by Tia Williams
“Darcy’s colored your whole experience with girls. The pathology’s so clear. It’s why you flirt with everything. You flirted with me, you flirt with the girls in the office. You told Jinx she had Lara Croft hair just to make her swoon.”
“I said it to help her self-esteem! That’s not flirtation, that’s chivalry.”
“You even batted your goddamn eyelashes to get us into that interview,” she continued. “You’re on a constant quest for attention and approval from women, and it’s obviously because you didn’t get any at home.”
He stared at her. The light changed, fifteen cars honked and the cab scooted up three inches. Finally, he responded. “So that’s your diagnosis?”
“Pretty much.”
“Wanna hear mine?”
“Knock yourself out.”
“This evil, jaded thing isn’t working for you. Any book parties happening tonight? You should find another twenty-two-year-old to holler at. Fuck all that hurt outta your system.”
The second Eric said it, he was sorry. But he was also too pissed to take it back.
Jenna’s mouth opened, shut, and then opened again. “I dislike you. Intensely.”
“It’s more than mutual, Ms. Jones.”
‘“I can’t stay in here with you.” Jenna snatched her clutch up and leaned up to the partition, yelling, “Sir? Can you let me out here? I’m going to hop out…”
“Nah, fuck that. I’m getting out, you stay,” shouted Eric, knocking on the partition. “Can you open the trunk so I can get my equipment?”
“No! I’m leaving!”
“I don’t care which one-a-y’all stays or goes,” said the driver, “as long as I get paid, yaheardme?”
Then there was an awkward moment when they were both clamoring to get their doors open, but they were locked, and the driver kept pushing the unlock/lock button, but none of them could get the rhythm right, so Jenna and Eric were left pounding on the doors, cursing in a blind, slapsticky rage.
Jenna’s door popped open first. Triumphant, she opened her wallet, whipped out two twenties and threw them at Eric.
The driver watched through the rearview mirror and chuckled, saying, “Aww shit, she makin’ it rain!”
Jenna opened her door, hopping out into the cacophonous, congested intersection. As was her luck, the second after she slammed the door, the traffic started moving. She scurried to the sidewalk and watched as the cab spirited Eric off downtown. With a sigh, she wiped the sweat from her forehead and stomped down Sixth Avenue. Nothing good was behind her, and surely nothing good was awaiting her.
“Is this a fucking joke?” raged Darcy, four hours later. She’d just seen Eric’s edited, two-minute clip. “Tell me it’s a joke.”
Jenna and Eric were seated in their boss’s office, in ice-cold silence, feeling like wayward children in detention. As Darcy raged, Eric shifted in his chair, looking drained and over it, while Jenna sat at attention, trying to take the well-deserved abuse like a professional.
Her formal posture was at odds with her appearance, though. The walk from 29th Street had done her no favors. By the time she reached the StyleZine building, she was limping from blisters, her mascara was smeared, and her hair had exploded into a puffy halo in the humidity.
“It’s boring, pointless nonsense. Jenna, when I gave you free license to do whatever you wanted, it was because I was secure in the fact that you, a seasoned pro, wouldn’t churn out a sixth grade visual arts project. And Eric, what’s with the disjointed editing? Were you high? And who would pick this dingbat gypsy for your first video? Her accent is unintelligible, and it’s not even a chic one, like French or Italian. German? The most depressing language. Like, I want to kill myself. And the whole time, I’m wondering why she isn’t in the ICU at Mount Sinai. Whose idea was this?”
Eric and Jenna said nothing. She didn’t want to admit her massive mistake, and he wasn’t going to snitch.
“Whose idea was this?”
“Well, I initially…” started Jenna.
“It was mine,” he said, simultaneously.
“Nice try, Eric, but no. You have no idea who Greta Blumen is.”
“I wanted to give StyleZine an exclusive,” said Jenna. “Greta doesn’t talk to anyone.”
“Precisely. Fraulein Blumen doesn’t talk to anyone. Just because she agreed to be on camera didn’t mean she was going to talk. Did she say she was going to?”
Jenna couldn’t bring herself to say that she hadn’t even spoken to her beforehand. When Eric saw her struggling for an answer, he quickly intervened—not because he cared, but because he wanted this to all be over so he could go somewhere and smoke the roach stashed in his wallet.
“Mom…wait, what do I call you at work?”
“Jehovah.”
He snickered. “Noted. Look, we did a poor job. We’re aware. Next time we won’t.”
Darcy looked at her son like the top of her head was going to blow off. “Oh really? The only reason you’re getting a next time is because it took a lot of thought and effort to hire both of you. I know you can do better. But do not make me sorry I brought you here. You both need me more than I need you, so show up. Do the work. Because Eric, even though I grew you inside my platinum-coated womb…”
He recoiled. “Platinum-coated?”
“…I will gleefully toss you out of this building on your ass. And Jenna, may I remind you that you’ve been charged with tripling our numbers in eight months?”
“You don’t need to remind me.”
Jenna looked at her hands, and Eric gazed out of the window—both avoiding looking at each other. Darcy eyed both of them. “What’s going on with you two?”
“I’m sorry?” Jenna crossed her legs.
“I’m picking up on some negative energy. I know everything that happens at all my websites, but especially my cash cow. Someone overheard you two having a strongly-worded conversation in Jenna’s office on Monday. And now, this hack job? You clearly don’t feel comfortable working together. You’re sitting there all stiff and pissed, like you can’t stand the sight of each other. You have no chemistry.”
Eric snorted. “You have no idea.”
“I can only speak for myself,” she said, wanting to smack him with her Rocky 4 purse, “but I feel comfortable! Really, I do.”
“Stop bullshitting. Jenna, you’re working closely with my child.
It probably feels like added pressure. Maybe you feel blocked because you can’t relax around the boss’s son.”
“I don’t think…”
“And E, your face went vomit-green when I told you about me and Jenna’s history. But the bottom line is, if you two can’t handle this project together, tell me now. So I can replace one or both of you.”
“No need,” said Eric. “We’re cool.”
Jenna nodded rapidly. “The coolest.”
“My mistake was thinking that you were capable of churning out a winning clip in two days. That’s on me. Our readership has completely stalled; I got too eager,” said Darcy. “Let’s pivot. I’ll give you a week and a half. In the meantime, overcome this weird awkwardness. Get a rapport going. Build an energy.”
Jenna and Eric shifted in their seats.
“Question,” he said. “Is it mandatory that we be in the same room while we’re building the energy? Or can we just, like, FaceTime?”
“Can the sarcasm,” spat Darcy. “I have a migraine throughout my entire body, and I’m late for my Lunchtime Lipo.”
“Lunchtime was hours ago.”
“It’s a brand name, Eric,” hissed Jenna, icily. The words were “it’s a brand name,” but the tone was, “I hope you die violently, you rude little prick.”
“See that?” She pointed to Jenna, and then Eric. “Whatever you’re doing right now, stop. You’re partners. Act like it. Did you get your invites to Terry’s birthday drinks on Monday night?”
Darcy wasn’t a sentimental person, but she was maniacally obsessed with birthdays and holiday
s. On these special occasions, she threw voluntary parties for her staff (though the concept of a ‘voluntary party’ was an oxymoron. Like celebrating under duress).
It never occurred to her that the last thing one of her employees would want to do on their birthday night is spend it in the company of their boss. Especially one they nicknamed The Dream Killer.
“I better see you both there, acting civil,” continued Darcy. “Literally, your jobs depend on it. I will see a return on my investment, assholes.”
“You will,” said Jenna, relieved to get another chance. She was stunned that Darcy had taken their failure as well as she did. “Don’t worry.”
“I’m not worried. Not in the slightest,” she said, her tone calmly threatening. “Jenna, what happened to your hair? You look like the Cowardly Lion. Whatever, not my problem. Dismissed.”
CHAPTER 9
The selection here isn’t so bad, thought Jenna. These jeans are actually cute! The rear pocket placement is a little low, which will further flatten my already unplump ass, but the cut is sophisticated. Nice wash. Jenna was clothes shopping at Target for the first time. The superstore was positioned in downtown Brooklyn’s Atlantic Center mall, kitty-corner to the Barclay Center, at the intersection of every genre of Brooklyn personality: yuppie gentrifiers buying zingy throw pillows for their Restoration Hardware chaise lounges; rowdy, around-the-way teens eating Pizza Hut and making out in the cafe; tattooed hipster moms stalking the kiddie section for organic baby bedding—and Jenna, who in her almost twenty years in fashion, had never worn anything but socks and Maybelline Great Lash mascara from the likes of Target.
She was shopping there because it’s all her budget allowed, which would’ve been depressing if she wasn’t sort of getting into it. Over the past half hour, she’d loaded up her cart with three pairs of J brand-esque jeans; two dresses that were perfect Isabel Marant knockoffs; and a chunky, menswear-inspired sweater that, if she squinted, looked like it could’ve sprung to life from a Matthew Williamson sketch. How had she not known that Target was a delightful Narnia of a retail destination?
It was Saturday morning, and shopping always cleared her head—which she needed, after her abysmal work week. Instead of following Darcy’s direct order to spend more time together, Jenna and Eric did the opposite, avoiding each other completely. The one time they ran into each other, outside of the kitchenette, they did an almost choreographed about-face and took off in the other direction. Jenna couldn’t help it. She wanted Eric not to exist.
Which was stupid. She needed him.
Grabbing an electric purple maxi skirt off of a spinning rack, Jenna mused on this. She’d have to be the one to fix it, to apologize. After all, she was the grownup. Yes, Eric calling her hard up and undateable was rude, but Jenna never should’ve said he had mommy issues. It was inexcusable. No wonder he didn’t want anything to do with her.
Jenna was rifling through the next rack, when she heard a familiar pair of voices.
“…because yeah, I’m platinum blonde, but I’m naturally a brunette, so my skin coloring doesn’t match my hair. You’d think I’d wear rosy blush, but I really need a coral.”
“Do you think my Cleopatra eyeliner is played out? I need an update.”
“You can never not do Cleopatra eyeliner. That’s your you-drag.”
“Me-drag?”
“Your signature look. Like, if someone were to dress up like you, they’d have to wear that eyeliner. Everybody has their me-drag. Mine is athletic techno-slut.”
It was Terry and Jinx. Jenna spotted them walking up the main aisle toward the registers, each carrying baskets full of makeup.
Jenna froze. No, no, no. She couldn’t let them see her buying a whole wardrobe at Target. Every morning, she used her years of styling expertise to merchandise her outfits in such a way that an American Eagle top looked like Altuzarra. She was supposed to be a Fashion OG, a Major Player! If they saw her, she’d be outed for the broke fraud she was.
She abandoned her cart and ducked behind a pillar. Holding her breath, she tried to make herself small until they passed.
Keep walking, nothing to see here…
“Jenna?”
Her eyes flew open. “Terry!”
She and Jinx looked at each other and burst into giggles.
“I never thought I’d see you at Target!” Jinx looked like a girl who’d just been told the most delicious piece of gossip. “What are you doing here?”
“Oh, I’m…I was picking up some kitchen utensils. I’ve only been back in New York for a couple of weeks, I still need a lot of household supplies.”
“But isn’t this your cart of clothes?” asked Terry.
“No!” Jenna laughed. “Why would you think it’s mine?”
“That’s your furry handbag in the front.”
“Oh! Hilarious, yeah. My, um, fifteen-year-old niece needs some back-to-school clothes, so I was just…” Jenna cut herself off, because she realized she was clutching the purple maxi-skirt to her chest like protective armor.
And in that moment, she decided she was sick of hiding the low-budget truth of her life. The veneer hadn’t earned her the respect she was going for anyway.
Jenna tossed her skirt into her cart, grabbed her purse and said, Girls, can I treat you to personal pan pizzas at the café?”
Ten minutes later, the three women were enjoying two ndividual pepperoni pizzas, discussing perception versus reality. “But…you’re totes fancy,” said Jinx.
“Not anymore,” said Jenna.
“You used to work for Darling!” exclaimed Terry. “How are you not all designer everything?”
She took a sip of Sprite. “I did have a fabulous wardrobe. But… circumstances changed, and I sold everything because I needed cash to relocate. Now, I’m a financially-challenged ‘glambassador’ who has the nerve to prescribe fashion advice to StyleZine readers when I bought a pair of fake heels from a site called Fauxboutins.com.”
Terry and Jinx stared at her, disbelieving. The Louboutin thing took them over the edge. They never expected that level of tackiness from any of their coworkers, let alone her.
“Do the shoes look legit?” asked Jinx, in hushed tones.
“Girls,” said Jenna, moving on, “I’d love it if we could keep this our little secret, okay?”
“Fully,” said Terry. She laid her hand—which was adorned with an extravaganza of skeleton and skull-and-crossbones rings—over Jenna’s. “This is a circle of trust.”
“And don’t feel bad about being broke! We all are,”’ said Jinx, nibbling gingerly on a small circle of pepperoni.
“Ready for a truthbomb?” asked Terry, helping herself to Jinx’s pizza. “This morning I got dressed in the dark. No electricity. It’s my roommate’s fault. She’s sweet, but a butt-slut. Anyway, she’s all wrapped up in this illicit thing with the Hasidic dude that runs the check cashing place on our block, and forgot to pay her half of the bill. And I couldn’t cover it. That’s how financially-challenged I am.”
“I’m so poor,” said Jinx, “that I make paninis with my flatiron.”
“See?” exclaimed Terry. “We’re all in the same lane.”
Jenna smiled, relief flooding her. Not only had it felt incredible to admit the truth, she loved being able to finally relax around Terry and Jinx. It was sweet of them to try to make her feel less pathetic.
“Yet you both always look incredible. Amazing personal styles.”
Terry shrugged. “We write about top designers, but we don’t need to wear them to look dope.”
“It’s easy to get around the money issue.” Jinx looked at her blonde friend, her eyes flashing. “Do you think we should…”
“Brilliant minds, Jinx. Oh yes, ma’am, we definitely should.”
Jinx hopped up and down in her chair, her thick curtain of black hair swinging around her. “Shopping montage!”
“Focus, babe. How much time do we have before the art thing?”
Jinx checked her
phone. “Five hours. Ish.”
“Do you have K?”
Jinx pulled a bottle of pills out of her metallic tote and shook it.
“Let’s do this, bitches,” said Terry. “Jenna, grab your bag. Let’s go pay for your Tar-jay finery, and introduce you to the ways of the city’s fashionable, cash-poor youth.”
Terry and Jinx then took Jenna on what she’d later refer to as the Fashion Hustler’s tour. First, they brought her to a townhouse on Eleventh and University Place owned by Laurette DaSilva, a 1970s supermodel who spent her days entertaining Ecuadorian busboys and lolling about her townhouse in a drugged-out fog. Infamously, she traded her exquisite pieces for nothing more than a couple Klonopin pills, which is what happened that afternoon. Then, they settled into a café off Washington Square Park called We Don’t Sell Coffee, and whipped out Jinx’s iPad, introducing Jenna to the magic of Etsy. There she found a glittering wonderland of brilliantly articulated accessories—handbags, earrings, necklaces—that cost next to nothing. Terry brought her to her girlfriend’s Clara Anne Wu’s studio on Avenue C, who everyone called the Blue Jean Queen. She destroyed denim—then repaired it, then destroyed it again—to create the sexiest jeans, jackets, and button-downs anyone had ever seen. @BJQ only sold to her besties, and since her step-dad was a partial owner of all the Uno restaurants in Asia and Australia, she was in the position to practically give the pieces away. Finally, to supplement her new finds, they scrolled through Vogue.com to find Jenna’s favorite looks from the Fall 2012 shows—and then hit the Fifth Avenue Zara for excellent reproductions. The manager gave Jinx and Terry 40 percent discounts, as long as they agreed to occasionally slip his exceptionally fly register chicks into StyleZine’s street style coverage.
By the time they stopped into a Greek diner to grab dinner, Jenna had a delicious new wardrobe. It was younger and fresher, but with a healthy nod to her glamour girl roots. She was bursting with fashion fever—all she wanted to do was rush home and play dress up. And, she’d retail-bonded with Terry and Jinx. It was a lovely day.
