“I think she’s at a meeting,” Julie said. “There’s a note on the dining-room table.”
“Oh,” Mandy said. She opened the fridge and plucked a few grapes from a middle shelf. “So, Julie. Are you in drama, too?”
“Uh-huh,” I said. “And you’re at High School of Music and Art, right?” Julie had told me. “My sister’s there, too. She’s a senior in the art department.” Music and Art (or M&A) was kind of like P.A. ’cause it had three arts majors: art, voice, and instrumental music. “Do you know Ellie Prodsky?” I asked.
“Don’t know her,” Mandy said without even thinking. “I only know musicians.”
“Mandy’s in voice; she’s a singer,” Julie said.
“And composer,” Mandy said, slightly irritated. Julie smiled and rolled her eyes.
“Yeah,” Julie said. “She’s in a band. Fried X. Sometime we’ll go hear her play—especially since there’s this totally gorgeous British guy in the band, Oliver Moloney. Oh my God, I have such a crush on him. He plays guitar.”
“Bass,” Mandy corrected her. She took her soda and headed out of the kitchen, leaving all her junk in the chair.
“Sorry, bass.” Julie rolled her eyes again. “Oh! Let me get the bag,” she suddenly remembered, and ran back to her room.
“The only thing is,” she said, coming back down the hall right away, “there’s a blue ink stain on one of the pockets, but it’s hardly noticeable.”
“No, it’s even cooler this way,” I said. “I like it worn in- looking. Thanks so much!”
Walking home the seven blocks from Julie’s, I was so excited just thinking about everything. What a day it had been. I had gotten a Chocolate Soup bag and a new friend!I Not necessarily in that order.
By October, Julie and I were meeting to take the subway home after school pretty much every day—we planned it. And because we were always coming and going together, kids in our acting class started to call us Julie B. and Julie P. One time Gordon said, “There go the Julies!” (There was a Julie L. in Freshman Acting, too, but we didn’t hang out with her much.) We were Julie One and Julie Two. Julie and Julie Too. Or Julie and Julie Also. Somehow I was always introducing myself second, so I was Julie Also.
Most of the time Julie’s mom, Mimi, was never home, but the first time I met her, she was wearing only a bra and a pleated skirt and I thought she was so much cooler and younger-seeming than my parents. She shook my hand with both of her hands, and I noticed her perfectly polished bright red nails.
“It’s so nice to meet you, Julie!” she said with a big smile. “I’ve heard a lot about you!” Julie sucked her teeth a little.
“Don’t worry,” Julie said to me, “I haven’t really told her that much.”
“I think it’s fabulous that you girls are aspiring actresses!” Mimi said, ignoring Julie’s comment. She didn’t seem to mind or even notice that she was standing there in her bra. “Well, I should finish getting dressed,” she said. “I’m going to a meeting with Harvey.” And in a little while we had the place to ourselves again.
Mimi was really beautiful, which made sense since all her kids were so good looking. And she was tall and thin, which made sense since she was a model. Her hair was a light chestnut color, like Julie’s, and she wore it kind of short—very stylish. Julie showed me the coolest picture of her mom one day when she was telling me about Mimi’s career. She walked me to the living room and pointed to the framed picture over the Indian bowl where they threw their keys.
“This is my favorite,” Julie said. “It was a real magazine ad in, like, People and Time.”
“Wow,” I said. It’s Better in the Bahamas, said the ad, and Mimi was laughing and showing her dazzling white teeth. She was wearing short shorts and a pink top that tied at the waist, and this handsome kind of older guy with salt-and-pepper hair was carrying her in his arms. They were both really tan and standing knee-deep in the most gorgeous blue water I’d ever seen. It was like paradise, and they looked so happy.
“She got to go to Florida for the shoot,” Julie said, sounding cool for using the term “shoot.”
3
How Could One Girl Have So Much?
Julie and I were in her room picking out clothes and shoes and makeup because we were going to hear Mandy’s band, Fried X, play at this bar downtown. You could be under eighteen and get in, and probably even get away with getting a drink. Julie said this bar didn’t really care about carding. In New York City there were lots of bars like that, Mandy told us.
Julie had such great clothes—her stuff was so womanly—and she let me borrow whatever I wanted. She asked me to look in her closet and pick out a pair of jeans for her to wear while she was in the bathroom blow-drying her hair.
“So what time do we have to be home?” I shouted from the closet. I was going to sleep over that night.
“What do you mean?” she shouted back.
“What time’s your curfew?”
“What curfew?”
“Don’t you have a curfew?” I asked.
“Nope,” she said.
“You’re kidding!” I was shocked. “What about on school nights?” I started to sort through her jeans in the closet.
“Not really. My mom doesn’t care. She just says to take a cab home from wherever we are whatever time it is.”
Oh my God. I could not believe the luck! My overprotective parents wanted me home by ten on school nights and eleven thirty on weekend nights. Man, I couldn’t help thinking, it must be so great to have only one parent who was out a lot, like Mimi, and no curfew.
As I was looking through Julie’s closet it suddenly dawned on me that she had about sixty pairs of jeans in there! Well, maybe that was a bit of an exaggeration, but it was, like, a lot of jeans. And they were all designer brands like Fiorucci, Calvin Klein, Sassoon, and Girbaud. Not like my regular old Levi’s from Morris Brothers. I felt like I was looking at the wardrobe of some princess of a foreign country, so I said, “How can you afford all these jeans?”
“Oh, most of them I didn’t pay for,” she shouted from the bathroom.
“You mean they were gifts?” I said.
“No. Not really.”
I kept looking through her closet. Green-dyed Fioruccis with the lavender plastic tag around the belt loop, rust-colored Girbauds, stonewashed jeans, three pairs of blue denims in different shades, magenta jeans, baby pink corduroys. I was thinking, What’s it like to have all this clothing? How could one girl have so much? Julie appeared at the doorway in a towel. She had a look on her face like the cat who ate the canary, as my mom would say.
“So . . . how did you . . . ?” Then slowly I started to get it. I gasped and whispered, “Oh shit! Julie, did you steal these?”
She nodded, grinning. “You don’t have to whisper. My mom’s not home. And Mandy does it, too. Mandy made up a code word for it, in fact. Getting. Like if you got something, it means you didn’t pay for it.” She smiled even bigger, like, isn’t that clever?
“Oh my God.” I wasn’t sure if I should laugh or gasp again. “How?” I moved to her bed, holding the pair of Fioruccis I had picked, eager for the details. “How do you get away with it?”
“Well . . .” Julie exhaled like it was an old story. “You wouldn’t believe how little security some places have. Even department stores.” She sat down at her vanity to do her makeup. “What are you doing tomorrow? Saturdays are perfect at Fiorucci.”
“I’m free,” I said.
“Cool. We’ll wear baggy pants. That way you can walk right out of the store wearing the jeans underneath.”
“You’re kidding!” I said.
“Nope. It’s easy. You just walk right out; nobody says anything. Once I even tried walking out wearing just the jeans, no baggies over them, and nobody stopped me.”
“Oh my God.” I started to crack up and fell back on her bed. “How many times have you done this?” I said to the ceiling.
“Um . . . I’m not sure, maybe fifteen times?”
>
“Always at Fiorucci?” I asked.
“There, and certain department stores. Macy’s, for one, is so easy,” she said confidently. I didn’t think I could look up to Julie any more than I already did, but this made her the coolest person I’d ever met.
“And you’ve never been caught?” I asked.
“Never,” she said. She blotted her lipstick with a tissue.
Fiorucci was in the fancy neighborhood of East 59th Street, near Bloomingdale’s. They sold lots of different kinds of designer jeans and corduroys there, in tons of colors—all Fiorucci brand, of course—and the best clothes, mostly kind of punk stuff and jewelry.
I felt this weird combination of excited and nervous. When I’d been to Fiorucci before, it was to buy stuff or get the free posters they gave out. I was collecting them. So far I had four: the two angels one that Julie had, the David Bowie- looking punk rocker one (his face was kind of severe), the big red lips one, and the one with the topless blonde woman in red leather Fiorucci pants hugging her knees so they covered her boobs.
In the dressing room I tried on a bunch of jeans, and then left the pair I wanted on the hook. Acting perfectly calm, I went back out to the guy in my red baggy overalls and my socks. I gave him the two pairs I didn’t want and asked for three more. Julie was right; there was almost no security there—what a laugh. Nobody was counting what we took into the dressing room, and the clothes didn’t even have those plastic sensor things on them. What was the catch? I tried on three more pairs of pants—a magenta, a green, and a dark brown—returned them, and asked for two more. This is what Julie had told me to do—by that point the guy didn’t remember how many I had. On my way back to the dressing room, I heard Julie whispering to me.
“Jule! Juuu-lieee? Can you come here a sec, please?” I stepped into her dressing room and saw that she was red in the face and kind of sweating. Her jeans zipper was stuck.
“I can’t get these off!” she whispered.
“Oh my God,” I said, trying not to laugh.
“It’s not funny,” she said, trying not to laugh, too. “I can barely breathe in these things.”
We tugged and tugged at the zipper, but it was totally stuck. I was wishing I had some of that EZ-Zipper wax crayon that Mom kept in the jewelry box on her bureau. “Are these the ones you want?” I whispered, feeling Julie’s breath on my face as we pulled on the zipper and tried to hold back from laughing. It was like when you’re supposed to be quiet ’cause you’re in a church or library or something and you feel a huge attack of the giggles coming on. It was just a miracle no one knocked on the door to see what the fuss was about.
“Well, are these the ones you want?” I said.
“I hadn’t decided yet,” she said. “Don’t you think they’re too tight?”
“Yeah, kinda,” I giggled, “but I don’t think it really matters. Looks like these are the ones you’re going home in!” Then we both started laughing so hard—silently—that tears welled up in Julie’s eyes.
When we finally calmed down, Julie let out a big sigh and looked totally exasperated. The zipper still hadn’t budged.
“I can’t believe this,” she said. “Okay, go back to your dressing room and put yours on before somebody notices us.” I went back to my room, stifling my giggles, and I put on my jeans, and then my overalls over them.
We left any remaining pants on the counter, and the guy didn’t even look at us. He was talking to this mother and daughter. The place was crawling with shoppers.
Back upstairs at accessories, and dressed in her pants over pants, Julie was walking like a robot and trying to hide her worried look that her new Fiorucci jeans might never come off. My hands were cold and sweaty at the same time. I didn’t know how we were gonna get away with this. But I also kept thinking, We just might. Nobody seemed to be paying too much attention. The plan now was to actually buy something from accessories so we seemed less suspicious. We looked at the earrings. There was this really cool pair that had a little stack of fake pearls wrapped in shiny iridescent pink Saran Wrap-type stuff.
“Oh, I love these,” I said.
“Me, too,” Julie said, and I noticed she was glancing at the salesgirl behind the counter to see if she could just drop them in her pocket. They were $5.50. This made me nervous, so I took out my wallet and gave Julie a look. We each bought a pair.
Okay, we were ready to go, but the salesgirl was taking her time finding little plastic bags to put the earrings into, and I was getting antsy. I could feel my heart starting to thump in my chest. C’mon lady, hurry it up, it’s time to go. I was willing her to hurry up by staring at her.
“Hey, Carla!” someone shouted to the salesgirl, and I turned around. It was the guy with the spiky green hair from downstairs. Julie and I glanced at each other, then looked at him. He didn’t look at us. He stood there silently for a second waiting for Carla to notice him. Carla was crouched down still looking for plastic bags. I felt the sweat starting to form around my waist where the jeans under my overalls were hugging me.
Finally, Carla looked up at the guy and said, kind of annoyed, “What?” He threw a package of credit-card slips on her counter and said with a smirk, “Don’t say I never gave you nothing!”
Ignoring the guy, Carla said, “Here they are!” She pulled out two bags and dropped our earrings in them. “Thanks for waiting,” she mumbled, blowing some hair off her forehead.
As we got to the exit, Julie suddenly remembered the free Fiorucci posters and stopped at the poster counter.
“C’mon, Jule,” I said, under my breath. That day’s Fiorucci poster was of two topless women with their backs to the camera and their hands on their hips. One was white, the other black, and both were wearing black leather Fiorucci pants.
“I don’t have this one,” Julie said as she grabbed two and hurried out the door with me.
“Have a nice day, ladies!” the poster guy called after us.
“You, too!” we yelled, and then, trying not to sprint, we walked fast down the street, not really looking at each other, sort of holding our breath. Julie kind of did a walk-run, and once we were a few blocks away, she said, “Oh my God, we are so good!”
“I can’t believe how easy that was,” I said, and we headed for the nearest coffee shop. We went straight to the ladies’ room where miraculously we got Julie unzipped by rubbing some of my cantaloupe lip gloss on her zipper. Why didn’t I think of that in the dressing room?
4
She Tinks Shés .the Queen of England
On October 20, Mom’s forty-seventh birthday, she wanted to go to this really fancy restaurant, Café des Artistes. The waiters were all old men who had slicked-back hair and wore full tuxedos, and there were things on the menu like duck with raspberry sauce. Mom ordered a Stoli on the rocks and asked Ellie if she’d like to have her first drink, even though she was only seventeen. The drinking age in New York was eighteen, but it was in the news a lot that they might change it to nineteen or twenty-one. In New York City you could be fourteen and people thought you were eighteen. At least Julie and I could pass for being older; we hardly ever got carded. I thought it couldn’t possibly really be Ellie’s first drink, but she never told me anything, and since she hardly ever went out out, like to clubs with her friends or anything, maybe it was. I couldn’t even count how many times I’d tried it. One time with my old friends Kristin and Olivia, we shared a bottle of red wine at Kristin’s house and by mistake spilled most of it all over Kristin’s Spanish textbook. Whenever we had Spanish after that, I could smell the red wine, ’cause I sat behind her. When Julie and I went to see Fried X, I tried a madras (which is orange and cranberry juice with vodka). It was so good!
“Why don’t you have a fuzzy navel?” Dad suggested, and smirked like he knew one of us was gonna ask, “What’s that?”
“What’s that?” Ellie said.
“Just try it,” Dad said. “I think you’ll like it.”
When the waiter came back, Ellie said,
“A fuzzy navel, please,” and then he looked at me.
“A Tom Collins,” I said, and Mom shot Dad a look.
“Julie, when did you have a Tom Collins?” Dad said.
“Never,” I lied, putting on my best innocent face. Then Ellie got really mad.
“Hey! I didn’t get to have a drink when I was fourteen!” she said, emphasizing my age, probably to get me in trouble. “That’s so unfair!” The waiter was trying not to smile and kept looking from Mom to Dad. I was kind of surprised he didn’t ask us for ID. I guess he figured ’cause we were with our parents, it was okay.
“What do you care?” I asked her.
Ellie crossed her arms over her chest and got all huffy. “I can’t believe it. It’s so unbelievably not fair!” she said again, ignoring me.
“Well,” Mom said cheerfully, “sometimes life is not fair.” It annoyed me when parents said things like that. Like, “When you’re the mother, you can decide.” Great, I always thought, that’ll be in about a million years, so how does that help me now?
As much as I hated Ellie sometimes, I kind of understood why she had a look on her face like she wanted to kill us all. Still, I was psyched about my Tom Collins—it was kind of like a lemonade with alcohol. My parents probably thought it was my first drink. Ha ha. Ellie cheered up when her fuzzy navel came with a blue paper umbrella, a plastic sword, and a maraschino cherry. Mine came with only a cherry, which I let her have ’cause she loves maraschino cherries and I hate them. She let me try a sip of her fuzzy navel. Totally yummy. It had a delicious thick syrupy peachy taste that went straight to my chest, and I got a warm fizzy feeling. I wished I’d ordered a fuzzy navel, too.
The whole night turned out pretty okay until we were leaving the restaurant and Dad was getting the coats. Mom and Dad started to make a scene with one of their fights, totally bugging out the coat-check girl, and it continued as we got outside on the sidewalk in front of the restaurant. I thought it was about the coat-check girl, ’cause Mom muttered something about an “insufficient tip.”
Klepto Page 3
