Inside Girl

by J. Minter

  “Really?”

  “Yup. I’m getting off the back of Mickey’s Vespa once and for all.”

  “Snookums, do you have an extra closet I could use?” Liesel was organizing her dresses by color. “Because I’m afraid these shoulders might stretch.”

  “There might be one upstairs. I can try to find—”

  Sara-Beth spun around and clapped her hands, like she always does when she’s in a room full of people who aren’t paying attention to her. “But Flan, first you have to coach me. My real estate agent says I might have a chance at another building, and you’re the only one who really understands—”

  “Wait, wasn’t I talking?” Philippa folded her arms; if I didn’t know better, I would have thought she looked a little jealous. “You’ve monopolized Flan for the last week and a half, Sara-Beth. Give someone else a turn. I hadn’t even told her about the Harley yet.”

  “Okay, everybody just hang on a second.” I went into the kitchen, tore open the bag of dog food, and poured it into a cereal bowl for Noodles. Then I pressed my hands to my temples, counted to five, and went back out to the living room. The second I stepped out there, all three of them started talking at once again, but I waved my arms around all crazily, like I was landing a plane, until I got them to stop.

  “Listen, I want to listen to everybody, but I still don’t know what Liesel’s doing here. So I need to hear that first.”

  “Oh, Flan, I thought you’d never ask. You’ll appreciate this.”

  “It is quite a story,” said Philippa, making herself swallow a mouthful of beer.

  “Did you see my air horn? It’s for self-defense.” Sara-Beth grabbed a weird, tiny megaphone from behind the couch, and it released a blast of deafening sound.

  Once we could all hear again, Liesel went on with her story.

  “You see, my parents have hired this very chic, very avant-garde painter, Jean Bologne—do you know his work?—to paint a mural all throughout our penthouse, except on the windows, of course, because that would spoil our views of the park. I was all for this little arts-and-crafts project when it began, but once Jean started his painting, he began making certain—advances. Small things at first: a new vial of L’Eau d’Oiseau would pop up on my vanity, a Limoges box heart would appear in my purse, a bottle of champagne would arrive while I was throwing a party with friends.” She shivered. “But as if that wasn’t creepy enough, things took a turn for the stalkerish when he actually started to paint the mural in my bedroom. It looked like a simple woodland scene at first, but then a nymph started to emerge from the brush. A wood nymph, naked as the day she was born. A nymph who looked”—and here a look of creeped-out horror crossed her face, and she lowered her voice to a whisper—“a lot like me.”

  “Artists,” said Philippa cynically, leaning back and putting her feet up on the coffee table. She looked ready to fall asleep, and she hadn’t even finished her first Pabst. “Believe me, I’ve seen a lot of them. My family collects art, you know. And Mickey’s dad sculpts—”

  “I know, darling,” said Liesel, patting Philippa’s shoulder affectionately, like they’d both survived the same terrible disease or something. “I know.” She turned back to me. “So you see, I couldn’t stay there. And when I told Sara-Beth about it, she said she knew you’d want me to stay here instead. Of course I just couldn’t believe it at first, but she went on and on about how absolutely generous you are, and how you’d never leave me out in the cold, so thank you Flan, thank you so much!”

  “Well … I’m glad you found your way here okay,” I stammered.

  Sara-Beth was inviting people to stay with us now?

  “Now will you quiz me for the board meeting, Flan?” asked SBB. She waved a handful of flash cards at me. “I’ve been making these all day.”

  “Look, I promise I’ll help you. Just give me a couple of hours to start on my own homework, okay?” I felt really tired all of a sudden.

  “What?” she asked.

  “Just a little while?”

  “Did you say hours?” Sara-Beth screeched. She stormed off in the direction of the broom closet. I thought about following her, then reconsidered and slung my backpack up onto my shoulders. As I went up the stairs, though, Liesel called up after me.

  “Flan! Flan! There’s just one more little thing.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Do me an enormous favor, and don’t tell anyone I’m here. If my parents find out, they’ll send the car around for me in an instant.” Liesel ran her hand down a rack of dresses contentedly. “But if no one tells them, they won’t even notice I’m gone.”

  “All right.”

  “Don’t tell anybody about me either,” Philippa added as I climbed the stairs. “I don’t want my parents—or Mickey—to find me.” She paused. “Not both at the same time anyway.”

  Up in my bedroom, I glanced around. SBB had set up all these Styrofoam heads with her wigs on them; their blank faces stared down at me from the shelves and I felt surrounded. I dropped my heavy backpack onto my bed. Noodles, who had followed me up the stairs, pranced around my ankles, and I sat down to let him lick my face. I didn’t know exactly why I felt so stressed out, but I sure did. I kept trying to remind myself that I had three of the coolest girls in Manhattan living right there in my house, but it still felt funny.

  It was weird having to keep them all a secret, but it was more than that. They all seemed so … so needy. Which was totally bizarre, from my perspective. Who’d have thought I’d have Liesel Reid, Philippa Frady, and Sara-Beth Benny asking me for advice, when I still was having awkward ear-kisses and mooning over sophomore boys? These girls were cool, beautiful, and stylish, with awesome Insider boys going crazy over them, and I was basically a wallflower in heels—even if my last name was Flood. To me, it was like some Alice in Wonderland thing where everything’s backward. I promised myself, then and there, that I’d have my own life figured out better by the time I was seventeen. What was the point of being awesome and older if you still couldn’t manage your own life?

  I set Noodles down on the ground, unzipped my backpack, and sat down at my desk to start in on my American history homework. But just as I got absorbed in a new section on the Iroquois tribes, I heard the unmistakable blast of Sara-Beth’s air horn, followed by a crash.

  I ran down the stairs, half-expecting to see Sara-Beth in the grasp of a paparazzo. But instead I found the three girls standing around the shattered pieces of a glass vase. I couldn’t believe it. My parents had gotten it in Finland from some crazy glass artist who had stuff in the Met. Despite all the parties my brother had thrown, he’d never once broken something so expensive. Then again, there was the time when Mickey rode his Vespa into the house and burned up the carpet—and that weird incident when Arno got his tongue frozen to a really expensive one-of-a-kind ice sculpture that Mr. Pardo had made for my parents and we had to call the paramedics to get him loose. But still, this was not what I wanted to find when I got to the bottom of the stairs.

  “What happened?” I asked. My voice came out more like a squeak, but the girls heard it well enough.

  “Sara-Beth—closet—air horn—I just jumped up,” Philippa sputtered. “I thought there was a fire or something.”

  “Liesel tried to scare me! She was making camera sounds right outside the closet door.”

  “I was not! You should know by now, my Hermès bag clicks when it opens.” Liesel whirled around on Philippa. “If you weren’t ripped, I mean terribly, you would have looked where you were going!”

  “Oh yeah?” Philippa lunged at Liesel. Sara-Beth pulled them apart. Her skinny arms were surprisingly strong.

  “Wait, wait, wait.” I shook my head in disbelief. These girls were older than me? They were acting like kindergartners. “You guys, this is crazy. I’m not mad at anyone, okay? Obviously, it was an accident.”

  All three girls looked at me suspiciously.

  “You mean it?” said Philippa. “You’re not mad?”


  “No. I mean, it’s going to be hard explaining this to my parents….” I looked down at the shards. “But I know it wasn’t anyone’s fault.”

  “So we can stay?” asked Liesel breathlessly.

  “If you all apologize,” I offered. “Not to me, to one another.”

  The three girls stared at their feet.

  “Sorry,” they murmured in unison.

  Liesel and I cleaned up the broken glass while Philippa poured out the rest of her can of Pabst and Sara-Beth exiled herself to the closet. When I went upstairs, it was really quiet, almost like little kids were having a time-out. On one hand, I wanted to congratulate myself for keeping everyone from killing one another, but on the other I felt really worried. What was my house turning into? Flan Flood’s Home for Wayward Girls?

  Chapter 15

  Flan Flood, Foster Mom

  Over the next few days, things continued to fall apart around my house. I’m not just talking about lamps shattering, slammed doors coming off their hinges, or doggy tooth marks showing up on the leather upholstery, although all that happened too. I’m talking about SBB, Philippa, and Liesel systematically going out of their minds.

  Sometimes the girls fought like crazy, and sometimes they got along like best friends. By Friday, I wasn’t sure which was worse. It was awful to try to do homework with them screaming and yelling at one another, but it was also horrible to listen to them booing the contestants on America’s Next Top Model, cackling like crazy bag ladies, and popping open the corks of champagne bottles from my parents’ wine collection.

  The house was getting messier every day. Sara-Beth’s rice crisps were all crunched down between the cushions of the red leather sofa, Philippa’s mascara was smeared on every pillowcase in the house, and Liesel’s neatly folded blouses kept appearing on every available shelf, including the ones in the refrigerator, since she couldn’t find enough closet space to hold them all.

  By Wednesday, the only time I was able to chill out was at school, and even then I kept getting distracted during class, wondering what new disaster I’d walk into the minute I stepped through my front door. None of them appeared to be going to classes at all, and I sometimes wondered if I’d see a team of truant officers leading them away in handcuffs. Then again, I kept forgetting that they were all a lot older than me. Maybe by the time you’re a senior, and famous, nobody makes you go to school.

  I still had to get up every morning and drag myself to first-period algebra, though, and in spite of everything, that less insane portion of my life seemed to be going pretty well. Judith and Meredith were really excited about the party on Friday, and I was starting to get psyched for it too. First we were going to meet up at Meredith’s around seven, then head over to the party around nine. (The party actually started at 8:30, but Judith kept repeating the words “fashionably late” like she’d discovered plutonium or something. I didn’t mind, though—I don’t think I’ve showed up for a party on time once in my life.) After that, we were going to go to Judith’s, stay up late, and watch movies. I couldn’t wait. Not only was I going to hang out with my new, normal friends, I might even have a chance at a decent night’s sleep. That wasn’t really possible at my house, with Noodles barking and Sara-Beth flipping the lights on and off all night as she tried on my clothes.

  By the time Friday afternoon rolled around, I just wanted to throw some stuff in an overnight bag and get out of the house as quickly as possible. I didn’t particularly want to tell Liesel, Philippa, or SBB about the party, but it ended up slipping out anyway, when Sara-Beth walked in on me putting my toothbrush in its plastic case.

  “What do you mean you’re going to a party?” she demanded, reaching past me for her jar of nutmeg body butter.

  “With people from school. Listen, don’t be so mad. I didn’t think you’d be interested, that’s all.” I took my retainer out of the medicine cabinet—I’m still supposed to wear it at night. “I mean, it’s not a big deal. I’m just going to this one guy’s apartment and then afterwards I’m sleeping over with some friends.”

  SBB’s eyes got wide and scared. “You mean, you’re not coming home at all tonight?”

  “Well, I’ll be back early tomorr—”

  “Liesel! Philippa!” Sara-Beth screamed.

  Once I got Sara-Beth to stop sobbing, though, it turned out that all three of the girls were really interested in the party. Liesel couldn’t believe it was going to be at someone’s apartment—“Couldn’t they book a larger venue?” Philippa wanted to come along, incognito, to test out a new party scene sans Mickey.

  “It’s mostly going to be sophomores,” I explained. She raked her fingers through her hair, which she’d dyed black to match her new motorcycle jacket.

  “I wouldn’t mind being the older woman for a change,” she said.

  SBB wanted to know if it would be like Rock U, the short-lived spin-off series one of her “sisters” from Mike’s Princesses had gone on to create. “Is this a kegger?” she demanded. “I think they were sophomores in that show.”

  “Sophomores in college,” I explained. “These are people from my high school.”

  After I’d survived the interrogation—and convinced all three of them that they’d probably have a better time staying home than tagging along with me—they decided that the least they could do was help me dress up. I’m not sure they were so bent on making me look nice, either. Now that the initial excitement of hearing about my plans was over, all three of them seemed pretty focused on telling me their problems and getting my advice. For Liesel, her old, superstylish boyfriend Arno was back on the scene, and she was trying to decide if they could spend a weekend in Acapulco together without him flirting with thong-wearing skanks the whole time. Philippa had finally broken down and called Mickey, and from the way she was talking about him, it seemed like she was thinking of asking him to move into the attic with her, even though that was my sister February’s room and Feb was supposed to be back any time now (I still hadn’t heard how that music video of hers turned out). And Sara-Beth was flipping out completely, because her real estate agent still hadn’t found another building for her to try. It was all pretty intense.

  “So I said, ‘Arno, darling, let’s go back to the Riviera.’ And he of course said, ‘But it’s like the Riviera—of Mexico.’ I mean, tell me honestly, Flan. You’re a good judge of character. Can I rely on this boy for anything at all?”

  “This is unbelievable—I’ve been waiting by the phone all afternoon. Am I going to have to live out of a suitcase for the rest of my life? Don’t these people know who I am?”

  “Of course he’d already bought the tickets, but that’s no excuse. There’s no excuse for refusing to change your plans.”

  “It’d be cool to set up house with Mickey—you know, not in the June Cleaver pre-feminist way, but like, just to spend time with him. Get away from all the drama with our parents, you know? Do you think it’d be okay if he stayed over a couple of days, just to test it out?”

  “If I didn’t have you, Flan, I’d be lost—cast out onto the street. The little match girl. Did you know I played her once, in a Discover commercial?”

  It went on like that for about an hour. In between their long complaints about everything, the girls fought over how to dress me up. Philippa wanted me to wear a pair of my sister’s old knee-high Doc Martens and a kickboxing T-shirt embellished with rhinestones that I’d picked up from a shop in Soho mostly as a joke. Sara-Beth wanted to glam me up in this powder-blue tank dress—she even offered to loan me some of the borrowed jewelry she’d worn to the Oscars and then never returned—and Liesel thought I should go for a classy look in this white Monique Lhuillier dress of hers that made me look like I was trying to be a taller, chestier version of Audrey Hepburn.

  All of this seemed like a terrible idea to me, and in the end I wound up throwing on this halter-neck dress I’d been wearing all summer. It was pink with little white hearts printed all over it in patterns, and it was made of a T-shirty
material, so I looked nice but not psychotically overdressed.

  When I came out of the bedroom with it on, though, all three of my houseguests looked at me like I’d just killed somebody.

  “You’re totally caving to this outdated notion of femininity,” said Philippa.

  “Your shoes don’t match your purse,” said Liesel.

  “Oh, Flan,” said Sara-Beth. “You look so … unassuming.”

  “Okay,” I said. “I guess I better get going.”

  The girls still stood there, though, right in the middle of the hallway. Like a wall.

  “’Scuse me,” I said, shouldering past them.

  “Have a nice time,” Philippa called after me as I started down the stairs.

  “Thanks.” She sounded so sad that I couldn’t help feeling bad about leaving them like this. I turned around. “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you about the party sooner. Maybe next time I can get you all invited too.”

  “Come on, Flan, we know you’re totally ashamed of us.” Philippa smiled darkly. “Seriously, don’t worry about it. Have a good time.”

  I shifted my overnight bag onto my shoulder. “What are you guys going to do while I’m gone?”

  “Oh, you know. Old boring spinsters, home alone on a Friday night,” Liesel said, gesturing vaguely. “We’ll find some way to entertain ourselves.”

  “Uh-huh,” I said as I let myself out of the house and locked the door behind me. But as I walked to the corner to hail a cab, I couldn’t help but wonder what exactly would go down while I was away. I knew Philippa, SBB, and Liesel well enough by now to know that they weren’t going to spend the evening playing Monopoly and eating popcorn. I just hoped the house would still be in one piece by the time I got back.

  Chapter 16

  From One Madhouse to Another

  By the time I made it over to Meredith’s house, I was starting to feel excited about the party again. There’s something so great and exciting about taking a cab by yourself and watching all the streets go by, knowing you can get out anytime or keep going for as long as you want, knowing that no one’s going to stop you or tell you what to do. I felt bad at first about leaving Liesel, Philippa, and SBB alone while I went out on the town, but as I rode along, it occurred to me that I really shouldn’t feel too guilty. After all, what Philippa had said touched on the truth: if they came out with me, it would totally blow their cover. Besides, it wasn’t like SBB invited me along on her photo shoots. Everyone keeps parts of their lives separate sometimes. It didn’t make me a phony or a bad friend—at least, that was what I wanted to believe.