by Tucker Shaw
“Who?”
“My brother,” she said.
“Trina, don’t say that.”
“Whatever. I’ll be out of here soon.” She paused a moment. “And until then, I’m not going to go around calling my friends by my brother’s name,” she said. “I think it’s just weird. Dahling.”
I laughed. Trina cracks me up. She’s half-dainty, all dahling this and dahling that, and half-tough. She doesn’t hold back her opinion. Like two opposite people in one. But I like them both and, besides, who isn’t at least two opposite people in one? Sometimes I feel like four or five people during the course of a day.
I gave her the password so she could start posting pictures of Audrey Hepburn, too.
“So tell me about your parents,” she asked. “All you ever do is listen to me complain about mine!”
Sometimes I wanted to tell her. I really wanted to open my mouth, or start typing away on the keyboard, and let everything I felt about my dead mom and depressed dad come flowing out of me. Like if I just spilled it all, everything would be better and I’d feel lighter. But I never knew exactly what to say or how to start. What’s the first word to use when you tell someone that your mother died? So I’d usually just turn the conversation back to her and get her started on another funny story. It was just easier that way.
A pool of cool air bursts up the sidewalk, and I hunch my shoulders. A glint of light reflects off the windows of the Louis Vuitton store across the street, sending beams of white-pink light onto the sidewalk, where they dance around my slippers.
I grasp my coffee tighter, looking for warmth, but I can feel it getting cold in my hand. I don’t pop the lid and take a sip. Not yet.
5:40 A.M.
Bryan found the Tumblr page at around the same time as Trina. He posted a picture of Audrey lying by a pool, a really glamorous pool with palm trees just behind it. Here she is in 1954, in the pool at the house right across the street from me, when Lauren Bacall lived there.
Bryan Akito from Bel-Air, in Los Angeles, California. He doesn’t ever brag about how rich he is, but he doesn’t ignore it, either. “I live in a mansion. My neighbors are Will Smith and Chelsea Handler. I got a Mercedes for my seventeenth birthday. I took horseback-riding lessons on our ranch in Santa Barbara. What can I say?”
His parents are television producers. They made millions off some science fiction series in the 1990s. I forget which one, something about a high-tech colony marooned on a space station that had to fight off a different kind of alien in each episode. Not really my kind of show.
“Mine, either,” Bryan said once. “The only way I’d watch a sci-fi movie is if it had Barbara Stanwyck in it.”
I couldn’t believe it. I couldn’t believe anyone else had ever even heard of Barbara Stanwyck. But Bryan knows everything about old movies. Everything. He knows the difference between Betty Grable and Betty Bacall, between Gary Cooper and Cary Grant. He can recite All About Eve the whole way through, line for line, and he can tell you what color dress Rita Hayworth was wearing in the nightclub scene in Gilda even though it’s a black-and-white movie. He can describe exactly every set in Auntie Mame, down to the cocktail cart. He can recite Elizabeth Taylor’s full name, accounting for all eight of her marriages: Elizabeth Taylor Hilton Wilding Todd Fisher Burton Burton Warner Fortensky. He can sketch every outfit Grace Kelly wore in To Catch a Thief and her hairstyles, too. He can strike every pose Joan Crawford did in Mildred Pierce. He knows which of Bette Davis’s gowns were designed by Edith Head and which were designed by Adrian, although Bryan says Edith Head’s designs were better almost every time. He even knows Marilyn Monroe’s measurements by heart. “I use them as my PIN number.”
But Audrey Hepburn is his favorite. Of course.
“Audrey Hepburn is the greatest movie star of all time,” he said to me once. “The ultimate. Exquisite. Perfection. She wasn’t the greatest actor or the most successful or the greatest beauty. But she was perfect. There was never any movie star like her before her, and there will never be anyone like her again. Ever. Period.”
I love the way Bryan talks in absolutes. He never says things like “in my opinion” or “I think”; he just says, “Audrey Hepburn is the greatest movie star of all time.” Like it’s a fact.
Sometimes I wonder whether Bryan has any friends in Bel-Air. He never talks about his social life. Well, that’s not totally true. There’s that one time, a couple months ago, that he told me he had to get some stitches removed from his forehead.
I asked, “Stitches? From what?”
“You know how it is, Gemma,” he told me.
“What happened?”
“Nothing, really, just some guys from school,” he said.
“What do you mean?” I asked.
“Look, remember last week when I mentioned I’d gotten these great new Thom Browne pants, midcalf, and the bright orange Cole Haan oxfords?”
“Yeah! You sent me a pic. So cute.”
“And remember how I told you they were really women’s oxfords because they didn’t make men’s oxfords in that exact color?”
“So what?” I said. It’s not like the shoes are any different. “I buy guys’ shoes all the time, you know.”
“Those oxfords didn’t survive the day, Gemma. And neither did my forehead.” He paused a moment before going on. “There’s this jerk who’s constantly harassing me at school. He’s a complete meathead. You know the type. Can’t really form a sentence but still seems to have tons of friends around all the time? Anyway, he came up to me in the stairwell and asked me where I got my quote-unquote fabulous shoes. He pointed them out to the five other guys who were standing there, too. ‘Aren’t they fabulous?’ he said. I didn’t answer, of course, because he’s not the kind of person to use the word fabulous unless he’s up to something. Anyway, he pretended to bend over for a closer look and quote-unquote accidentally spilled his Powerade all over them.”
“Bryan.”
“So of course, being an idiot, I bent down to wipe it off. Well, let’s just say you shouldn’t bend down to wipe off stains at the top of a staircase in front of six guys you know hate you.”
“I’m so sorry,” I said. “I wish I’d been there. I’d have pushed them all down the stairs and watched them pile up into a heap at the bottom.”
“That would have been awesome,” he said. “Except they would have landed on me.”
We both cracked up. When we were done, we were silent for a moment. Then Bryan spoke.
“I just can’t wait to get out of here,” he said.
“I know the feeling,” I said.
“What do you mean?” he asked.
“I just—” And then I didn’t know what to say. It was like my breath caught in my throat and I felt this wave come over me, like maybe I’d cry.
“Gemma?”
“Nothing,” I said.
“I don’t believe you,” he said. “Something’s wrong.”
“I’m OK,” I said.
“Of course you are. That doesn’t mean nothing’s wrong. I can tell. This will sound really weird, but it’s like I can see you. I know I’m in California and you’re in Philadelphia, but I can see you.”
“That’s crazy,” I said.
“I know. But, Gemma, if you ever want to talk . . . ”
“About what?” I said.
“About anything. You know that, right?”
I did. I knew it. But I couldn’t get the words I know out without my voice cracking. “Thanks” was all I said, and then I changed the subject to the Oscars, which were coming up in a couple of weeks.
I see a young guy in a suit walking up Fifth Avenue toward me. Is it him? He strides closer, talking on his phone, before stepping off the curb and crossing the street. I can see his trousers are too long, bunching at the hems.
It’s not Bryan. He’d never wear his pants that way.
5:45 A.M.
If I “know” Trina and Bryan, I guess that means I know Telly, too. Not that I really want to.
Not after all the horrible comments she’s made on Oh Yeah, Audrey! If she even is a she. You never really know on the Internet. For all I know, “Telly” is a lumberjack from the Northwest Territories.
The person who calls himself/herself Telly found Oh Yeah, Audrey! a few months ago. The first comment she posted was underneath a beautiful picture of Audrey Hepburn lying on the floor in a black turtleneck and black cigarette pants, propped up on her elbows with her long legs stretched out behind her. Big deal. I could starve myself and look like that, too, he/she wrote.
After that, she never stopped posting. She was always complaining about how skinny Audrey was. Starvation chic, she’d write, or Emaciated, or I bet she was on drugs, or Somebody give her a sandwich.
Once, she even posted a link to her own Facebook page, where she’d put up a screenshot of Audrey Hepburn as Holly Golightly in the belted trench coat she wore in the final scene of Breakfast at Tiffany’s when she goes looking for the cat named Cat in a back alley during a rainstorm. Only, on Telly’s Facebook page, the picture had been blown up in Photoshop to make Audrey look really, really fat. Like, really fat.
That’s more like it was the accompanying comment. (For the record, it only had two “likes,” and I have a feeling they were both from Telly herself.)
Her comments made Bryan really mad, because for one thing, Audrey was beautiful (or to be more precise, “the most beautiful creature who ever lived and anyone who doesn’t agree just doesn’t know what they’re talking about”), and for another thing, Audrey didn’t choose to be so skinny. She just was skinny. In fact, Bryan said that he’d read in a biography about her that when she was a child during World War II, she had to hide from the Nazis in a basement in Holland. For a month. A month! Kind of like in The Diary of Anne Frank, only Audrey was in a basement instead of an attic. Bryan said that some producers in Hollywood tried to get her to play Anne Frank in the movie but Audrey said no way. It was too close to home for her and, besides, she was in her twenties when they asked and shouldn’t a teenager play the part? Anyway, Bryan said that her metabolism was never really the same after that experience, and she always had a hard time eating and putting on weight.
And don’t even ask what Trina thinks about Telly. I’ll paraphrase: “Does she have a neck? If so, I look forward to wringing it.”
Personally, I find Telly totally annoying, but there’s a part of me that also wonders what kind of person would be so committed to bringing someone like Audrey Hepburn down. Either she’s just plain evil or she’s totally insecure and hates herself. Maybe both. I feel sorry for whoever this Telly is. Maybe she’s trying to put down Audrey because her life sucks, too. Like Trina’s. Like Bryan’s. Like mine.
Telly knows about the Breakfast at Tiffany’s meeting. Anyone who follows Oh Yeah, Audrey! knows about it. Everyone’s invited. But only Bryan and Trina have said they will show up.
I can’t wait for midnight.
They say the Ziegfeld Theater has one of the biggest movie screens anywhere, and soon I will see Audrey Hepburn sashay across it. So far, even though I’ve watched Breakfast at Tiffany’s around one million times, I’ve only ever seen it on a small television screen and on the laptop Dad got us after . . . you know.
I straighten my pearls (fake, obvs). I tell myself that even if six o’clock comes and goes and I’m still alone on the sidewalk, my breakfast at Tiffany’s will still be perfect. Holly had her breakfast alone. So can I.
Maybe it’d be better that way anyway.
5:50 A.M.
The misty air has left a sparkly sheen on the pavement, and the street glistens as the sky gets brighter. Still no one else here. Not Bryan, not Trina, not Telly. Not even Dusty.
Have I mentioned Dusty? Dusty-haired Dusty with the slate-gray eyes? I wonder if he’s coming. Yesterday I hoped so. Today I hope not.
I don’t know.
A town car lumbers by, followed by a school bus, crawling slowly downtown.
A school bus? In New York City? I wonder what school it belongs to. I wonder if it’s Dusty’s school. His fancy private school on the Upper East Side. I wonder what it’s like there, with all those rich kids in expensive clothes. I wonder if it’s like Gossip Girl. I wonder how many beautiful girls are there, how many of them Dusty likes. How many of them Dusty has dated. Is dating.
I wonder what he really means when he says stuff like “You seem really cool,” or “Do you have a boyfriend?”
I know what you’re thinking. You think I have a crush on Dusty. But I don’t. How could I have a crush on someone I’ve never met in person?
Dusty follows the Oh Yeah, Audrey! page also, but not for the same reasons the rest of us do. He’s not obsessed with Audrey Hepburn or anything like that.
He first posted a note on the page a few weeks ago, asking for help on a school report he was working on. Something about Hubert de Givenchy, the one who designed all of Holly Golightly’s dresses. “It’s my punishment for skipping film class,” he wrote. “Three days in a row.” He said that he needed help figuring out which dresses to include in his report. “Can you help me pick? I don’t know anything about this stuff.”
I heard my dad’s voice. How is this little obsession of yours ever going to help anyone?
“I’m going to help him,” I told Trina later on the phone. “Why not? It’s like being a Good Samaritan.”
“Save the world, Gemma,” Trina said.
I sent Dusty a dozen pictures of Audrey Hepburn for his report. He said thanks. I said you’re welcome. He asked me questions about her, like where she was from and how old she was and stuff, and I answered. Born in Belgium, but lived in England, Amsterdam, Los Angeles, and Switzerland. She would be eighty-four now, but she died in 1993, when she was sixty-three. Cancer. She was twenty-four when she won an Oscar for Roman Holiday. Thirty-one when she made Breakfast at Tiffany’s. She was on everyone’s Best Dressed list. She always wore clothes by the designer Hubert de Givenchy, even when the movie she was working on had a different costume person.
“Didn’t that piss off the costume person?” Dusty asked.
“Probably,” I answered. “But it was part of her contract.”
“Thanks,” he said. “I really appreciate this.”
It felt good to be helpful. Even in a non-saving-the-world way.
“You’re welcome,” I wrote.
Later that night, Bryan e-mailed me and Trina. “Anyone else look him up on Facebook? He’s beyond cute. There’s a picture of him on a yacht. No shirt. Great smile. Cute sneakers. Pecs. That little vein running down his biceps. Yum.”
“A yacht?” Trina wrote back. “Is he rich?”
“I’m sure,” I wrote.
“What!?” Trina wrote. “A girl needs to know these things! I mean, is he the kind of guy who gives a girl fifty dollars for the powder room?” That was from Breakfast at Tiffany’s.
“We know what Holly Golightly is really doing in that powder room for fifty dollars!” Bryan joked.
“As if!” I scolded him. “Holly gets fifty dollars for being her fabulous self. And that’s the end of it!” I exclaimed.
“Gemma Beasley, I love Holly just as much as you do, but it takes more than being fabulous for men to throw money at you. You need a reality check.”
But that was the thing. Who wants a reality check when you can be having breakfast at Tiffany’s?
“Anyway,” Bryan continued, “Dusty’s dad is Jimmy Sant’Angelo, the music producer. You know, the guy who produces all those rap stars. Do you know how rich that guy is? Crazy rich.”
“Out of my league,” Trina wrote. “Whatever. He’s probably a jerk. All those rich bros are. Quel rat.” Another line borrowed from Breakfast.
I’ll admit that I thought Dusty looked cute, and those biceps were—well, I noticed them. And he was obviously incredibly rich. But those weren’t the reasons I decided to help him. There’s something about someone asking for help with something that you know about that makes you just want to help. You
know what I mean? I’d asked people questions on the Internet before and been totally ignored, and it sucked. I didn’t want to be that person. Besides, it was no big deal. It’s not like I didn’t have hundreds of pictures of Audrey Hepburn to share.
Dusty asked if he could call me to ask me more questions. “I really need to ace this paper. I need to graduate on time. Can I have your number?”
I told him no, but that I would call him. I blocked my number before I did it. I may be helpful, but I’m not stupid. I’ve seen those shows about what happens to people who share their numbers with strangers. You never really know who’s out there on the Internet. Ax murderers, for example.
“Hello?” Dusty’s voice was sleepy when he answered, like he’d just woken up.
“Is this a bad time?” I asked.
“No,” he said, and I think I heard him yawn. “It’s perfect.”
We talked for an hour about Audrey Hepburn. Or more like, I talked and he listened. I could hear him typing in the background. I told him just about everything I know about her movies and her fashion and everything else. I explained what cigarette pants are and why they’re called that, and what the difference is between an A-line skirt and a pencil skirt, and what slingbacks are, and mules, and kitten heels. I explained why you call it a tiara and not a crown, why long dresses have slits, and why women love to dress in black.
“How do you know all this stuff?” he asked.
“I just know it, I guess,” I said.
“No, seriously, you’re really smart.”
“I’m not that smart,” I said.
“Yeah. You are,” he said.
I didn’t answer. I just sat there with my phone to my ear, blushing.
That’s right. I was alone, at home, on the couch with my laptop and phone, talking with someone I didn’t know, and I blushed.
“Hello?” he said.
“Sorry.”
“I thought you’d gone.”
“Nope,” I said.
“So people really think Audrey Hepburn was beautiful, huh?”
