You Just Can't Get Enough

by Cecily von Ziegesar

  Great minds think… alike?

  “So, anyway, I brought a bunch of submissions,” Sydney began dubiously, sorting through handwritten sheets of paper interspersed with printouts. “This one’s my favorite. It’s deep, though. Don’t cry or anything,” she warned, passing Baby a creased piece of notebook paper.

  Baby smoothed the piece of paper onto the dark oak of the bar. The place was beginning to fill up, and a few dorky-looking guys had plunked down next to them. They had ordered a pitcher of beer and were spiritedly discussing Aristotle like they actually cared. She liked this bar, even though it smelled like a combination of Lysol and beer. The only other bars she’d been to in New York City were ones Avery had chosen, which were always super crowded and super loud and specialized in absurdly colorful drinks that tasted like Froot Loops.

  Baby began to read the bubbly pink-pen handwriting on the page.

  STAIRWAY TO BARNEYS

  Barneys is my favorite store;

  Whenever I go I always want more.

  From makeup to lingerie, Marc Jacobs to Sevens,

  It’s like each floor is a stairway to heaven.

  But it’s more than what my platinum AmEx can buy.

  The store is like a metaphor: it teaches me how to try.

  From a Balenciaga tote to Phillip Lim’s smaller size

  Barneys has taught me to keep my eyes on the prize.

  Baby snorted and started to cough. The guy next to her whacked her on the back with his dog-eared copy of Plato’s Republic.

  “Thanks,” she sputtered.

  Sydney smiled gleefully. “Can we get two shots of bourbon?” she yelled down to the bartender. “My treat. You need a drink after reading that.”

  “You made that up. You had to have written that.” Baby giggled in disbelief as she balled up a napkin and threw it at Sydney, already feeling kind of drunk. Sure, she doubted the intellect of some of her Constance classmates, but no one could ever write something that sucked so bad, right? It had to be a joke, or a satire?

  Sydney threw the napkin back at her. “Nope. Came in through the submissions box today. It’s this sophomore, Florida Harris. Her dad is that weatherman with the toupee on The Early Show?”

  Baby groaned. Back in Nantucket, she, Avery, and Owen would always watch that station just to see the epic, glacierlike journey his toupee would make from the top of his head to halfway down his forehead.

  Sydney cracked an evil grin. “Need another shot?”

  “Maybe.” Baby giggled. Just then, her slim red Nokia buzzed. She opened it.

  MISSING YOU, BEAUTIFUL, X J.P., read the letters on the tiny screen.

  “Boyfriend?”

  “Yeah.” Baby nodded, not sure what to write back. MISS YOU TOO, HANDSOME? Ew.

  “That’s cool. My boyfriend’s actually coming to meet us here any minute. I hope that’s okay,” Sydney said, clearly not worried about whether it was okay or not. “So, anyway, this is the material we have to work with, so any ideas on how to make it remotely readable would be amazing.” Sydney laughed, finishing off Baby’s drink. She put the poems back in her messenger bag and set it down on the bar’s sticky floor. Clearly, the meeting was over.

  Just then, a tall, super-skinny boy with wiry, Brillo pad–like brown hair held back with an ’80s-style sweatband walked over to Sydney and Baby.

  “Hey lover.” He leaned in and kissed Sydney. Baby politely looked away.

  “Webber,” the guy said, holding out his hand. Baby fought the urge not to laugh. Webber? It sounded like a name a toddler would give his stuffed duck.

  “I know, his name sucks.” Sydney rolled her eyes at Webber. “Webber, this is Baby, which is her real name, so please don’t make fun of it. She’s helping me out with the loser lit mag. Webber goes to Columbia,” Sydney explained.

  “Nice to meet you,” Webber said, squeezing onto the same stool as Sydney. “So does that mean you guys are finally going to cover UR?”

  “Uhrrrr?” Baby asked stupidly. She wondered if it was some new pronoun or something.

  “Underground Response,” Sydney explained. “It’s this cool group Webber founded with some other Columbia people, but now it’s bigger. They try to make a statement by doing improv or performance art in public places,” she rattled off. “That’s sort of what I was trying to start with my sticker campaign last year. But, you know, it’s hard to do these things without support.”

  Baby nodded politely. That actually sounded sort of cool, and way more fun than the stuffy society benefit circuit Avery couldn’t wait to be a part of.

  “We’re doing a naked run tonight through Grand Central. We go, and then when the train times are announced, we take off our pants and run to the platform. It’s all about how we deal with living in an overly hurried society. Do you want to come?” Webber asked Baby. “Syd’s coming.”

  “Not tonight…” Baby said slowly, an idea forming in her head. She glanced at Sydney.

  “Oh my God, let’s do some sort of artsy, Paper-style photo-montage with UR for Rancor! I can’t believe I didn’t think about that before!” Sydney exclaimed, whipping out a notebook and writing furiously. “I could photograph it. Can you write something to go with it?” Even though it was a question, Sydney barked it like an order.

  Baby nodded. Why not?

  “Constance is ready for that?” Webber clutched his chest in mock horror.

  “It’s even better if they’re not ready.” Sydney grinned wickedly.

  “I’d love to do whatever—writing or photographing, it doesn’t matter to me,” Baby offered, surprising herself. Except for ridiculous camera phone pictures she used to take with her boyfriend Tom back in Nantucket, she’d never really been into photography. But now that she’d decided to stay in New York, it was as if she was seeing everything in a new light.

  And with naked performance art in her future, people will be looking at her differently, too!

  confessions aren’t limited to the dance floor

  After school on Tuesday, Jack tromped up the rickety stairs to the garret, a collection of rooms atop the spacious town house she and her mother used to occupy. The garret had been built in the 1800s to house servants, but Jack and her mother, Vivienne, had always used it as a storage space for last season’s castoffs. Now, the rooms served as a makeshift apartment, furnished with a mishmash of Vivienne’s biggest decorating mistakes.

  Jack flung down her purse on the spinach-colored couch from the mid-’80s and exhaled loudly. She heard the sounds of Edith Piaf emanating through the paper-thin walls of the apartment and her mother’s out-of-tune voice warbling “Je Ne Regrette Rien.” Fan-fucking-tastic. Maman was home.

  “Chérie!” Vivienne wobbled into the living room as if on cue. She had been a celebrated prima ballerina in her twenties, until an affair with Charles Laurent, the ambassador to France, had turned into an unexpected pregnancy, a hasty marriage, and a move to New York City. After her even hastier divorce, Vivienne had channeled her energies into shopping at Chanel, hosting benefit tea parties for the School of American Ballet, and critiquing Jack’s ballet performances. Since Charles had cut them off, citing Vivienne’s irresponsibility with money, she had seemed to age almost overnight. Her wild red hair stuck out all over and her neck was wrapped in several Hermès scarves of different colors. She looked like Little Edie from Grey Gardens, the horrific documentary Jack had watched about Jackie O’s crazy cousins who lived in an Easthampton mansion with six million cats.

  At least the garret doesn’t have room for six million cats.

  “What do you think about television?” Vivienne practically pushed Jack down on a moth-eaten red velvet chair and cocked her head expectantly.

  “It’d be nice to have one,” Jack returned spitefully. In actuality, she’d never watched much television. She had never understood the point of watching other people’s lives. It seemed like something for people whose lives weren’t naturally fabulous.

  “No, darling, I’m not asking abo
ut your thoughts on a television in our house. We’re artists: We don’t watch art—we are art,” Vivienne said dramatically. She clapped her hands together, as if she were about to put on a show.

  The Dance of the Seven Veils?

  “They want me. Paris wants me. For a television show. It’s my moment. C’est mon retour!” Vivienne’s eyes shone as she eyed herself in the ugly gilt-frame mirror she’d bought at a Sotheby’s auction a million years ago. She didn’t even notice Jack giving her the evil eye. Great. So her mom would run back to Paris and be on some totally embarrassing trashy French drama while Jack would have to learn responsibility in a musty attic that looked like the freaking Housing Works thrift shop on Seventy-seventh Street.

  “Which means I must get ready for Paris. There is much to be done. Oh, Jacqueline.” Vivienne grinned, rising to her full height of five foot zero. “Ve vill get rid of ze carbs, and I am going to put myself on a regimen. And it’ll be good for you, ma chérie. Carbs make you soft.” Vivienne flung her hands open as if she were performing for an invisible audience. Jack stood up. She had had enough of all of these “you need to learn how to suffer” speeches.

  “I have homework,” Jack mumbled, stomping into her bedroom. She went over to the one tiny window above her twin bed and looked down into what used to be their garden. The trees were still a lush green, but in a few weeks the leaves would all start to fall off, making the view totally depressing. Maybe in a few weeks, she wouldn’t even be in New York City anymore. She stood up, performed a few deep pliés, then extended her leg upward. Was it her imagination, or was she not as flexible as she used to be?

  Jack pulled out her Treo and called Genevieve. They used to be best friends, and even though sometimes Genevieve’s pseudo-involvement with the Hollywood scene totally annoyed her, at least she was someone.

  “Can I come over?” Jack asked when Genevieve answered. She felt a tiny bit lame having to ask. This was reason #3487 why it sucked not to have a boyfriend. With J.P., she’d never had to ask to come over—she’d just gone.

  “Whatever.” Genevieve sighed lazily into the phone. That was pretty much as enthusiastic as Genevieve got. Jack walked out of her bedroom and slammed the door, but her mother was too busy posing in front of the mirror to notice.

  Twenty minutes and one harrowing subway ride later, Genevieve opened the door to the modest but meticulously maintained all-white apartment on Third Avenue she lived in with her mom, a former model who now mainly appeared in Lifetime television movies. Genevieve was still wearing her Constance skirt, rolled up so high it practically showed her Cosabella-covered ass, and a see-through light pink camisole. She looked like an alcoholic divorcée, minus the wrinkles. Wordlessly, Genevieve passed Jack an oversize Riedel glass filled to the brim with red wine.

  “Thanks,” Jack said gratefully, swilling the liquid before daintily setting the glass on the counter. She looked around the small apartment, which was covered in photographs of Genevieve’s mom. She cringed when her eyes landed on the large front-and-center semi-nude photo of Genevieve’s mom when she’d been pregnant with Genevieve, which hung above the arched brick fireplace. Ew. Her own mom might be crazy, but at least she wasn’t tacky.

  “So, what’s going on?” Genevieve demanded. She seemed a little buzzed, and her lips were tinted red from the wine. Genevieve had overly highlighted blond hair, a tiny pert nose (courtesy of three deviated septum surgeries, one for every summer she’d spent in LA with her film director dad), boobs that had gotten bigger every single summer her nose got smaller, and long brown eyelashes that sort of made her look like a camel. When she was eight, she’d starred in a Disney movie, but then had “outgrown her cute phase.” Now, she occasionally still acted in soap operas or guest starred on Law & Order episodes, but she was still not so secretly waiting for her big break.

  “I hate J.P. and the slutty boho girl.” Jack sighed and leaned into the all-white couch, trying to avoid looking at the picture of Genevieve’s naked, pregnant mom.

  “Whatever. Honestly, I know it sucks to break up with someone.” Genevieve sat down next to her and sighed heavily.

  No, you don’t, Jack thought. Genevieve’s longest relationship ever—with one of her dad’s dumb B-list teen actor connections—had lasted all of two weeks.

  “But, honestly, is it really just J.P.? What’s going on with you recently? You used to be this force. Now you don’t want to go out with us, you don’t come to Barneys, you kiss Avery Carlyle’s ass even though you said you hated her.… Are you, like, having some type of secret affair with her doorman or something?” Genevieve’s eyes lit up at the thought of an illicit affair. Obviously, the convoluted soap opera plotlines she’d been involved in had affected her sense of reality.

  “I’m not kissing Avery’s ass.” Jack laughed awkwardly and choked down the wine. She thought about last Wednesday, when the strap of Avery’s purse had broken and Jack had actually carried her books for her. She’d tried to reserve her sucking-up time for when she was alone with Avery, but apparently her friends had noticed. What if they decided she was a total loser and officially excluded her from the group? She had to do something.

  “Who do you think called the cops at her party?” Jack smirked, pleased when a shocked look spread over Genevieve’s face.

  “You did? But then why are you being so buddy-buddy with her? Is it, like, to get to her hot brother or something?” Genevieve called behind her as Jack stalked to the kitchen for a refill.

  “Actually, it’s…” Jack trailed off as she cast about for a good lie, her lower lip trembling. She’d wanted nothing more than to talk to someone—anyone—about her problems for so long. “My dad cut me and my mom off. He sold our house, we’re living upstairs in the fucking attic, and Avery found out. I didn’t want anyone to know,” Jack said in a rush of words while Genevieve was still in the kitchen. It was easier to say it when she was in the next room.

  “Seriously?” Genevieve stopped in her tracks, holding one bottle of wine in each hand.

  “Yeah.” Jack shrugged her shoulders defensively. She really hadn’t thought this conversation through. Now Genevieve was going to tell everyone, and they’d host some type of benefit for her or something.

  “Whatever.” Genevieve sat back down on the couch. “My dad does that all the time. Especially if one of his movies tanks.” She expertly plunged a corkscrew into the center of the bottle of vintage 1980 L’Evangile bordeaux, unscrewed it, and splashed the liquid liberally into Jack’s still-full glass. “Why do you think my mom has played Tori Spelling’s mom in, like, ten television movies? God, men can be such assholes, you know?” She shrugged sympathetically. “I just don’t understand why you had to keep it some big secret from us. What, you think we’d dump you because of your asshole father?” Genevieve leaned in and hugged Jack. Jack gratefully embraced her back. Genevieve’s boobs really were huge. Hugging her was like hugging Dr. McFadden, her freshman year geometry teacher, whose gravity-defying chest had always been a subject of speculation. Jack let out a small sob. It just felt so good to be taken care of for once.

  “Oh my God.” Genevieve rolled her eyes in exasperation as she drew back. “Don’t get all melodramatic on me.” She hiccupped and slammed the entire wine bottle on the table. Jack smiled in giddy relief, trying to stop a huge grin from forming. She didn’t want it to be obvious how pathetic she was.

  “Let’s go out and really have drinks. There’s tons of cheap bars around here. Sometimes slumming it is the way to go.” Genevieve pulled off her sweater and examined her pink Cosabella cami–clad self in the mirror. “Totally trashy.” She nodded happily at her reflection.

  Jack considered. It might be fun to just go out, even if out was just some lame, sticky-floored frat bar.

  “Sure,” she agreed.

  As soon as they went outside, a bevy of construction workers on the corner whistled at them.

  “Assholes.” Genevieve stuck out her tongue and held up her middle finger but looked a litt
le pleased. Jack nodded wordlessly, even though their hoots and hollers were music to her ears. She felt her old confidence returning. Her family might suck, her housing situation might be a disaster, but this was New York, and she belonged here. The city had everything she needed, including flirty bartenders and free drinks.

  tea and sympathy

  Avery Carlyle walked into the Pierre Hotel on Tuesday afternoon, her navy blue Miu Miu kitten heels clacking across the marble floor. Her meeting with the Constance board of overseers would take place in the rotunda at four o’clock. Avery’s noisy footsteps seemed to drown out the piano player in the corner, and she tried to walk discreetly on her tiptoes—the last thing she wanted was to announce her presence to the board by sounding like a freaking Rockette.

  As Avery entered the rotunda, she nervously pushed a flyaway strand of blond hair under her favorite thick bejeweled Marc Jacobs headband. Looking around, she realized she was the youngest attendee by at least fifty years. The air was thick with the scent of Chanel No. 5, and Avery weaved through the straight-backed gilt chairs, hoping she’d be able to recognize Muffy St. Clair. It was hard to tell anyone apart, since all the ladies were clad in black St. John power suits, pearls, three-inch heels, and tastefully dyed gray-blond hair practically lacquered three inches above their Botoxed foreheards.

  “Avery!” Muffy croaked from a center table. Avery sighed in relief and made her way over, aware that heads were turning to watch her. Muffy slowly shuffled toward Avery with the aid of an elegant cane, and Avery leaned in to gently kiss her on the cheek. “You’re the spitting image of your grandmother. Of course, back then we were dancing on tables, not meeting for tea.” Muffy clicked her tongue ruefully and pressed her dry, apricot-colored lips together as she wrapped her bony fingers around Avery’s forearm. “Come, I can’t wait for you to add some young blood to our Constance group.”