Balancing Acts

by Zoe Fishman

  “Doesn’t the bacon cancel out the fruit?” asked Sabine, when her mother was safely outside the restaurant and she had her full attention.

  “Don’t be fresh. I like the combination. I just have a couple bites of the bacon. Sabine, you should see my thighs, by the way. This Pilates business really works.”

  “So, what’s doing?” asked Sabine.

  “Me, I’m fine. Same Saturday as always. Saby, are you okay? You sound down. And you rarely call me on a Saturday morning. Did some schmuck do something stupid?”

  “Not really. Well, at least not intentionally.”

  “Is this Subway Crush?”

  “Maybe.”

  “You don’t want to tell me, but you call me to talk about it? Sounds a little silly, Sabine.”

  “Sorry, I sort of just wanted to hear your voice, Mom.”

  “Sweetie, I understand. If you want my voice, that’s what you’ll get. If you don’t want to talk about whatever this idiot did, we don’t have to.” She paused. “Although, if he isn’t treating you like the goddess you are, kick him to the curb. You know, we get all these reruns of that talk show, what’s it called? Ricki Lake? From the nineties? Anyway, we get them here on channel eleven, and every single one of her episodes is about these women ‘kicking men to the curb.’ I had never heard that expression before! I like it. And between you and me, Ricki needs to kick her stylist to the curb. Her clothes do nothing for her figure!”

  Sabine laughed. “Mom, it was the nineties. Nobody wore anything flattering.”

  “Oh, right! That was when you came home from college wearing that frosted brown lipstick that made you look like a corpse! That was terrible, Sabine.”

  “He’s not treating me badly,” Sabine offered, changing the subject before it spiraled into a discussion about the wherefores and whys of Sabine’s fashion history. “He’s treating me sweetly. . .but I don’t know what to do with it, I guess. Or, at least he was treating me sweetly.”

  “Are you pulling this ‘tough girl’ business?” asked her mother. “God forbid a man should treat you with some respect, Sabine.”

  “Well, maybe a little ‘tough girl,’ but not really. We’re supposed to go out tonight. . .”

  “Saby, I don’t know the whole spiel obviously, but I’m wondering if you’re still pulling this ‘bad guy’ crap. If he’s too nice, or too much of a gentleman, you’re over it. I wonder if you’re looking for flaws in him that don’t exist, just so you don’t have to put yourself out there.”

  Sabine thought about the blonde. She wasn’t making that up. True, she could be a cousin or something, and this was a free country—he could date whomever he wanted—but it was justifiably unsettling. “What if you’re wrong, Mrs. Know It All?” asked Sabine. “What if he’s an asshole and that’s why I’m upset?”

  “How can a nice Jewish lawyer be an asshole? Oh wait, I just answered my own question. Maybe you are right, Saby. The point is, how do you know? You’ve been seeing him for only a minute. Give it some time. You always jump the gun! Anyway, listen, I have to dash. I am starving and I know my girls will attack my bacon like vultures if I’m not around to claim it. Think about what I said and I’ll call you later. I love you, Sabine.”

  “Love you, too.”

  Sabine hung up the phone and reached into her bedside table drawer for her journal. She had been so religious about keeping one for such a long time, but in the past year she had fallen off the self-reflection wagon. It wasn’t that she didn’t have time for it, it was just that dealing with her emotions was often harder than ignoring them completely. You couldn’t lie to your journal.

  Sabine rolled out of bed and moved to her desk. She grabbed a pen and turned to a fresh page, writing the date with care. With a deep sigh, she began. She wrote about yoga and Zach and work and writing and Naomi, along with anything else that came to her mind. At one point, she stopped. Her hand hurt. And her sweaty yoga clothes—stale and scratchy—felt like a straightjacket. She shook her hand and ripped off her sports bra. Jesus, that feels good.

  Back in her shirt, she resumed her writing. It felt good to get it out. There was so much in her head! The Zach fiasco had inspired her session, but that was just the tip of the iceberg. Finally, she finished. Her hand throbbed. She looked at the clock. It was almost six! She couldn’t believe it.

  She got up from her desk and stretched to the ceiling. As she did so, she got a whiff of her underarms. “Shower time!” she exclaimed in a mixture of disgust and testosterone-fueled pride.

  There was something about not showering that made her proud of herself. It didn’t happen often, but when it did, Sabine viewed it as a deliberate “F you” to society’s rules of femininity. Ninety-nine percent of the time, she followed those rules willingly, but when she didn’t, she felt sort of like a badass. A dirty, smelly badass, but still.

  In the shower, Sabine thought about Zach and the date they were supposedly going on that night. Was he really the kind of guy that had two women in one weekend? What was all that crap about how he couldn’t sleep with her because he cared so much about her? Was it all a load of bullshit like Sabine had imagined?

  She turned off the shower and wrapped herself in a towel. I’m starving, she thought, as she wrung out her hair. She hadn’t really eaten anything since. . .shit, she wasn’t sure if she had eaten all day! Who am I? She had always despised those women who claimed they “forgot” to eat. Who forgets to eat? People who “forgot” to eat were the same people that ordered a salad for dinner, hold the chicken please! With the dressing on the side. The only thing they had forgotten was how to eat like a human being.

  Sabine emerged from the bathroom to find Lassie gazing at her expectantly. “You’re hungry, too, huh?” she asked, watching his ears perk at the mention of food. She did a quick full-body moisturize and pulled on her favorite sweatpants and T-shirt.

  In the kitchen, she fixed Lassie his dinner and pulled her trusty dossier of takeout menus off the top of the fridge. As she decided between Chinese and Japanese, her phone rang. Her stomach dropped. She picked it up to see who was calling, halfway hoping that it was Zach and halfway hoping that it wasn’t. It was.

  She let it go to voice mail. She just didn’t feel like dealing with it—with him. Still, she was curious about what he would say. “Uh, hey, Sabine, it’s Zach. I just woke up from a long nap. The chick I banged last night left after a late brunch and I was sooo tired. Anyway, now I’m up—and just want to cuddle. Call me so I can pretend I really like you just so I can screw with your head some more.” Sabine wondered how much simpler life would be if everyone just said what they meant all the time. The red light blinked angrily on her phone. Voice mail time!

  Sabine picked it up to listen. “Uh, hey, Sabine. It’s Zach. How are you? I, uh. . .I think we talked about going out tonight. Was wondering if you were still up for it? Give me a call. If you can. Uh, okay, bye—hope you’re well.”

  Sabine pressed seven to erase the message—regretting it approximately twenty seconds after doing so. This was the second dis from her. If she ignored his message, he might never call her again. And who could blame him? She put the phone down and thought about calling him back. He didn’t sound like a jerk in his message. . .he sounded kind of sweet and intimidated, actually, but the fact remained that she had seen him with someone else. As her mom would say, If it walks like a duck and talks like a duck. . .

  She picked up the phone. She had decided on sushi suddenly. Ordering Chinese would have felt a bit cliché. Single girl in the city gets her heart broken, drowns herself in sesame noodles. She’d heard it before. Hell, she’d done it before.

  As she waited for the food to arrive, she lay on the couch, staring at the ceiling. This Zach wrinkle was a bummer, no doubt about it, but in a way, she was strangely relieved by the fact that it was over before it started. If he was truly all those wonderful things that she wanted him to be, she would have had no choice but to fall in love with him. And then her entire life would
be flipped around. Everything would change. She would no longer be the top priority. She would have to share things, like her rotisserie chicken.

  “I don’t think I’m ready for that quite yet,” she mumbled into Lassie’s fur. Or maybe she was, and was telling herself these things to avoid getting hurt, to avoid taking a risk. Risks were not her forte. She stared at the ceiling, bored by the subject already.

  Her buzzer rang suddenly—piercing through her melodrama like a fog horn. She jumped off the couch in a ravenous burst of energy.

  Later she would return to her favorite subject—her—but now she would eat.

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  Bess

  It was 8:30 AM and Bess was on her fourth cup of coffee. She had been up since five. All weekend she had been working on the article and now it was Monday morning. She had been writing nonstop, and enjoying every minute of it. She liked the succinctness of it, and the way that—just like yoga—each paragraph flowed directly into the next without any jarring starts and stops. She had now read it over four times and was confident that it was the best thing she had ever written.

  The problem now was the question of whether or not to tell Sabine, Naomi, and Charlie about it before it came out. She had wondered about the possibility that she might be violating some gigantic journalistic code of ethics, but a call to one of her fact-checking friends had confirmed otherwise. She was all set on that front, but there were so many pros and cons to the dilemma. She knew her article painted them in a lovely light—so the surprise would most likely be a nice one for them—but on the other hand, she had been scheming to write this all along without any of their knowledge. They could end up feeling victimized and resentful. After all, they were her friends now. She didn’t want to offend them—or shock them. It was a serious crap shoot.

  Bess put down the cup of coffee. The caffeine had her heart pumping overtime. She held up her hand and watched it shake without her consent. Time to eat something. She walked into the kitchen and opened the fridge, only to discover a can of diet soda and a dead head of lettuce. Nice, she thought, tossing the lettuce in the garbage.

  “Okay, I’ll go out for a bagel,” she announced. She hoped that she wouldn’t have to deal with any awkward run-ins with anyone from work. She had called in sick to finish her article. Bess looked in the mirror. She looked like a corpse. “Well, at least I don’t have to worry about being busted,” she mumbled. Anyone she ran into would have no problem believing she was ill.

  She sat down on the couch, suddenly exhausted by the idea of getting dressed and going out. This was when she wished she had a personal assistant like the idiots she wrote about. She would communicate with her via hand signals. No, make that him. She wanted a young guy that she could boss around. Girls gave too much lip. Two fingers would mean a toasted pumpernickel bagel with low-fat veggie cream cheese. Three would mean “Add a tomato but make sure it’s not mealy!”

  She looked at her phone, suddenly missing Dan violently. He was just the person to ask about her tell/not tell conundrum. She decided to call him, despite the early California hour.

  “Hello?” grumbled Dan’s sleepy voice into the phone.

  “Hiiii,” Bess whispered. “Rise and shiiiiiiiiiine!”

  “Bess, Jesus, it’s 6 AM here. Is everything okay?” Dan’s voice was thick with both annoyance and concern.

  “I know it’s early. I’m sorry, but I really needed to hear your voice.”

  “It’s okay,” answered Dan, his tone warming. “Here I am.”

  “And also ask you a teeny tiny question,” added Bess.

  “Let me guess: it’s about the article.”

  “Why, however did you know that?” Bess had been yapping Dan’s ear off about the article since she had left LA.

  “Go ahead.”

  “Listen, should I tell them?” asked Bess. “Should I let Charlie, Sabine, and Naomi know about this article? Or should I just let it be a surprise?”

  “Wait, I thought we agreed that you don’t need to tell them first. I mean, it’s a wonderful article—kind of like a tribute to them, really. I don’t see why they would be upset.”

  “Well, yeah, the last time we spoke about it, we agreed to let it be a surprise,” replied Bess. “But now I’m having second thoughts. What if they feel ambushed and they hate me?”

  “Why would they feel ambushed?” asked Dan, genuinely baffled. “I’ve read the article around seventeen thousand times, Bess. It is a really positive piece. Anyone would be honored to be depicted in such a way.”

  “Wait, are you saying that it’s a puff piece?”

  “Bess, Jesus, no!”

  “Dan, what’s the matter?”

  “To be honest, I’m a little bit over this damn article. It’s all we ever talk about. I don’t know how many times I can reassure you that it’s an excellent piece. I mean, enough already.”

  Bess was silent for a minute, considering his point. He was right, that was all they talked about. “You’re right, Dan. I’m sorry I’m being such a freak show. It’s just that your opinion means so much to me—”

  “I know, Bess. I want to be included, I just am a little bit over it at this point. I also don’t want you driving yourself mad about it.”

  “I think you might be a wee bit too late on that one,” said Bess.

  Dan laughed. “Tell me about it. But that’s part of why I love you, I guess. You’re so passionate about things that really mean something to you.”

  “Is passionate another word for crazy?”

  “Maybe, but don’t you think it sounds better?”

  “Definitely. Passionate makes me sound like a bipolar Mediterranean beauty that welds intricate sculptures out of steel.”

  “That’s rich,” said Dan, really laughing now. “I like that visual.”

  “So, Dan? You really think I should let it be a surprise? You don’t think Charlie, Naomi, and Sabine will feel like they were taken advantage of?”

  “I really don’t. Even if they’re a little bit taken aback at first, I think that discomfort will quickly give way to warm fuzzies.”

  Bess exhaled deeply. “You give me warm fuzzies.”

  “I know something else warm and fuzzy I can give y—”

  “Ewwww, Dan!” teased Bess, happy to be laughing with him. “Dan, seriously, I’m sorry I’ve been such a maniac. I’m going to turn it in today, and I promise I won’t mention it again until Saturday, when it comes out and ruins my friendships with these three amazing women.”

  “Bess! I am telling you—nothing will be ruined. It’s a wonderful piece and a testament to their strength and complexity. Plus, it’s in The New York freakin’ Times, man!”

  “Damn right it is! You can’t hate on the Times.”

  “No, you cannot,” agreed Dan. He yawned.

  “Okay, I’ll let you go back to sleep. Dan, I love you. Thank you for putting up with me.”

  “I love you, too, Bess. Now, turn in that damn article and get some sleep yourself.”

  “I will. Bye, Dan.”

  “Bye, Bess.”

  She hung up and composed a note to Kathryn. Before attaching her piece, she paused for a moment, visualizing everyone’s reaction on Saturday. She put herself in Sabine’s, Charlie’s, and Naomi’s shoes and imagined someone writing in the same tone about her without her permission. Would she be okay with the result?

  I would, she thought. I really would.

  She attached the article and pressed SEND. The deed was done. Now it was time for that bagel.

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  Sabine

  Sabine clomped up the subway stairs after work on Monday evening, breaking a slight sweat in her heavy jacket. She was excited to finish the website copy. It was no novel, but at least it was some sort of writing.

  As she rounded the corner to her apartment, she considered the tone she had decided to take. She obviously couldn’t rely on her humor—yoga was many things but funny was not one of them. She also hadn’
t wanted to veer too far in a spiritual direction. A little was good, but nothing too over the top. She had ended up somewhere in the middle, and hoped she had Prana’s vibe correctly. When she sat down to write on Sunday morning, she had tried to remember how she had felt, walking into the studio as a virtual yoga virgin just five weeks ago. Although she had been intimidated by the idea of yoga, the studio itself—along with Charlie, Felicity, and Julian—had really eased her anxiety. It had been important to Sabine to translate the nonjudgmental attitudes of all of them in her copy. She was pretty sure she had done it. At least she hoped she had. She would go over it again tonight and edit with a fresh eye.

  Deep in thought, she realized she had come to her stoop. She searched in her seemingly bottomless bag for her keys, cursing its lack of pockets.

  “Hey,” she heard. She looked up, confused. Was someone talking to her? There, at the top of her steps, in all of his handsome glory, was Zach.

  “Whoa!” she exclaimed. “Hey!” She paused for a moment, momentarily frozen in place by the shock of seeing him there. “What. . .what are you doing here?” she asked.

  “I’m stalking you,” Zach replied, flashing a toothy grin.

  “Oh, that’s comforting,” Sabine replied.

  “No, I’m not, I promise,” he said. “I came by to see if you wanted to grab a drink or something. I rang your doorbell and no one answered. Then I called your cell phone and it went straight to voice mail. I had a feeling you might be on the train, so I figured I’d wait a bit.”

  “What if I was upstairs with a guy?” asked Sabine, climbing the stairs to sit beside him. “And I never came down? Or what if I came down with him?”

  “That was a chance I was willing to take. Better to know what your deal was than not to know at all.”