Will You Won't You Want Me?: A Novel

by Nora Zelevansky

  “I could have sworn … but whatever … I guess I clicked Reply. The e-mail went to Snow’s CEO. Turns out, he wasn’t amused.”

  “Oh, God.” Vera covered her face with her hands. “Did Brianne throw a mug at you again?”

  Marjorie shook her head. “She’s off coffee at the moment.”

  The notorious Brianne Bacht-Chit had encountered Marjorie in the early aughts at the opening of one of many white-on-white-wallpapered restaurants with mismatched “Mad Hatter” chairs and industrial sconces. Figuring that the adorable, even recognizable, twenty-something might lend joie to her firm, Brianne offered Marjorie a part-time “consulting” job, then began resenting and punishing her for the same reasons she was hired. Brianne was a little abusive and then a lot, and finally, for twisted reasons neither could fathom, she hired Marjorie full-time.

  Marjorie sighed. “Instead, she got creepy quiet, then said, ‘When I met you, you seemed like someone. I was wrong. Consider yourself on probation. You’re welcome.’ Wow. I was able to repeat that verbatim. Is that a marketable skill?”

  “Madge. For the eight hundredth time: You need to quit. You’re self-sabotaging.”

  “Too bad about that pesky rent.”

  “You’ll find the money somewhere.”

  “Easy for you to say.”

  Vera’s mouth dropped open. “What’s that supposed to mean? I work my ass off for what I have.” Her face contorted and her voice rose, as her rage escalated. “You sit around feeling sorry for yourself, making careless mistakes. No one hired me because I was cute at a cocktail party. If they had, I guarantee I wouldn’t have squandered the opportunity. If you’re unhappy, make changes! Or stop talking about it!”

  Marjorie swore she felt plates shifting below her feet then, as if the world was turning upside down and she was powerless to stop it. It was a day for pots boiling over, for straws breaking camels’ backs. Amoebic spots squirmed before her eyes; she didn’t dare glance at the table of high school boys. “Whoa, Vee. I meant it was easy for you because you’re so together. I envy that in you.”

  Vera opened her mouth, then closed it again, twice, then sighed. “I actually have something to share too.”

  Marjorie took a long sip of her drink. “Sounds promising.”

  Out of pity or perhaps because he now realized he was dealing with an owner’s friend, the bartender appeared and gestured toward Marjorie’s empty tumbler. She smiled despite herself, as an alcohol-induced lightness rose in her head, a welcome dulling of edges. She nodded.

  “It’s good news, actually,” Vera was saying. “This isn’t quite how I planned to tell you, but … Brian and I are moving in together!”

  Marjorie struggled to reconcile the pendulum swing from anger to enthusiasm—a bit bipolar. “That’s great, Vee. I’m so happy for you guys.”

  “Good. Because there’s more.”

  Where is that drink?

  “We found an apartment.”

  “Already? Wow. So quick!”

  “Well, not that quick.”

  They were silent for a beat. “I … How quick, Vera?”

  Vera mumbled something incomprehensible into her bony hand.

  “What was that?”

  “We’ve been looking for like two months, okay?! I didn’t tell you ’cause I wasn’t sure how you’d react. You’re not the biggest fan of change.”

  “So, you’re moving out.” Marjorie glanced down at her palm, where she’d crumpled her napkin into a stress ball. “When?”

  Vera avoided her gaze. “This weekend.”

  “This weekend?” Marjorie choked. “Vera, it’s Thursday! Rent is due next week! What am I supposed to do about the other half?”

  Vera glared. “This isn’t about you! For once!”

  “Giving me notice would have been just normal, common courtesy!”

  “Well, things haven’t been normal between us for a while.” Vera stood and grabbed her tote; her blunt bob maintaining military formation. “Look, I can’t do this right now. I’ve gotta go. Just keep the apartment or something.”

  “You know I can’t afford it alone!”

  “Find a new roommate.”

  “Where?”

  “Online.”

  “Have you not heard of the Craigslist Killer?”

  Vera’s lips wobbled guiltily before forming a resolute line. “I knew you’d try to make me feel bad about this. You can’t stand that I found someone before you did.”

  Marjorie shook her head. “This isn’t a Lifetime original movie, Tori Spelling. I think our twenty-year friendship deserves a slightly more nuanced interpretation.”

  “Whatever. Brian said you’d act this way.”

  Brian. Motherfucking short, squat Brian with ruddy cheeks that suggested cheeriness but were more likely the result of respiratory distress from too many pizza burgers. Self-serving, rude, blowhard Brian with his long hair that he fancied “hip,” his requisite black Audi, boilerplate East Hampton house (not big enough to be “impressive” but within the boundaries of “the right hood”).

  He was the first male to show consistent interest in Vera, who was too smart not to know that she was settling. So Marjorie had struggled to hide her disgust, enduring hours of drivel about the cost of Brian’s boxy suits and Yankees season tickets (he didn’t even follow baseball!). Though she considered him Satan’s spawn, he actually grew up in Cherry Hill, New Jersey (not hell per se), the unremarkable child of a housewife and a discount furniture manufacturer who sat on the bench of his school’s mediocre football team, winning him enough status to feel entitled but also cheated. Perpetual frat boy Brian, who invaded Marjorie’s personal space one drunken night in their apartment’s narrow kitchen after Vera passed out and tried to stick his fat white-spotted tongue down her throat, promising—between saliva strands—that it would be “their secret.” Brian, whom Marjorie had rebuffed with too much obvious revulsion.

  “Vera. Be reasonable,” Marjorie coaxed. “You’re leaving me homeless with only a few days’ notice.”

  “It’s pathetic to live with a roommate at twenty-eight years old anyway. I’m saving you from yourself.”

  In that moment, Marjorie saw Vera’s rodent resemblance, after all. “Seriously?”

  “Things can’t always go your way, Madgesty.” At that, Vera stormed out, leaving Marjorie alone in DIRT. (The irony of the name could not be ignored.)

  The bartender arrived with Marjorie’s drink, waving her debit card back into her wallet, as Mac sat down beside her. The guy in the oxfords missed his chance at a stool again.

  “You okay?”

  Marjorie shrugged. The day was both important and unimportant. She was both fine and unfine. With her balled-up napkin, she stanched a tear before it realized its potential, then raised her glass. She and Mac both swigged.

  And, as the world teetered imperceptibly on its axis, the blossom attached to Marjorie’s bottom fluttered to the floor.

  2

  Marjorie’s popularity came in middle school like an early birthday present—not totally unexpected but a treat nonetheless.

  One afternoon in seventh grade, she arrived late to an assembly led by a self-defense expert named Terry in high-water sweatpants and a T-shirt that read SAFETY FIRST; DANGER WORST. She was accompanied by a life-size dummy named Carl. (Some recent muggings were being blamed on kids from a nearby juvenile hall, though the perpetrators were actually a bad seed foursome from the school’s own sophomore class—a truth that had yet to trickle down to the teachers’ lounge.)

  The metal door sighed as Marjorie entered the gym-cum-auditorium; several students turned to look. The history teacher, Ms. Carroll, approached. “It is unacceptable to hold us up like this.” Marjorie’s friends—clutching each other like life preservers—waved her over with gummy-bracelet-encircled wrists. As she tiptoed past, seas of fifth through eighth graders parted with reverence. Boys roughhoused; girls peered down at once favorite shoes in doubt. Even Terry stopped to watch Marjorie tak
e a seat.

  “Okay, kids,” said Terry, “let’s get started. Are you ready to FIGHT BACK? TO STOP BEING VICTIMS? Let me hear you!”

  “Yeeeaah…” came a halfhearted collective reply. An eighth-grade class clown yelped a delayed, “YEAH!” and then cracked up.

  That’s when Marjorie realized: they had waited for her. Even the teachers had stalled, feeling unconsciously that the group was incomplete.

  Sensing eyes on her back, Marjorie turned. Mac sat behind her, grinning. He was new at school but had already secured his role as critic and jester, adored and feared.

  “All hail Her Madgesty,” he mocked, with a bent head and a flourish. The girls around him—there were always girls around him—giggled.

  “Shut up,” Marjorie whispered. “Shut up, shut up.”

  “That’s totally your new name,” Vera said, “Madgesty.” Mac eyed her with boredom, then winked at Marjorie.

  Marjorie claimed to hate the name, yet she answered to it. Just like that, reality plummeted down the chasm between the truth and what one tells oneself, never to be seen again.

  In fact, she became reliant on, paralyzed by, and wholly defined by the unearned adoration, got drunk on its ease, feared its disappearance, and protected its power, erecting a wall of reserve that separated her from those who could safely behave like humans (going to the bathroom, getting pimples, tripping down stairs).

  She snorted now—a lone unsquelched nerdy habit—as Mac delivered his story’s punch line from his barstool, “And it was blue gym socks. I swear!”

  “No, it wasn’t! It couldn’t have been.”

  “Well, it was.”

  “But how did you know?”

  “I didn’t. Wild guess. But I won the bet; he had to give me his own copy of his Rookie card.”

  “Mac, I don’t even believhue you.”

  “Was that even English? You’re slurring, you lush.”

  The bar’s clientele had morphed. The kitchen was closed, baby carrots, new potatoes, and broccolini stalks tucked safely away in Tupperware cribs for the night. The happy hour crowd had left to catch Girls, the end of the Yankees game and, in more evolved cases (or so they felt), The Colbert Report. Mac’s “boys”—even the one mysteriously nicknamed “Plug”—had gone home to their pregnant wives and plump girlfriends. Now younger drinkers with wallet chains debated the merits of emocore bands.

  Marjorie sighed and looked at Mac, who repeated “socks!” and started her snorting again. She was on probation at work, soon to be homeless, and losing her best friend to a late Elvis doppelgänger. The laughter was a relief.

  “You’re a dork.” He shook his head. “Why don’t people realize that? But seriously, do you believe me? The story?”

  “Of course not!”

  “Why?”

  “Because I know you and you’re a liar!”

  Mac’s mouth dropped open in mock—perhaps tinged with real—hurt. “No way. You’re coming with me.” He grabbed Marjorie’s arm, pulling her up off her stool.

  “Where are we going?” Struggling to keep her balance, she snagged her bag, then followed him toward the back. “Oh, lovely! A scenic tour of the janitorial closet!”

  Near the fire exit, he opened a pockmarked door, ushering her inside what was clearly the manager’s back office. A card table was topped with a landline and piles of papers, someone’s organized chaos; the wall above was pinned with interior design inspirations and a schedule. At center slumped a ripped fat black leather couch. Mac shut the door, muffling the festive sounds, and began searching a file cabinet drawer for the card he’d supposedly won off a chagrined Mets pitcher.

  Marjorie leaned against the wall for support. Standing had demonstrated the depth of her drunkenness. “Did you find this furniture on a street corner? You’re charging twenty dollars a drink. You could at least spring for IKEA in here.”

  “Said the girl who’s been freeloading all night.” He touched his hand to something sticky and grimaced. “Ugh. These guys are filthy. I’m gonna have to talk to them.”

  Marjorie eyed Mac, who was crouched over, wearing a look of determination. He had always hated a mess. As a teenager, when she first glimpsed his pressed jeans draped over hangers like slacks, she assumed that his live-in housekeeper was to thank. But over time, she noticed that he pulled high-tops from his closet and straightened his pens on the table at school with precision. Now, his narrow button-down was pulled taut in just the right places—no doubt custom. Marjorie realized he was dressed up, even for him.

  “What’s with the tie?”

  “Huh?”

  “Why so snazzy?”

  He didn’t look up. “Meeting.”

  “With whom, may I ask?”

  “No, you may not.”

  “Must have been someone important to merit Brioni. Now I’m curious. Hot date with a tranny? Corporate espionage ring?” She raised an eyebrow. “Court date?”

  He shot to standing. “Jesus, Madge. Just leave it alone!”

  Marjorie started to apologize, for what she wasn’t sure; her head swam too delightfully to figure it out. Mac sighed. “Stop, stop. Forget it. I might as well tell you … it’s Natalie.”

  “Oh. Mac, you don’t have to—”

  “No, it’s fine. I shouldn’t have snapped.” He tugged at his earlobe, a longtime nervous tick. “She got arrested last week, for possession. Again.”

  Mac’s older sister Natalie had struggled with drug dependence since her late teens. Stints at myriad domestic country club rehab centers and two in Switzerland plus a short-lived Outward Bound program in Utah had not helped. (She’d spent her two-day solo mission picking psychedelic mushrooms from cow fields.)

  “Today was her court date. Had to appear as the saintly brother. Good guess, by the way. But for future reference, I’m not much into transvestites.”

  “I’m really sorry, Mac. You didn’t have to tell me.”

  “It’s fine. Let’s face it: I always wind up confessing to you. You have that effect on me. It’s probably those big doe eyes.” They locked stares for a strange, tense second. “Or that big rack.”

  Marjorie snickered, despite herself. Mac turned back to the cabinet as if to resume an unfinished conversation. “Okay, I’m gonna find this. And prove that I’m not a liar!”

  “Not a liar about this.”

  “Right! About this.” Mac sorted methodically, placing each scrap in a designated pile.

  For reasons she was not ready to confront, Marjorie was reminded of her one lapse in judgment with him. She was fifteen years old and at the height of her reign. In New York City, social circles spread beyond private and public school classrooms to neighborhoods. When she and her friends were not at clubs full of peers, they hung on Riverside Drive with older hip-hop- and grunge-obsessed boys, many of whom were washed-up quarterback equivalents who had rebuffed college in favor of pot and video games.

  At school, she was crushing on an eleventh grader named Bryce, a soccer player but also a smoker—so not without edge. Marjorie did not fall easily. Her infatuations lasted only until her affection was returned with clumsiness or if the object wore lame sneakers. However unconsciously, she could not afford to show weakness for fear of falling from her pedestal. Flaws, even by association, were unacceptable.

  Her inner circle was chilling by the park after school one day. One by one, they slipped off to orthodontist appointments and dreaded tutoring sessions at algebra-textbook-littered tables. Eventually, only she and Mac remained. He offered to walk her home, an old-fashioned suburban cliché rooted in the city by honking cabs and homeless people pushing supermarket carts. The concrete sidewalk—spotted with ancient bubble gum wads turned black—sparkled; weeds reached defiantly up through cracks toward the late-afternoon sun. The October weather was unseasonably warm. They walked along Riverside Drive, mindless of wind off the Hudson.

  A million miles away, in Nigeria, a pipeline exploded, killing over 1,000 people. Across the country, in Silicon Valley, of
fices were being set up for a little start-up company called Google. In exactly two years and 330 days, the world would change forever when hijacked planes hit the World Trade Center, rocking the city to its core, traumatizing the United States’ roughly 285 million inhabitants in one instant and rendering it forever impossible to meet a relative at an airport gate. But here, at this moment, in this preserved neighborhood in New York City, the kids were all right.

  Mac had just finished an impression of their English teacher, Mr. Eisenstein, oinking about Animal Farm. He stole a glance at Marjorie, then, with forced breeziness, asked, “So, you like that new kid?”

  “What new kid?”

  “You know, that soccer douche bag. Brass. Or whatever.”

  “His name isn’t Brass. It’s Bryce. And you play soccer!”

  “Whatever. You know who I mean.”

  Marjorie was well aware. They trudged in silence for a beat, hearts pounding, threatening to betray their adolescent performances of normal.

  “So, do you like him or not?”

  “Who?”

  “Seriously? I’ll take that as a yes.”

  Young Marjorie stopped and turned to face young Mac, forcing her thumb deep beneath the scratchy nylon strap of her messenger bag. “Don’t take that as a yes. It’s not a yes.”

  Mac rolled his eyes. Even the dimmest observer could see what was brewing between Bryce and Marjorie: him pulling on her short plaid skirt and calling her “Britney Spears” when they passed in the hall; Marjorie feigning disgust and shoving him lightly back. (The singer’s first single “… Baby One More Time” had just hit the airwaves, and her accompanying Catholic schoolgirl video was all over MTV. The world was at once revolted and enamored.)

  “I heard he got a girl pregnant at his old school.”

  Bryce had not gotten anyone pregnant. Bryce had not yet had sex. Either way, his reputation might only have benefited from that rumor.

  “Mac, that’s ridiculous, even from you.”

  “Just admit that you like him. It’s obvious that you do!”

  “I don’t. Don’t. Don’t. Don’t.”

  “You’re the worst liar.”