I grin. “I never got Shakespeare either. Maybe I should try him again in a couple of years.”
Professor Guffey nods. “Maybe you should.”
She pauses, thinking.
My breath catches in my throat. Then she leans over to her laptop, taps a few buttons, and walks over to her printer. A moment later, it prints out a sheet, which she picks up and hands to me.
“I was thinking about you last night. I made a list of books you should—I mean, might like to read,” she says, leaning against her desk.
“You did? Why? I mean—thanks, but why?”
“The summer course list is a good start, but it’s Russian-centric, of course, and there’s so much more out there. Particularly novels by women, about what it felt like to be a woman in eighteenth-century London or nineteenth-century France or New York or … well, you get the gist.”
I am not sure what to say. No teacher has ever taken a special interest in me before.
“This isn’t for studying,” she adds quickly. “And it’s not compulsory. This is just because I think you’ll enjoy them.”
“Um … thank you. Seriously, so much.”
I look at the list. I’ve never read the books on it, even if I’ve heard of them. Indiana by George Sand. Villette by Charlotte Brontë. Ruth Hall by Fanny Fern. The House of Mirth by Edith Wharton. The Coquette by Hannah W. Foster. The Awakening by Kate Chopin. Evelina by Fanny Burney. North and South by Elizabeth Gaskell. Middlemarch by George Eliot.
“I’ll read them, but I probably won’t understand them,” I say, trying to joke.
But Professor Guffey frowns. “Of course you will. They’re not difficult. They’re just stories. There’s nothing intimidatingly intellectual to understand … you just need to feel them.”
“But…” I pause. “I’m just not smart enough.”
“Coco, I know you’re smart. It’s in everything that you do, what you say, how you say it—”
I laugh, despite myself. “That’s not what my father says. And my high school grades were not exactly stellar—”
“High school is nothing,” interrupts Professor Guffey, snapping her fingers to emphasize her point. “It is not an indicator of the rest of your life. Your teachers didn’t encourage you like they did some other students? So what? That’s their mistake. Don’t make it yours. High school teachers are not the masters of the damn universe. Neither is your father. He doesn’t decide your fate.”
I am stunned by her intensity. She really seems to care. “Okay, I will. I’ll read them. Thank you, Professor Guffey.”
I stand up to leave.
“I’m sure you’ll like those books,” says Professor Guffey. “Even if you’re not at NYU studying them, you’ll enjoy them.”
Something goes clunk in my stomach.
She knows.
I can’t bear to turn around and meet her eyes. I walk out, closing the door behind me.
She knows I’m not a student here.
She knows I’m stealing education.
She knows I’m a liar.
But why should I care? I won’t get in trouble; I can’t get kicked out of a school I don’t even go to, right? And Topher can’t get into trouble either. She doesn’t even know that I practically wrote Topher’s assignment. I mean, I could have been just dropping it off for him, right?
It still feels wrong. I feel guilty. I feel like a bad person. I’m never a bad person.
Maybe deep down, I’ll always be a good girl.
My brain whirring, I walk in the blazing sunshine all the way down to SoHo, stopping for a coconut water, and then all the way down Broadway to City Hall and over the Brooklyn Bridge. I walk and walk and walk.
As I walk, I think back to my stupid Happy List.
My Happy List
1. Be thin
2. Fall in love
3. Figure out what to do with the rest of my life
I thought I’d made such headway toward happiness this summer: having casual fun sex with Joe, hanging out with Topher, working in a bar for cash, learning for free during the day.
But I’m no closer to achieving any of those things than I ever was.
I’m still not thin, I’m still not in love, and I still don’t know what to do with the rest of my life. I’m still the kind of good girl who feels bad for getting in trouble with a teacher, and she’s not even my teacher.
I worry about Professor Guffey all the way home.
But I stop at BookCourt on Court Street and pick up Middlemarch, and then go home, walk right up to my attic room, and read.
CHAPTER 22
Much later, but what feels like mere moments, I get a text.
It’s from Joe. The bar is boring without you. Send me a selfie. You know the kind I mean.
I smirk. No. Use your memory. Or your imagination.
He replies: Now I am picturing you wearing fairy wings and knee-high pink rain boots and NOTHING ELSE.
Laughing, I look out my bedroom window. It’s nighttime already, and I didn’t even notice.
Somehow, hours passed while I was reading Middlemarch.
It was like time travel, or something, just jumping into a different world, becoming totally immersed in an alternate reality … This is the best book I’ve ever read, better than Anna Karenina, better than anything, ever. I want to make every page last forever.
My stomach growls, and I head down to the kitchen. To my surprise, everyone’s there, seated around the table.
“What up, ladybitch?” says Pia. “I brought home some leftover chicken cacciatore from the food truck kitchens. Hurry. Julia’s eating all of it.”
“I am not.” When Julia is in a bad mood, she completely loses her sense of humor. “I had one tiny bowl.”
“It’s good,” says Angie, mopping her bowl with a piece of bread. “It needs a little more salt.”
“It has plenty of salt.”
“Well,” says Angie, “I guess I just like more salt.”
“Well,” Pia mimics her, “have fun retaining water.”
They both crack up.
I make myself a bowl and take a seat.
Despite my elation about loving the book, now that I’m back in my own reality, I feel kind of down.
Okay, very down.
But why? I didn’t get busted by Professor Guffey, I mean, not really. She kind of let me know she knows I’m not a student, but nothing happened.
It’s not because of Joe and everything that happened the other night. I knew I didn’t like like Joe, then I thought I might for, like, a nanosecond, then I realized I didn’t. So I’m right back where I was. He’s my friend with benefits. Nothing more.
What else do I have to feel down about? Family? No. My dad is off my case about the job thing. Ever since his visit to New York, he’s been totally cool about me working at Potstill, and by “totally cool” I mean he has not mentioned it.
Money? No. I used to be always just this close to being broke, you know, even though Jules and I don’t have to pay rent because we inherited the place … I was constantly tallying up additions and subtractions in my head. New York is such an expensive city, it’s insane. I used to get cash from an ATM on Monday and make it last for a full week, leaving all my credit cards at home so I couldn’t make any accidental spends, that sort of thing … But I’ve been working long hours at Potstill, and it’s been increasingly busy. With tips, I’m earning more than double what I used to earn in the preschool. Plus, the tips are tax-free, and cold hard cash. Bartending is more profitable than educating. How about that?
Weight? No. I used to spend days thinking bad things about my body. Just sort of ruminating on it, in a negative way. Sensing my thighs rubbing together, my jeans too tight around my stomach. Oh, the hell of feeling fat and hungry, and loathing and craving, in equal measure, everything you eat. I don’t even think about that stuff anymore. I just stopped.
There’s nothing to worry about. Yet I still feel dejected.
Why?
It
’s Professor Guffey. It must be. Even though I’ve been trying to tell myself it’s okay, thinking about her makes my chest thud with shame. I feel like I let her down. I lied to her. And when she caught me, I just ran away.
It was wrong. Even though I’m not a real student, and it’s not like anything I do matters.
Oh, my God. My brain needs to shut up.
Sighing, I look around the kitchen.
Pia is cheerful. She’s eating the chicken with a dreamy smile on her face, staring into space. After her singing-on-the-cab performance, she and Aidan got back together, and he’s now back in San Francisco and has apparently sworn to spend every weekend with her from now on, and do everything he can to move back to New York as soon as humanly possible. That is love, I guess. I wonder if she would have forgiven him as easily if he’d cheated on her … or if we would have encouraged her to? I don’t know. I’m just glad she’s happy.
Angie is happy too. She finished all her bags for Serafina, and they chose three to go into production. And Sam is on his way back to New York. He’s sailing right now, somewhere between here and Europe. Right now she’s eating a block of cheese with the enthusiasm of the naturally skinny, sketching in her notepad.
Madeleine is … I don’t know. I can never read her. She’s thinking about something, that’s for sure. She’s barely responding to anything anyone says, but she seems to want to stay here in the kitchen with us, like being around us is comforting her in some way. I wonder if I’ll ever figure her out.
And Julia is miserable. Though I’m not sure why. She keeps saying she loves work, but maybe it’s one of those things you say so you’ll believe it. She’s looking incredibly tired, huge dark rings under her eyes. This is the first time she’s been home before midnight in ages.
Sometimes it seems like we can’t all be happy at once. Maybe that’s the law of averages: in a house of five girls, someone’s always going to have something bad happening in her life.
“Are you guys all coming to the Potstill Prom?” I say out loud.
“You’re really doing that?” says Angie in surprise.
“Yeah!” I say, trying to sound positive and enthusiastic. “Totally doing it. It’s going to be huge. You know, if the prom is a hit, then Gary won’t close the bar, and maybe he’ll help get Joe a Green Card.”
“The band is playing too,” says Madeleine. “We’re totally psyched.”
She’s so deadpan, I have to stare at her for a second to see if she’s being sarcastic. I think she is, but in a low-level way, which is okay.
“Who are you guys taking as dates?” asks Pia. “I’ll bring Aidan! He’ll be here then!”
“A date?” I echo.
I seriously hadn’t thought about it.
I have to get a date?
My first thought is Joe. But he can’t be my date. Joe doesn’t like me. Joe’s just a friend. Anyway, I can’t ask him, or he’ll think I like him, and I don’t, I mean, I did, for a moment, but then I realized I was wrong, totally wrong.
“Sam might be back by then,” Angie smiles happily. “Yay.”
Madeleine shrugs. “I’m singing. I don’t have to bring a date.”
“Are you going to ask Peter the Magnificent?” Pia asks Julia.
“No. Forcing us to bring a date is fascist,” says Julia.
“Saying that’s fascist is an insult to the true victims of real fascists,” says Angie.
Julia gives her the finger. Pia starts giggling.
But I can’t laugh. I’m freaking out. I’ve never asked a guy out on a date in my entire life. And there’s only one person I can ask.
Topher.
I have to ask Topher.
He’s the perfect date for the new grown-up, wild me. The old me, in high school, went alone to prom. I was sick with excitement and nerves, and in the end, I just came home alone and cried all night, because my so-called best friend slept with Eric, and I thought I was in love with him. In a way, that was the moment my entire life took a sharp turn downhill. My self-esteem hit rock bottom. Instead of getting turned off him, I became desperate to have Eric like me back, and that’s why, years later, in New York City, I slept with him. Stupid, stupid, stupid.
Taking Topher to the Potstill Prom would be like righting all those wrongs. Like everything had a point.
At that moment, Julia’s phone beeps. She glances at it and purses her mouth in a little line that means she’s stressed about something.
“What is it?”
“Peter.”
“What does he say?”
“He says ‘no problem.’”
“Why is he saying that?”
“I texted him earlier. Told him I was probably too busy to have dinner this week.”
Everyone shouts at Julia at the same time.
“What the fuck?” says Madeleine. “You told me you liked him.”
“Just because he was fired? Everyone gets fired! I’ve been fired a dozen times!” That’s Angie.
“He is a nice guy, Julia. You liked him so much. How can that be just kaput?” Pia sighs.
“Okay!” exclaims Julia. “Everyone back off. The guy is unemployed, okay?”
“Everyone’s unemployed until they get a job,” says Pia.
“Real deep, Pia.”
“Jules, you can’t be so hard on people,” says Angie.
“I’m only as hard on everyone else as I am on myself.” Julia crosses her arms, the ultimate defensive gesture.
“Maybe you should be a little kinder to yourself too,” says Pia gently. “There are no points for being a hard-ass. No one is keeping score.”
“Says the person who never played a team sport in her life,” says Julia. “Someone is always keeping score.”
“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” says Angie.
Madeleine interrupts. “Look. All we’re saying is, in New York City, it’s really hard to find someone with whom you actually want to spend time.” I’ve never heard her be so thoughtful and passionate about something. “When it happens, you don’t question it, Julia. You just go with it.”
Julia stares at her for a moment. “Fine! I’ll text him. Tell him my schedule cleared up.”
“Attagirl.”
Julia frowns at everyone and reluctantly taps out a text. A moment later, she gets a reply.
“Wow, he’s not playing hard to get, huh?” says Angie.
Julia reads the message and grins. She really does like him. She can’t help it. Then she looks up at all of us. “Okay, everyone. Show’s over. Julia and Peter are back on. For now. He better get a job soon, that’s all I’m saying.”
I still haven’t said a word. My brain is stuck on a loop saying, “I have to ask Topher to prom, I have to ask Topher to prom, I have to ask Topher to prom.”
But later, when I’m alone in my bedroom, I practice it in the mirror.
“Do you want to be my date to prom?”
Wow, that was hard to say. Even to myself.
I clear my throat, shake my hair, and try again.
“So there’s this lame prom thing at the bar? Do you wanna, like, come?”
Too low-key. And a little too Valley.
“We’re throwing this party at the bar where I work. It’s prom-themed. You should come.”
Perfect.
CHAPTER 23
After our next afternoon class, Topher and I take our usual spot on the grass in Washington Square Park.
I’m going to ask him to be my date to prom.
If I can work up the courage.
I just need to summon up the nerve.
Then he looks at me, and I feel a little thrill run through me. Gosh, it’s nice being here with him. All those times in high school when he was hanging out with the jocks and I was hanging out in the library, who would have thought we’d end up here, together, like this?
“What makes you happy?”
The words are out before I can stop them. Where did that even come from?
Topher looks up in surprise.
/> “Happy? Me? Um, a free place to live, that makes me happy. Getting paid for my internship, that makes me happy.” I smile. I spoke to my dad about it, and Topher’s now getting a stipend, plus expenses. “Hanging with my buds, you know. The usual stuff.” He pauses, and then grins. “Blow jobs.”
I laugh in shock. It wouldn’t shock me if Pia or Angie said that, but for some reason, Topher saying it to me shocks me. That’s weird.
“What makes me happiest of all is going out and getting hammered. There’s a big party tonight at Mel’s place. Remember Mel Arnett?”
Of course I do. She was one of the popular crew back in high school. Not actually pretty, if you get down to it, but white-blond hair dye, a well-padded bra, and sheer force of personality made everyone think she was the hottest thing around. She lives in New York now too? That really annoys me, for some reason. How dare she move here, to my New York City?
“Um … yeah…” I frown, like I’m trying to think. “I think I remember her.”
“It’s gonna be wild.” Topher looks at me and grins. “You like wild parties, Coco?”
“Sure, I…” I’m about to say I love wild parties. And I’d love to go with him and what time and where and what should I wear and should I bring my own alcohol or will it already be there and is that okay or should I pay someone for it, when Topher’s phone rings. He glances at it and smirks, then picks up.
“Hey, fuckface! What up?”
He pauses and then cracks up, and turns to me, mouthing, “I’ve gotta go!” and grabs his backpack.
I smile and wave good-bye, but Topher is already walking quickly away, deep in conversation, laughing hysterically at jokes I can’t hear.
Wait, so did he invite me to that party tonight?
He didn’t really, right? He just said, “You like wild parties, Coco?”
Yeah. I like wild parties, goddamnit. I really like them.
That could be my big chance with Topher. We’re such good friends now, you know, I bet if we just had a few drinks, something would totally happen. Maybe. And even if it doesn’t, at least I can ask him to be my date to the Potstill Prom.
The Wild One Page 15
