“Laura makes all of her clothes,” said Whitney, beaming. “She’s the most amazing designer. Like if you see something in a magazine, she can totally reproduce it and tailor anything you need. Oscar de la Renta comes to our annual Christmas party and I’m going to bombard him with Laura’s sketchbook. He’ll freak.”
“That’s so wicked. You are a total Stella McCartney. How did you learn to do that?”
“I’ve been sewing since I was five. At first I thought it was totally D.A., but now I’ve gotten really into it.”
“D.A.? District Attorney?” asked Sophie, confused.
“No, Dorks Anonymous,” I said. Whitney and I had created our own little lingo.
“That’s such a cool phrase. I totally have to use that the next time I see my pals from the coast; they’ll get a real laugh out of it,” said Sophie. “But wow, I am way impressed with your look. I mean, how chic is Laura? Total inner style.”
“Her stuff is way better than everything at Scoop or Incubator,” said Whitney. I swear, I should put Whitney on the payroll for her praise. She was totally supportive, almost like a stage mother.
“Are those stores?” asked Sophie.
“The hippest in New York,” said Whitney.
“You’ll have to take me there for sure,” said Sophie, heading to the cash register with her new purchase.
“Obvy,” said Whitney.
“You guys are so great,” said Sophie, slapping down an American Express black card on the counter. “I’m in a really good space here. I was so nauseous about being the loser new girl slash foreign exchange student, so I’m way glad I found my power clique!”
“She’s just fun to have around. Granted, she is a little name-droppy, but hey, at least she’s generous with her celeb gossip.” I was sitting at my kitchen table eating dinner with my parents and telling them all about Sophie. “She and Whit also have fully bonded. I swear, their salesgirl today was on cloud nine because their credit cards had quite a workout.” I paused, knowing my parents hated talk of material things. It was so not our fam. “But I really like Sophie; I’m psyched to have a new pal in our gang.”
“That’s wonderful, darling,” said my mom, reaching over to the refrigerator to grab more milk. Our little yellow kitchen was tiny (“charming,” my mother called it), so our dinners were pretty informal. Cartons on the table, our seventeen-year-old cat Buster on my father’s lap, and the New York Times Sunday crossword under my mother’s plate were not uncommon. Whitney’s parents, the incredibly formal Mr. and Mrs. Peyton Rockingham Blake III, who could slash their wrists and have blue blood seep out and ruin their Oriental carpet, would have been horrified at our fourth-floor walk-up digs. We had piles upon piles of books—not just on the countless shelves lining the walls but on every imaginable surface. My mom’s math corkboard was covered in proofs for her lecture the next day, and the giant manila envelope of clippings my dad had saved for me to read leaned against the couch (he was always saving editorials he thought would interest me), along with his basket of New Republic back issues. It was haphazard but pure Finnegan.
“Sophie’s family is in the film business? How fascinating,” said my father.
“Yeah, she knows everyone. She’s literally having dinner tonight with the Olsen twins.”
“Are they a rock and roll band?” asked my mother.
“No.” I sighed. “They’re…never mind.”
My parents live in their own solar system and have no idea what goes on in the pages of Us Weekly. They were both in their early forties when they had me, so they are already gray-haired intellectuals, so to speak (my dad still has a huge head of thick, dark hair), close to senior citizenship at this stage of their life. Both are in surprisingly good shape, though, probably because they have to haul arse up all those floors every day to our walk-up. Our little triumvirate has always been a team, and they’ve always treated me as an adult (read: no curfew, which makes my classmates beyond jealous). Both of them are professors at New York University—my mother is in the math department and my father teaches philosophy (an extremely useful subject. Not!). They’re basically aging hippie brainiac types who have lived in the same two-bedroom bursting-at-the-seams-with-towers-upon-towers-of-books rent-stabilized apartment in the West Village for twenty years.
“Sophie already promised she’d have her dad name characters after us in his next movie. How cool is that?”
“Are they some sort of athletic team?” asked my mother.
“Who?”
“The Olsen twins?” she said, pulling at her beaded necklace.
“No, Mom, and we’ve moved beyond that conversation already. Anyway, the awesome thing is that Sophie just clicked with Whit, Kaitlin, Ava, and me,” I said, getting up to clear my plate. I dumped the remnants of my broccoli, corn, and meat loaf (barf!) into the garbage.
“That’s wonderful, dear,” said my father, wiping gravy off his tweed jacket. He always somehow manages to spill something or other all over himself when he eats. Usually it was because he was so distracted. Definitely the “absentminded professor.”
“Oh my gosh!” I said, slapping myself on the head. “I can’t believe I didn’t think of this sooner! This means I’ll have one more major Sweet Sixteen party to go to!”
Both of my parents looked at me quizzically. “Is that good or bad?” my father said, cocking his head.
“It’s both. I mean, it’s awesome, but that means I need to make one more dress for myself. Between all these parties, plus the Gold and Silver Ball in December, I am going to be in sewing overdrive.”
There was no doubt that Sophie would have a major blowout. In fact, I bet her party might even rival Whitney’s, with all her Hollywood connections.
Chapter Five
That Saturday, after I finished jamming on all my homework, I went to meet up with Whit and Sophie. I know, I know, I am such a big fat loser to study on Saturdays, but Sundays make me want to hurl when I wake up and eat brunch and have piles o’ slaveitude, so I’d rather get it over with.
While teasing me mercilessly for my dorkissima ways, we hit the downtown shopping scene, i.e., my turf. See, most girls at Tate break into hives when they have to leave their glam 10021 zip code; many people, despite the fact that they live in such a colorful and amazing city as the Big Apple, never leave their Bentley-lined ’hood. Around seventh grade it became cooler to explore downtown, but sometimes I still bristle at the invisible stigma that I’m some Oliver Twist urchin living in gritty Bohemia. In fifth grade my mom planned a party for me at our apartment, and not one, not two, but five moms called to ask for driving directions. I mean, helllooo? New York is a grid, people! This one mom asked, “Where is West Ninth Street?” and my mom said, “Between Eighth and Tenth Streets.”
Anyway, the cool thing about Whitney versus many of the Dolce-clad drones in my class is that she had always been game to explore, and ever since I introduced Whit to my all-time fave boutique, Incubator, she’s been obsessed. It’s basically the coolest store in the city—all young, hip designers, fresh out of Parsons or FIT, and if you buy something there, you won’t see everyone wearing it. Tons of the designers now lining the racks of Barney’s all started there, and the owner, Jade, is my idol.
“She’s gorgeous,” Sophie whispered as she stared at Jade.
“Oh, drop dead,” replied Whitney as we watched Jade chat on the phone, running a hand through her jet black glossy straight hair. “She used to be a model, and then she quit to be with this rocker guy in Williamsburg; so hot.”
“We’ve totally shrined her,” I added. “There was an article on her in Vogue, and she styles all these music videos now.”
“Wow,” said Sophie, wide-eyed. “She’s so edgy and chic; love her!”
Jade waved and gestured she’d just be another minute on the phone.
“What time does the band come on?” Jade said, jotting on a notepad. “Killer.”
She hung up and sighed, turning to us. “Hey, girlies.” She cam
e out from behind the counter and kissed Whitney and me.
“Jade, this is our friend Sophie,” I said.
“Hey,” said Jade, shaking her hand.
“This is such a fab place!” gushed Sophie. “It’s so cool and modern, but there’s this, like, vintage-y vibe!”
“You know my chocolate brown velvet jacket I was wearing the other day?” Whitney asked Sophie. “That was from here.”
“Your clothes are all to keel over and die for,” said Sophie. “I am sooo about to do some serious damage!”
The phone rang and Jade turned to grab it. “We have other sizes in the back, too, so let me know if you need anything.”
“I sooo love her aura!” said Sophie.
“I know, she rules, right?” said Whitney.
“Okay: now, Laura,” Sophie said, looking at me very seriously. “Since this is your find, what pieces do you recommend for my spree?”
“Everything here is pretty much spot-on in terms of major originality,” I said, drinking in the amazing racks of clothes I sadly could never buy. “Jade was the first to really embrace the whole Japanese scene. You can’t find this level of cut, tailoring, and detail in many places.”
Sophie was in drool mode, a fit of orgasmic shopper’s delight. “Oh my God, Mission Control to planet Amex! We need you!” Sophie said as she loaded her thin arms with piles of clothes. “I have that wave where I just know I’m about to drop megabucks.”
“Well, you’re in the best place.” I smiled.
“Now listen, you guys, we have to fully stock up on red-carpet-worthy loot! Get out your BlackBerries,” Sophie said, looking at us with a raised brow. “Friday you have to come with me to my dad’s friend Quentin’s movie premiere at the Ziegfeld!”
“No way,” I said, floored. Whoa. Would my life really be that Entertainment Tonight?
“Way,” answered Sophie. “I just asked Daddy this morning if I could bring you guys and he said yes! We’re getting a limo and everything!”
“Awesome!” squealed Whitney. “I am so trying on this cutie frock,” she said, marching into the dressing room.
“Laura,” said Sophie, turning my way before hitting the dressing room herself. “Aren’t you gonna try anything on? I’m feeling those lacey chemises are so you!”
“Oh, no, I’m all set,” I said, somewhat self-consciously, as my two pals tore off their outfits behind the deep-purple curtains.
Ninety minutes and God knows how much dough later, we were out on Avenue A and I was helping Whitney and Sophie find a cab to share uptown; we were all sleeping over at Whitney’s house that night, and I had to stop home to pack my bag.
“Thanks, sweets!” gushed Sophie, putting her arm around me. “That was such a blast. We are totally ready for our close-up!”
A cab pulled up and they loaded in with their garment bags galore.
“Okay, Lo-lo,” Whitney said, giving me a hug. “Soph and I will see you at my place in a couple hours—”
The cab drove off, and through the window I saw them laughing. I couldn’t help but feel the tiniest sting of, well, this is majorly embarrassing slash insecure but…weirdo jealousy? I mean, normally Whitney would come over with me and wait while I packed and then we’d ride up together. But today she had Sophie to share a cab with and was suddenly splitsville. And not only that, Sophie had totally stepped in as her buying buddy because she could match her credit limit. Was I being replaced? No, no, no, I was being silly. How could I ever feel excluded because of a dumb shopping spree and the fact that they both lived uptown? Whitney and I were best friends. And Sophie was really fun. Three isn’t a crowd—that was just bull, and I got annoyed at myself for even having such a random, immature thought. I tried to banish it from my head immediately. Three is not a crowd! Three is not a crowd! Right?
Chapter Six
Unlike my house, where you just have to call up—and because our intercom doesn’t work we buzz anyone in (probably knife-wielding serial killers)—getting into Whitney’s Park Avenue pad was like trying to penetrate the Pentagon. I had to give my name to the first doorman, pass inspection from the second doorman, cruise up to the fifteenth floor with the ancient elevator man (I mean, I think I could handle pressing a button), and then go through a series of maids and butlers that opened various doors until I finally found my friend.
Adela, the Blakes’ uniformed El Salvadorian maid, opened the grand mahogany front door to let me into the apartment.
“Hi, Adela,” I said.
“Hi, Miss Laura,” she said, taking my coat. I had always felt a little weird about letting Whitney’s “help,” as she called them, defrock me. What am I, paralyzed? But when I saw that my resistance only got the staff in trouble and accused of laziness, I had decided to relent.
I walked across the black-and-white marbled floor and veered left down a long taupe-colored hallway lined with Matisse collages. The Blakes had the most fantastic art collection, so awesome that we even went to their house on class trips to study the Dutch masters. It sure beat the posters of famous philosophers and family snapshots in simple black frames that my parents had slapped on our walls. In fact, the Blakes’ apartment was the exact opposite of mine: Instead of squeaky wooden floorboards they had thick, plush wall-to-wall carpeting in earth tones that muted out any noises (the whole family would rather be neither seen nor heard). Our walls are painted bright colors and could probably use a paint job (chips were cropping up everywhere), and their walls had expensive wallpaper—some toile, some floral, some with weird bird scenes, and even some with cashmere! All of their furniture was antique—it’s like all the hard work that Louis XIV’s and Louis XV’s carpenters did in France a century or two ago ended up on Seventy-first and Park, right in Whit’s house. What we considered antique in our house was my father’s desk, which he bought in 1974, and which had a scratch in it that made it look older. We really couldn’t be more opposite.
“Hey, Whit,” I said, turning into Whitney’s gi-normous bedroom. I don’t envy anything Whit has, but I have to admit I could totally deal with her room. It’s all decorated in a subtle sage green $300-a-yard chintz—everything from the window seat and the thick drapes to the bench at the foot of her canopy bed. She has an overstuffed sofa and armchair at the other end of her room in a soft printed white-on-white fabric, with cashmere ivory Ralph Lauren throws to curl up in while watching TV. The whole room is compartmentalized in the most amazing way: One nook is for TV viewing. Another nook, her magazine collection—arranged by theme (Cosmo Girl!, Teen Vogue! )—is as organized as a Hold Everything catalog. In another nook is her “workstation,” which holds her Chippendale desk, her brand-new iMac computer, and my favorite of all: her stationery collection. I am such a sucker for nice papers. Whenever I pass a stationery store, I just have to do a drive-by. And Whit has all of her hand-engraved letterhead, envelopes, business cards (Who needs those at age fifteen? Not sure, but rad anyway) meticulously arranged in special wooden desk shelves. All are monogrammed, all in her signature colors, brown and pink, and all from the most expensive stationers in the city, like Mrs. John L. Strong, Smythson, and Tiffany. So chic-adelic.
“Hey, amigo,” said Whitney, who was plopped on her bed, reading the latest issue of People. She sat up and looked at me. “The Bradley boys called. They want to hang as soon as possible. I told them that we were, like, busy with the St. Peter’s boys tonight but maybe next week. I want to play hard to get with Jake.”
“Good idea,” I said, sitting on the bench. Bradley and St. Peter’s were the boys school equivalents of Tate, and our Bradley guy group was made up of Max, Josh, Bobby—and Jake Watkins. There was ST (sexual tension) and little flirtfests here and there, but so far, it was nothing heavy—except for Kaitlin, who seemed to have hit it off with Max. Every year it seemed one school or the other had hotter guys, and this year it was all about Bradley, so we had to tread carefully. We didn’t want them to go for the Briar girls (our rival school).
“Oh my gosh, yo
ur closet totally rivals Hilary Duff’s!” said Sophie, emerging from Whitney’s walk-in extravaganza. “Hey, Laura, I didn’t even know you were here!”
“I just got here,” I said, surprised. I had thought Whit and I would have some early hangout time alone. “I didn’t know you were here either.”
“Ava and Kaitlin will be here in an hour. They’re still getting manis,” said Whitney.
“Listen, I’m starvatious! What kind of grub do you have?” asked Sophie.
“Let’s hit the kitchen and check it out,” said Whitney.
Fifteen minutes later we were plopped in the kitchen, sitting under the hanging shiny copper pots, scooping raw Pillsbury cookie dough out of the weird sausagelike pack and scarfing on a giant bag of M&M’s we had just acquired at D’Agostino’s. Suddenly we heard the soft clacking of high heels across the pantry floor, and Whitney quickly pushed the cookie dough and candy in front of me. The pantry door swung open and Brooke Stanton Blake, Whitney’s mother, entered.
“Girls,” greeted Mrs. Blake, surveying the kitchen suspiciously.
“Hey, Mom,” said Whitney, anxiously. Whitney was always nervous around her mom, which seemed kind of sad to me. Her mom wasn’t that intimidating. She was like ninety pounds and had this ashy blond hair that she always wore in a black velvet head-band. She looked pretty mild, in fact, but I know that she could be hard on Whit, who was stressed whenever she was around.
“What are you ladies up to?” asked Mrs. Blake. I saw her look at the cookie dough and candy and frown.
“Mom, this is our new friend, Sophie Mitchum. She’s from L.A.”
Bittersweet Sixteen Page 3
