“Summer Fun Darcy is back!” I cheer.
Darcy’s eyes brighten as she cracks a big smile. “She remembered what she came here for. She got distracted for a minute. But yes, she is back.”
“Well if she’s interested, the guy in 3A is looking for single girls. Not necessarily for him, although he is really cute. He’s going to this party and needs a non-date.”
“Sounds intriguing,” Darcy says. “I’m in.”
In a flash, I decide I won’t reach out to Vienna about the party after all. The risk that Darcy would find out how I know Vienna is too high. That part of my life doesn’t exist in this part.
We ping from topic to topic for what could be twenty minutes or two hours. Eventually Rosanna checks the time. “I hate to break up the fun, but it’s almost one.”
“No way,” I marvel. “I thought it was like midnight. I can’t believe how—” Then it registers. Rosanna checked the time on a cell phone. That she pulled out of her bag. And put on the table. “What. Is. That.”
Darcy has been distracted by a waiter who looks like this actor I recognize from a show I can’t remember. Now she looks over and sees the phone, too.
“Is that yours?!” Darcy shouts.
“D gave it to me last night,” Rosanna says. “He just got the new version. He wasn’t going to use it anymore and he found this cheap service for me, so . . .”
Darcy and I give each other an exploding pound.
“You have no idea how long we’ve been waiting for this day to come,” Darcy tells Rosanna.
“We’re really happy for you,” I add. “Of course D just got an even newer version of a phone I’ve been wanting forever.”
“Tell me about it,” Darcy says, admiring Rosanna’s phone. “Can I just say how thankful I am that you finally joined this millennium?”
Rosanna is smiling, but Darcy and I seem way more excited about her phone than she does. “I know it will make life easier,” she offers.
Darcy pulls out a wad of singles to pay. They must be her tips from working at the Place That Shall Not Be Named. She rolls her eyes at me. “Can you believe we have to keep up with her now? I can hardly afford pancakes, much less a new phone.”
Rosanna giggles.
I’m happy that Darcy has a sense of humor about how the tables have turned.
We both are.
CHAPTER 8
DARCY
EVADING LOGAN WAS FUN AT first. Every time he contacted me, I blew him off. I wanted to see how long I could play him like he played me. But that game has become just one more annoying thing to maintain in Life After Daddy Destroyed Us. Maybe it’s time to come right out and tell him I know. Only, where would the fun be in that?
Before my life morphed into a shape I don’t even recognize, I was all fired up to annihilate Logan. But now I have a different perspective about what’s important. Now my priorities are issues I never had to think about before.
Sadie was right. Logan doesn’t deserve my energy. Or my attention. He doesn’t even deserve to know that I know.
I’m still waiting to see how long it will take him to come looking for me. So far it’s been two weeks and four days. Doesn’t he realize I’m avoiding him? Doesn’t he care? Obviously not. He would know something was wrong if he really loved me. He would have come looking for me by now if he cared.
This could be part of his strategy. To wait and see when I’ll come to him. He could have suspected I found out his nasty secrets. Or maybe he thinks I figured out he’s been sneaking money from my wallet. Whatever is going on with him, it looks like he’s going to lay low until I want to get together.
Screw that. I don’t have time for that loser. If he wants me, he knows where to find me. Come and get it, scumsucker.
My double shift ended half an hour ago when I closed. I wandered the streets aimlessly, wanting to get wasted but strangely unmotivated to find a cool bar with a hot guy to buy me drinks. Before I realized where I was going, I ended up here. In front of my dream apartment. I love standing in front of the big picture window, gazing in at the beautiful objects and absorbing the energy of this place. How can a home that belongs to someone else feel so much like my own? I don’t even know who lives here. I’ve stood here like this a hundred times, wondering about the man on the other side of the glass. I’ve never seen anyone inside. But I have a feeling a guy lives here.
I take a few deep breaths, focusing on the Now. Immersing myself in this moment. Allowing the soothing aura of this place I love to calm me.
A guy walks up to me on the sidewalk. I swiftly take in his classic American boy features—early twenties, brown eyes, brown hair, clean-cut—and deduce that he’s not dangerous. He would be a more than acceptable candidate for my next boy adventure.
He peers in the window.
“Do you like it?” he asks me.
“This is my favorite apartment. I have to stop and drool every time I walk by. Not just because it’s gorgeous. Something about it resonates with me.”
“Would you like to come in?”
My mouth falls open. There is no way this is his place.
“It’s my uncle’s house,” he explains. “I’m staying here while he’s away on business.”
WHAT. I actually have a chance to be on the other side of the glass?
The right thing to do is pass. I should thank him for the invite, say good-night, and move on. Girls aren’t supposed to let boys they don’t even know lure them into random apartments. But how is this any different from a one-night stand? I have gone home with boys I’ve only known for a few hours. Plus this isn’t a random apartment. This place feels like home to me. Sadie would say that this boy inviting me in is a total non-coincidence. She would approve. We share a love of apartment stalking. I’ve told her how obsessed I am with this place. She will freak when she hears I got to go inside.
“I’m Tomer,” he says.
“I’m Darcy.”
“You can come in if you want. I promise I’m a nice guy. But no pressure.”
I’ve always considered myself to be a good judge of character. Tomer does seem like a nice guy. Not only due to the lack of sketchy vibes. He has that same safe energy I feel when I look into his uncle’s home.
“Thanks,” I say. “That would be fantastic.”
We climb the stairs to the front door. I can’t believe this is happening. All the times I longed to be on the other side of the glass, I never thought I would actually get there.
Tomer pushes the door open, standing aside to let me pass. It’s such a refined touch for a boy his age. Inside there’s a hallway leading all the way back. To the left there is a staircase along the wall. Tomer puts his key in the lock of a door to our right.
A familiar connection intoxicates me the second I step inside the apartment. That same energy I felt when I was standing outside looking in is right here, all around me.
“This is unreal,” I say. I go over to the big picture window I’ve gazed in so many times. I can almost see myself in the spot where I always stand outside. “I can’t believe I’m on the other side of the glass.”
“On the other side of the glass,” Tomer repeats. He comes over to look out with me. “Poetic.”
Tomer shows me around. The apartment goes really far back. There’s a huge kitchen behind the living room, followed by a dining room and a backyard garden. Tomer opens the glass door to the garden and turns on an outdoor light. There’s another house across the garden.
“Do you know who lives there?” I ask.
“In the carriage house? My uncle owns that, too. He has some office space in there.”
“What does your uncle do?” I blurt. As if I wasn’t already acting like enough of a creeper.
“He’s a music producer.”
“Oh, cool.”
“What about you?”
“My job is way less impressive.”
“Are you in school?”
“Yeah, at UNY. I took summer session to make up some credits
I missed while I was backpacking through Europe last year.”
“That must have been amazing.”
We sit at the kitchen counter and I tell Tomer all about my travels. He is fascinated. His questions surprise me. By what he’s asking and his level of excitement, it seems like he’s never been anywhere in Europe at all. I would assume this boy summered in Europe growing up. Everything about him screams he’s from money. Watch Tomer turn out to be Donovan’s cousin or something.
Tomer is so engrossed in the story I’m telling about this little artists’ community in northern Italy called Bussana Vecchia that he has to snap himself out of it. “I’m sorry, can I get you a drink? I was going to have a beer.”
“That sounds good.” He takes two beer bottles out of the refrigerator. I watch him open them. Unless he found a way to open the bottles before I came in, slip any number of drugs into them, and seal the bottles back up so they still made that fizz-pop sound when he opened them again, they are safe to drink. I’m not worried about being in a strange boy’s uncle’s house anymore. And I’m definitely not worried about the consequences of getting drunk. Isn’t that why I’m here? Isn’t that why I’m staying? To numb the pain and forget about my life on the other side of the glass.
“Enough about me,” I say. “Tell me something fascinating about you.”
“I can play the harmonica and guitar at the same time.”
“Really?”
“No. That’s why I want to be Demetri Martin.”
“Oh my god, I love him.” Sadie showed me some of Demetri Martin’s stand-up. He is hysterical without trying to be. Subtle humor everyone can relate to is the best. He did this whole thing about how cherry tomatoes in a salad are impossible to eat. They run away when you try to stab them with your fork and they burst juices at whoever is sitting across from you when you bite into them. So everyone avoids eating cherry tomatoes, which end up rolling around at the bottom of the bowl. So we should just agree to retire them from salads all together.
Tomer does some DM lines. “What’s with those ‘please use other door’ signs on doors? You’re a door. You’re not a brick wall. All you have to do is open and close. Do your job.”
“I love the large pad.”
“Anything on the large pad. That dude has the best graphs.”
“If math classes used Demetri Martin’s graphs, math might actually be interesting.”
“They would have to add those foot bells to make math interesting.”
“So wait,” I switch gears. “What’s your story? How long are you staying here?”
“I’m starting grad school at Tufts. Just chilling here until the semester starts.”
“What’s your concentration?”
“Anthropology.”
Wow. I didn’t see that one coming. “What do you want to do with it?”
“Not sure yet. I’m leaning toward forensics, but journalism also has a hold on me. We’ll see where the next two years take me.” Tomer swigs his beer, then wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. “What about you?”
“I want to be a publicist.”
“That sounds fun. I think you’d be really good at it.”
“Why?”
“You seem like a social person. Don’t PR reps have to be good with people?”
“They do.”
“Well, I’m glad I got lucky with you.” Tomer blushes at his double entendre. “Not—I meant that you’re so nice and we’re having a good time, not that . . . I’m just glad we met.”
“Same.” I give him a bright smile to let him know everything is okay. Tomer takes an awkward sip of beer, spilling some down his chin and wiping it away in a jagged motion. That’s when I realize something surprising about him. Underneath the classic American boy features, he’s kind of a dork. “I really appreciate you inviting me in. I still can’t believe I’m here.”
“This place is ridiculous.” Tomer looks around the perfectly renovated kitchen with its marble counters, stainless steel appliances, and Sub-Zero refrigerator. “Can you imagine living like this?”
Now I’m confused. “Don’t you? Live like this?”
“Are you kidding? My last apartment was gross. Four guys living in a cheap walk-up. It was a pit. The polar opposite of this place. My uncle has money, not me.”
Tomer is not at all who he seems. I never would have guessed he’s so down-to-earth. It’s weird that I made all these assumptions about his life based on how he looks . . . and because he had access to my dream apartment.
How many people make assumptions about me based on how I look? What do they see when they look at me? A girl who appears to have her act together. A girl with style and expensive accessories. A girl who carries herself with confidence, who’s not afraid to talk to people she doesn’t know.
Underneath that cultivated exterior is a damaged girl whose world has been ripped apart. But she is determined to put it back together.
CHAPTER 9
ROSANNA
THE PROBLEM WITH PACKING ALL the clothes Darcy gave me away in a bin is that now I have nothing to wear.
It had to be done. I was an impostor wearing those clothes. Who was I, thinking I could prance around New York City in a wardrobe I could never afford?
I lost myself for a while. But now I’m remembering who I am.
I am back with my ancient bunch of tattered clothes I don’t want to be seen in. Back to my ratty old skirts and tops with holes from wearing them a million times and outdated jeans that are practically illegal in New York. The first time D saw me in my regular clothes, I was mortified. He took me to dinner at Bocca di Bacco in Chelsea. The least repulsive outfit I could slap together was a long black skirt, a black top with a bit of shimmer, and my only black sandals. In theory the outfit should have worked. New Yorkers wear a lot of black when they go out. But I looked ridiculous. The skirt clung to my hips in the wrong places, the top was unflattering, and my sandals were clearly from a discount store. Walking to the restaurant, I kept catching reflections of myself in dark store windows, horrified by what I was seeing. I was almost in tears by the time I got there. D didn’t say anything, though. He knows Darcy gave me those glamorous clothes and he knows I stopped wearing them. I guess he felt bad for me.
The way people on the street ignore me now that I’m dressed like a poor girl from the Midwest versus the impeccably polished girl I was in Darcy’s clothes (except for my hair, which cannot be tamed) is like night and day. Guys flirted with me in those stylish clothes. Girls gave me appreciative smiles or seethed in jealousy. But now that I’m back to my old clothes, no one even looks at me. It’s like I don’t exist anymore. All because I’m not wearing the right things.
Before I moved here, I did not predict how well-dressed everyone would be. Even guys have a sense of style. They all have a look, like they’ve somehow figured out the best combination of clothing and accessories to reflect who they are. You can intuit a guy’s personality just by catching a glimpse of him on the street.
Maybe if I actually knew who I was, or at least liked myself more, I could figure out what my look should be. But I only know the person I want to be. I can visualize Shiny New Rosanna and I like what I see. I just have to keep moving forward until I am her.
I yank open another dresser drawer, hunting for a yellow shirt. I have yellow shorts that I got for like three bucks. Probably because they were yellow. Who wears yellow shorts? Besides me. I wear whatever I can find that’s affordable.
D and I are doing an Improv Everywhere flash mob tonight. I signed up for their notifications after Mica told me about the group. Improv Everywhere sounded like the ultimate test to push myself to be more confident. What better way to conquer my fear of public attention than to participate in bizarre performances everyone will be staring at? This one is their annual Mp3 Experiment. The instructions said that each participant has to wear an all-over single color. We’re also supposed to bring a balloon and a plastic shopping bag. They didn’t say what for. Part of
the fun is following directions along with everyone else in the moment. Not only are the observers surprised, but the participants are surprised, too. The only thing I know so far is that we have to meet down at Rockefeller Park before seven. The audio file will give us further instructions when we all hit play on our devices at 7:06 p.m. D giving me his old phone was perfect timing.
Yellow. I need more yellow. I could do a blue skirt and tee, but I think there will be a lot of blue. Our rainbow shouldn’t be askew because I gave up on yellow. Even though I’m not really into it, yellow is a happy sunshiny color, and therefore deserves equal representation.
There are no yellow tops in my dresser drawers. Looking in the closet would be a waste of time. I only have a few sad dresses hanging in there with a couple old jackets and a cheap winter coat that’s never warm enough. Good winter coats are insanely expensive.
Sadie seems like a girl who would have lots of yellow. She is sunshiny bright. She might let me borrow a yellow top. I swing around to her room and knock on her open door. She’s reading on her bed.
“Hey,” she says. “Getting ready for the flash mob?”
“Yeah. Do you want to come with us?”
“It sounds like fun, but I’m in the mood for some self-empowerment.” She holds up her book. The title is Your Dream Life. “Maybe next time?”
“Whenever you want.” I have a peculiar impulse to flop on her bed like the girls on my shows are always doing with their friends. Partly because I’ve never had that kind of intimate friendship with any girl where I could just flop on her bed uninvited. Even when I went over to a friend’s house and we hung out in her room back home, I either sat on the floor or perched uncomfortably at the foot of her bed.
Shiny New Rosanna could be a bed-flopper. But my stubborn personality won’t let her be free.
“We’re supposed to wear everything the same color,” I say. “Do you have a yellow top I could borrow? I could do blue, but—”