Keeping Up With Piper

by Amanda Adair

  So many, which is so sad, but I can handle it so well. In psychology mirroring is something you do unconsciously. One unconsciously mirrors the gestures or speech patterns of another. I do it on purpose. Did I mention my minor was psychology? Computer science and psychology is by far the most interesting combination I’ve ever come across. It’s not a groundbreaking thought that mirroring brings people closer together. It’s logical, still, I am glad I know what to do to establish our relationship.

  “You have to show me one time,” you say and grab a few other thongs in white, black, pink. “Back in school I had a few dates with a senior. I lost my virginity to him.” You pause. “He wanted a threesome with Tammy, the girl we met in L.A.” You smile at me. “We never did it though.”

  “Did you have a threesome with someone else?,” I ask but in that moment Monica appears.

  “Sorry, we don’t have it in black,” she says, “but we have similar ones in black.” She puts a few black slips onto the top of the drawer that look nothing like the one you wanted.

  “Okay,” you say and look at the slips.

  “Do you need a bra as well?,” Monica asks.

  Just go, Monica, no one wants you to force them into buying a set.

  “I prefer wearing only a slip, thanks,” you say and look at her provocatively.

  Sassy. At least Monica leaves now after telling us, “just remember to say Monica advised you.”

  “Seriously?,” I say smiling.

  “I don’t need a bra,” you say. “When I’m with men.”

  Sure, with a C cup it makes sense to skip the bra. Bruna said if she ever has a boob job she wants hers to be as big as yours.

  We pick our kids up from school. Kye likes it at his new school, and I think he made new friends. He wants to play with some of the buys this week and he got invited to a girl’s birthday party. You ask me to pick up Dana from school on Wednesday. You say you have something to do in the afternoon. Let’s find out what.

  11

  MWG

  What do you think is going on?

  BLAIR

  How should I know? I think she’s with him.

  MWG

  Follow her

  BLAIR

  I am following her

  How’s beach boy doing

  MWG

  I do my best

  Need some more time

  BLAIR

  How much time

  MWG

  You?

  BLAIR

  A few months

  That’s it

  12

  I sit in front of my desk, looking at you through the glass door. I still have to process what I found out. It is almost time for lunch. Today you have a lunch date with someone else, a guy, of course. Valery asked me to join them in the kitchen, but I would rather see where you are heading to. I know how to handle things by now. I tell Valery, who is excited to finally spend one of her lunch breaks with me, that I’m going to join them, but I need to grab some food first. I follow you to your restaurant, take a look at the guy you’re with today, and on my way back I grab something at a bakery and join my coworkers.

  “What is that?,” Tom from the IT department asks. He looks like he wants to say, eww carbs.

  I look at the croissant in front of me. I’ve put it onto a plate, so it looks a little less sad. It isn’t an ideal lunch. I know.

  “A croissant,” I say.

  “Interesting choice for lunch,” Amber says who sits in front of a salad with apples, cucumber, strawberries and zucchini. She put pepper and some sweet salad dressing on top. That is an interesting choice. Who eats salad with apples, cucumber, strawberries and zucchini?

  “I know,” I say and try to explain myself, “this is not exactly what I wanted but I couldn’t decide and then I saw this bakery down the street.”

  “No worries,” Amber says. “I can show you around sometime. We can try some restaurants nearby.”

  You wish. The only one I want to have lunch with is Piper.

  “Jane is having lunch with Paola,” Tom changes the subject.

  Tom is someone who likes to gossip. I knew it from the second I saw him. You, Piper, would probably get along with him, but I won’t let you too close to him.

  “Maybe it’s a meeting, not just lunch,” Rita says. “Paola has some meeting coming up with new brands to cooperate with.”

  “Could be,” Tom says. “But I heard her making a reservation at a restaurant. I feel like it’s casual.”

  I feel like I don’t care. Paola can do whatever she wants. Jane is her assistant, maybe she just wants to get to know her better.

  “They’re just having lunch together,” I say. “Like us right now.”

  “We’re in a kitchen,” Tom say. “They’re in a fancy restaurant. Guess who pays for their meals. I know Paola doesn’t pay for her lunch with her own money. Why doesn’t she invite one of us for lunch?”

  Look at him. Tom is the kind of guy who’s suspicious and jealous. He tries to make us all feel bad.

  “She invited me for a coffee once,” Amber says, “shortly after she hired me.”

  “See,” I say to Tom.

  That was the last thing I added to the conversation. Paola’s and Jane’s lunch break was our only topic. I wanted to leave so badly I even went to the restroom twice. Listening to their irrelevant conversation was torture. My old me would be too nice to leave but Blair doesn’t take shit, she just does what she wants. I leave early and go back to our office. I need to prepare something, and I need access to your office computer.

  Half an hour later you come back from your date.

  “Hey,” I say as you open the door. I step back from your computer.

  “Are you looking for something?,” you ask and put your Ted Baker handbag onto the chair that Paola chose. The chair isn’t an office chair, it’s not ergonomic or comfortable, but it looks nice. And that is basically the concept of this company. It’s unsubstantial but looks good.

  “You have the only stapler in this office,” I explain and grab the black stapler.

  I have no documents to staple but if needed I can staple the instruction manual for the AC.

  “Do you want to hang out later?,” you ask and sit down. “Let’s get the kids and go to a playground and drink.”

  “Drink what? Drink lemonade?,” I ask and start laughing.

  In that moment Amber opens the door.

  “Hey,” she says, “what are you up to?”

  “Nothing,” you say, then you come closer and start whispering into my ear. “I mean some drinks.”

  I get it. Getting drunk at a playground is what you did in your teenage years, but this is Manhattan, not some boring small town in the middle of nowhere. We can’t get drunk when our kids are around.

  “Let’s bring the kids to Nanny,” I suggest, “and then go get some drinks.”

  “Alright,” you say. “Then we do it the adult way.”

  Five hours later we sit in a chic rooftop bar with dark green walls and dark leather furniture. The only area that’s enlightened is the bar itself. The seating area is barely lighted. There are table lamps that only Each of us has a cocktail in front of us. You’ve ordered a piña colada. You’re a good-looking hot chick who covers her evilness with cream and pineapple juice. I’m drinking a mojito. I’m the hot blonde, both sweet and icy, with the spiciness of mint.

  “Five minutes into our girls’ night out,” you say, staring at your phone. “And there’s already a man trying to get our attention.”

  Instead of asking you who it is I look around. Who could you be talking about? It’s not the bartender, he’s polishing glasses, and with his perfectly cut hair and beard he’s probably gay. I guess he goes to the barber twice a week. It can’t be one of the men that sit at a table in the corner, they’re busy talking about screwing women. But it for sure is the guy sitting at the bar, talking to another man next to him. He looks like almost fifty, has grey hair, tattoos, and he looks at us every one or two m
inutes. He’s wearing a suit, but his shirt is unbuttoned so far that we can see your chest.

  “Okay,” I say. He is so not my type, not at all. He’s too much of a daddy. “You can go talk to him if you want to.”

  “No, it’s our night,” you say. “And I’m good, I don’t need no other man.”

  “You mean besides Joe?”

  I put my manicured fingers around the straw. I wouldn’t bother wearing nail polish if it wasn’t for you. You’ve been gluing fake nails onto your actual nails since seventh grade. I don’t even want to know what they look like. I’m pretty sure you’ve ruined your nails. You should never remove these acrylic pieces from your fingers. It’s too late now. The natural beauty of your hands is destroyed. You don’t even care about natural beauty. You put lots of make up onto your skin, use fake nails, fake eyelashes and a fake smile. Maybe even a fake brain because yours don’t seem to function.

  “Yes, besides Joe,” you say.

  That’s a lie.

  “Do you have Tinder?,” I ask.

  “I have it on my phone, but currently I’m not using it.”

  Lie.

  “Me neither.” I only have a fake profile, so I can match with you, see your profile, text you one day. “Who was your first crush?”

  “Like a celebrity?,” you ask and look to the bar. “He’s still staring.”

  I don’t care what that old dude does.

  “No, who was your first love?”

  “Oh,” you say as if love makes much more sense than crush.

  People like you overreact. As a teenager you had a new love of your life every two months. Now you’re playing with men.

  You take some time to answer my question. “The senior I told you I lost my virginity to... maybe I thought he was the one for me.”

  You love older guys. Not as much as Penelope, but you tend to date older guys. But Joe Jensen doesn’t fit that description. He’s a slim mousy guy who just thinks of himself as a real man.

  “And then?”

  “There was a guy who was totally in love with me,” you say. “But I never fucked him, we just kissed and made out. And I made him lick me.”

  Cool story, now I have to think of something else, so I don’t throw up right now.

  “And you?,” you say.

  I have never loved anyone. I mean not a guy. I was too busy healing. And apparently that didn’t work out since I came looking for you.

  “There was this guy, Finn,” I say. I’m so good at lying spontaneously. I am such a storyteller. “We met in high school but when I was homecoming queen he dumped me for a dumb slut he got pregnant. She then lost her baby. Karma.”

  Look at this. It’s hilarious. So much drama in one single sentence.

  “And when did you get pregnant with Kye?”

  Shoot, I shouldn’t tell you so many tall tales if I can’t make them match each other.

  “That wasn’t him,” I say. “I met his father some days after that.” Now I have to add lots of details. “We were such a cute couple. Kye looks like him.”

  The imaginary Blair was in a cute relationship with an imaginary father. I want to hang myself for coming up with this bullshit.

  “Kye’s face reminds me of someone,” you say.

  “Sometimes I miss him,” I say. “But we have different plans for our future. It wouldn’t work out.”

  “That is exactly what I don’t like about Joe,” you say and lean forward. “I want him to work his ass off, so I can fulfill my duties as a wife and mother, but he’s lazy. I always feel like I need to help him, to encourage him, to make him achieve things.”

  You want to chill at home, and therefore you need a man with a certain budget. You want to meet with other moms, gossip and go to parties, buy new outfits for your little girl and not think about any credit card limit. Why don’t you encourage yourself to work your ass off? Guess what, as soon as he’s at work you cheat on him. That’s your plan for the future and I get it why someone would have other plans than that. Don’t get me wrong. I don’t like Joe and I don’t want to defend him. This is not about Joe, I don’t care about his lazy stupid ass. I don’t care that he’s average. It’s about you.

  “I think I don’t want to marry,” I say.

  Blair Morgan can’t marry because I’ll get rid of her as soon as I get rid of you. She’s not meant to marry, she’s meant to be your nightmare.

  “Why? Don’t you want a husband?”

  Blair doesn’t. I do.

  “I’ll see what the future holds for me,” I say.

  While you take a sip form your second cocktail and look at the man at the bar from time to time, I wonder why you’re doing this, and how I can use it to destroy you.

  “Hi,” a guy who appears in front of us says.

  I don’t look up, but at my drink. It must be the old sugar daddy from across the bar.

  “Let me guess,” you say. “You wanna buy me a drink.”

  “I just wanted to steal your candle,” he says. “My friend and I don’t have one at the bar. We miss a romantic atmosphere.”

  Now I raise my head and look at him. He’s younger than the man who stared at us. He has a beard and short hair. We both look at him puzzled. You don’t even have a bitchy answer ready.

  “Just joking, I saw you two beauties and came over here,” he says smiling.

  Oh, gosh, what a slime he is. You giggle. No, this is flirting.

  “Wanna sit down?,” you ask and scooch over.

  He nods. Okay, you really do collect men. Some collect boarding passes or stamps and you collect guys. Thirty minutes later we don’t know more about him, but lots of details of your life. What you didn’t tell him is that you have a daughter and that you are a project assistant and not a fashion editor in chief. I mean you literally have no leadership skills except your ability to make other people fear you.

  “Must be interesting to work for her,” he says and looks at me because you just told him that I am an editor for Harper’s Bazaar.

  “Interesting, yeah,” I say and lean forward to him. “What do you do?”

  “My job?”

  I don’t bother nodding. He can’t be that dumb.

  “I’m an architect,” he finally says.

  I bet that is not true. So many liars around me.

  He buys us many drinks, cocktails, long drinks, beer and shots. I drink slower than you two, so I don’t get drunk. After two hours we go to the outdoor area of the rooftop bar so he and you can smoke. My view is getting blurry, so I decide to speed this up. As soon as you put your cigarette down I put my hand on your cheek and kiss you. I. can imagine what he must look like right now. He probably looks like you when I got undressed with Bruna.

  “You’re hot,” he says.

  He reminds me of someone. I don’t have to suggest it myself because you are into him and his exuberant compliments, so you suggest we leave the bar and go to your place. We take a cab to your apartment in Brooklyn. I leave most of the fun to you and him. I only take part in this so I can be with you and feel the same superiority that you must feel when playing with people. You’re drunk, the random guy is drunk, and I’m here next to you, almost sober again, ready to play. You’re right, it is in fact addicting, and in combination with an evil mindset it can be deadly. I don’t care anymore because right now my body isn’t mine. It had been robbed long time ago. Everything I do now doesn’t affect me, it affects Blair. In this very moment this is Blair’s body. That I changed my appearance really does help to separate Blair and the real me. I am out of control anyway, I might as well fuck around with you in a literal sense.

  13

  You fall asleep quickly, and instead of lying in Prince Charming’s arms you lie in your bed alone. I pretend to be asleep when he leaves. After the front door shuts I open my eyes. You lie next to me, your hair is messy and you’re naked. I could kill you right now, strangle or stab you. I’ve imagined it, dreamed of it, many times. My nightmare, however, is you being alive and happy. I
could end this now. But I’m not stupid. Impulsive actions like that are for emergencies only. They are my last option in case everything fails and you’re about to discover who I am and where we met. I want to live my life even after you’re gone. I don’t want to go to jail. Because it wouldn’t be Blair whose life would come to an end, I’d be fucked as well. I want you to lose everything. Ending your life quickly is not my goal. You taught me to be patient.

  “Are you two lesbians?,” he asked when you kissed me.

  You did that because you wanted to impress him. You wanted him to think you’re exciting when you’re really not. You need to be desired, you need guys like him to adore you. As a response you just giggled. You want others to make assumptions about you, positive ones, impressive ones, but you never want them to know more, to know the truth. Nobody really knows what is going on inside your head. Let me tell you, after years of research, I know you’re not the tough bitch that you want to be seen as.

  You’re an attention-grabbing whore. That’s why you stole your friend’s boyfriend at NYU. It only lasted for about two months, but you didn’t care. You didn’t want to be with him, you wanted him to choose you over her. Allison transferred to another University, and Randy left you. You say you left him, but I know better.

  You have no feeling for decency. You tell people to fuck off, you tell them they’re ugly, you tell them they’re fat. You say, think and do whatever you want. Still, people like you. At least they tolerate what you do. Sometimes people laugh with you, sometimes they tell you, what you’ve just said was not nice, and sometimes they don’t do anything. Sometimes you say something nice, but you never mean it. You might say I have beautiful hair, but you want your hair to be more beautiful. And there’s always someone who tells you what you want to hear. They want to be your friends, so they can be liked by everyone.

  You’re a backstabber. The only friends you managed to keep are the ones you met as a child. I can’t explain why but I assume they are just too attached to you. Where you grew up nothing ever happens. There are not many people to become friends with, and the ones who grow up there most often stay there. People don’t know better than to follow your lead. You do anything to get what you want, no matter if you need to play off your friends against each other or steal a boyfriend.