Keeping Up With Piper

by Amanda Adair

  “Are you two lovebirds ready to order?,” he asks. Lovebirds?

  You’ll have the American panini.

  “I’ll have the original American panini with onions and tomatoes,” you say.

  “Normal cheese or Mozzarella?”

  You want normal cheese.

  “Normal.”

  “And you?,” he asks and looks at me.

  “The Italian panini.”

  “Alright.”

  The waiter walks away.

  “Where was I,” you say. “Oh, your major, right.”

  You’re curious, you’ve always been. You can’t just let people be, you always need to get involved in drama, and create your own.

  “Communications with a focus on media.”

  “Awesome, my specialization was social media.”

  Great, thanks for telling me. Let’s exchange usernames then.

  “What’s you Instagram?,” I ask and look for my phone in my purse.

  @itspiperflrs. It’s easy to find. It’s in the email from Paola and, of course, I knew all of your social media profiles long before.

  “Let me search for it,” you suggest.

  I hand you my phone.

  “Here you go,” you say and give me back my iPhone.

  With all the talking we forgot our paninis. They’re already in front of us. Only as I start starring at them you realize they’re here as well.

  “Oh, wow, when did he come back?,” you ask.

  “No idea.”

  You start eating. The lipstick that you used today is red. It looks okay. You can wear those bright colors. They go well with your tanned skin and dark long hair.

  “It’s so good,” I say. “I’ll definitely have to remember this place. Thanks for taking me here.”

  “I have lunch at Benissimo quite often,” you say. “You can always join me.”

  I will. You smile at me, then you look down at you plate. Only half of your panini’s left.

  “I’d love to.”

  Shortly after you’ve eaten up you grab your phone.

  “Nice photos,” you say. “And oh wow, you have 8k followers.”

  I do, or blondie Bair Morgan does. It wasn’t difficult. I bought a few followers and likes, just so my account attracts real followers and real people who would like my set of pretty pictures. My Instagram as Blair Morgan is full of travel photos, outfits and selfies. I show people how much I love fashion, high-end brands and being a young stylish mom in the metropolis New York City. But I never show pictures of Kye, I never show his face. My profile shows basically a different version of you, with blonde hair and a daughter instead of a son.

  I grab my phone and look at her Instagram while she looks at mine.

  “You’re quite fame yourself.”

  She has four thousand followers. I don’t know why but that’s how it is.

  “Ah, no, not really,” you say so modest.

  “We should do some photo shoot together,” I suggest.

  You love photo shoots and showing off yourself, your face, your hair, your clothes, your tits, your daughter and your cute little Brooklyn apartment. You kept asking your roommates at NYU to take photos of you whenever it was possible, on campus with some cute black boots and a huge coat, while clubbing with a glass of champagne in your hand, or together with Dana Isabella at kindergarten celebrations.

  “Sure.”

  You look at your watch.

  “Oh, we really need to go back.”

  I nod. We pay for our meals and walk back to the office.

  “You have a son, right?,” you say.

  “Yes, I do,” I say. “Got pregnant quite young.”

  “Me too,” she says. “My daughter’s four, she’s turning five in August. Her name is Dana Isabella.”

  I know this little girl’s long name so well that I don’t want to hear it anymore.

  “Cute name,” I say. “My son is six.”

  You look shocked. “Wow, how old are you.”

  Oh bitch, don’t you give me that look.

  “I was eighteen when Kye was born.”

  I use Kye’s real name. You don’t know that the real me has a child. And Kye doesn’t really know that his real last name isn’t Morgan. How should he? When I used my real last name, he was so young. He probably doesn’t remember hearing that name. I think he’ll be fine. Right now, he’s just a six-year-old little boy who likes to play with his mates.

  “That’s so amazing how you managed to raise your son, graduate from Pepperdine and work all over the world,” you say.

  You’d be surprised what else I managed to do.

  “How old were you when Dana was born?”

  “I was only twenty-one when Dana Isabella was born.”

  I knew it. You really need to correct me. Can’t we all just call her Dana? Poor little girl with such a long name. It’s a nice name but why do you need to insist on always calling her Dana Isabella?

  After you realized you were pregnant you took a break from studying. It took you a little longer to graduate, and that gave me a little more time to figure things out. Your relationship to Joe didn’t last for long, just two years, then he broke up. I should thank him for getting you pregnant and then leaving you for a girl he met when she wasn’t drunk. We’re not only coworkers, we are also single moms of elementary school children. That’ll help with our bonding.

  “Do you have a photo of her?”

  “Sure,” you proud mommy say and unlock your phone. “This is her.”

  On the screen there’s a photo of Dana Isabella in your mom’s house, in the living room to be precise. You rarely visit your mom these days. You are just too busy with work and Joe and his new girlfriend and Paola and so on. Also, you avoid your little sister Tessa. She’s twenty now while you just turned twenty-five. Tessa and you share a mom but have different fathers.

  “Cute.”

  “Do you have a photo of your cute little boy?”

  He is cute, indeed, but sometimes when I look at him I see his father. I don’t want to be reminded of anything that happened, it makes me want to throw up. I can’t stand looking at Kye sometimes.

  “That’s Kye,” I say.

  On my screen there’s a photo of Kye in Central Park.

  “When was that?,” you ask.

  “Shortly after I moved here two months ago.”

  We talk until we arrive at the office. I didn’t ask for your number. I already have it but when I go home after work I don’t send a text to your number, I use Instagram. Let’s invite you to some event that fits your taste and choice of evening activities, I think.

  @thebeemorgan

  Hey Piper,

  there’s an after-work party at that club in Manhattan, Skylights, on Friday.

  Want to join us?

  Us in this case includes me, you and my lovely Bruna Ricci, who was my first roommate at NYU and who still is the spoiled but lovely daughter of Emilio Ricci, a businessman. That’s is really all she is nowadays, a daughter who’s dreaming of becoming a CEO of her own clothing line. This will probably never happen. She finished her degree, but then she had other plans than a regular job. She tried to make her own jewelry collection happen, but it flopped. Well, a few hundred people bought her earrings and necklaces but that isn’t enough to finance her lavish lifestyle. Now her plans are less ambitious. She spends her evenings at clubs and bars and is looking for a hot rich boyfriend. In case she can’t find a hot rich boyfriend she’ll go for an old rich sugar daddy. That’s what she said. That won’t happen though. Bruna knows lots of hot guys. I only lived at the dorm with her for a year, then I moved to an apartment in Manhattan. I didn’t want Kye to stay with my father forever. And I know Dad doesn’t want to raise another child. It reminded him of Mom so much that he looked so sad every time I visited them.

  Bruna doesn’t know I’m not Blair Morgan and she doesn’t care. She’s too busy partying to ever put in effort to find out who I really am. I’ve had an amazing time with her. She
’s my best friend. Well, she was my best friend. Now it’s supposed to be you, Piper. Bruna and I are the college equivalent to Piper and Penelope. Piper didn’t find a friend like Penelope at NYU, which is sad, but considering Piper’s arrogance and superficiality it is no surprise. One might get the impression that Bruna is a superficial bitch, but she isn’t. She was the one who took me with her to a homeless shelter and made me volunteer. She was the one who adopted a lonely street dog with only three legs. She named him Little Poo though. Poor Little Poo. That’s name’s more of a burden than his disability. Bruna’s a good human being, she just likes to party and isn’t too pleased with the thought of working full-time until she dies.

  After just half an hour you reply. I knew you’d say yes.

  The rest of the workweek is completely unspectacular. Nothing really happens at the office and I spend my time watching TikToks, a whole season of Big Little Lies, and texting Nanny if Kye’s alright. I keep forgetting her name, so I just call her Nanny. She’s the third nanny I hired. They’re all students or graduates, trying to get rid of their debts. I was lucky Dad was able to cover my tuition. He finished his habilitation and is currently teaching at a university in Indonesia for a term. Now I have some rather illegal ways to collect some extra cash online. I’m a computer science major, why not make use of that knowledge? With the absurd salary Paola pays me I can pay for my rent, Kye’s current private elementary school and his new private elementary school, and his nanny, but I like to spoil myself and others. You can never have enough resources, especially if you have quite unconventional plans that need lots of preparation, time and a back-up plan. Maybe I’ll have to flee to Europe or Asia after I’m done with you, Piper.

  4

  On Friday night you arrive at my apartment complex in Brooklyn. I can see you coming closer to the front door. You bring Dana Isabella with you because I offered that my nanny can watch both of our children tonight. That way they can get to know each other. I’ve rented an apartment in a rather wealthy area of Brooklyn. The apartment complex has its own doorman and a nice golden and red elevator. There are red carpets and golden vintage lamps everywhere. I wanted to live close to your apartment because that’s how we’ll become close friends. Our kids can play at the same playground and we can take turns driving them to school. I’d rather live in Manhattan though. I told Bruna I like it in Brooklyn and that it’s a nice neighborhood to raise a little boy. I don’t even know if it’s true, but she asked me why I moved here. Bruna doesn’t know anything about children, so she never asked again. Speaking of Bruna, she’ll meet us at the club.

  “Your apartment is stunning,” you say as soon as I open the door and let you two sweethearts in.

  You are wearing a tight black skirt and a black top, which are covered by a long and fluffy grey fake fur coat. It’s not exactly cold outside, therefore I guess you didn’t want your four-year-old daughter to see your revealing outfit (and your tits), but you didn’t make the effort to just close the zipper. It’s okay, that’s who you are. You haven’t had a night out in a while because Paola showers you with to-dos. And then there’s me, doing only what’s absolutely necessary. Life is unfair, isn’t it.

  Dana Isabella looks exactly like you at that age, Piper. I recognize her hairstyle. Those two high braided ponytails with small ribbons instead of hair ties, that was your signature hairstyle as a child. I’ve seen this style on many of your childhood photos. My Mom never braided my hair. My curls never let her. She sometimes styled my hair as a half updo or a low or high messy bun. When I did some ballet at a very young age most girls had these sleek, perfectly tight buns, but not me.

  “It’s nice, yeah,” I say and look at the kitchen where Kye is sitting at the table, drawing something with the help of Nanny.

  “Nanny,” I say and smile. When she looks at me I continue. She likes me because the salary’s good. “Come and say hi to Dana Isabella.”

  I’d really like to say just Dana or Isabella. It feels like my tongue doesn’t want to continue after spitting out her very first name. Nanny takes Dana with her. I introduce you to my son Kye and then we walk towards my bedroom. I want you to see it. It’s huge and it comes with a dressing room. I put my laptop and every other technical device away, so you wouldn’t ask me about it. You’ll think I’m interested in fashion and beauty and partying, like you. You don’t need to know that I’m into tech stuff.

  “Wow,” you say.

  Don’t be silly, your apartment is pretty, too. It’s not as big but your parents support you with whatever you want, don’t they? They gave you a pre-owned BMW Mini, your new black Audi, a MacBook and a they help you with the private school tuition for their grandchild.

  “Yeah, it’s a pretty bedroom,” I admit. “I couldn’t finish my make-up.” I point at my face. I at least finished my foundation, so you wouldn’t see my freckles. “I need some more minutes.”

  “Take your time,” you say and look around the room.

  I have framed posters of the Eiffel Tower and the colosseum in Rome on the wall, that way my invented past is more authentic. They constantly remind me of those places, so I won’t ever get my story confused. How I convinced Kye that my new identity fits his? I’ve trained him to say he stayed at his grandpa’s for a while. He’s Kye Morgan. That’s all he needs to know. No one really ever asks so many questions that he needs to lie. My family and childhood friends don’t know I’m Blair Morgan now. They think I work as a freelance programmer. My childhood friends don’t even know I have a child. My parents wouldn’t want them to know that I got pregnant as a teenager.

  I sit down on the antique pink satin pouf that stands right in front of my lavishly decorated dressing table. Even you, Piper, are probably jealous of my collection of perfumes and make-up by Dior, Chanel or Chloé. I don’t care about the brands or the make-up itself. I’m in this apartment as a subtenant. The interior has already been here, I only added a few luxurious items, so it appears more attracting to you. Some people might think I have it all and I should just be happy and stop wanting revenge. As I’ve said I don’t care about any of this. What I lost can’t be bought and what I’ve been through can’t be compensated with money or luxury. I would give everything I have to undo certain incidents.

  “Can I try that perfume?,” you ask me while I curl my lashes.

  “Sure.” In the corner of my eye I see that the perfume you’re fond of is one of my favorites.

  You spray a little bit onto your wrist and smell it. “So good,” you say. “I think I got this one as a PR sample from my stepdad.”

  You got a lot of PR samples from your stepdad and even though you’re in your mid-twenties and you have a paid job yourself you still mention that like it’s the only impressive thing you can tell others.

  “Really?,” I say pretending like I didn’t know. “That’s so nice.” So amazing, so nice, so good. I even start talking like you.

  “I loved it as a teenager,” you say and sit down next to me. The pouf isn’t exactly huge, so your thighs touch mine. “I was always the one who tried new stuff first.”

  I don’t want to talk about this, so I change the subject. “So, I guess lalamilan is just some kind of pit stop?”

  You turn towards me and say, “totally.”

  “What are your plans?”

  You sigh. “I don’t know. I like this job, it’s my first real one, but I feel like I could do better.”

  “Better?” I put down the mascara and look at myself. “I’m done. Let’s go.”

  While we walk past the living room where Nanny sits on the sofa and watches some cheap soap opera. She’s already brought Kye and Dana Isabella to bed. That’s what she does most of the time. She isn’t a live-in nanny, so normally she doesn’t stay overnight and sleeps in the guest room. We rarely ever talk. It’s not like I don’t like her, it’s just that I want to keep my distance, to everyone, Kye’s nannies included. She’s at my apartment very often. I don’t want her to go through my things or snoop around
.

  We take the elevator downstairs, and you tell me more about your career plans. “I’m sure I could find myself a job at a magazine, but lately I’ve been thinking why not in television.”

  I never thought I’d learn something new about you. I know you so well, but you never gave any hint at your dream job in television.

  “You mean film? For a streaming service? As a producer? Presenter?”

  I should slow down. Don’t ask too many questions, I remind myself. In front of the apartment complex there’s already the Uber that takes us to the club.

  “Yeah, as a TV host,” you say as we get in.

  “Okay, nice,” I say.

  You scroll and type on your phone until we arrive at the club. As soon as I get out I spot Bruna. “Hey,” I say and walk towards her.

  “Blair,” she says smiling. “I’m glad you’re here.” She turns to Piper. “Hi, I’m Bruna.”

  Bruna’s dresses are always short, and they show off her slim legs, but she hates showing her neckline. She once told me she thinks it’s slutty. The shorter her dress the longer her sleeves and the higher the neckline.

  “I got this from Asia,” she said. She lived there for a while because her Dad was working in China and Japan. “They never show their boobs in public but their legs.” Today her dress is silver and glitters like the starry sky in Death Valley.

  “Piper,” you interrupt my memories. “How do you know each other?”

  “We were roommates,” Bruna says. “Blair was the best roommate I ever had.” She leans over to Piper. “I tried to convince her to move in with me, but she keeps rejecting my brilliant idea.”

  “I like my privacy,” I explain myself and smile. “Let’s go inside.”

  Bruna knows most bouncers and club owners in Manhattan by now, so we don’t even have to line up. The club’s crowded already. Bruna who leads the way grabs my hand, and I grab yours. We make our way through the masses of preppy college guys and hipsters, gold diggers and sugar daddy searchers and group of girls. The high society, actresses and musicians, they join us in the VIP area. It isn’t due to Bruna that we have access to the VIP lounge. Bruna might know a lot of people, but the owner of the Skylights wasn’t one of them until she met me. I bumped into him at a flower shop where he bought some purple tulips for his wife. He asked for my opinion, and because we got along so well he invited me to the club’s fifth anniversary. That night I became friends with him and his wife. Et voilà, here I am, one of the names on the permanent guest list. Bruna’s just my plus one. I am also the girl he facetimes when he has something on his mind or just wants to talk about the universe. He had a difficult upbringing, which made him more thoughtful than most people. His wife is a female version of him, intelligent and reflective. No one would expect them to own a nightclub.