Little Black Dresses, Little White Lies

by Laura Stampler

  I sit up and pull my hair into a topknot.

  Why is it sticky? And why does it smell like overripe fruit?

  Oh yeah. The champagne shower.

  Late last night, or, rather, early this morning, some bro thought it would be fun to make it “rain” Dom Pérignon in the VIP section.

  “My hair!” literally everyone, male and female, shrieked as champagne sprayed down from on high.

  “Where does this asshole think he is? We aren’t at ‘da club’ in Atlantic City,” Gigi shouted, trying to protect her dress with her hands, mortally offended that someone would make such a messy disturbance at what is clearly le club. “We aren’t wearing trashy dresses made out of gross material that doesn’t even absorb liquid. This is silk!”

  Sunny preempted our freak-out over potentially ruined LBDs by assuring us that she knows a good dry cleaner who owes her a favor. “He can get out stains in twelve hours or less—plenty of time before I sneak them back in the Shift fashion closet Monday morning.”

  My phone beeps again.

  Dammit. There’s nothing from Carter. I was really hoping he’d text. Mode was fun. Really fun. And bonding with Gigi, Brie, and Sunny was essential. But I’m worried that I totally blew it with my one potential summer love interest.

  A quick sweep through social media shows snippets of Carter’s night. On top of the Maverick picture I already saw and restrained myself from liking, he’s also been tagged in a group shot on Facebook by some (very pretty) girl where he and the same attractive group huddled together in someone’s concrete backyard over a man-made fire pit. “How we do s’mores in the city ;)” she wrote.

  This must be the Crown Heights party.

  After I’ve exhausted my social media stalking expedition, I go back to my phone to see who actually tried to contact me. A couple of messages from Kristina that I’ll answer later. (“I’m bored!” “Did you just Snapchat from a CLUB? I want to hear EVERYTHING!”)

  And a text from Ben.

  Ben:

  Since you were still passed out when I picked up Princess, I take it the ID worked out?

  Damn. It’s one p.m. When Ben and I parted ways at Ice Cream and Ink yesterday, he noticed that I wasn’t being my chatty self, so I agreed to crash Princess’s prelunch walk and give him a debrief of my night.

  Harper:

  So good I forgot to set an alarm. I’m the worst!

  Ben:

  No worries. I’m sure I can read about ur night and the guy u were meeting in ur next blog.

  I wish. No Carter. No dating material for my column that’s due tomorrow.

  Ben:

  Or u can just tell me. Heading back to the apt w Princess.

  While waiting, I plop down on the plush, eggplant-colored living room couch in my Castalia High sweatshirt and ducky pajama bottoms and watch a rerun of Jenni Grace’s TV show. Her character has just found out that she isn’t the only shape-shifter in town when Ben drags a panting Princess through the door, with a plastic to-go bag in hand.

  “Hangover cure,” he says, unhooking Princess’s leash from her bedazzled collar. Princess doesn’t notice. She’s already fallen asleep, right in the middle of the entryway.

  “What is it?” I lift my head from the plush couch, intrigued.

  “Lemon-lime Gatorade to replenish your electrolytes.” Ben pulls out a radioactive-colored beverage from the bag. “Our lacrosse coach is all about the importance of keeping our electrolytes in check.”

  Green, but kale/spirulina/wheatgrass-free. I’ll take it.

  “And, of course, the most important part of the goody bag: Everything bagel with lox, low-fat cream cheese, tomato, and cucumber sliced extra thin from Hot & Crusty.”

  “You remembered my order!”

  Even though Hot & Crusty is quite possibly the least appetizing name for a bakery in the history of named bakeries, the food is still pretty satisfying. Ben and I stop there on 86th Street and Lexington sometimes on Princess’s walks, depending on the day’s route. (“Just wait, the best is yet to come,” Ben says, promising we’ll go to Absolute Bagels on the Upper West Side once Princess has built up the stamina to survive a walk across the park and back. “Any day now!”)

  I could hug him—which we haven’t done since my total meltdown that first time we more formally met—but it would mean getting off the couch, which seems out of the realm of possibility at the moment.

  “You’re seriously my savior. I was dying. Aunt Vee doesn’t believe in keeping carbohydrates in the house. Controlled substances, no problem. Baked goods, on the other hand, are grounds for eviction.”

  “The sad thing is, I can’t even tell if you’re joking.”

  I’m not.

  “How a woman that weight obsessed ended up with a dog that fat, I’ll never know.”

  “Shhhh,” Ben says. “Princess can hear you.”

  Princess snorts upon hearing her name.

  “Fine. Big boned?”

  “Harper! An attitude like that, and I’m going to give the dog the bagel.”

  “I’m kidding! You know I love Princess. She’s, like, my best friend here”—probably accurate—“other than you, maybe. Did I forget to mention you’re my savior?”

  “I appreciate your sarcasm, but it’s always a treat to see the sweet side peek out from underneath the snark.” Ben holds out the bag. “Come and get it.”

  I put on my most convincing puppy-dog eyes.

  Ben responds well to puppies.

  “Could you maybe”—I pout out my lips—“bring it to me?”

  Ben rolls his eyes. But he also walks over.

  “Bless you!”

  “Here you go, your royal highness.”

  “They will write songs about your goodness.”

  “Who’s they?”

  “Details!” I dismiss his question, take a chug of Gatorade, and start tearing into the bagel. It tastes like happiness.

  “You are seriously my hero!” I reiterate, mouth full.

  The front door clicks open and Aunt Vee walks in, sweaty from her Zen Warrior Xtreme Boot Camp.

  “Oh, I know I am, dear,” she says.

  “Not you, Vee,” I respond. “Love you, but this morning Ben’s my hero.”

  “Oh good, Benjamin’s here!” Aunt Vee gracefully hops over Princess, who is also prostrate. We have a lot of things in common.

  “I was hoping that I didn’t miss you,” Aunt Vee continues. “I have something to show you!”

  She dashes off to her bedroom and returns waving something very purple, very taffeta, and very small. Now there’s a fabric so synthetic that the champagne droplets would never stick.

  “It’s Princess’s prom dress.” She waves it even more excitedly. “Won’t she look glam?”

  “Wait, the pugs have proms here?”

  Ben and Aunt Vee look at each other and shake their heads as if I’m the crazy one for not knowing about the Third Annual Pug Prom, which is considered the crème de la crème of Manhattan pup culture.

  “It’s like Corgi Con,” Ben explains. “Only with flower arrangements, a DJ, and mandatory formal attire.”

  “Exactly!” Aunt Vee says, again waving the miniature ball gown. “So when I saw this exquisite number in the window at Ruff and Ruffles on Fifty-Ninth Street, I had to buy it.”

  Princess flouncing around in a party dress is something I have to see. Although from the size of it, it looks like getting her into the gown will be a very difficult, if not impossible, task.

  “Aunt Vee, is she going to fit into that?”

  “The salesperson was very rude. Going on about how they don’t carry clothing for full-figured dogs.”

  “That’s ridiculous!” I say, incensed on Princess’s behalf. “You should boycott that place.”

  “It was too fabulous not to buy. Besides, I always get dresses a size smaller to motivate me to get down to my target weight! Benjamin, do you think Princess will be able to fit into it by the beginning of August so that she can wear thi
s to prom?”

  Is this real life?

  “In three weeks?” Ben takes the dress, holds it over Princess’s sleeping (and snoring) body, and starts crunching the numbers. “She has been losing weight on our walks, so it’s possible. But if she does, it’s going to be for health reasons, not fashion.”

  “Whatever you have to tell yourself, Benjamin.”

  Looks like Ben’s everyone’s hero today.

  With that settled, Aunt Vee disappears into the master bathroom for a post-workout steam and shower.

  “So the pug prom,” I say, when we have the room to ourselves. “Are you going to take my advice? Will you try to photograph the party too?”

  “Come on, Harper. Why are you pushing this?”

  “Someone should!”

  I wish I could let it lie, but I can’t. Ben’s lack of ambition gnaws away at me. It’s just such a waste.

  “I could branch out too,” I offer. “Ditch the dating blog and pitch a dog fashion article for Shift. Give Yves Saint Bernard the exposure he deserves.”

  “Or Ruff Lauren.” Ben sinks into the other end of the couch. “For the all-American dog.”

  “Barc Jacobs!”

  “I think I’m out of designer names. In case you couldn’t tell.”

  He’s wearing Vans, khaki shorts, and instead of his lacrosse shirt, a Saint Agnes wrestling tee. How many teams is he on?

  “So, can I crash the pug prom?” I ask.

  “Seriously?” Ben looks at me cautiously.

  “Um, yeah.” I wipe my mouth to make sure I don’t have a cream-cheese mustache. “It sounds awesome.”

  “I’ve been trying to get Delilah to go with me for weeks. It’s right after she gets back from soccer camp. I even told her I’d get her a corsage and everything.”

  “Right,” I say. “Of course. Obviously you’re going to take your girlfriend as your date.”

  Obviously.

  “No, I’m not!” Ben says. “She doesn’t want to go. She thinks those kinds of things are lame. You should definitely come.”

  I totally want to, but to Ben I say, “I don’t want to force myself in. Or make things strange with you and Delilah.”

  “I want you to,” he says, but I don’t know if I believe him. “After all, dogs are boring conversationalists.”

  There’s a grunt from the corner of the room.

  “Sorry, Princess!” Ben shouts.

  Shift Girls don’t say sorry. Or feel sorry about themselves. So to feel less awkward about basically forcing myself upon Ben, too nice to say no, as his pug prom date, I decide to tell him about Carter.

  “You were right the other day,” I say. “I was meeting up with the Make-Out Bandit guy last night. And I think I actually like him.”

  I start my signature blabbering about Carter, our e-mail flirtation, and how I’m afraid I’ve messed it up before anything really started by backing out of meeting up with him last night. Ben gets a weird look on his face when I go on and on, probably because I’m making him OD on girl talk.

  “Gigi said that the mystery would keep him interested. That no one likes anyone who’s too available.” I’m talking a million miles a minute. “But I think it might have been a mistake.”

  Ben hides his face in his hands. “I hate games.”

  “So you think it’s over? That he’ll be done with me?”

  “No. I didn’t say that. It probably will pique his interest. Girls can be such emotional terrorists.”

  “But, effective emotional terrorists?”

  “You’re evil.” Ben sticks out his hand. “But, all right, give me your phone. Show me this poor sucker.”

  I go to Instagram and pick out one of my favorite Carter pictures. It’s from last summer, and he’s sitting on a beach somewhere in jeans and a modest V-neck white shirt, reading something called The Love Affairs of Nathaniel P. I haven’t read it but put it on my Goodreads to-read list. I can’t wait to casually drop it into conversation when I see him next. If I see him next.

  Ben quickly goes past the picture I carefully selected and starts going through the rest of them.

  “Oh.” He stops at a picture from two years ago where Carter is wearing a cap and gown. “He went to Holland Prep.”

  I lean into Ben’s shoulder to take a closer look at the photo. It must be before Carter started wearing glasses. I never noticed how great his cheekbones are. Or that apparently I have a thing for guys with great cheekbones.

  “What does ‘Oh, he went to Holland Prep’ mean?”

  “That he’s really rich and probably pretentious.” Ben doesn’t have defined cheekbones. His face is rounder. Softer.

  “My friend Abigail went to Holland Prep and she isn’t pretentious,” I say, leaping to the school’s defense. “Also, don’t you go to a rich and pretentious prep school?”

  “Even Saint Agnes is more low-key than Holland Prep,” Ben says, like that’s as obvious as the fact that pugs have proms. “Besides, I’m on scholarship. This guy definitely wasn’t.”

  I decide against pointing out that Carter’s father owns some of the biggest magazines in the world. Including mine.

  “Are all his Instagram captions Nietzsche quotes?”

  I take back my phone and start scrolling.

  “There.” A recent picture of Carter and his coworkers at the deviant office late. “That caption’s Kafka.”

  “I take it back,” Ben says. “Play all the games with this guy that you want.”

  22

  7 SIGNS YOU’VE SPENT TOO MUCH TIME SOCIAL MEDIA STALKING YOUR CRUSH

  The first step of recovery is admitting you have a problem, right?

  I tell McKayla that this week’s blog post is service journalism. It’s a way to teach our impressionable Shift readers about when they’ve descended into the realm of borderline creepy. What not to do.

  I find no compelling reason to tell her that over the course of the past twenty-four hours—while I waited futilely for Carter to make some form of contact (although why would he, since I totally ditched him?)—I’ve committed every single social media stalking faux pas on this list. Including:

  1. You know his middle name.

  (Emerson.)

  2. You also know the names of his parents, siblings, and childhood pet.

  (RIP Meowy the cat.)

  3. You know what he was for Halloween last year.

  (A shark.)

  4. And the year before.

  (Trick question: He didn’t wear a costume.)

  5. You know that the girl in his fourth most recent profile picture is his sister.

  (Bianca Bosh. She goes to Yale.)

  6. You accidentally favorited one of his ex’s Instagrams . . . from 97 weeks ago. And then proceeded to have a panic attack.

  (But I think I unfavorited it before anyone noticed?)

  7. You know his jersey number from his basketball team.

  (This one is a test for in case Carter reads the article. He didn’t play sports in high school.)

  But Carter doesn’t read the article. No one does.

  “What do you think?” I ask McKayla when she’s finished the listicle.

  “What I think is that it’s not what I asked for.” McKayla puts down her tablet and gives me a death glare. “Because what I asked for was action. A date. Because you’re the dating blogger.”

  Damn. She did. And it wasn’t a suggestion. McKayla doesn’t suggest; she orders.

  “Well, I was supposed to meet up with a guy this weekend, but it kind of fell through,” I confess, nervously looking down at her desk. “So I pivoted directions. The stalking post is kind of funny though, right?”

  “I don’t care if this one’s funny. Write the blog I want. Your date fell through? Find another one! I’ll even be generous and let you go on it during the workday so I can have the story by Wednesday morning.”

  As if it’s so easy to just pick up a random guy off the street. Contrary to what I’ve written, I know that it’s anything but. Not wa
nting to break my ubercool desirable-to-all cover, I pose a different concern.

  “What if, on such short notice and all, I can only find a boring date? Something uninteresting and unblogworthy?”

  McKayla stands and walks toward her window to get a view of the Hudson River, letting me stew in the silence. Then she turns.

  “Journalists don’t allow themselves to have mediocre dates. If you’re even a little competent—which I’m now questioning—you’ll find a way to make it interesting. Ask questions. Push his boundaries. Juice the date for everything it’s worth. Why aren’t you writing this down?”

  I pull out my yellow notebook and start writing. Maybe I should reconsider my goal for this internship. Change it from starring in the “Teen Journalist to Watch” feature to simply not getting fired before the end of the week.

  “Personally, I think that the only acceptable ways for my dates to end is in flames or in bed.” McKayla pauses. “How old are you, again? Maybe cross out that ‘in bed’ part.”

  I cross it out.

  “I think I prefer a date going up in flames anyway,” she says. “Bad dates are way more fun to tweet about.”

  “You live tweet your dates?”

  “Who doesn’t?” McKayla asks, genuinely perplexed. “In fact, if I’m on a ‘meh’ date, I’ll just find one of his weird quirks and exploit it for the story.”

  To avoid looking horrified, I bend my head toward my notebook. “So,” I scribble, “bad dates are better.”

  “Actually”—McKayla presses her pointer fingers together—“they’re mandatory. I’m in the mood to read about a really good bad date.”

  Oh no.

  “But what if it isn’t?” This hypothetical date I’ll be going on in the next, what, day and a half?

  “Have you not been listening? Make it bad. Just don’t make it depressing like your homecoming sob story. I want snark. Read some articles on the deviant site—mean does really well on the Internet.”

  “I think I can do that,” I say through gritted teeth.

  “Don’t think. Do. This is your job, Harper, not some sort of optional high school extra credit assignment. Did I make a mistake hiring you?”