make eye contact with anyone eating on the subway. When it comes to fashion, things are less rigid, but for one rule: don’t try too hard. When I moved to the city, I figured everyone stepped out in fashion-blogger-worthy outfits every single day, perfect down to the last statement pinkie ring. But in reality, New York is less about over-the-top splash and more about low-key style.
Except for one day of the year.
And that day is the first real day of spring. On that day, when it’s above seventy before 9:00 a.m. and your weather app assures you it’s only going to get better: embrace it.
That day is today. The city is a palette of pretty dresses the color of Easter eggs. Strappy sandals show off brand-new pedicures and just-shaved legs. Dudes wear T-shirts. Babies emerge from their strollers’ miniature sleeping bags. Strangers smile at one another. We made it.
My friend from the BRCA forums, Bee, sends me a picture captioned Good morning, New York! She’s on the Staten Island Ferry, flashing lower Manhattan. I laugh out loud. Without overthinking it, I ask her out for a drink: the first rosé of spring? A rooftop with water views? She texts me back two words.
FUCK. YES.
It’s official: my first meet-up with a fellow BRCA babe.
I arrive early at work, determined to allow the new season’s energy to jettison me out of my lazy winter rut. There are conferences to attend, travel to book. I’m excited to dive back into what New York has to offer now that the spring sunshine is finally warming the cold concrete. No sooner have I slipped into my chair, first iced coffee of the year in hand, than my phone lights up with texts. Vivian. I didn’t work the weekend like I’d promised. Our approval rating has fallen. From a four to a 3.2. The lowest it’s ever been.
My early-morning enthusiasm nose-dives. I didn’t work the weekend because I was fucking and fighting, and even the latter sounded better than putting together outfits. My weekend felt like real life, like things that matter, and the app . . . does it matter? Is it what I want to do? I care about Vivian, and I don’t want to walk away from all the work I’ve already put in, but I can’t deny the fact that creating outfits for teenagers who don’t even buy them has become very low on my list of priorities.
My fingers hover over the keyboard. I try to think of a response that isn’t an excuse, a promise, or a lie.
I can’t.
Patricia pings me. Gratefully, I leave my phone behind as I head to her office.
* * * *
“Can you believe it’s already April?” Patricia swings around in her chair, dressed head to toe in florals: a breezy pink-and-green pantsuit complete with an elegant fascinator that only she could pull off. Even her nails are painted with petals. “What do you think?” She gestures to her outfit. “Too much?”
“Oh no, I love it.” I take my usual seat across from her. “Derby Day meets tea with the Queen.”
“That’s exactly what I was going for!” she says, and beams.
I love my boss. “How was London?”
“Fabulous, fabulous!” she trills. “Except for the weather, the food, and the architecture.”
I roll my eyes. “You’re such a snob.”
“That’s why everyone keeps listening to me,” she says, and winks. “Now, we have a lot to catch up on.” She slips on her reading glasses to glance at a page of notes. “Ah, yes: Elan Behzadi. Ten books. One heck of a commission. What was all that about?”
I shrug, maintaining eye contact. “To be honest, I’m not sure. I started with the Panzetta, like you suggested, and before I could get any further, he said he’d take the lot. I think you were right. I think he was just curious.”
“Money and an inquisitive mind,” Patricia muses. “A dangerous combination.” Then, with a delicacy I don’t miss, “What did you make of him?”
I pretend to consider this as if it’s never once crossed my mind. “He’s very impressive. Charismatic. Intelligent. But he has an overblown sense of his own worth. And I didn’t get the impression he was particularly happy.”
“All that in, what, five minutes?” Patricia asks, almost sharply.
I will myself not to blush. “I’m a very perceptive person, Ms. Hoffman. Just like you.”
She smiles, flattered. “Indeed. Well, we shall see. He’s your client, but let me know if he buys anything else.”
This seems unlikely. Even though I’m broke, I kept my promise to Steph: I haven’t cashed Elan’s commission check. The prospect feels gross. The last thing I want is for whatever’s happening between us to have anything to do with money. “Will do.”
“There’s something else we need to talk about. Your sales for the past three months show a downward trend.” Patricia pushes a spreadsheet of numbers at me. “And you’ve been seeing far fewer clients than usual.”
I steady myself, readying the words I’ve been practicing. “I know I’ve been underperforming this winter. And I could blame seasonal affective disorder or lack of interest from clients, but I won’t. The truth is . . .”
“Yes?”
“Patricia, the truth is . . .” For a wild moment, I consider telling my boss about my diagnosis and the mastectomy and even the bucket list and how my whole life feels like it’s been sliced up and rearranged into a shape I barely recognize. But it would completely change the way she sees me. I’m the sales gal who’s tough as nails, who (up until now) works all day, drinks with the clients till dawn, then is back at my desk at 8:00 a.m. to do it all again, in a brand-new outfit, having somehow fit in a spin class and blowout. I’m not the employee who is sick and vulnerable, who needs special treatment. Who needs help.
Plus, I don’t have the energy to manage Patricia’s judgment of me. What if she thinks I’m too young to make this decision, like Mara does? Or what if I don’t end up going through with it—will she think me weak? A coward? I can’t tell her. Not now. Not ever. “The truth is I wasn’t sure about my future. I’ve been here for three years, and while I’m enjoying it, I’m not really moving forward.”
“You want more responsibilities,” Patricia
says. “And a pay increase to match?”
I nod, masking surprise.
She smiles, pleased. “I’m so glad you said something, Lacey.”
Did I?
“It’s time we start thinking about what’s next for you,” she says. “A position on the fashion editorial team will become available around October. Eloise is leaving us.”
“Really?” I’m obviously thrilled, so I temper it with, “How sad.”
“I know how much you want this job, Lacey,” Patricia says. “It’s okay to be excited.”
A salaried position. The chance to write and travel and be in the inner circle. No more commission or uncertainty. No more sales.
“Of course you won’t be replacing Eloise,” Patricia says. “There’ll be a little internal shuffle and you’d be coming on as the most junior member of the team. But it’s still an editor position.”
“Of course, yes. Can I ask if Eloise is staying in the industry?”
“She’s pursuing a family-related opportunity.”
No way. I drop my voice to whisper, “She’s pregnant?”
“You sound surprised.”
“She doesn’t strike me as someone who’d . . .” I trail off, stopping short of making a joke about a hostile womb.
Patricia gives me a twinkly little smile: she gets it. “If you want to commit to me, I want to commit to you. Expectations for your level of professionalism and quality of work would be very high. But, I really do see a future for you here. You don’t have to decide anything right now,” she adds, “but is this something you’d like to think about?”
“Yes,” I say. “Of course it is.”
She folds her hands in front of her. “It behooves me to ask about your start-up. A position like this doesn’t allow for side projects. Is it something you’re still committed to?”
When I started working with Vivian, Hoffman House had become my dull day job and Clean Clothes was the shiny new toy. But things have changed. Quitting a sales job for a start-up was fine in theory, and when I didn’t care about benefits. How could I take time off from Clean Clothes? We don’t have policies in place for sick leave. Even with Zhu’s promised money, there’s no security at Clean Clothes. Everyone loves telling you 90 percent of start-ups fail in the first year. After Vivian gets her money from Zhu, she won’t need me; she can hire someone else. I can walk away and maintain our friendship. It’s the only path.
“I’ve enjoyed working on that project,” I say. “But if this position is open, I’d look to transition out of the Clean Clothes team immediately and refocus my efforts here.”
Patricia extends her hand. “I’m so pleased, Lacey. I really am so very pleased.”
We shake hands. I’m grinning, giddy, like the surprise winner on a game show.
27.
* * *
Vivian has no idea that I’m still interested in moving up the rungs at Hoffman House. But now, I have to tell her. Dreading this, I text, suggesting dinner at her place. She messages back:
Let’s just meet at Steph’s.
The separate corners of my world fold around to meet each other in an entirely new configuration: one that leaves me on the outside. Before I can try to find a way in, my work phone rings, my email pings, and a coworker swoops by needing advice. The day dashes ahead of me, daring me to chase it.
* * * *
With the position of fashion editor as the carrot dangling over my desk, I double down. I want that job, even if I have no idea how I’ll manage it and take time off for a surgery. Later, as I ride the crowded N train to Astoria, finally able to space out, I think idly about doing it over summer, while I’m still in sales. Take the hit, somehow, recover early fall, and be ready to transition in October, as Patricia suggested. I could just tell everyone it’s a root canal. Or maybe the job’s a sign that I should wait: bank experience and money at Hoffman House and do it down the line when it’s less of a rush. I’ve always liked crossing things off my to-do list—the bigger the better—but perhaps I’m giving way too much energy to worrying about all this right now.
I believe what Steph said to Dr. Murphman, the world’s worst plastic surgeon, that big boobs don’t define a woman. Some women don’t have any reconstruction at all. Transwomen might not have “real” boobs and they’re still women. Androgyny persists as a trend: I did a report on it last year. The line between what it means to be a man and what it means to be a woman has blurred. We’re seeing this on the runway and in the street. At the time it was interesting, even empowering. Now it feels way too close to home. I don’t want to become a trend against my will.
The train empties out the closer we get to Astoria–Ditmars Boulevard, last stop on the line. I finally get a seat.
It’s easier for me to think about the practical aspects of all this—timing, choosing doctors, health insurance, research—than it is about the emotional, the psychosexual. How I’ll feel if my breast tissue is replaced by silicone implants. If two long scars define the look of my chest. When I allow myself to feel it, I am terrified of what my mutation could rob me of: my breasts, and later, my ovaries.
The woman sitting next to me is reading something on her phone that’s making her smile a secret smile, absentmindedly tracing a fingertip along the tops of her breasts, barely aware of her own light touch. I feel a surge of guilt at the attack I’m considering on my own body: heaping sensual pleasure with one hand, while in the other, I’m hiding a knife.
* * * *
When I open the loft door, I hear Cooper speaking in a low, serious voice. “What about a convertible loan?”
“It’s still a loan.” Vivian. She sounds congested, like she has the flu. “If we have to liquidate, it’s senior. They’d probably take everything. At this stage . . . that’s likely.”
Steph is on the couch, a look of uncut empathy on her face, holding a box of tissues. Cooper is at the other end, hands clasped between his legs. His expression is stern, dadlike. Between them is Vivian Chang. Her eyes are red and puffy. Ice queen Vivian Chang, a regular of thirty-under-thirty lists everywhere from Forbes to Elle, is crying.
My purse slips from my fingers. “What’s going on?”
“Zhu fell through.” Vivian blows her nose without looking at me. “Brock quit today. We don’t have a developer. We’re out of money. It’s over.”
The words don’t quite land. I can’t make sense of what I’m seeing: Vivian Chang falling apart.
“So, you have your developer’s equity back, right?” Cooper says. “He hasn’t even been with you for a year.”
Vivian shakes her head. “He negotiated an accelerated vesting schedule.”
Cooper asks, “Which was?”
Vivian’s eyes are on the floor. “Six months. He’s fully vested as of last week.”
Cooper lets out a whistle. “That’s low.”
I knew Brock owned 30 percent of the company, ten points more than me. But I didn’t know he could leave and keep it. I keep waiting for Vivian to look at me and acknowledge the fact that her head stylist, and currently the only other member of the team, is standing right in front of her. She doesn’t.
Cooper asks, “Have you looked on AngelList?”
“Of course I have!” Vivian wails.
“What about crowdfunding?” he asks.
“We don’t have a physical product.” Vivian pulls more tissues from Steph’s box. “The app is already free. I don’t have money for perks: that’s the whole problem.” She blows her nose again. “Do you know what percentage of VC funding goes to women? It’s like, two percent. Two fucking percent.” Her voice is shaking. “I’m in so much debt: I borrowed so much money. I’ll never start another business again. I’m a f-failure.” She starts crying in earnest, shoulder-shaking, heart-wrenching sobs.
Steph’s next to her, taking Viv’s head to lay it on her shoulder, holding her as she cries. “Shhh,” she murmurs, rocking her gently. “You’ll be okay. It’ll be okay.” She gives me a look: Do something.
&nb
sp; A strange, ugly horror has wrapped around my bones, as if I’m witnessing something deeply humiliating and fundamentally wrong. I can’t move. I know I should comfort Vivian, but I can’t.
Does she blame me for part of this? I am a part of the company, after all.
I stare at Cooper. He gets to his feet, gesturing for me to follow him into his room, closing the door behind him.
Ordinarily I’d be excited to be in Cooper’s bedroom, one step closer to the inner workings of his brain. But now I’m just numb. Confused. “I thought Zhu was a sure thing.”
Cooper leans back against his door. “Nothing’s a sure thing until the contracts are signed.”
“But Vivian said he was so keen—what happened?”
“He took a hard look at some of the KPIs: conversion rate, MAUs, LTV. And,” Cooper says, “the outfit ratings.”
Me. That’s my responsibility. “It’s my fault,” I say. “I did this.”
“It’s not your fault,” Cooper says. “Look, this happens. The low point. They call it the ‘trough of sorrow.’ The moment where everything feels like it’s not working, that you’re a failure, a fraud.”
“Right.”
“You doubt yourself,” he continues. “You’re wondering, what am I doing? Am I screwing everything up?”
“Yeah,” I say. “I understand.”
“You feel like an idiot.” Cooper’s pacing. “That you’ve wasted everyone’s time; that nothing you do will be good. You’re a loser, and you always will be—”
“Coop,” I cut him off. “I got it.”
“Right, sorry.” He fingers his collar. “A little start-up PTSD.”
Behind Cooper’s door, Vivian’s still crying. I’m afraid to go back out there. “I’ve just never seen her like this. I don’t even know what to do.”
Cooper rubs his eyes under his glasses. “Start-ups are intense: the highs and the lows. And she’s right: there’s an insane gender bias when it comes to who gets funded. It’s criminal.” He takes a deep breath. “You’re not a cofounder; you’re not responsible for investors. The best thing you can do is get your ratings up. Viv will probably do one more round of investor meetings, and then . . .” He shrugs.
The Bucket List Page 18