The Luckiest Girls

by Nathalie van Walsum Fuson

  I imagine the lobsters finding their way to the sandy bottom, then crawling off to go to sleep under rocks and crevices, and slowly my own misery subsides. I think I can try to go back to sleep now. I’ll have to think of something to tell the others about why their lunch disappeared during the night. Maybe I’ll blame it on an episode of sleepwalking. Or maybe I won’t say anything.

  12

  Jane

  Once we’re back in the city I start to give some thought to whether I should remind Gigi of my birthday, which is in two weeks. Coming right out and telling her seems childish, as though I’m fishing for presents. After all, I’m not a little kid, I don’t need a big production or anything special. But you only turn sixteen once. Perhaps I could just drop a hint when we’re talking about something else. The problem is, I haven’t really had a chance to talk to Gigi in private. She was out of town all last week, and last night she took Sophia to a party for some designer, and the night before that she took a bunch of other girls from the agency to the opera at Lincoln Center. Early in the evening I stop by Gigi’s room to see if I can finally have a word with her, since we’ve hardly spent any time together since I arrived. But instead I find her in conversation with Sophia who lies curled up on her floor, playing with the cat. They both look at me like I’m interrupting something.

  “Yes, Jane, is anything the matter?” Gigi asks.

  “Nope,” I say. “Everything’s peachy.” I half expect Gigi to call me back as I leave, to insist I tell her what’s wrong. But she doesn’t.

  Then, at dinner, Gigi makes an announcement.

  “In two weeks we’ll be celebrating a very special day,” she says.

  I’ve just taken a big bite of salad and I stop in mid-chew because I can’t believe what I’m about to hear.

  “The 23rd is the birthday of a very dear young lady whom you all know, and I would like to celebrate with a party.”

  Holy mother of miracles, she remembered! I’m so grateful and relieved, I feel like jumping out of my seat and giving her a hug.

  “At the Oleander Club,” Gigi continues. “We can book the whole top floor.”

  I’m a little overwhelmed. I think I’m starting to blush. I gulp down my mouthful of salad so I can answer.

  “Oh, Gigi, that sounds…”

  Gigi interrupts me. “What do you think, darling?” She looks at Sophia. “Is that how you would like to celebrate your eighteenth birthday?”

  My heart sinks like a rock. Sophia? Her eighteenth birthday? The 23rd is MY birthday!

  “Gigi, thank you!” croons Sophia. “You’re much too sweet.”

  “Carol is already working on a guest list. All of your top clients, of course, and everyone from the Towers Agency. Send her a list of any additional guests you want to include.”

  They start to discuss menus and musical entertainment, and I’m so disgusted I have to leave.

  “May I be excused?” I say. “I think I’m about to become violently ill.” Gigi dismisses me with a little wave of her hand. I take my plate to the kitchen where I deposit it on the counter with a clatter. We’re supposed to load our own plates in the dishwasher, but I leave it there. Maybe Gigi will call me back downstairs to put it away, I think as I stomp up the stairs. And maybe I’ll tell her to put it away herself, and maybe we’ll have a good old fight like a normal teenager and parent and she’ll have to listen to me. But not at all to my surprise she doesn’t even notice.

  In English class the next day I am still in a rotten mood. We talk about Jane Austen’s Mansfield Park and its heroine, Fanny Price. Poor old Fanny Price. She gets dumped with relatives and the whole household treat her like a second-class citizen, forgetting she even exists half the time. Sounds eerily familiar, doesn’t it?

  “Why is she so spineless?” I ask during the discussion. “She doesn’t speak up for herself, she lets her aunt treat her like a doormat, she won’t participate in anything. It’s her own fault her cousins treat her like she doesn’t count.”

  “Is it, though?” Our teacher, Mr. Bernard asks. “Consider her circumstances. She’s a charity case. She knows that if she does anything to offend her relations she could be sent away.”

  “But why does she have to be such a drip?” Brooke, who sits behind me, interjects. “She even freaks out about her cousins putting on a play in the privacy of their own home. I mean it’s just a play for heaven’s sake!”

  “Well, remember the time period,” says Mr. Bernard. “Plays, especially ones with a suggestive theme, were considered morally risky and inappropriate for young people. For the cousins to put on a play in the absence of their parents was similar to someone in today’s time throwing a party while their parents are away.”

  Suddenly I have an absolutely stellar idea.

  “I’m having a party,” I tell Niko and Jazz after class. “On the 23rd. At my house.” I ask a few other kids as well, including Ashley and Connor. I write down Gigi’s address on Ashley’s spiral notebook. Nothing too big or fancy, but I’m going to celebrate my birthday with my own party, not watching a hundred strangers worshipping Sophia.

  “We had the best caterer for my sixteenth birthday,” Ashley volunteers. “I’ll get their name for you. There was a sushi bar and a macaron tower and a chocolate fountain, and my mom hired professional ballerinas in tutus and pointe shoes to pass around hors d’oevres…”

  “Yeah, no. I need you to set your expectations a LOT lower,” I reply. “I’m just having a small crowd over to hang out. Maybe I’ll order some pizzas and get an ice-cream cake…”

  “Are you crazy? You can’t just serve pizza and ice cream for your birthday. You’re turning sixteen, not six.”

  “Actually, she’s right,” says Niko. “If you’re going to give a party then don’t make it a lame one.”

  “You need at least heavy appetizers, and for dessert you could have a cupcake stand, and maybe a sundae bar on the side,” Ashley adds.

  “What about a DJ? You need a DJ? My brother knows a guy,” adds Connor.

  “Do you have a theme? Ohmigosh, you gotta have a theme,” says Ashley. “There are so many themes. Like Arabian Nights, or The Academy Awards, or The Great Gatsby…ohmigosh, I saw the cutest favors at a Bat Mitzvah last year. They were little Tiffany-blue purses, each of them with a pair of Audrey Hepburn sunglasses and a strand of fake pearls and a Starbucks card inside. You could do something like that…”

  “Ohmigosh, you gotta shut up,” I reply. “You’re stressing me out. I’m not going to be able to do any of those things.”

  “We’re just saying that people are going to expect a certain amount of panache, given that it’s at Gigi’s house and all,” says Niko.

  They do have a valid point. By the end of class I’ve decided on a theme that also ensures that my guests’ expectations will stay under control.

  “It’s going to be an Anti-Fashion Party,” I announce. “That means you have to wear clothes that are tacky, kitsch, outdated, ugly, and above all totally unfashionable.”

  “And where am I supposed to get a outfit like that?” Ashley asks.

  “You could check out thrift stores, bargain basements, Goodwill, Salvation Army, those kinds of places.”

  Ashley looks aghast. Niko doesn’t look happy either.

  “You mean secondhand clothes?” Niko says. “Do you have any idea how badly that creeps me out?”

  “Don’t be such a pair of fops,” I say. “Trust me, it’ll be fun.” They don’t look convinced, but I don’t care. This is going to be a party on my terms.

  Even an ironic party costs money, so I have to find a way to pay for it. Fortunately, I don’t have to look farther than my own closet. In my room I separate my new wardrobe into piles on my bed. The Stella McCartney blouse, the suede skirt, the metallic sweater and a color block mini-dress which is cute but clashes with my hair — those I’ll give to the girls. I know Ling likes the shirt, and Maya’s coloring is perfect for the dress. The leather jacket I’m keeping because it’s a
ctually kind of badass, along with the silk T-shirt and cashmere sweater. About a dozen other pieces end up in a third pile, which I shove into my duffel bag.

  I drag my duffel bag to a thrift store on Christopher Street. The saleslady practically salivates as she pulls the items out to examine them.

  “We pay a flat rate for each category of clothing,” she explains as she taps at a calculator. “You’ve got four tops, two skirts, two dresses…”

  “Not so fast,” I say. “These are this season’s collections, never worn. I don’t expect you to pay me anywhere near their true value, but I also know what you can make from them so let’s both leave this negotiation happy.”

  She doesn’t look happy with me, but she is not going to let me and my duffel bag walk away, so she makes a big show of crunching numbers again. Finally she heaves a huge sigh, and shows me her number.

  “Three hundred dollars.”

  “Ha. I could sell one dress for that.”

  “Perhaps, but where? You won’t get more than that even if you sell everything on consignment. Shop owners need to make a profit too, you know.”

  We exchange scowls, and I turn away from her and look around the store. Then I have an idea.

  “How about this,” I say. “I’ll take three hundred dollars if you throw in that skirt and that top.” I point to a lime green tulle skirt and a black knit tank top with skulls all over it. The saleslady looks pained.

  “Come on,” I persist. “I bet that skirt has been hanging here since the eighties. I’ll give it a good home.”

  In the end, she even throws in some fishnet stockings and a pair of fingerless gloves. I leave satisfied, with both my party costs and outfit taken care of. All I need now are food, beverages and music, and how hard can that be? I don’t know why everyone acts like throwing a party is such a colossal production.

  13

  Maya

  Jane and I are sitting on her bed, her Trigonometry notebook open between us.

  “See, for the first part of the equation, you work out y in terms of x,” I explain. “Like this. And then you plug this into the second part of the equation to get the tangent. Makes sense?”

  “Oh,” Jane nods. “Now it does.”

  “Let’s do a few more together. By then you’ll be ready to ace your test tomorrow.”

  “Thanks, Maya. There isn’t anyone else in this house who I could have gone to for help.” Jane scratches away in her notebook. “Math problems drive me insane.”

  “Don’t think of them as problems,” I say. “Think of them as puzzles. That way you can convince yourself that they’re sort of fun.”

  Jane gives a dry laugh. “You’re lucky you don’t ever have to deal with this stuff again.”

  But I’m enjoying working with her. I realize, with surprise, that I’ve missed schoolwork. I miss exercising my mind. I always liked math. It feels like solving a riddle, and I love the satisfaction when, after several calculations, it all falls into place in a perfect solution.

  We’re interrupted by the ringing of my cell phone. It’s Suzanne.

  “I’m about to make you very happy,” says Suzanne.

  “Why? What’s up?”

  “You just got booked for Vogue with Theo Wolff!”

  I shriek into the phone, totally losing my marbles. Vogue! It’s finally happening, everything I’ve dreamed of! All my other work was peanuts next to this.

  “What’s going on?” Jane hisses, as I’m jumping around, pumping my fist in the air. I cover my phone with my hand.

  “I’m booked for Vogue,” I whisper.

  “He absolutely loved shooting you in the Hamptons,” Suzanne continues. “He booked you for a short fashion trend story, the kind of job where they try out new models before they use them for the full-page editorial features. I don’t need to tell you what a big break this is. I’ll send you the details shortly.”

  “Congratulations,” Jane says, hugging me. “That’s great news.”

  “Oh, man. I don’t know if you realize how huge this is.”

  “I know what Vogue is. I do know some things. I’m really happy for you.”

  And you know, I can tell she really is. The other models, they’ll congratulate me, but they’re not going to be happy. They’re going to hate me. They’re going to wish I was dead. I know, because that’s exactly how I’d feel if it were one of them.

  When I call to tell Mom about the booking, she actually pays attention.

  “Are you still depositing your checks into your Money Market account?” she asks. “I think you could be earning a higher interest. I’m going to make an appointment with a financial advisor for you.” That, in Mom-speak, is about as warm and fuzzy as it gets, but I’ll take it.

  I can’t wait until Gigi gets home. It’ll be like that time she told us all over dinner about Sophia landing the Prada Perfume ad campaign, and she beamed with pride, and we all congratulated Sophia and secretly we were all thinking, why can’t it be me? This time, it will be me. Gigi will hug me and say how proud she is, and that I’m going to be one of her biggest stars.

  But it turns out there’s other big news going on at the house this evening, news that eclipses my Vogue booking. And of course it involves Sophia.

  Gigi and Sophia arrive home together, because Sophia was at the agency to meet with Gigi and with Tom Dillon, the head of the TV and Film division at the Towers Agency. When the rest of us come downstairs for dinner, Gigi brings us up to speed.

  “You’ve all probably heard of the film director Alan Dvorak,” Gigi says. “He’s currently working on a movie titled The Siren of Greenwich Village.”

  The Siren of Greenwich Village is based on a book about college students at NYU during the 1980’s — the punk rock heyday of Greenwich Village clubs like CBGBs and The Bottom Line. I know this because I read the book. This guy falls in love with a beautiful young singer, Zoey, who draws him into this privileged and hedonistic crowd who seem super cool but they’re actually cruel and selfish and almost ruin his life.

  “Well, today I received a call from Alan,” Gigi continues. “He saw Sophia’s current French Elle cover, and he says she is exactly what he has in mind for the role of Zoey. He wants her to audition for the part! Isn’t that wonderful?”

  Let me just explain that there isn’t a model in the world who doesn’t want to break into acting. Any model who says different is lying. Some girls take acting classes for years and audition everywhere and if they’re very lucky they manage to land a part in a TV show. If they’re very, very lucky they might get a part in a movie, typically in an action flick or an adaptation of a Marvel comic as the chick who runs around in spandex. And if they’re Sophia Thompson, then Alan Dvorak just happens to see them on a magazine cover and offer them a role in a movie which, like all his movies, will probably be a huge success and an instant classic.

  “Sophia,” Campbell cries. “That’s fantastic!” She gives Sophia a big hug. The other girls echo her congratulations.

  “I don’t have the part yet,” Sophia says. “I still have to audition.”

  “Alan told me, ‘If she can act, she’s got the part.’” Gigi says. “I’ve hired one of the best acting instructors from the Lee Strassburg School of Theater to work with you on your audition. You’ll meet with her tomorrow for private coaching.”

  Gigi doesn’t say one word to me about being booked for Vogue. It’s all about Sophia. Which wouldn’t be so bad if I could be sure that I was in Sophia’s inner circle, but right now Sophia is in her room running lines with Campbell, who is almost as excited as Sophia is. I swear, Campbell acts like a demented puppy around Sophia, bouncing and panting and giddy with happiness just to be graced by her attention. I don’t know how she doesn’t drive Sophia insane. Meanwhile, it’s like I don’t even exist. Even though my followers have increased to over ten thousand since fashion week, right now I feel like I’m totally and completely invisible.

  Anxiety attack coming on again. It’s like a lump of ice is w
edged in my chest cavity and I’m having trouble breathing. God, I loathe myself when I get like this, it’s so weak and stupid. I squeeze my upper arms so hard that my nails leave little crescent moons of blood on my skin, partly to stop the anxiety and partly out of fury at myself. I’ve got to get out of here. I need to go for a run. It’s going to be dark soon, and dinner is in a couple of hours, but I need to move or I’ll go crazy. I can get in three miles before dinner if I leave now. I quickly change into my leggings, sneakers and a hooded sweatshirt and leave the house.

  The West Village isn’t a very good place to run. There are plenty of so-called runners on the streets, but they are the kind of runners who don’t mind starting and stopping, jogging in place while they wait for the light to change at every street corner. When I run, I RUN, hard and fast. I head west to the Hudson River Greenway and break into a fast warm-up, the rhythmic pounding of my feet blocking out the pounding of my heart. I speed up, not pacing myself at all, and I’m at a full clip way too soon because my breath is coming in gasps and I’ve barely run a mile but I go faster, harder, hearing nothing but the thumping of my sneakers on the pavement beating out my mantra, “harder, better, faster, stronger…harder, better, faster, stronger…” just like I did during track meets at school. I felt like a cheetah when I ran, taking down my prey with every person I passed, and once again I feel a surge of power as I run except this time I’m not overtaking other runners but an imaginary parade of strutting, skinny models, and I’m soaring past them — faster than this one, stronger than the next one, thinner than that one, taller than the next, better than the one after her. I’m better than all of them.