Brooklyn Girls

by Gemma Burgess

  “Neither do you!”

  Flipping me the double bird (seriously?), Banh Mi Up jumps in his truck and speeds away with a screech of tires.

  I give Toto a loving pat. How dare he call her pathetic?

  “Nice work,” says a voice. I turn around. It’s Lina.

  “Thanks,” I say. “Jeez, the food truck world is pretty brutal, huh?”

  “Deeply brutal,” Lina agrees. “Try the hotel and restaurant world. It’s like a Roman gladiator battle.”

  I laugh. “Having a good day?”

  “I’m on my way to a focus group run by market researchers trying to prove why anything innovative and new just won’t work.…”

  “Fun,” I say. “I always wondered what ‘market research’ really meant.”

  “It means ‘to destroy creativity.’ So, I’m going to send an e-mail to my whole company about SkinnyWheels, okay?”

  “Tell them to use the code word Lina for a dollar off the desserts,” I say.

  She laughs. “Right on, but let’s not use my name, they all think I’m an egomaniac as it is. The code word should be something else … Brooklyn!”

  Lina must have some serious pull in her office, because from twelve on the dot, the line snakes almost to the end of the block. One guy likes the low-fat brownie so much, he comes back and lines up all over again for three more, which kind of defeats the purpose of eating low-fat, but whatever. Within two hours, I’m just about out of food, which is when a pretty girl about my age comes up, followed by a guy with a beard and a tiny digital camcorder.

  “I’m Becca, and I’m from Grub Street, New York magazine’s food and restaurant blog. Can we interview you for a piece about the latest food trucks?”

  I don’t even need to think about it. “Hell, yes.”

  “There’s been a lot of buzz about your truck on Twitter and the food truck blogs. How did you come up with the concept?”

  “It just seemed obvious to me. People need good, fast food that won’t give them a sugar crash or carb cravings. New Yorkers shouldn’t have to choose between a full stomach and a great ass. You can eat well, and cheaply, from a food truck—as long as it’s my food truck.”

  Becca grins. “Nice.”

  Suddenly I hear screams of laughter.

  Becca looks around. “Oh … my … God…”

  There’s another pounding at the door. Not again! That Banh Mi Up guy is nuts!

  I slam the serving hatch closed, run to the back of the truck.

  “What do you want now?” I shout, swinging open the back doors.

  But it’s not him.

  It’s Bianca. Looking as aggressively punkster, half-shaved-head, blind-person-dressed-me as ever.

  And behind her is her big black truck, now spray-painted with the words “Let Them Eat Cock.”

  I can’t help it: I start laughing uncontrollably.

  “You did this, didn’t you?” she screams. “I didn’t even notice till lunch when someone asked me how much it would cost to see me eat cock!”

  I laugh so hard, I have to hold myself up on one of the doors.

  “Admit it! Admit it!” she screams.

  “Are you the owner of that truck?” interrupts Becca.

  “I am,” says Bianca. “Who the fuck are you?”

  “Charming,” says Becca, arching an eyebrow. “I’m from Grub Street. And may I say, inspired marketing idea.”

  It’s like the sun just came out in Bianca’s face. “Well, hi! I’m Bianca, this is my food truck. I’m dedicated to artisan cakes that nourish you, body and soul!”

  Grinning broadly, I get back in Toto, applauding myself. Operation Karma Is a Bitch was a success.

  CHAPTER 16

  If a stranger is just a friend you haven’t met yet, then a stranger in a karaoke bar is just a rock diva you haven’t yet high-fived after her solo of “Bohemian Rhapsody.” I’m discovering this as we celebrate Julia’s twenty-third birthday in an insanely noisy and welcoming SoHo karaoke bar called Baby Grand.

  But no one seems to be in a party mood except me.

  We started the night with a few drinks at home, then on to dinner in Chinatown. I kept getting the giggles about the name of the restaurant (Big Wong King, ha!), Angie is drinking hard and talking little, Coco is staring at her phone obsessively (Eric hasn’t been in touch), Madeleine is nervous about the dude she’s asked to join us later (one of her Internet dates we’re not supposed to know about), and Julia is jaw-grindingly tense. It’s like we’re all locked in our private worlds of worry. Come on, I want to yell, it’s Saturday night! I’ve never had so many quiet weekends as I have since moving to New York!

  The old me would have left to find myself some fun, but I don’t want to do that tonight. I genuinely want the girls to have a good time. Particularly Julia, since I know she always thinks about her mom on her birthday and feels sad. She deserves—no, she needs—a fantastic birthday. But right now we’re all just passively watching other people sing. We’re not even talking to one another.

  “That’s it!” I say, when a husky-voiced woman finishes “Careless Whisper” by Wham! “We’re having shots!”

  Everyone looks over at me. No one says yes, no one says no.

  I head to the bar. “Christ, if this party were a patient, I’d order a defibrillator,” I mutter.

  “Coming right up,” says the bartender. Huh?

  Two minutes later, I’m carrying five glasses of Defibrillator back to the group. It’s a tumbler three-inches deep with champagne, vodka, tequila, and lemon juice.

  “Okay, compadres,” I say. “Down in one.”

  The girls obediently pick up their drinks and sink them. Then everyone shrieks and coughs and does the usual strong-drink routine. Except Angie, who nods appreciatively.

  “Fivies!” screams Jules, high-fiving everyone.

  We decide to do a karaoke chain (everyone picks the song for the person to their right—but can’t tell them what it is), as a guy with perfect eyeliner sings a rendition of “It’s in His Kiss” that the crowd goes wild for.

  “I hate karaoke,” says Angie.

  “Everyone hates karaoke,” I hiss. “It’s Julia’s choice. Suck it up.”

  Angie makes a face and salutes me, and I turn to the others.

  “Ready?”

  Julia is lunging, as though stretching before a big game. “I was born ready.”

  The eyeliner guy on stage finishes with a booty shake.

  “Remember everyone,” he shouts, “let them eat cock!”

  What?

  “Did he just say…” says Coco.

  I stop Eyeliner as he barges past me. “Did you just say ‘let them eat cock?’”

  “Yeah!” he says. “It’s this food truck! I saw it on The Early Show today! It’s so amazing!”

  “The Early Show … on CBS?”

  “It was in the Post yesterday, too! It sells cakes, but they’re like, totally good for you,” explains his friend, a tall blond guy wearing a leather choker. “And my friend Bobby’s friend Dodie’s drag bar is buying advertising on the side of the truck!”

  “There’s a Christian parents group who are, like, totally angry about it, it’s hilarious,” says Eyeliner.

  “I heard you can even buy Let Them Eat Cock T-shirts! And it does parties for a five-hundred-dollar booking fee, plus the cost of the cakes!” says Choker. “I’m getting it for my bar mitzvah.”

  “Uh … you’re thirty-two,” says Eyeliner.

  “Shut it, bitch!”

  They carry on to the bar, leaving us open-mouthed in shock.

  “It’s true,” says Angie, looking at her iPhone. “I just Googled her. Let Them Eat Cock is all over the news.”

  “She’ll be a huge success,” I moan. “Goddamnit!”

  “Karma really is a bitch.” Julia burps. “Oopsh. ’Scuse me. My round!”

  “Don’t think about it tonight, Pia,” says Madeleine. “There’s nothing you can do about it.”

  I sigh. “Well, if
there’s one thing I’m good at, it’s ignoring my problems.”

  “Atta girl.”

  Then “Coco Russotti!” comes out over the loudspeaker.

  “Me? First? Oh, no—” Coco looks so petrified that I stop thinking about Let Them Eat Cock for a second. “I can’t, I can’t—”

  “You can do it, Coco,” I say firmly. “I believe in you.”

  Coco walks haltingly to the microphone, as we all scream in delight. She looks like she’s about to face a firing squad, but she’s got nothing to worry about: Angie chose her song, and it’s “Baby, I Love You” by the Ramones. The crowd sings along, and she ends with a standing ovation.

  “Go, Coco!” screams the guy beside me. “Yeah! Fuckin’ay!”

  Angie and I exchange a look, and then I realize: this must be Eric. Who else could it be? He’s cute, in a not-tall-enough-mild-acne-yet-still-arrogant-jock kind of way.

  “Eric!” Coco hurries over. “I didn’t know that you were…”

  “We were at Tonic East, got your text, thought we’d come down!”

  Coco smiles at him adoringly, and Eric introduces his friends Tad and Wilcox. Tad is cute, but a classic attention seeker, wearing tennis sweatbands on his wrist and head. And Wilcox is a yuppie in the making (polo shirt, collar popped), either very shy or very drunk, because he can’t make eye contact.

  “I’m hitting the bar,” announces Tad.

  “It’s my round!” says Julia, and pushes her way next to Tad. “It’s my birthday,” she says, chewing her straw and looking up at him from under her eyelashes. Go Julia!

  “Thanks, I got it,” he says, turning away from her without smiling. What a jerk. I fight the urge to smack my palm on his forehead.

  Trying not to look hurt, Julia turns around, and her gaze lands on Angie. “I can’t believe you’re actually wearing black frickin’ leather shorts.”

  Angie looks down at her outfit—leather shorts and a very tight top, her hair tied back tightly, and twice the amount of eyeliner as usual—and shrugs. “I can’t believe you were going to wear sequined wedge flip-flops till Pia and I gave you a frickin’ makeover.”

  “Okay, kids, play nice,” I say. Damn, I thought those two were getting along after Julia’s makeover montage (complete with ’80s songs, natch).

  Julia looks great, by the way: tight jeans and an amazing jacket that Angie found at the Brooklyn Flea and customized, and she’s wearing her hair down for once in her life, blow-dried perfectly by Coco, makeup by moi. I hope she gets to flirt with guys tonight. Sometimes male attention is practically medicinal.

  It’s getting even more crowded in here and our group is jammed against one another in a messy little knot, but the conversation still isn’t flowing. I turn to Wilcox.

  “So, Wilcox, are you and Tad at college with Eric in Connecticut, too?”

  “Yale,” he says loudly, nodding. “Yale.”

  Oh, God.

  “Coming through! Defibrillators all around!” Tad pushes Julia and Wilcox out of the way to stand next to me and Angie, and hands out the drinks. “What was your name again? Angie? Listen, you wanna come jeans shopping with me tomorrow?”

  “No.”

  Unabashed, Tad monologues about karaoke experiences at college (“‘Don’t Stop Believing,’ man! Best ever!”).

  I check my phone, and see a text from Mike. Urgh. I thought he wasn’t talking to me.

  Got your voice warmed up?

  A pointless attention-seeking text letting me know he’s forgiven me for the Easter Bunny incident. I automatically go to delete it, then remember Madeleine’s plea to be nice.

  So I reply something smart-mouthed but meaningless: I was born warmed up.

  A second later he responds.

  Ain’t that the truth.

  Double urgh. Delete.

  Then Angie’s name is called.

  “Woo! Angie!” yells Coco, and Julia, Madeleine, and I all join in, cheering wildly in unison. Angie looks at us in surprise, and a big smile flashes across her face. Then she sees the song I picked out for her, and chokes out a surprised laugh.

  She looks out at us. “This one’s for Pia, Julia, Madeleine, and Coco.”

  It’s “You Belong With Me” by Taylor Swift. Angie is dressed like a dominatrix model, and she has to sing her heart out like an American Pie country music sweetheart.

  So she undoes her chignon so it cascades down in ringlets, vintage Taylor-style, grabs the microphone, and smiles with such wicked sweetness that everyone sits up a little straighter. And then she belts out the song, with total enthusiasm, horrifically off-key. That’s all it takes: the crowd joins in, and roars with approval when she’s finished.

  “And now everyone should sing Happy Birthday to my friend Julia! She’s twenty-three tomorrow!” she shouts at the end of the song. “I know it’s lame, okay? Just do it anyway!”

  “That’s me!” shouts Julia. “I’m the birthday girl!” The entire bar turns and serenades her with the birthday song. Julia is beaming at the attention, practically giddy with birthday joy. Thank you, Angie, I think. You just turned the night around.

  “That was the best birthday present, ever!” says Julia, laughing and reaching out for a high five when Angie returns.

  Angie high-fives her, and then offers a birthday hug. Yes! Julia and Angie! Friends!

  At this moment, I know the night’s going to be absolutely great.

  “You big marshmallow, you,” I say when Angie sits back down next to me.

  “I guess you dorks are rubbing off on me,” Angie says. “Julia and I didn’t get off to the best start, but I really like her. I like everyone, and most of all, I like the five of us together.… That Let Them Eat Cock thing was the most fun I’ve had in ages.”

  I grin. “Me too.”

  “I’ve never felt … I don’t know,” Angie trails off. “It’s like we fit together, you know? The five of us. We don’t fit, but we fit anyway.”

  “Don’t move to L.A.,” I say suddenly. “Don’t leave Rookhaven. Stay here with us. Please, I don’t want you to go.”

  She looks over at me and smiles. “I thought you’d never ask.”

  Next, Julia sings “It’s Gonna Be Me” by ’N Sync, the song Coco chose for her. After a couple of bars, she begins automatically doing the dance she learned for it in junior high. She’s at that perfect stage of drinking to be confident but not sloppy: fist pumps, leg rolls, heart taps, 180 jumps, turns, and swivels—it’s a complete boy-band routine.

  She gets a standing ovation and on the way back to us, a very hot guy stops her, but she just grins coyly at him and comes back to us.

  “Playing hard to get?” I say, seeing the guy staring after her.

  “I’m not playing, I am hard to get,” she retorts. “Let’s get another drink!”

  Next a guy with the deepest voice I’ve ever heard is singing “Stay” by Lisa Loeb, and the night gets a little shot-tastic. Julia is making everyone high-five her and saying, “Woo!” Coco and Eric are about an inch from kissing. Tad and Wilcox are doing some made-up dance involving the running man and tap dancing. Then some of Angie’s friends, Sirvan and Mani, arrive: two handsome, polite, and conspicuously wealthy Iranian playboys.

  While they’re getting drinks, Angie and I head outside for a cigarette.

  “Where’d you pick them up?” I say.

  “London.” She shrugs. “They’re sweet. And rich. What more is there?”

  “Right on,” I say.

  “Man, I feel good,” she adds, exhaling smoke rings.

  “Margaritas will do that to a girl.”

  “It’s not the booze. It’s the Adderall. Wilcox has it.”

  Wow, she just met him and has already scored prescription drugs. Kind of impressive. Last time I combined Adderall and booze I woke up naked next to a professor of American literature. (No, I didn’t take American literature, but that’s not the point.)

  “Take it easy, Angie, would you? I’m not in the mood for another bridge perfo
rmance.”

  “Narc.”

  A couple of drinks or so later, I run into Madeleine in the bathroom. Her eyes are red and swollen.

  “Are you okay?” I say.

  “Yeah, fine, nothing,” she mumbles. She’s very drunk, I suddenly realize. Slurring. “You know how I invited this guy I met, uh, Andrew? He’s not coming.”

  “Oh…” I say. “Bummer. Well, Angie’s friends are surprisingly sweet considering their Patek Philippes cost more than our house, or take your pick of Tad or Wilcox—”

  Madeleine looks up and rolls her eyes. “I’m not interested, Pia! Jesus!” She staggers on the spot slightly. “Why are you forcing everyone to have fun?”

  “Nice attitude,” I retort, and slam the stall door as she leaves. How rude. God, I hate it when people just take their bad moods out on you! I was just trying to make the evening work! Besides, if she’s not going to mingle, how the hell does she expect to ever meet anyone? The Internet can only do so much, you know?

  I wash my hands, reapply my bronzer, and leave just in time to hear the opening notes to “Feeling Good,” the Nina Simone song. “Birds flying high, you know how I feel…”

  Damn, the singer has a beautiful voice: deep, sultry, sad …

  Then I see the stage and my jaw drops.

  It’s Madeleine.

  She’s so mesmerizing that the entire crowd is silent for the first time all evening. She sounds sad and soulful, earthy and honest. I’ve never heard anything like it.

  And I never realized how gorgeous Madeleine is until now. She’s in an understated long-sleeved black dress that makes everyone else in the bar look pathetically overdressed, but really, it’s not the dress. It’s her. Madeleine is radiant.

  When she finishes, the entire bar is silent for a few seconds. Then it rains, no, it thunders applause.

  “Moomoo! I never knew you could sing like that!” exclaims Julia. “I chose that song because I thought we’d all join in with you!”

  “Um…” Madeleine is smiling so much, she can hardly talk. “I took classes in junior high, but then in high school it clashed with mathletes, so…” She shrugs and hiccups. “Can I have another shot?”

  The host comes on. “Next up … Pia Keller!”

  Merde.