“I hate it when pretty girls make bad fashion choices,” Gigi tsks. “A denim skirt and a bright orange backpack? What is this, Bacchanal or homeroom?”
I know that orange backpack. And I have a matching skirt; it’s one of my favorites.
“Harper!” Kristina waves from the front of the line.
“You know her?” Gigi asks with a frozen smile, eyeing Kristina’s flip-flops.
I got so caught up in Shift gossip that I must have forgotten to mention Kristina was in town.
“I thought you were kidding when you said there would be a bouncer,” Kristina says when we walk over. Proudly wearing her Castalia High Varsity Swim tank and a smile, Kristina may still look effortlessly beautiful, but her outfit is definitely more Bobby McKittrick’s backyard than Meatpacking District.
Since she always fits in so perfectly at all social functions back home, I didn’t think to give her wardrobe tips for the day.
“You must be Gigi,” Kristina says, when neither of us takes the lead. “I’ve heard so much about you.”
Gigi puts out her hand when Kristina goes in for a hug. “I don’t want to get water on the silk,” she says, looking at Kristina’s wet hair. “No offense.”
“Sorry about that! I had to shower after my run and didn’t have time to dry my hair. You know, Harper, even if you just walk it, you should really do the Central Park Loop sometime. It was awesome.”
“Shopping is my cardio,” Gigi says.
I say the reservation name and we are granted entrance.
“And you weren’t kidding about the table dancing, either.” Kristina stares at a girl as she spears a waffle on her high heel while jumping up and down over her entrée in beat to the DJ’s mix. “I definitely underestimated brunch.”
Kristina looks down at her hand. Since she doesn’t have a fake ID, the bouncer stamped “MINOR” in big letters across the back of her hand.
“I wasn’t going to drink anyway,” I say in response to her stamp, right as an explosion of streamers rains down on us from a birthday group who came with their own party poppers. “Isn’t New York incredible?”
“Finally,” Gigi says exasperatedly when a hostess starts leading us to our seat. She is utterly unfazed by her surroundings and keeps giving me and Kristina weird looks as we slowly take in the extravagance.
“Don’t tell your parents, but this is already more fun than my usual pancake-flipping Sundays in your kitchen.” Kristina grabs on to my shoulders, re-creating last night’s conga line, and we start dancing while we walk to the table, shaking our heads with the beat.
“Your dripping hair is splashing all over me. Some of us don’t want our outfits sabotaged.” Gigi stalks ahead.
“She seems really great.” I don’t have to look behind me to know Kristina is rolling her eyes.
“She grows on you. I promise she’s really sweet when you get to know her.” I can feel the eyes rolling again but don’t look. Instead I’m distracted by the table Gigi’s approaching. “There he is! The one giving Gigi a bis-bis?”
“A what?”
“God, he looks good.” I speed toward the table. Carter’s changed his hair—while it still has the side part, he now has what Brie describes as a “taper and fade,” where the hair is longer on top and gets shorter as it goes down, fading into the skin.
I don’t know how someone this cool could actually be standing up right now to make room at the table for me. Asking his friends to move down so I can sit next to him, proudly introducing me as “the writer I was telling you about.”
He was telling people about me? And not just as a girl. As a writer.
“He’s a smoker?” Kristina whispers into my ear after taking the other seat next to me, leaving Gigi to sit all the way at the end of the table, her least favorite seat. “Harper, we don’t do smokers.”
Ever since fifth grade science, when Mr. Whitney displayed a blackened pig lung in the classroom for a week (“This is what tobacco does to your body!”), we swore never to touch a cigarette.
I’m about to protest that he’s not until I see a pack of Marlboros tucked into the front pocket of his short-sleeved white shirt. I guess I haven’t hung out with Carter long enough to actually know that about him. “Whatever,” I say. “I’m sure it’s just social smoking. At parties and stuff.”
Kristina seems less convinced, but I refuse to take the conversation further. He’s in college, in New York. Things are different here.
I am instantly distracted by Carter as he shifts in his seat. I’m acutely aware of our proximity, internally tracking the centimeters and inches between our bodies. Willing our knees to touch, our feet to brush.
I flash back to the last time we were this close to each other. The Hamptons. Carter. Carter’s lips on my lips. Carter’s teeth on my ear.
Carter is telling everyone about his reporting trip to New Mexico and how he interviewed the reigning meth-smoking champion of America.
“That’s a thing?” Kristina asks.
“I had him smoke my Holland Prep diploma on camera, so that I can add that to my story,” Carter says confidently, leaning back. “After my exposé on Internet trolls, I think this might be my greatest work.”
I shudder. “Don’t remind me about trolls. I’m still getting the most horrible messages. And I report them to Twitter but nothing happens. I just want it to stop. McKayla says they aren’t serious, but I don’t know. . . .”
“Don’t be such a little girl about it,” Carter says, shoving a mimosa into my hand. I take it. “You can’t be a real journalist if you care what people think about you. What doesn’t kill you makes you stronger.”
I want to protest, but I take a sip of the mimosa instead. Then I take another.
“That’s what you say to someone who’s getting cyberbullied? What doesn’t kill you makes you stronger?” Kristina’s eyes narrow and then she says to me, “Isn’t that a Coach Kessler-ism, Harper? I know how much you love Coach’s philosophy.”
“Nietzsche’s philosophy,” Carter says.
“What?”
“A gym teacher didn’t say that. Nietzsche did.” He turns to Kristina for the first time since we’ve been here. I don’t like where this conversation is going. I refill my glass.
Kristina gives me a look that I ignore.
“I take it you aren’t a writer like this one.” Carter rests his hand on my knee.
“She’s a swimmer,” I say. “She’s really good. College coaches from Stanford and the Ivies are all over her.”
“Don’t you wish creatives like us had the same admissions opportunities athletes do?” Carter says, launching a tablewide debate about priorities in academic institutions.
“I have a three-point-eight GPA,” Kristina says.
“Oh, I’m not talking about you specifically,” Carter replies. “I’m just talking about the system in general.”
Kristina’s heard it from me, too. I whined nonstop when D-Bag Dull Man, who I’d say has the intellect of a Pet Rock if I didn’t want to be offensive to Pet Rocks, got into Penn, which is on my “super-reach” list.
“You sure about that?” Kristina asks, when the waitress comes to refill my glass.
“Don’t be a downer,” Gigi says, “just because you can’t have mimosas.”
“I don’t drink champagne anyway,” Kristina says. She hasn’t had a sip since she had way too many sips at her dad’s wedding. “Besides, I’m not being a downer. She said she wasn’t drinking. I’m being her best friend.”
“Funny that I haven’t heard about you until five minutes ago,” Gigi says.
“Tina, it’s okay.” I fill my glass. This brunch is not going as planned. Kristina’s usually the most popular person at the party. Any party. Befriending everyone she meets. I want Carter and Gigi to meet that girl.
“All right,” Carter says. “When we wrap up here, I say we go to Le Bain. My friends have some tables.”
“I’ve been dying to go there,” I say, confidently put
ting my hand over Carter’s on my thigh.
“What’s Le Bain?” Kristina asks me.
“It’s at the top of the Standard Hotel and is supposed to have the best view of the city. Maybe even better than the Empire State Building. And it’s right by the High Line, so we can hit it after.” Carter squeezes my leg. “Maybe.”
“I like views.” Kristina puts her smile back on, thank God. “Let’s do it.”
“Won’t it be a problem that she doesn’t have an ID?” Gigi asks.
“Just remove the ‘MINOR’ thing and we should be okay,” Carter says. “I know people there.”
Kristina stands up to go wash the indelible ink off her hands when Gigi shouts, “Stop. You can’t tell me that won’t be a problem.”
“What?” I ask.
“No ID is one thing, but improper footwear.” Gigi looks at Kristina’s rubber flip-flops and then works her way up to the rest of her outfit. “Make that improper everything-wear, and no way will we get in.”
Shit. She’s right. How do I fix this?
“If we cab back to my apartment right now, Kristina can change and we can just meet you there.”
“I didn’t pack heels,” Kristina says, brushing back her hair.
“Who doesn’t pack heels when they go to Manhattan?” Gigi asks.
“It’s fine,” I say. “Look at her. She can totally get in with flats. We just have to change outfits and—”
“I’ll make things easier for you”—Kristina throws her arms in the air—“I’m out. Just go without me.”
“No!”
“Leave her,” Gigi shouts after me when I chase after Kristina. I’m slowed down by the dance party in the middle of the restaurant, so by the time I catch up to her, she’s already at the front door.
“Kristina!”
“Oh, now you realize I exist.” She doesn’t stop walking, pushing through the crowd by the hostess and out the door.
“What’s your deal?” I squint as my eyes readjust to the light outside. I forgot that it’s still daytime. “I’m not used to seeing you like this.”
She spins around on her flip-flops. “I’m not used to seeing you like this. Downing mimosas like Diet Coke? Kissing the asses of the biggest assholes I’ve ever met? You think my water polo guys are bad? Every time you went gaga over his Nietzsche crap, I had to actively stop myself from throwing up. You’re acting like an idiot.”
My face starts to flush. And not because I’m embarrassed. I’m mad. I don’t say anything when Kristina goes through all the jocks in remedial English. And now this objectively gorgeous and smart guy wants me.
“So this is what you’re like when I’m with the hottest guy at the party?”
“Yeah, right. You think I’m jealous? Have him.”
“Like he’s yours to give away? Like D-Bag Dull Man? News flash, Kristina, you’re not his type. You’re not one of his people.”
“Are you saying I’m stupid?”
Kristina and I never fight. But now that I’ve started letting things out, I can’t stop. The words keep flowing. I know I’m taking things too far, but I can’t stop.
“I’m saying you’re pissed that you came here on a humanitarian mission to rescue me, and I didn’t need saving. I’m the one who fits here, not you.”
“You have truly lost it,” she says quietly. “I’m gonna go. Just don’t do anything with him you’ll regret.”
Stop. I should stop now. But I can’t. Why is she still pretending she knows what’s best for me? I’m not her sidekick anymore.
“That’s rich coming from you.”
“Harper!”
Suddenly I’m snapped back into reality. What am I doing? “I shouldn’t have said that. I’m just really tipsy, and stressed, and new to having a guy actually like me.”
“It’s fine.”
“We can skip Le Bain. We can just go to the High Line like you wanted.”
“I said it’s fine,” Kristina says weakly but resolutely. “I’m feeling kind of tired from the run, so I should go home anyway. I think I should be alone right now.”
The brunch hopefuls in front of Bacchanal eagerly part for Kristina to leave so that they can take her place at the front of the line. I forgot that there were so many people here.
With that, she walks away.
36
I DON’T KNOW WHAT TO think, so I just don’t. What did I write in a blog once? Oh yeah, fake it till you feel it.
I’m all sunshine and smiles by the time I return to the table. Instead of squeezing back into the booth next to Carter, I sit on his lap. He wraps his arms around my body and it feels good to be in his arms, wanted.
“Did your friend bail?” he asks.
“Looks like it.”
“Too bad. We decided to skip Le Bain and hang at my place instead.”
Carter’s apartment, which allows varsity swimming tanks and flip-flops. I pick up my phone to tell Kristina to come back, that Carter isn’t a bad guy and changed plans so he could get to know her better. (Okay, so that’s probably overinterpreting the situation, but how’s she going to know?) But then I stop.
After Kristina’s dad left, when Kristina said she needed alone time, she meant it. Sure, she came over and cried the night of. But the next morning she was off and didn’t take my calls for three whole days. It was the longest we’d ever gone without talking to each other. Until this summer, that is. I’m not saying our fight is comparable to Kristina’s dad cheating on her mom and leaving, but I imagine that if she says she wants some space, she wants it.
We all head to Carter’s apartment. He lives in the West Village.
“How long does it take you to get to Columbia from here,” Davie, mercifully without the donkey head, asks.
“Who cares,” Carter says. “Who wants to live uptown when they can live here?”
Here is not what I’d imagine a college guy’s apartment would look like. There aren’t empty boxes of pizza or an Xbox. The mattress isn’t on the floor. But it is exactly what I thought Carter’s apartment, probably funded by the Bosh Media conglomerate, would look like. It’s decorated with David Lynch movie posters and books. Shelves and shelves of books. While other people are hanging out on the couch—not even a futon!—I’m examining Carter’s literary collection.
It’s even freaking alphabetized.
“I think I’m in heaven,” I say, picking up an old copy of Salinger’s Franny and Zooey.
Carter leaves the group and stands behind me, arms once again wrapped around me, his chin resting on the top of my head.
“It’s a first edition,” he says.
“Oh my God.” I quickly and very carefully put the book down and turn around. “I don’t want to touch that! Have you met me? I’m the clumsiest person alive.”
“What are you talking about?” He kisses my cheek and says the next part in a whisper, “You’re incredibly smooth, Harper Anderson.”
What Harper Anderson is he talking about? I want to correct his egregious misunderstanding but realize that he hasn’t seen that side of me. I’ve never had a meltdown or head-on collision in his presence. So instead I enjoy the tingly aftermath of the kiss.
“That’s our cue to go,” Gigi says, rounding everyone up from the couches. “Call me later, Harper.”
And then there were two.
Then we’re alone.
“I’ve been waiting to do this for weeks,” Carter says, and he pushes me up against the bookcase. His lips meet mine in an electric kiss. All-consuming. He holds the back of my head in his hands and I grab his shirt to pull him closer to me, leaning deeper back into the bookcase. I want to make out forever.
And then, bam. My butt knocks into one of the shelves, causing books to topple to the floor.
“The Salinger!” Franny and Zooey is now at my feet.
“Leave it.” He pulls me in for another kiss.
“See,” I say. “I told you I was a klutz. Total disaster.”
“I don’t do romantic comedies
, Harper. Clumsy is not hot. Knocking over the books was a hookup casualty. Much sexier. Awkward doesn’t appeal to me.”
I like the sound of a hookup casualty, but I also want to clarify that, yes, I am actually uncoordinated as well. Just to make sure Carter knows whom he’s actually kissing.
Not just kissing.
I feel Carter start to trace his fingertips up my thigh, teasing the bottom of my skirt. Oh God. This is new territory.
“Let’s talk some more first,” I say, taking his hand off my skin and dragging him toward the couch.
“Seriously?”
“Yeah, I want to get to know you better.” I pat the cushion next to me and he sits down. “So, how was your week?”
“I told you about my week at brunch.”
Right. That must have been when I wasn’t listening.
“Well, my week was kind of all over the place,” I say without prompting. “I checked a lot of stuff off the bucket list. Phantom. Empire State Building. Frozen hot chocolate at Serendipity.”
“Those tourist traps? What a nightmare. That all sounds terrible. At least you started on a high note with your blog going viral and are ending on a high note with me.”
Carter’s lips. His tongue. His teeth.
His kiss. It couldn’t be more perfect. Until he moves his fingers to my skirt again. I put my hand on his and push it away.
“Come on,” he groans. “You don’t have to play hard to get anymore. We’re finally alone.”
“I know,” I say, running my fingers through his dark hair but feeling on edge. I don’t like feeling on edge. “And I am happy we’re finally alone—”
“So don’t be a tease!”
What’s he talking about?
“I’m not. . . . We’re making out!”
“Don’t play that game. You made out with me before you knew my name,” he says. “I’ll still respect you and whatever. It doesn’t have to mean anything.”
If we had sex, it wouldn’t mean anything?
“But I’d want it to,” I say quietly, and look right into his bright green eyes. “Wouldn’t you?”
“Aren’t you the one who introduced herself to me as the girl who gave no fucks?”
Little Black Dresses, Little White Lies Page 22
