Bad Idea- The Complete Collection

by Nicole French

  “Oh?”

  I set the book down. Alex is kind of foppish, so I could imagine him, twenty or more years ago, as the romantic lead in a Shakespearean comedy. He leans back on the desk, taking my comment as an invitation to chat. Behind him, the elevator bell rings, and I don’t have to look around him to know that the sound of squeaky wheels on the tiled floor means the arrival of the real romantic lead in my life. Jeez, I guess Alex isn’t the only one who’s cheesy.

  Alex ducks back, but turns immediately back to me when he sees that it’s only the FedEx man. Unlike the other people at the firm, he doesn’t greet Nico. He doesn’t even acknowledge his presence. I, on the other hand, have to fight not to follow the man around the room. And I’d like nothing more than for Alex to disappear.

  “Hi, Nico,” I say as neutrally as I can, so as not to make Alex suspect anything untoward.

  Nico nods at me with a brief, bright smile that quickly shutters as he looks at Alex, who has continued talking as if no one is there.

  “Yeah, I did a stint with the Princeton Shakespeare Company,” he says as he doodles on a pink Post-It. “And I designed the logo for the show. See?”

  He flips the pad around to show me a small, unremarkable insignia. I “ooh” and “ah” politely, but have to stifle a grin when Nico rolls his eyes and mouths the sounds to me from behind Alex’s shoulder. Ever oblivious, Alex turns the pad back around to admire his drawing.

  “You would have made a great Miranda to my Ferdinand,” he says with a leer. “Young. Impressionable. Gorgeous. A perfect fit.”

  A loud thump of a package landing on the floor briefly interrupts Alex’s flirting, but he pays it no mind.

  “So, what’s your secret?” Alex says as he frankly looks me up and down. “Juice cleanse? One of my clients did some lemonade diet and lost fifteen pounds in two weeks. Best thing she’s done yet for her career.”

  Another package slams on top of the first.

  I glance uncomfortably at my thinner form, then back up at the older man. “Um, no secret. Just being sick.”

  Alex pushes off the desk and snaps me with a finger gun, completely oblivious to the harsh glares of the dark-eyed courier behind him. “Well, you look hot, kid. Keep it up, and I might be helping you sign a modeling contract.” Alex flashes me a grin and cocks his head. “Maybe we should have a lunch meeting to talk about your future, huh? What do you say, next Tuesday around noon?”

  “I need you to sign this, Layla.”

  The clipboard is thrust almost violently between Alex and me, and it’s all I can do not to gasp at the thin-lipped, barely contained anger practically pulsing out of Nico’s handsome face. Turns out a jealous Nico is a hot Nico.

  “Thanks,” I say with what I hope is a reassuring smile as I take the papers to sign. Surely he knows he has nothing to worry about. To Alex, I also smile, but for a different reason. “I can’t, unfortunately. I come here straight from classes.”

  “Another time, then.” Alex walks backward toward his office. “Later, cutie,” he says before he disappears down the hall.

  When I give Nico back his clipboard, I’m confronted by five feet, eleven inches of very unamused FedEx courier. I tip my head to the side and swallow back a laugh.

  “Is he like that every day with you?” he asks between clenched teeth as he takes back the clipboard and sets it on top of his other packages.

  I glance in the direction of Alex’s office, then back to my jealous deliveryman. “No. Just every now and then when he feels his midlife crisis setting in.”

  The joke relaxes some of the tension in Nico’s jaw, but only just. I stand up and lean over the desk so I can touch his shoulder.

  “Hey,” I say softly.

  He looks down at my hand and then up at me. There is more in his expression than just jealousy. Fear, maybe. And some of the sadness I glimpsed after the conversation with my dad.

  Before I can say anything more, he grasps my face between his big palms and lays a deep, fierce kiss that takes all the oxygen out of my lungs. Just as quickly, he breaks the kiss, still nose to nose.

  “Next time you tell that motherfucker you got a man,” he says.

  He gently bites my lips one more time before releasing me. I stumble backward into my chair, thankful it’s there since I’ve temporarily lost my ability to stand up.

  Nico flashes me a quick grin before the elevator doors open behind him like magic. One of the interns comes in and races around the desk for the new packages, oblivious to the sexual tension in the room. Nico waits until he leaves, then steps backward into the elevator.

  “I’m coming down tonight after work,” he says. “I need some quality time with my girlfriend.”

  His still-dark expression doesn’t leave any room for argument. Wordlessly, I nod, but I thrill at the sound of the word “girlfriend.” He didn’t exactly give me a choice in the matter. But as the doors close over his broad smile, I also know I couldn’t care less.

  III

  Vivir Sin Aire

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Layla

  Two weeks later, I’ve just finished my last round of midterms, and Nico has set aside Saturday afternoon before his shift at AJ’s for us to celebrate. We haven’t been able to see each other much with the exception of a few stolen kisses at the office and an innocent lunch date here and there (once which turned into a very not-innocent rendezvous in the back of his delivery truck).

  On Friday, I decide to make the most of my class-free morning and pick out something new to wear. I’m almost finished paying off my credit card bills, but I want to use a little something of this week’s paycheck to find something that fits. I still haven’t gained back the weight I lost after getting the flu. It’s weird, but I’ve just chalked it up to the stress of midterms and subsisting on bagels and cheap coffee. Really, you wouldn’t want to eat most of the time if that’s all you could afford either.

  “Damn, Layla!” Vinny yelps as we walk up Third Avenue.

  We’re going to one of the places that sells crop tops and tight pants on five-dollar racks. That’s all I can afford right now, and Vinny’s looking to spruce up his own look before going out with a new girl from his accounting class this weekend. I’ve told him I’ll help him look less like a scrawny nineteen-year-old and more like a proper player. Whatever that means.

  “What?” I ask.

  “Dude, you have, like, no ass anymore. What happened?”

  “Um, you know what happened,” I say. “That’s what two weeks of barely eating will do for you.”

  “I know, but jeez. That was over a month ago, and you look even skinnier. I never thought I’d see the day where you lost ‘dat ass’.”

  Vinny knows he’s the only guy I’d ever let talk about my ass like that without an elbow to the ribs, but I wince anyway as I glance at my reflection in a shop window. He’s right—my butt and legs look more like an actual model’s these days: scrawny and too-long. Maybe I should take Alex up on his offer.

  “You should love it,” I joke. “I look just like the girls you date.”

  Vinny looks at me critically, like he’s checking me out for the first time. “Maaaaybe,” he says. “Maybe I’d make a play if I thought you’d stay this way.”

  “You’re disgusting.”

  He grins. “I can’t help I like girls who look like models!”

  “You like girls who look like they’re twelve,” I retort.

  Vinny shrugs, as if to admit his guilt freely. Then he slings a skinny arm over my shoulder and squeezes. “It doesn’t matter anyway,” he says. “You wouldn’t be you without your booty. Doesn’t your man miss it?”

  I sigh. Nico has commented a few more times about needing to fatten me up. It’s always a joke, but I know he misses my curves. I’ve had to borrow a pair of Jamie’s jeans since most of mine slide off my hips at the moment. Even though we’re now the same size, they still don’t look right since Jamie is about three inches taller than I am.

  “B
esides,” Vinny adds, “I’m pretty sure your boyfriend would kick my ass if I made a play for his girl anyway.”

  I grin. I’m still getting used to thinking of myself as “Nico’s girl.” And Vinny’s not totally wrong. I stick my tongue out at my reflection and urge Vinny to keep moving. “Well, that’s why we’re going shopping, right? So I don’t look like such a paperclip in my clothes. Come on, let’s help me get my ass back.”

  In the store, I almost immediately find the kind of dress I’m looking for. It’s a bright blue, floral tea dress covered with polka dots that will hopefully flatter what’s left of my hourglass shape down to my knees, covering up the expanse of pasty skin that only comes from being inside too much. Tea skirts aren’t usually my thing—that’s usually more my mother’s look—but in this case the swishy bell-shaped skirt might give me the illusion of a shapelier figure.

  Unfortunately, things don’t go as planned. In the dressing room, I’m faced again with the shock of just how much weight I’ve actually lost.

  “Shit,” I mutter after I put on the dress. The look…is not good. The bodice hangs like an empty sack from my torso, and the skirt falls limply over my nonexistent hips. I look like a deflated party balloon.

  A brief knock signals the salesgirl, whose name I think is Mandy. I open it. The look on her face tells me she knows exactly why I’m not happy.

  “Oh, honey,” she says. “That is not the dress for you.”

  “You don’t say,” I reply dryly. I pick up the fabric that pooches out around my hips. “Got any suggestions? I’ve…lost some weight recently, so I’m not sure of my size anymore.”

  “Well, that sure ain’t it,” she says as she checks the tag scratching at my back. “Size six? Ha. I’d say you’re at least a two, lucky girl. You’ll make a killing at the sample sales.”

  “Yeah, I’m thrilled,” I say dryly.

  She laughs and shakes her head. “All right, then, what are we looking for?”

  “Something that makes me look like I’m not a stick figure,” I say, making her laugh again. “Something that will make my boyfriend think I’m sex on heels. He…likes a woman with some curves. Which I used to have, but can’t quite seem to gain back.”

  A woman with a lot of curves of her own, Mandy nods appreciatively. She twists a lock of her curly hair thoughtfully, perusing my form up and down while she thinks. She’s nice, like a grown-up version of Shirley Temple.

  After a moment, her eyes light up and she grins devilishly. “Got just the thing, hon. Be right back.”

  I wait irritably in my polka-dotted trash bag. Even though a part of me—the part that was constantly berated by my mother not to eat too much—is slightly triumphant at being this thin, I’m almost as frustrated with that feeling as I am at the fact that none of my clothes fit. Having grown up in a town that was mostly full of anorexic blonde girls, it took a lot of work (with the help of our yearly visits to Brazil) to learn to accept my body—muscular and curvy as opposed to lithe and underweight—as pretty. This feels like just another loss. I liked my curves. I liked my ass. I want them back!

  Mandy’s brisk knock sounds again, and I open it to find her holding a dress out to me with a satisfied smirk on her face. It’s a light, undeniably sexy affair: bright crimson fabric sprinkled with a small flower print, sewn in a bias cut to cling to my breasts and my hips, with the tiniest of tiny spaghetti straps. She knows she’s done well—the dress is really cute and sexy as hell.

  “That’s going to be way too small,” I say, noting the size at the back of the hanger. “I’ve never been that small in my life. Maybe when I was ten or something.”

  “Just try it,” Mandy insists, thrusting the dress at me. “It’s meant to stretch, and if it’s a little tight, you know your man won’t mind. Now put it on and let’s see.”

  I shrug, but allow her to shut the door since she’s obviously not going anywhere until I’ve tried it on. I slip out of the baggy, polka-dotted embarrassment and pull the little red dress over my head. After I’ve tugged everything into place, I take a breath, turn around, and look at myself in the mirror.

  “Holy shit,” I breathe.

  “Good?” Mandy’s voice cuts through my shock.

  The dress doesn’t look good. It looks fucking amazing. Way better than anything at a five-dollars-or-less place should look. Stopping just before being indecently tight, it clings to every inch of me and gives the illusion of curves in exactly the right places. I turn around and want to jump with glee. Suddenly, I have an ass again—albeit a much smaller one than before, but it’s still there. I turn back; my boobs also look awesome. Bonus.

  “Oh yeah,” I finally answer. “You did really good.”

  “Let’s see, girl.”

  I slip into the espadrilles I brought to try on with dresses and open the door. I sashay down the hall of dressing rooms to examine myself in the mirror at the end. Mandy lets out an encouraging whistle as I walk, causing me to smile back at her just as I walk past where Vinny is waiting in an armchair for me. He drops his magazine.

  “Hey!” he crows. “Look, you found your ass again!”

  I turn back at him from where I’m standing on the pedestal in front of the three-paned mirror.

  “Shut up,” I say, but it’s with a grin. I don’t remember the last time I felt this good, and he and I both know it.

  “Vinny!” I call from my chair in the waiting area of Zara. Vinny swears by their jeans, although I’m not convinced they look any better than Levi’s. He’s been trying on different cuts for the last hour, and I only have twenty minutes to grab lunch before I catch the subway up to work.

  I decided not to wear the dress, which is tucked safely into a shopping bag at my feet, opting instead to wear the clingy black skirt and red blouse Mandy hooked me up with. She found me two more skirts and three shirts that kept me within my fifty-dollar budget. They’re all totally cheap knockoffs that will fall apart within a month, but everything makes me look halfway normal again until I can eat enough ice cream to get my figure back.

  Vinny pops his head out of the dressing room and turns around to show me his butt. “What do you think?”

  I slide back into my chair. “They look exactly the same as the last four pairs you modeled for me. Your ass is bony no matter what.”

  Vinny turns to me and frowns. “Why are you so grumpy? I thought girls loved shopping.”

  I sit back up and roll my eyes. “You have got to learn to stop stereotyping, my friend.”

  I do actually like shopping. Just not shopping for men’s jeans with the nineteen-year-old equivalent of Simon Doonan, apparently. For two hours straight.

  Vinny shrugs. “I only have three more pairs, and then we can go, I promise. We can stop for falafel for lunch. On me.”

  I perk up. Falafel sounds really good. With extra hummus. “All right, let me see them.”

  Vinny disappears back into his dressing room while my phone rings in my purse. I take it out and answer it tentatively. It’s my parents’ house line, which means it’s my mom. She doesn’t usually call me during the week, preferring to keep her communication to her standard Sunday time.

  “Mom? Everything okay?”

  “Y-yes. Everything’s fine. I just…well, I thought I would call to say hello.”

  I frown. This is weird. “Uh, okay. Hi.”

  “How are you doing today?”

  Vinny pops out in a pair of jeans that are almost as tight as mine. I shake my head furiously and mouth “NO” as overtly as possible. He droops and disappears again.

  “I’m fine, Mom,” I say. “Just out with a friend shopping right now. What are you up to?”

  “Oh, well…I just finished coffee with Catherine Kramer. You remember her, Lindsey’s mother?”

  I nod, even though she can’t see me. “Yeah, I remember Lindsey. How is she?”

  “Still at the University of Washington. Catherine says she likes it there.”

  I roll my eyes. Here we go again. “Dad
must be jealous.”

  There’s a long pause, and I think I can hear the sound of Mom’s nails tapping on something—a counter, the top of her steering wheel, maybe the side of the telephone.

  “Mom?” I finally ask after she still says nothing.

  “Catherine and Mel are splitting up.”

  She says it quickly, like she’s taking some terrible medicine. It’s hard for Cheryl Bagley Barros to admit difficult truths, even when they’re not necessarily about her.

  Even so, the news isn’t unexpected. I have at least four friends whose parents split after they left for college.

  “I’m sorry for them. Poor Catherine. Poor Lindsey,” I say. Vinny pops out of the dressing room again, sees the look on my face, and turns right back around, clearly sensing that the fashion show is over.

  “Well, I don’t think you should transfer to UW unless you really want to,” Mom says, increasingly blustery, as if the words will cut her tongue if she says them too slowly. “NYU was your dream. You shouldn’t give it up, no matter what your father says.”

  I frown. She’s all over the place. But more importantly, she’s breaking with my dad’s line again, which is even stranger.

  “Layla, do you have enough money?”

  If I wasn’t already sitting, that question would have bowled me over. My mother, one half of the “earn what you get” Barros pair, is asking me about my financial situation? Is the world on fire or something?

  I don’t literally know how to answer. “Ah…”

  “I’m going to send you some money,” Mom hurries on. “I know how expensive that city is. You should be focusing on your grades, not working yourself to death.”

  “But, what about…Dad says…” I’m stumbling. What is going on here?

  “This is what family is for,” Mom says. “I’ll send you a check in the mail tomorrow. It should be there next week. Deposit it right away, understand?”