Brooklyn Girls

by Gemma Burgess

  “It’s easy for you. He obviously already liked you,” says Coco glumly.

  “No, he didn’t,” I say firmly. He couldn’t, right? It was just a one-night thing. “So. What was your last text to Eric?”

  “Um, I asked him about whether his mom liked poinsettias at Christmas,” she says, biting her bottom lip. “I hadn’t heard from him in days, so I just wanted to send a little hi, you know, like a wave.”

  “There is no such thing as ‘just waving’ when it comes to flirt texts,” I say. “And Coco, questions in text tend to be obvious demands for attention, and that one is no different.”

  “I sort of thought maybe that would make it seem legitimate. Like, maybe my dad had some poinsettias he needed to sell, you know?”

  “Christmas is months away.… Never mind. What did he reply?”

  She shows me the text. I’m not sure. You’d probably have to ask my sister.

  “Wow,” I say. “Man of few words.”

  “I’m still trying to figure out what to say.”

  “How about: Wow, you must be going for Son of the Year. Nice work, tiger.”

  “I can’t text ‘tiger!’” she squeals.

  “What have you got to lose?”

  Making a little eek sound, Coco taps out the text and turns to me, smiling gleefully. She really is so pretty, especially when she smiles. Such lovely eyes and natural blond hair. She just needs to wear a tiny bit of makeup. And maybe pluck her eyebrows. And stop dressing like she’s four sizes larger than she is. Coco has a gorgeous figure, all boobs and curves, but was much bigger in high school, when I first met her. I think she’s stuck in that mentality.

  Her phone buzzes. What are you, the Parent Police?

  “I should say ‘Yeah, spread ’em!’” says Coco, laughing at her own daring.

  “Try … I might be. I might not be. I guess we’ll never know.”

  Eric responds right away. How’s life in the big city anyway, Miss Coco?

  “Now you ignore him,” I say firmly.

  “What?” says Coco. “But he asked me a question! Finally! He never asks text questions. I always have to ask the text questions.”

  “No, you wait till tomorrow, then say, The big city is giving me terrible hangovers. At least, I’m blaming the city. It can’t be the booze. It alludes to the fact that you’re out and busy on a Saturday night.”

  “I’m not. I have no plans.”

  “That’s not the point. As far as he’s concerned, he’s just one of the many men you could be texting. So wait till tomorrow, and he’ll be thinking about you all night.”

  “Ahh…” says Coco, realization dawning on her face. “God, this is so cool! I always imagine us falling in love after years of best friendship. It would be so romantic. My mom and dad were best friends for years, did you know that? Then they fell in love.” She sighs happily. “That’s what I want.”

  “I hate romance,” I say. “And love doesn’t last.”

  “Love does last!” She’s scandalized. “You have to fight for love. You do!”

  “You shouldn’t have to fight for anything.”

  Then my phone buzzes again. It’s a text from Angie.

  PARRRTEEHHHHJJKt887

  “I thought Angie was still upstairs.…” I murmur.

  “Angie?” says Coco. “No, I saw her leaving when I went to the bathroom earlier.”

  “Shit.”

  If she can’t even text clearly, she’s not in good shape.

  I text back. Are you okay?

  She replies. HELLZYAH! Four coldy flu tablets and a Dr Peppetfw with tequillll. In cab to Lwer Eas tSde, Ludlow/Grand u comin?

  I’m not an overprotective friend, I’m really not. But I have a feeling something is very wrong.

  So I run upstairs to change into a nonfood-marked dress and heels. Part of me is delighted to have an excuse to dress up, is that shallow? Oh well.

  “You know what, Coco?” I say, poking my head in the kitchen before I leave. She’s sitting at the kitchen table with a hot chocolate, reading her book. “Maybe there is one thing you should fight for. Your friends.”

  CHAPTER 8

  I get out of the cab on the corner of Ludlow and Grand, and I can already hear the raucous, semi-scream-filled sound of a great night in action.

  There’s music throbbing from the top of a three-story building and people are spilling out onto the balcony and fire escape. I think I’ve found my party.

  The noise gets louder as I walk up to the third floor, stepping over couples making out and past a guy on the phone screaming, “I said to bring the corn dogs!” Then I get into the apartment. The lights are dim and when my eyes adjust, I can make out a packed room full of people dancing and screaming and drinking.

  But no Angie.

  The apartment is tiny, smoky, and very crowded with what I’d guess is a music-Euro-fash crowd (lots of skinny guys with deep-V shirts and pissed-off-looking girls with chronic eyeliner habits). She’s not in the kitchen, not in the first bedroom.…

  Finally, I reach a room filled with people speaking French. A guy is photographing two girls about my age making out on the bed (ew) and a group of guys next to the far wall are doing coke off a glass picture frame.

  And then I see them—Angie’s shoes, her favorite YSL heels that she stole from her mother, are poking out from the other side of the bed. I push my way over. She’s passed out cold on the floor, a layer of white powder caked around one nostril. Merde!

  “Angie! Angie, can you hear me?” She’s breathing, at least. I try to get her to sit up, but she flops back to the floor.

  “Is she with you? We don’t know her,” says one of the dudes, in a drawly uptown accent. “She seems real fun, though.”

  “Yeah, she’s with me, fuck-face,” I snap. “And we’re leaving.”

  Angie stirs slightly.

  “Peeeeyaaaaa…” Her voice is croaky. “My favorite girl…”

  “That’s me, sugar-lips,” I say, half-carrying and half-dragging her out of the room. We reach the front door and head down the stairs.

  “I feel funky,” she says. “My heart is racing.”

  “Yep, coke will do that to a girl.”

  By the time we’re at the bottom of the stairs, she’s walking almost entirely by herself again, until she’s almost knocked over by a couple hurrying in the door.

  And Angie and I gasp in unison.

  It’s the floppy-haired French guy. The one I saw her fighting with at the Brooklyn Flea earlier today. And he’s with a beautiful dark-haired woman.

  “Excuse us,” says the man politely, with a slight European accent, his eyes flickering over us without a hint of recognition.

  “Fuckpuppet,” says Angie under her breath. She pushes my supporting arm away and angrily watches them walk up the stairs. “I’m talking to you! Ya fuckpuppet!” The woman puts her hand (with an enormous, sparkly, diamond-clad ring finger) on his back and follows him up the stairs.

  He’s … married?

  Outside on the street, Angie pushes my arm away, crouches by the gutter, leans to one side, pulls her long white hair entirely over the other shoulder, and starts throwing up. Practical Puking 101.

  I quickly sit on her nonpuke side and start rubbing her back. She shudders, tears rolling down her face.

  “It’s okay … it’s okay…” I keep saying, like some kind of wind-up best-friend doll.

  “It’s not,” she whispers under her breath, before reverse-chewing another mouthful. “It’s really not okay.”

  At midnight on Saturday on the crowded Lower East Side, no one bats an eyelash to see a crying girl throwing up in the gutter. I try to remember the last time I threw up from booze. It’s been a long time, now that I think about it. Not since I stopped drinking those alcoholic caffeinated sodas. Yay for me.

  Ten minutes later, Angie stands up to hail a cab. “I’m fine,” she says. “Thanks for rescuing me.”

  “Anytime.”

  After we get in a cab Angie
stares out the window and refuses to say anything. So I gaze out my window, too, thinking about the party. What was she thinking?

  Then we stop in traffic on the Brooklyn Bridge.

  And Angie opens her door and steps out of the cab.

  “What the hell are you doing?” I gasp, grabbing her arm. She pulls away from me—sheesh, she’s strong, particularly for a drunk girl—and slams the cab door. I grab my bag and jump out after her, ignoring the shouting cab driver.

  “Angie!” I yell.

  She’s treading the line between two lanes, arms out like a tightrope walker. Cars beep furiously as the traffic in our lane starts to move.

  “Look at me!” she shouts. “Look at meeee!”

  “Angie! Stop! Come the fuck back here!” I shout.

  Ignoring me, Angie runs in front of a Prius. The driver screeches to a halt. I run after her, giving the deeply disapproving Mr. and Mrs. Prius a thumbs-up and mouthing “thank you.”

  The traffic stops again. Angie is half-walking, half-running away from me. Then she disappears.

  “Angie!” I yell. “Angie!”

  A trucker leans out his window and starts singing “Angie” by the Rolling Stones. “Oh, Angie, don’t you weep…”

  I cannot believe I’m dodging cars on the Brooklyn fucking Bridge at midnight.

  Then I see Angie. She’s climbed on top of a Hummer that’s headed right toward me. Her hair is blowing in the wind and she’s doing a Rose-from-Titanic pose.

  “Angie!” I shout as she passes me. “Get the fuck down!”

  Like a miracle, the traffic stops again. Angie is about thirty feet in front of me.

  Still on the roof of the Hummer, she bows to the traffic behind and in front of her, and does a perfect handstand.

  For about two seconds.

  Then she crashes into a crumpled heap on the Hummer roof. The driver jumps out and starts screaming at her. I run as fast as I can, pull Angie off the top of the truck, ignoring the hysterical driver, and drag her to the side of the bridge to a little alcove where we can shelter. Angie is weeping silently, her eyes wide and staring at nothing.

  “What the hell, Angie? Have you got a fucking death wish?”

  Angie blinks and looks at me for one long second, and then closes her eyes. I look around, trying to figure out how we’re going to get off the bridge. Horns are wailing as cars speed past. We’re exactly one careless driver away from being smithereened against the wall.

  A cab pulls over, but the light isn’t on. I glance at it, confused, and wave it past.

  “Need a ride?” says a British accent.

  I glance at the cab, ready to say “No.”

  But I can’t.

  Because it’s the guy. The Prince Charming guy. Who handed me my shoe just a few days ago.

  For a second I forget to breathe.

  Then I remember where I am, who I’m with, and the problem at hand.

  “Um, a ride, yes, please,” I say quickly. “My friend is a little out of it. I just want to get her back to our house.”

  “No problem, hop in.”

  I pause for a split second. Is it safe? I don’t even know him. He could be a psycho.

  He reads my mind. “I swear I’m not a psycho.”

  I quickly get in next to him, pulling Angie after me. She’s doing her mute staring-into-space trick again.

  I’m pressed up against the guy’s body and, no word of a lie: I start tingling. I wonder if he remembers me. Don’t be stupid, Pia, of course he doesn’t.

  “Corner of Court and Union,” I say.

  “I gotta report this,” says the driver.

  “Does fifty dollars change that?” says the British guy.

  The driver steps on the accelerator.

  “Thanks,” I whisper. “I’ll pay.”

  “Don’t worry about it,” the guy whispers back. “Bribery is a hobby of mine.”

  Our eyes meet, and yet again, I forget to breathe. I just gaze at him. Who is this dude? I notice the tiny scar on the bottom of his lip, and wonder what he’d be like to kiss, and think again how nice his eyebrows are but actually I don’t think he does wax them or thread them or whatever because they’re just sort of naturally perfect but it feels like these are things I’ve seen many times before, like I know him.…

  Then I realize I’m staring and grinning like a total moron. Self-consciousness overwhelms me. Of course I don’t know him. Like, seriously, what is wrong with me? And where the hell is his girlfriend? Why isn’t he with her at midnight on a Saturday, rather than playing knight-in-shining-yellow-cab? He’s too cocky, too confident. Clearly a player. A cockmonkey fuckpuppet bastard, the kind of guy I should avoid at all costs.

  But God, he’s hot.

  The cab is so quiet. I can hear him breathing. I wonder if he can hear me breathing. Oh God, now I’m not breathing at all. I might pass out.

  “Um, thanks for stopping,” I say finally.

  “I caught the end of your adventure,” the British guy replies. “I have friends who used to taxi surf across the Williamsburg Bridge.”

  “By ‘friend’ you mean ‘you,’ right?” I say, raising an eyebrow.

  “Dash it, you broke my code. What are you, some kind of enigma machine?”

  “Did you just say ‘dash it?’”

  He grins. “I’m Aidan.”

  “Pia.”

  We shake hands in an awkward-yet-flirty way, and I can feel my heart or maybe my entire torso beat thumpetythumpthump. Aidan looks like he wants to laugh, like he knows how I’m feeling and what I’m thinking, oh, God, my stomach is tingling.…

  “So … you live in Brooklyn?”

  “Yeah. Actually, I’m on my way to meet a mate for a nightcap at Minibar. It’s sort of my local.”

  “I’ve heard of it,” I say. (I totally haven’t.)

  “My dog prefers Bar Great Harry. Probably because they let him in.”

  I’m fighting the urge to ask exactly where he lives, what kind of dog he has, where his girlfriend from the other day is, and if he’d ever consider dumping her to date me instead. Thankfully, before I can start frothing at the mouth, the cab driver interrupts.

  “You’re from London?”

  “More or less,” says Aidan.

  “You been here long?” the cabbie asks him.

  Angie stirs, and I look over at her and make a slight are-you-okay face, and she shrugs. She’s clearly tired, and sad, but fine. But who was the French guy? And what the hell is going on with her?

  I tune back into the conversation.

  “About six years ago,” Aidan’s saying. He’s got a very deep, self-assured voice. Sexy.

  “What do you do?” asks the cabbie.

  “Uh, boring financial stuff,” he says, then glances at me. “But I am totally hip and groovy in every other way, obviously.”

  “I went to London once,” says the cabbie. “The food, man! I don’t know how you guys survive over there.”

  I cringe inwardly. Never criticize a stranger’s country unless you have lived there.

  “It’s a miracle,” says Aidan. “Frankly, I’m surprised any of us are still alive.”

  I turn to him and grin, trying to make up for the cabbie’s rudeness, and he winks at me, his eyes crinkling with a secret smile. I wink back and I feel that hot tingling again, so I quickly drop my gaze. Ohpleaseaskmeoutohpleaseaskmeoutohpleaseaskmeout—

  Then, too quickly, we reach Union Street. Angie somehow rouses herself and staggers out of the cab. “Thank you so much, for, um, being our knight in shining armor,” I say. “Here, this is for the cab fare, or the tip, or whatever—” I try to put a twenty in his hand.

  “No, no. Consider this karma. Pay it forward. Or whatever that awful movie was called.”

  Aidan puts his hand on mine and I swear to God, electric sparks shoot through my hand and up my arm. I flinch from shock and snatch my hand away.

  His sexy-cocky smile fades. “You okay?”

  “Yes … No. I mean, yes.�
�

  Our eyes meet again. There’s a pause. Suddenly the world is totally silent.

  For a second I’m overwhelmed with the urge—no, not to kiss him (though that would be, you know, just fine). I want to talk to him more. I want to close the cab door and just keep going, wherever he’s going. It feels like it would be the right thing to do.

  Stupid, I know.

  And impossible. I can’t ask for his number out of the blue, it’s just not my MO, and he hasn’t asked for mine, and anyway, he has a girlfriend. She’s tall and glamorous and loud and sexy. I saw her on the damn street. Jesus, Pia. Get a grip.

  So I get out and slam the door without looking back.

  CHAPTER 9

  I never used to like waking up alone. Even if I woke up next to the wrong guy, it was better than being by myself. Just two weeks ago today I was lying here next to Mike, yet to deal with the chaos of my post-party life. I wish I hadn’t slept with him, by the way. Massive oopsh. The first guy I ever slept with was Eddie. We waited three months, and finally did the deed at Thanksgiving, at his parents’ house, during the first snow of the year. It was so—oh, God, why am I thinking about this? I’ll just get upset and I have a big day ahead.

  It’s time to get the SkinnyWheels show on the road!

  First: Angie. I need to figure out what’s going on with her. When we got in last night, she just came upstairs and went right to sleep.

  I knock on her door. A moan tells me she’s awake.

  “Good morning, ladybitch.”

  Her room smells as bad as it looks: there are more clothes on the floor than in the closet, and there are so many paintings and sketches pinned up you can hardly see the wallpaper.

  “I need sustenance,” she moans. “My kingdom for a French fry.”

  “You have a kingdom?”

  I look down at her, sprawled on the bed, hair a wild mess, eyeliner even more messy-cool than usual.

  “Let’s talk about you, my kamikaze friend. Talk about crash and burn: you were a total mess yesterday.”

  Angie shrugs. “I got afternoon drunk, came home, carbed up, and passed out. What’s the big deal?”

  “Umm…” Shit, I hate telling people what they did when they don’t remember. It usually seems kinder to pretend it never happened. But I think Angie needs to know.