Brooklyn Girls

by Gemma Burgess

  “You had a bit of an oopsh, ladybitch.”

  “I did?”

  So I tell her about the “coldy flu” text, the party, the coke, and finally the gymnastic-surfing-on-a-Hummer journey over the Brooklyn Bridge.

  When I’m done, she puts her pillow over her face and screams into it.

  “I don’t remember any of that! This is the oopsh to end all oopshes!”

  “What is going on with you? I know it’s not your style but really, maybe we should talk about it,” I say, as gently as I can. “And there’s something else. I saw you at the Brooklyn Flea yesterday. Having a fight with some French guy.”

  “Oh. Him.”

  “Yeah, him. And I guess you don’t remember this either, but we saw him at the party.”

  “Did I do anything?” Angie clutches my arm.

  “No…” I say. “Well, you called him a fuckpuppet. He pretended he didn’t know you.” I pause. “He was with another woman.”

  Angie lies back, puts her pillow back over her face, and screams again. I lean forward and grab it off her.

  “Talk. Now,” I say. “Everything.”

  She sighs, grabs a cigarette from the pack on her nightstand, and puts it, unlit, in the corner of her mouth. “His name is Marc. We met in Cannes last year, but he lives in SoHo. Remember when I told you I was skiing in Vail with my UCLA friends?”

  I nod.

  “I lied. I spent the week with him, skiing in Megève. He told me then that he was married, but separated, and that we might have to cool off while he got a divorce, blah blah blah.” She sighs. “Then … anyway, I went to Cannes again this summer with Annabel, remember?” Angie always calls her mother by her first name. “She wanted some mother-daughter bonding time or some shit like that. I saw him there with his wife. I confronted him, he confirmed it, but said that they were having a trial separation and were together for a family gathering and he only loved me.… God, I hate him, he’s just like my fucking father, just lying all the time. It’s my fault. I’m a gullible cliché.”

  “It is not your fault! And he’s a total cockmonkey!” I exclaim.

  Angie stares at the ceiling, lost in thought.

  “And so … then what? How did you get from there to slapping him at the Brooklyn Flea?”

  Angie turns to face me, propping the still-unlit cigarette in the side of her mouth. “On Friday night I met up with Lord Hugh and his friends, remember? But Hugh ignored me, so I texted Marc just to boost my ego—or compound the rejection, whatever. He replied, and then later on, when I was drunk enough, I went to his place.”

  “Well, sex is just sex,” I say, trying to make her feel better.

  “I’m starting to think sex is never just sex.… Anyway, I’m surfing the crimson wave, and he’s not into that. I think I dislocated my jaw from blow jobs, actually.” She rubs her face, frowning. I laugh, and she hits me with a pillow.

  “Then what happened?”

  “Well, I made him take me to the Brooklyn Flea yesterday to force him to act like a boyfriend, I guess. And that’s when he told me he really was back with his French bitch wife and he had to go pick her up from the airport, like, immediately. And he thought it was best if we never saw each other again.” Angie’s voice is whispery with tears. “I guess he thought I wouldn’t make a scene in public.”

  “How dare some ancient Euro-trash piece of merde treat you like that!” I feel hot with anger. God, I hate it when my friends get mistreated. “Do you want to get revenge? We could egg his house, or something.”

  “He’s not worth it. I knew about that party last night because I stalked him on Facebook yesterday when I got back from the Flea. I guess that, later on, drunk me decided I’d surprise him. That’s pathetic, right? After the way I made you stop Eddie-stalking that summer.…”

  “No, no, it’s totally understandable.” And I don’t want to think about Eddie. Or that summer. “Is that all?” I say. “I mean, is that all that happened with Marc?”

  A pause. Angie closes her eyes again. A signal that the conversation is over.

  “Okay, you don’t have to talk about it.… Tell me about the Spring Lounge instead.”

  “It was a birthday thing for someone from Penn. It sucked. I got kicked out for smoking a joint at the bar.… Screw it, I don’t care. I’m leaving soon, you can come and visit me in L.A. and have lots of crazy sex with hot actors.”

  “Sounds great.” I’d hoped that Rookhaven was growing on her, the way it is on me. That she was starting to feel like it was, I don’t know. Home. Guess not. Time to change the subject.

  “I bought a food truck.”

  “What the what?”

  I tell her the whole story, omitting the Cosmo details.

  “I love it,” she says. “Sounds like a surefire hit. Maybe you can employ me. Get me away from the Bitch.”

  “I can’t afford to employ anyone. And I don’t think you should call your boss the Bitch.”

  “Why not? She’s a total dog. It’s the correct terminology.”

  “Funny. Want to help me go food shopping and then make the salads?”

  “Can I watch and make sarcastic comments instead?” Angie climbs out of bed, still wearing her clothes from last night.

  “If you shower first and change out of that thing, you can do anything you like.”

  “Oh, wow.” Angie sits back down on the bed. “Holy shit, I am hung-over.”

  When I get back to my room, there are two missed calls from my parents. No message. For a second, I consider calling them back. But I can’t. And not because I don’t want that whole we’re-coming-to-New-York-to-force-you-to-leave-Brooklyn conversation. But because I have a job to do. I have a business to start.

  Step one: ingredients.

  What I thought would be a straightforward shopping expedition turns into a scavenger hunt for the right ingredients, disposable salad boxes and knives and forks and tiny salad dressing things, and then paint for the truck. Angie’s so hungover that she only sticks around for an hour, then bails to go get a restorative mani-pedi.

  By the time I get back to Rookhaven, it’s 3:00 P.M. and I’ve spent every penny I had leftover after buying Toto. The idea of ten thousand dollars gone in just twenty-four hours is petrifying. It gives me a sort of giddy sick feeling … like financial vertigo.

  But you have to spend money to make money, right? And this is business. I get back to Rookhaven and find Coco, Julia, and Madeleine draped over the sofas in the living room, watching a Kardashian marathon.

  “Okay! Let the food trucking begin!” I say.

  They don’t move.

  I wash my hands, put the chicken breasts in the oven, and write my menu. I’ve decided to do it elementary-school style.

  Salad 1 = chicken + avocado + snow peas + beets + cherry tomato + reduced-fat feta + baby greens

  Salad 2 = turkey + watercress + almonds + apple + celery + reduced-fat cheddar + baby greens

  Dessert 1 = brownie (– fat)

  I would eat those salads. I think.

  And low-fat string cheese was on special at Trader Joe’s, so I bought eight packs of them, too. I’ll charge twenty-five cents more than I paid and make a profit. (I am pretty proud of myself for thinking of that.)

  I called Lara and Phil as I was driving around Brooklyn to ask how to book Toto into the food-truck-commissary thing. They’re hooking me up with their contact. There are commercial kitchens, too, so I’ll prepare all my food there. Cooking in Rookhaven is a teeny tiny sanitation violation. Even though I’m, like, totally clean.

  “Why don’t you add sunflower seeds? Or candied walnuts?” says Coco, standing at the doorway, holding Daddy-Long-Legs by Jean Webster open against her chest. I think she’s been reading on the stoop. “Or raisins, or cranberries?”

  “Calories,” I say. “I mean, you’re right, they’re delicious. But this is SkinnyWheels. I gotta deliver what I promise, the only high-fat items are the almonds and the avocado, which are so good for you, it’s like
eating Crème de la Mer.…” I’m rambling.

  I look at the salad menu and frown. “Sheesh, I wish I knew more about cooking. I seriously have no idea if these are okay, you know?”

  “They look great,” says Coco reassuringly.

  I Googled a few low-fat salad dressing recipes on my cell as I was shopping, and purchased extra-virgin olive oil, avocado oil, red wine vinegar, cider vinegar, raspberry vinegar, Worcester sauce, whole-grain mustard, Dijon mustard, freshly squeezed lemon juice, and natural fat-free plain yogurt.

  I figure I’ll improvise something.

  Hmm.

  “Avocado oil and cider vinegar,” says Julia from the doorway. I look around: Coco’s gone. I didn’t even notice. I’ve been kind of preoccupied.

  “It has to be reduced fat.” I make an anguished face. “I mean, you need some fat for taste, and if you don’t eat a bit of fat you never feel full, but.…”

  “So try one part oil to two parts vinegar,” she says. “And one part lemon juice. And salt and pepper. Use a screw-top jar, like an old peanut butter jar, so you can just shake to mix. My Aunt Jo had loads of them. They’re in the side cupboard over there.”

  I mix it. I shake it. We taste it.

  “That is excellent,” I say in surprise. “But you never cook!”

  “I’m very good at dressings,” she says, grinning at me. “My mom showed me. It was our thing.”

  “Then we’ll call it Kim’s Dressing,” I suggest.

  “Call that one Julia. I have another one we can call Kim,” she says. “Olive oil, red wine vinegar, whole-grain mustard, salt, pepper. That was her favorite.”

  “So good!”

  Sitting at the kitchen table, Julia at the head with me on her right (I always have this seat, it’s where my ass belongs), we sample each dressing, sipping from spoons like medicine.

  Then I try my own dressing: lemon, Dijon, yogurt, olive oil, and vinegar.

  “Amazing! Fivie!” says Julia, holding her hands up for a high five.

  “No fivies. Fivie ban, Jules.”

  Back when Maddy and I were still close, we once banned Julia from saying or doing “fivies” for a fortnight. We had no choice. Jules fivied for goddamn everything, it was out of control.

  For a second I feel sad. I wish Madeleine and I were still friends sometimes.

  Then Julia grabs my hand and forces me to high-five her.

  “Hah. Suck it.”

  “Thanks for this,” I say. “I don’t have a clue what I’m doing.”

  “Does anyone?” says Julia. “So, how much are you charging?”

  “I think six dollars per salad,” I say. “Who can say no to a six-dollar salad, right?”

  “Not me! Will you come to my office first tomorrow?” she says. “I really want to be your first customer.”

  “Hell yeah, sister!” I say, grinning. This is really going to work! I’m going to drive a food truck!

  “What’s that smell?” says Madeleine, coming into the kitchen.

  “Merde! The chicken breasts!” I run over to the smoking oven, and open it to reveal charred, perfectly lined up chicken breasts. Smoke billows out and engulfs the kitchen. I grab the oven mitt and take them out. “That’s like a hundred bucks worth of goddamn chicken!”

  “I’ll get you more chicken, relax,” says Julia, opening the windows. “Make your salads. I’ll be back in half an hour.”

  “You’ll never get a parking space for that shit-bomb in Manhattan,” says Madeleine, leaning against the doorframe.

  “Thanks for the hot tip,” I reply, not turning around. Did I say I wish we were still friends? Yeah, well, I take that back.

  By the time Julia returns with thirty raw chicken breasts, I’m sweating and swearing, and suddenly plagued by the feeling that I’ve bitten off more than I can chew. Every inch of the kitchen bench, table, and floor is covered in tablecloths (sanitation!) and open salad boxes. It looks like a picnic on steroids. I’m trying to share the chopped vegetables evenly between all of them, while wearing sanitary gloves one size too big. And completely freaking out.

  “Thank you! Don’t come in here!” I shout to Jules in the doorway. “This is a sterile environment! I need to cook the chicken!”

  “How are you going to cook the chicken when you can’t get to the oven?” asks Julia.

  We stare at each other across a sea of salad boxes. A long pause.

  “Throw the chicken to me,” I say, taking off my gloves.

  Julia looks like she’s trying not to laugh, and throws me the chicken breast packets one at a time. I drop them in the sink, wash my hands, put the gloves back on, open the packets, take the chicken out, season with a little salt and pepper, arrange on the trays, remove the gloves, wash my hands again, move the salad boxes and tablecloths out of my way one at a time, make it to the oven, put the chicken in, edge carefully back, and wash my hands again.

  “Easy,” I say out loud. “See? Piece of goddamn cake.”

  Finally, the chicken breasts are perfectly cooked, cubed, distributed evenly, and every salad box is closed, one by one.

  One by one, they all flip open again.

  So I scream.

  “What? What is it?” Angie and Coco come running in.

  “The boxes won’t stay shut,” I say miserably. “Look.” I close one of the plastic salad boxes, using the little plastic notch thing. It pings straight open again. I could cry. But that really wouldn’t help.

  “I can’t do this,” I say. “What was I thinking?”

  “Rubber band?” suggests Coco. “Scotch tape?”

  “No, stickers!” says Angie, and runs upstairs, returning a moment later with dozens of sheets of large heart stickers.

  “What the—”

  “Stationery cupboard at work. They’re cute.”

  “You stole from your place of employment.”

  “Stationery doesn’t count. It’s like other people’s cereal.”

  “You’ve been eating my cereal?”

  The heart stickers are the perfect salad box solution and totally goddamn adorable. I feel almost positive again. This might just work out.

  “You forgot the feta cheese,” says Angie, reading my menu.

  I let out a scream of anguish.

  Carefully opening every box again, I put exactly seven squares of low-fat feta cheese in each one.

  “Now, it’s time for the second salad!” I say, trying to sound positive and gung ho. I can do this. I can. So it hasn’t been the best first day ever, so what. Illegitimus non carborundum, just like that nice woman at Bartolo’s said.

  “Umm, Pia?” says Coco. “Can we use the kitchen to make dinner?”

  I look at the clock in dismay. How did it get to be seven o’clock? “Oh, God! I’m sorry. Order pizza. I’ll pay. Or sushi. Whatever.”

  “Sushi! Arigato!” says Angie.

  “I’ll call Bartolo’s!” says Coco. “Oh, sugar, I have to ask the others what they want.” She runs out of the kitchen.

  “Here,” I say, handing Angie a wad of cash. “Pay for the pizza and sushi with this.”

  “You must be running out of cash, ladybitch, seriously,” says Angie doubtfully.

  I wave my hand with all the blasé confidence I don’t feel. “Doesn’t matter. I’ll make it all back in no time.”

  The second salad is easier, thanks to help from Coco and Angie. Then I decant the dressings into the tiny dressing containers and write “Kim,” “Julia,” or “Pia” on top in a big laundry marker, while the girls close the boxes.

  “You should add baked sweet potato,” says Angie. “And artichoke hearts.”

  “And sprouts,” says Coco. “And beans! Beans are super-awesome.” Then the doorbell rings. “Dinner!”

  Feeling much more cheerful, I place all the salad boxes into the second refrigerator in the laundry. They look so beautiful and neat, all stacked up one on top of the other.

  Now all I have to do is make low-fat brownies! Coco gave me her mom’s foolproof reci
pe. I use my phone to multiply it by three, and substitute canned pumpkin for oil, as she suggested.

  I am going to make a damn fortune from this. I can feel it. And I’ll pay back Cosmo in time and be really successful and my parents will see it for themselves and life will be perfect.

  Three hours and four brownie batches (one burnt, one didn’t cook properly, one dropped on the floor, one perfect) later, I’m nearly finished. I cut all the brownies up into generous squares, put them in the salad boxes—they look pretty pathetic marooned in the salad boxes, I need to get something to individually wrap them instead—and stack them to the side with the salads.

  Then I look around.

  Our cozy little kitchen looks worse than it did after the party. The burnt-chicken smell hasn’t left, somehow, and there is brownie batter on Coco’s goddamn herb garden. And how are there little bits of feta all the way over underneath the kitchen table? And, oh, my God, is that brownie on the ceiling? I feel guilty. Like I should be reprimanded for kitchen abuse.

  “Sorry, Rookhaven,” I mutter. “I’ll look after you, I swear.”

  I spray and scrub and sweep every inch of the kitchen. I even mop the floor, something I don’t think I’ve ever done in my life. When I’m done, I look around at how clean and perfect it is and feel a bizarre, exhausted sense of satisfaction.

  It’s almost midnight. Everyone else has already gone to bed.

  Starving, I eat one cold, congealed slice of salami pizza and the leftover end of a dragon roll maki on the way upstairs.

  At my bedroom door I find three little notes:

  The first note covers a stack of printouts: I did some research. Here are the menus to all the best salad places in New York. For inspiration. Coco xxx

  The second note says: Good luck tomorrow. Go get ’em tiger. Jumanji x

  The third note is covering a stack of cash that looks suspiciously like the money I gave Angie earlier: Your money. Sorry ladybitch. A. PS: For you … And underneath it is a cartoon of Toto, with a little cartoon Pia leaning out the driver’s window. The words “SkinnyWheels” are written in a fat black cursive script on Toto’s flank. The overall effect is sort of ’70s and scratchy, with big red hearts dotted all over the truck, and a big red lipsticked mouth on the front grill. Underneath it, Angie wrote, We’re not in Kansas anymore, Toto!