“What do you mean I don’t understand?” Avery asked coldly, standing up. She hated the way Baby invoked her holier-than-thou voice, just because she’d had long-term relationships and Avery… well, hadn’t. She was a little self-conscious about that blip in her personal history. Somehow, nothing ever quite worked out between her and boys. The first time she’d made out with a guy, in eighth grade, on a school trip to Boston, she’d ended up accidentally knocking out his front tooth. It had been totally humiliating and a story that had followed her into high school. Luckily, no one had to know about that here. In New York, it’d all be different. Here in New York, anything was possible.
Especially love.
She plunked down on the ground beside the hammock and hugged her knees to her chest. The bag of cookies was already half empty. Scones were so last millennium.
“I’m sorry. I don’t think me and J.P. getting together was wrong. Sometimes relationships just happen. But it’s hard to explain to you, because you’re happy on your own. You’re… ” Baby paused, searching for the right metaphor. “You’re sort of like a panda.” Baby sounded so much like their mom that Avery wanted to scream.
“And you’re like an idiot. Point?” Avery said coldly. A panda? What the fuck did that mean? This was supposed to be a sisterly bonding moment. Now she just wanted to go right back out the door and hang out with Jack and Genevieve and Jiffy and anyone else normal. Maybe tonight they could raid each others’ closets, dress up in ridiculously fabulous Valentino gowns, and go out dancing until the wee hours at some cool new Meatpacking District club. That was what she’d always imagined New York life would be like. But so far, they’d either hung out on the steps of the Met or at Jiffy’s cavernous apartment.
“It’s not bad to be a panda!” Baby giggled and flipped onto her back again, like some sort of bipolar trout. “They’re super independent, just like you. You know what you want and don’t let guys get in the way. I’m more like a…” Baby paused, considering.
“Lobster?” Avery suggested mutinously.
“Mate for life? I don’t know. Maybe, I guess.” Baby nodded cheerily and giggled. Somehow, the tension melted and Avery smiled at her tiny, philosophical sister.
Baby giggled and grabbed three cookies. Despite her penchant for all-natural products, Baby had a huge sweet tooth and could easily down an entire package of cookies if she wanted to. Without gaining any weight.
Don’t hate her because she’s a skinny pig.
“Oh man, what a day,” Owen groaned. He walked out onto the terrace, wearing wrinkled A&F cargo shorts and no shirt. He looked sunburned, and his typically easygoing expression seemed worried and tense. His sisters eyed him sympathetically.
Baby handed him the Milanos. When they were younger they used to have speed eating competitions, which Baby usually won. Baby smiled, remembering. Life had been so simple back then. “What’s up? Exhausted by your entourage?” she teased, making room for him on the hammock. Owen ignored the free space and pretended to sit on top of her.
“Owen, stop!” Baby squealed. Avery smiled. It was nice, just being out here, the three of them, away from old ladies and mean Constance girls and cheating boyfriends.
I’m sure he feels the same way. Especially about the boyfriends part.
“My entourage…” Owen trailed off.
“All the girls following you around, silly. But seriously, have you hooked up with anyone? Because, you know, Jiffy really likes you and she’s growing her bangs out,” Avery said.
“I haven’t hooked up with anyone,” Owen lied. He hadn’t told them about Kelsey. First, because it had just seemed so skanky to have sex with a random girl on the beach. Then, when he got to New York, everything was just so complicated, and now it was hard even to know where to begin. He wasn’t sure if he should tell them about the whole gay thing, or if they’d just make fun of him.
Right, because what sibling would ever do that?
Just then, Edie walked out onto the terrace, two Buddhist chimes dangling from her wrists. “Helloooo, my darlings!” she exclaimed, sweeping in to kiss each of her children. “What are we talking about?”
“Nothing,” all three said at the same time.
Edie sat on the hammock and clinked the ancient-looking brass chimes together loudly. “You know, things are going so well for you all.” She looked at her brood like a proud mother hen. “I was just thinking—what if we have a dinner party? You can bring your friends, and I’ll bring mine. It’ll be fantastic!”
Avery nodded tightly. She loved her hippietastic mom but wasn’t quite sure she was ready to introduce her Constance friends to her.
“How about next Friday? I really want to make this apartment feel like a home. Maybe we could all do some sort of collaborative art project!” Edie mused, clinking the chimes together again as she stood up and floated back inside. Owen shrugged, and Baby rolled her eyes happily, but Avery felt a cold knot of fear in her stomach.
Come, now. Everyone loves a party.
notes from the underground
Baby and Sydney giggled breathlessly in a cab headed to the Lower East Side on Friday evening. They’d just come from their latest adventure with Underground Response, at the Union Square Whole Foods, where the group’s mission had been to act like groupies for various cashiers. Baby was wearing a black slip she’d found in Avery’s closet, fishnets, and Christian Louboutin ankle boots that were sure to provoke Avery’s wrath once she realized they were missing. All together, Baby looked very 1920s-flapper-meets-dominatrix.
Meow.
“We’re getting out,” Sydney commanded as the cab screeched to a halt on Houston Street. Baby climbed out of the cab and onto the dirty sidewalk, feeling a tiny bit guilty for blowing off J.P. tonight. Last night they’d hung out, taking his dogs for a walk and then watching a movie in the Cashmans’ massive screening room, but they hadn’t gone out-out since they’d officially become a couple. He’d wanted to go and see some French film that had gotten rave reviews in TheNew Yorker. Normally, Baby liked random, obscure movies, but she had the feeling he’d only suggested it to try to make her happy. Besides, she reminded herself, she had to do the Rancor stuff just to be allowed to even stay at Constance.
Together, Baby and Sydney ran down the street and zigzagged along the uneven side-street blocks, passing metal-grated storefronts that seemed out of place next to their velvet-rope club neighbors. The Lower East Side had been one of Baby’s biggest disappointments when she’d moved to New York a month ago. She had expected it to be all urban and gritty, but instead it was filled with trying-too-hard bars that did their best to look divey inside but had velvet ropes and photographers outside, just like everywhere else.
“I don’t know if I want to go out…” Baby began. Maybe she should just go back to J.P. She’d rather just hang out with him than go to some hot, uncomfortable bar.
But Sydney didn’t seem to hear her. She marched into a dirty takeout restaurant. SUPAR MEXICAN, CHINESE, AND SUSHI! was written on a large cardboard sign propped in the window.
Sounds, um, supar.
“I told Webber we’d meet him here, okay?” Sydney raised her eyebrows excitedly.
“I’m not really hungry…” Baby trailed off as they walked into the tiny, dingy takeout joint. A grubby laminated menu was perched on the cracked Formica counter. One guy stood behind the counter stirring a pot of an unidentified brown substance, his unibrow furrowed in consternation. Baby was all for no pretension, but she drew the line at mystery meat.
“I’ll go first—you follow, okay?” Sydney trailed off mysteriously as she entered what looked like a broom closet. Figuring she had nothing to lose, Baby followed. Instead, they found themselves in an outdoor alley.
What was she expecting, Oz? Narnia?
Sydney scanned the empty alley and authoritatively marched up to an industrial-size metal door. She knocked three times. Baby nervously stood behind her. Was this some type of cult initiation or something?
; The door opened, and a small girl wearing all black held out a clipboard.
“Name?” she asked.
“Here for Webber,” Sydney said confidently. The girl opened the door, and suddenly, they were transported to a cavernous, wood-paneled, underground bar. Baby breathed out in surprise. A secret bar? How cool! This was the type of New York she’d expected. Vintage propagandist type posters from KGB-era Russia were tacked on the wall, and a DJ in the corner was spinning bhangra trance music. Baby felt like she had just stepped into some 1920s speakeasy, or an intellectual dissident bar in Communist Russia.
You know, either one.
“Isn’t this awesome?” Sydney murmured, scanning the crowd for Webber. She stood on tiptoe in her Doc Martens. The bar was crowded, but not with any of the khaki-wearing, button-down losers who usually ran around like they owned New York.
Losers except for her khaki-pants-and-button-down-wearing boyfriend, of course.
“Sexy bitch!” Webber sneaked up behind Sydney and bit her neck lightly. Baby looked away. It was weird watching a guy named Webber make out with her friend.
“Hey lover.” Sydney kissed him and suddenly Baby felt left out. She wandered over to the bar, away from the Underground Response crowd. A cloud of smoke wafted over her and, for the first time, she wanted a cigarette. She wasn’t really a smoker of anything. Although she’d smoked a little pot back in Nantucket, she preferred to keep her lungs clean. Now, though, she wanted to inhale the city in all its carcinogenic glory.
She plunked down on a tall wooden stool. The guy next to her was tall and skinny, with curly brown hair and a sky blue T-shirt with some slogan written in Spanish. She vaguely remembered him from the Whole Foods event, where he’d eagerly spent the whole time squeezing the melons in the produce section before handing them out to customers. He was drinking a large glass of what looked like water and gazing up at the handwritten list of beers above the bar.
“Hey, can I have one?” she asked boldly, indicating the pack of cigarettes lying near him on top of the slick bar.
“Sure.” He studied her face and Baby smiled. “I noticed you before,” he said shyly. He pulled out a cigarette, put it in his mouth, and lit it, unleashing a thin stream of pink smoke.
“Sobranies,” he explained as he offered it to her. “They’re from Russia. I use them to impress the ladies,” he said wryly. Baby glanced at him, unsure if he was making fun of her. “Unless you’d like something stronger?”
Baby shook her head. After dating one raging stoner, she had no desire to repeat that experience anytime soon.
“Good.” He smiled and picked up his glass. “What’s your name?” he asked, with a slight hint of a Spanish accent, like he had just stepped off a yacht in the Maldives.
“Baby.” She smiled at him and held out her tiny hand. It was so cool to finally meet more people.
How friendly!
“That’s beautiful.” He cupped her tiny chin and locked his tequila-colored eyes with hers. It was a gesture that made Baby feel like she was a racehorse being appraised. She pulled her face away and took a long drag of the cigarette, then started coughing. “Fuck!” She choked, grabbing his glass. She drank from it, sputtering.
“This is all vodka!” she exclaimed, and tried to wipe the drool off her chin as he clapped her back.
“You are okay?” he asked, as if answering his own question. Baby nodded, taking another, slower, sip of vodka. She breathed carefully.
“I’m Mateo,” he said. “From Barcelona. Have you been there?”
“No.” Baby looked around to see where the rest of the UR group was. Most were crammed in a corner, drinking beer out of pitchers and playing some type of drinking game that involved articles of clothing being taken off, traded, and repurposed. Sydney’s slip was wrapped artfully around one guy’s head like a turban, and Sydney and Webber were now making out in the corner.
“I’ve never been to Barcelona,” Baby clarified, blowing pink smoke upward to the industrial, steel roof. He was probably in college, she guessed. Despite her hippie-bohemianism, she had really never traveled very much, except for the one time she and Avery had gone to Paris for a week with Grandmother Avery as a thirteenth birthday present. Baby had spent her time accidentally-on-purpose trying to get lost in the artsy neighborhoods of Montmartre, while Avery and Grandmother Avery had spent afternoons shopping at Chanel and Givenchy and drinking kir royales at overpriced cafés along the Seine.
“You should come. You would love it. You look like a girl who needs an adventure.” He grinned, then pulled out a silver Zippo lighter and flicked it to light his own cigarette. “Cheers to adventures!” he said, awkwardly bumping their cigarettes together.
“Why are you here?” Baby asked curiously, taking another sip of his vodka.
“The wind brought me here.” He smiled.
“Do you know how lame that sounds in English?” Baby rolled her eyes.
“No, it’s true. My friend, Fernando, and I came here. We needed a change.”
Baby arched a dark eyebrow, intrigued, and took another sip of his vodka.
“Would be easier to have your own drink, no?” Mateo teased and expertly gestured to the bartender, who filled a large tumbler with vodka and set it in front of Baby.
“We made a pact,” Mateo continued. “Anytime, day or night, one of us would call. We would meet at the airport, passport, toothbrushes, then take the first flight here. We called it ‘doing the New York.’ I called him last week and we’ve been here ever since. Fun city.” Mateo grinned.
“Where are you staying?” Baby asked, impressed. Show up at the airport at the drop of a hat, with only a toothbrush? That sounded so cool.
“We stay at a hostel. With friends. We make friends.” He chuckled. “So, Baby, what’s your story?”
“I live here.” Baby shrugged. Suddenly, her life didn’t seem very exciting. She racked her brain trying to think of something to say that wouldn’t make her sound like a dumb high school girl. It was weird—usually she wasn’t at a loss for words, but Mateo’s sexy Spanish accent was distracting.
“I’m always looking for adventures too,” she finally offered, a small smile playing on her lips. She wasn’t sure if it was the vodka or the pink cigarettes, but she just felt at home. Just then, her cell rang loudly from her vintage Chanel bag, also courtesy of Avery’s closet.
“Your boyfriend?” Mateo asked, nodding toward her bag. Baby frowned, then picked up.
“Hey gorgeous, where are you?” J.P.’s voice asked. Baby stiffened and turned away from Mateo. She looked down at her knees, smoothing her slip over her bare skin self-consciously. She hated how he always greeted her by calling her gorgeous or beautiful. She knew most girls would love it, but for her, it felt like J.P. was saying it because he had to. In a weird way, it sounded scripted.
“Just… working on Rancor stuff,” she said, pressing her ear closer to the phone and hoping he couldn’t hear the raucous noise in the background. “Actually, we’re at a bar photographing something for Rancor,” she clarified, just in case he could.
“Okay, you’re still there? It sounds like you’re in a construction zone or something.” J.P. chuckled. “Anyway, are you done soon?” he asked hopefully. “I could make reservations at Orsay. The chef’s really into the organic movement. I thought you’d like that,” he offered.
Baby recognized the name of one of the overpriced restaurants in their neighborhood. Sitting in some stuffy restaurant and hearing the server explain the life of her dinner was the last thing she wanted to do right now. “Actually, Sydney and I need to finish some stuff up,” she lied. “But you should come with us next time. We’re profiling this crazy improv group,” she elaborated, feeling even more guilty than she had before.
But not guilty enough to leave . . .
“You’re the boss!” J.P. said agreeably. “I’ll miss you tonight, gorgeous.”
Mwah! Mwah!
“See, you do have a boyfriend,” Mateo said teasing
ly after Baby hung up. He put his hand close to Baby’s.
“I go with the wind,” Baby said mysteriously, wrinkling her nose at him. She wasn’t flirting, she reasoned. She was doing research!
And we all know cute foreign boys make the most interesting subjects.
the queen
On Monday afternoon, Jack slammed her Givenchy satchel down at the round table in the Constance Billard cafeteria and dug into the 2 percent strained Greek organic yogurt she’d bought at the grimy bodega all the way over on Second Avenue. Her yogurt had cost a fucktastic five dollars. They’d also had a freaking surprise essay in English this morning, which was not ideal considering Jack hadn’t done any of the reading this past weekend. She’d only managed to pull some vague thoughts together about Moby-Dick, which was just a stupid title for an even dumber book about fucking whales. At least she hoped it was mostly about whales, since that’s what she’d written about. But, in any case, her essay sucked, meaning she’d have to go and have a talk with her nosebleed-prone guidance counselor, Ms. Glos, and either tell her she was emotionally exhausted or that she hadn’t read the book because the violent descriptions of whale harpooning offended her. She hadn’t decided which yet.
“Hey.” Jiffy came up behind her and sat down, shoving her way-too-long bangs out of her brown eyes. Her tray was laden with russet potato fries, and their grease reflected the soft light of the cafeteria’s dimmed lights. Jack’s stomach grumbled loudly and she sighed in annoyance. Why couldn’t she be one of those girls who lost her appetite when she got stressed out? She greedily grabbed two fries.
Jiffy wordlessly passed the entire plate to Jack with her Chanel Midnight Satin–manicured hand. Midnight Satin was so last season, but Jiffy was the type of girl who held on to trends until they died. Since her parents were on the board of practically every philanthropic organization in New York and her thirty-two-year-old sister was one of the most sought-after socialites on the party scene, she could kind of get away with it.
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