“No,” Baby shot back. “I was doing this detox thing. My new therapist recommended it.”
“That’s lame,” Sydney said, pushing one of the takeout containers over to Baby. She took the lid off. “Grilled cheese?”
Baby nodded gratefully. “What’s this?” She eyed a book on the counter called Your Life Isn’t That Complicated. She raised an eyebrow. Really? Because it certainly seemed that way. She picked it up and thumbed through the earmarked pages.
“Oh, my mom’s book.” Sydney rolled her eyes. “Basically, her whole philosophy is that people need to clean their closets, throw shit out, and they’ll be happier. She charges five hundred dollars an hour to tell people this. Not like it does much good. Whenever she gets in a fight with my dad, she gets over it by hauling crap down to the Goodwill on the corner. I’ve had to buy so much of my stuff back from there,” Sydney added darkly.
“Can I borrow it?” Baby asked hopefully. On the back was a picture of Sydney’s mom. She looked a few years older than Baby’s own mom, had dark brown hair cut into a neat bob around her smiling, angular face. She looked nice and no-nonsense.
“Sure. I guess you can’t get any more fucked up than you already are,” Sydney hedged suspiciously.
“Are you sure about that?” Baby asked, teasingly. Maybe it was just the promise of food, but she suddenly felt like a great weight had been lifted from her shoulders. Baby grabbed a sandwich out of one of the takeout boxes and took a bite, loving the taste of the gooey cheese as it hit the roof of her mouth.
“Nah, you’re pretty fucked up,” Sydney said, laughing. “Here’s to adolescent rebellion. Highly underrated.” Sydney arched her eyebrow.
Hear, hear!
r’s magical mystery tour
Rhys slid his new iPhone out of the pocket of his khaki pants as Mr. Schorr, his AP English teacher, droned on about John Donne. Everyone called him Mr. Snore and used the class period to catch up on texts or homework for other classes. Mr. Schorr didn’t seem to mind. One time, he’d put himself to sleep while reading aloud from The Iliad, only sputtering back to attention once his head hit the wooden desk.
Rhys made sure Mr. Schorr’s back was turned to him, then looked back down at his phone’s tiny display.
Dude, U okay? Want to go watch a L’École volleyball game tonight? U need to get laid. I heard they don’t wear sports bras….
Rhys looked back and saw Hugh, grinning broadly and giving him the thumbs-up sign. Rhys shook his head. Even braless French girls playing a sport that involved lots of jumping couldn’t excite him.
He looked up to see Mr. Schorr lumbering toward him. Uh-oh. “‘Batter my heart, three person’d God!’” Mr. Schorr wildly pounded the wooden desk in front of Rhys, spraying droplets of spit on the polished surface.
“Sir?” Rhys straightened in his chair, not even bothering to hide his phone. What the fuck was the point?
“May I pull you away from your own matters of the flesh to invite you to take a break with me and Mr. John Donne?” Mr. Schorr asked sarcastically.
“I’m sorry, sir,” Rhys mumbled. Mr. Schorr was still standing at his desk, tapping his foot theatrically for the benefit of the rest of the class.
“May I also remind you, Mr. Sterling, that we haven’t quite yet hit the iPhone era of literature.” He laughed at his dorky joke. “As such, I’ll take that for now.” Mr. Schorr held out his palm. Several other kids in the back of the class groaned. While phones weren’t officially allowed in school, every other teacher just turned a blind eye to the texting going on in class.
“Mister Sterling?” Mr. Schorr prompted again. Rhys sighed and slapped the phone into Mr. Schorr’s hand. Then he stood up, his wooden chair clattering to the dark blue and white carpet with a muffled thud.
“I’m out of here. Keep the phone,” Rhys muttered as he slung his distressed-leather Tumi bag over one St. Jude’s blazer–clad shoulder and walked out the door.
Talk about poetic!
He quickly marched down the hallway, down the stairs, and outside to East End Avenue. His heart was thudding in his chest. He’d never walked out of class before.
He aimlessly wandered toward the park, not caring about the DON’T WALK sign or the two girls with Constance skirts running across the street. The taller girl smirked at him as she passed, clearly acknowledging him as a partner in crime, before she and her friend got into a taxi. But while that girl looked happy and free, Rhys felt miserable. He couldn’t believe he’d given his fucking phone to his English teacher.
He walked south, past the groups of tourists enjoying the fall sunshine on the steps of the Met, past the Frick museum, until he got to East Lawn, where he’d seen those hippies playing Hacky Sack a few days before. The lawn was mostly filled with kids and their nannies. He sat on a bench, next to a lady throwing crumbs to pigeons.
“Hey bro!”
Rhys looked up, shielding his eyes from the sun. He saw the hippie from the other day jogging toward him, carrying a big green JanSport backpack. He was wearing the same yellow shirt as before, but the cords had been replaced with a pair of filthy green shorts. His blond dreadlocks were haphazardly pulled into a bun on the top of his head. “I knew you’d be here!”
Rhys nodded. How?
Stoner-sense?
The hippie made his way over, trailed by a few of his fellow Hacky Sackers. “What’s your name? I’m Lucas,” the guy said, “and these are my buddies, Vince, Lisa, and Malia.” He pointed to the people gathered behind him.
“Hey.” Rhys looked from one guy whose jeans were belted with a frayed rope to a girl with two braids hanging on either side of her head to a tiny girl with short, spiky hair in a bandanna and a lip ring. “Rhys,” he finally said.
“So, man, I’ve got some herb if you want. Or are you good?” Lucas sat down next to Rhys and held out a joint in his hand. Rhys took it without thinking, awkwardly pinching it between his fingers. Was he supposed to just drag from it? Light it? He had no idea what to do.
“Why are you here?” Rhys asked, nonsensically. He realized he was holding the joint the way he’d hold one of his dad’s H. Upmann cigars. His dad always brought them out during sweeps week for Tea with Lady Sterling.
Close by, Lisa and Malia were arranging a faded tie-dye tapestry on the lawn under a large oak tree. It was obvious that Lisa wasn’t wearing a bra under her threadbare patchwork dress. Once they were settled, Lisa pulled a ukulele out of a case and began awkwardly playing the first few notes of “Norwegian Wood,” while Malia sighed in contentment, resting her head on Lisa’s lap. Rhys looked on in amazement. They weren’t hot or pretty at all, but they just seemed so comfortable and at peace with themselves, he couldn’t tear his eyes away.
“Don’t you have school or something?” Rhys asked again, still passing the joint from one hand to the other, trying to decide if he wanted to smoke it.
“Dude, this is our park.” Lucas shrugged mysteriously. He took the joint back from Rhys, lit it with a Zippo lighter, and took a deep hit, as if he could sense Rhys needed a demonstration. “Go for it,” Lucas offered, passing it back. Rhys awkwardly placed the joint between his lips and took a deep breath, trying not to cough as he held the smoke inside his lungs. Finally he exhaled, sputtering.
“First times are rough,” Lucas said understandingly.
“How did you know?” Rhys asked in wonderment. He wasn’t sure if it was the pot or just the fact that Lucas and his friends were completely different from anyone he’d known, but he was starting to feel… loose. Like his life didn’t suck that bad. Like maybe all there was to life was enjoying the sunshine and the pigeons in Central Park on a warm fall day.
You just keep telling yourself that.
“I just know.” Lucas shrugged and held up his hand to shield his eyes from the sun. Rhys noticed there were pink flecks of nail polish on his otherwise dirt-encrusted fingernails. “Come hang for a while,” he offered grandly, gesturing to the blanket where Vince, Malia, and Lisa had set u
p camp. Malia was now braiding dandelions into Vince’s dirty brown hair. Rhys and Lucas sat down on the tapestry. “We just came from Citarella, so we have snacks!” Lucas spread out his arms above the blanket.
Rhys looked skeptically at the motley collection of bread and vegetables spread on the grass. Citarella was a gourmet grocery store his mother loved. This food looked like it had been found in a Dumpster.
“Afternoons are good since it’s slow. They go through inventory,” Lucas said mysteriously, as he offered a bruised eggplant to Rhys. It looked like it had been involved in a game of catch. Rhys shook his head.
“No?” Lucas looked disappointed. “You want an orange?” He threw a greenish one over to Rhys. “Next time you’ll have to stake out the selection with us. ’Cause right now, dude, you’re being the ultimate freegan.” Lucas laughed and bit into the raw eggplant. It made a weird crunching sound.
“Oh, no. I eat meat,” Rhys contradicted. One time when he was eleven his mom had made him accompany her to a raw food restaurant and it had tasted so gross he’d thrown up for the rest of the day. “Good British stock!” his dad had said, as if he was proud of Rhys for not being able to stomach an organic, raw food diet.
“Yeah, dude.” Lucas nodded. “We do, too. We’re freegans,” he said slowly, as if that explained it. “We only eat food that’s free. It used to be called Dumpster diving, but that’s a condescending term obviously springing from a deep capitalistic sort of snobbery.” Lucas nodded, then took another bite of eggplant.
Rhys wrinkled his nose through his pot-induced haze. Was Lucas for real? Were they really getting food from Dumpsters? He should step up and offer to help them. It’d be a sort of charity. He could write his college essay on it, then maybe get a Nobel Prize for his humanitarianism.
“I have food at my house, and I live a few blocks away. You’re welcome to stop by anytime,” Rhys offered gallantly. He just hoped they’d take showers beforehand.
“Oh, that’s all right, my friend. I live right over there.” Lucas pointed over the tops of the trees to one of the high-rise luxury buildings flanking Fifth Avenue. “We’re just doing our part to not consume. But no pressure. We accept everyone here. Sit down.” Lucas smiled.
“Think about it. Eggplant.” Lucas addressed the group. “Like, who thought of that?” He stroked the rubbery-looking skin of the vegetable in wonder. Rhys nodded. Suddenly, the bulbous vegetable did seem a little bit ridiculous.
“Yeah, because it’s not an egg and it’s not really a plant.” Lisa giggled. “It should be called, like, a purple walrus!”
Rhys laughed. “Hey bro, have a light?” he asked awkwardly. Vince leaned forward with his lighter. He wasn’t sure if he was supposed to hold it or breathe out or… fuck. Suddenly, he burst into a sputtering cough, spewing droplets of spit all over the eggplant.
“Yeah, man, good toke.” Vince smiled thoughtfully, in a pot-induced haze. Rhys smiled, dragging more smoke into his lungs.
“Do you do this every day?” Rhys asked in wonderment, gazing at his new friends’ sunny, happy faces.
And where can he sign up?
“You wanna know?” Lucas rolled onto his elbow and whispered into Rhys’s ear. “We’re on our walkabout.”
“What?” Walkabout? Was that some type of workout? College course?
“It’s like, we all go to Darrow, and we have this whole semester to just discover ourselves. Some people went to Africa, some people are building houses in Central America, but we just decided to stay and experience ourselves. It’s actually pretty trippy. What’s your story?” Lucas asked, taking another huge hit.
Rhys nodded slowly. Darrow was a school in the village where kindergartners were taught in the same classes as seniors. All the Upper East Side schools made fun of the school’s abysmal college admissions record, where only one senior had gotten into an Ivy in the past five years. But now, Rhys suddenly felt a wave of annoyance at himself that he’d ever made fun of the school. After all, why care about grades and sports and being the best? Why did it matter?
“I’m on a walkabout too,” Rhys announced. Starting now.
“Cool, man!” Lucas said easily.
Rhys leaned back again and gazed up at the puffy, cotton candy–textured clouds, suddenly feeling ridiculously content.
underwear shopping is not a spectator sport
“That’s Jack Laurent!”
Jack paused mid-step at the corner of Sixty-third and Madison on Tuesday afternoon and glanced down the busy, pedestrian-clogged sidewalk. She was already a little late to meet J.P. at Barneys and she didn’t want to keep him waiting, especially since she’d spent her afternoon chemistry class formulating a plan.
And let’s guess: The plan involves a certain type of chemistry?
A tubby-looking guy in a way-too-tight blue polo shirt and knee-skimming cargo shorts waddled up to her, waving wildly.
“Billboard girl!” The guy smiled in recognition, offering his hand for her to shake. Jack nodded dumbly, feeling like a deer trapped in headlights.
“What billboard, honey?” A tracksuit-sporting woman sidled up to the man. She quickly yanked a clunky Nikon from her shiny pink LeSportsac fanny pack and began taking photos of Jack. “Does anyone know who she is?” she yelled as a small crowd began curiously assembling around Jack.
“Hi,” Jack began brilliantly. She felt very exposed and almost embarrassed. It wasn’t like she was famous famous, so actually stopping to smile felt sort of cheesy and fake. “I’m sorry, I have to run.”
No pictures please!
Jack hurriedly dashed across the street, eager to get away from her entourage and meet up with J.P. She had been ridiculously busy—Jeannette and Candice, the Cashman assistants, had set up an absurd schedule of shoots and appearances for her, culminating in the lofts’ big launch party this Friday night, when the building would officially open its doors—and she and J.P. had only crossed paths at home. Today was pretty much the first time they’d actually be getting together outside of their apartment, and she was beyond happy to be free of Magellan. She was going to head to the fifth floor at Barneys, pick out some awesomely sexy lingerie while J.P. watched, and then tell him about her plan: that they’d do it—it it—on Friday night, after the party. It would be perfect.
“There you are, gorgeous!” J.P. broke through a Japanese tour group that was crowding the sidewalk, taking pictures of the iconic Barneys edifice. Jack smiled, her heart sinking slightly when he realized he was wearing his sweaty, ugly, polyester bright yellow Riverside Prep Squash T-shirt—again. The name of the sport was almost as ugly as the shirt itself.
“Hey!” Jack grabbed his arm and quickly pulled him toward the gold-plated door of Barneys. It wasn’t like she was embarrassed by him, but the whole scene of meeting her high school boyfriend outside the store seemed a little cliché.
“Hold on! Let’s let them take a picture!” J.P. gestured to the guy with the camera from across the street. “My dad’ll be happy. He’s really excited about all the press the lofts are getting,” he explained.
Jack frowned. Hello? This was supposed to be the private moment where she was going to tell him she wanted to be ravaged?
Looks like someone didn’t get the script.
“Let’s go,” Jack pouted, taking his wrist and dragging him through the doors. Instantly, she relaxed. So what if there were pervy guys on the street who recognized her. This was Barneys, her home away from home, a place where no one bothered you.
“Jack Laurent, darling!” A fortysomething woman approached, grabbing Jack’s elbow. She wore a tight black Tocca suit and her hair was pulled back so tightly it looked like her eyes were popping out of her head. Her name tag read GLADYS. “So glad you came to us. Now that you’re the new Manhattan It Girl, we’d love to show you some of our latest fall offerings,” Gladys said, yanking Jack toward the Natura Bissé makeup counter.
“That’s okay,” Jack responded shortly. All she wanted to do was head upstairs and l
et J.P. pick out exactly which black La Perla underwear set he wanted to see her in. “Come on, J.P.,” Jack added unnecessarily, her kitten heels clacking against the buffed marble floor as she led him to the banks of elevators.
“Jack Laurent, darling!” A tiny, spiky-haired sales associate appeared. He was only about five feet tall, so Jack completely towered over him. From above she could see his totally terrible bleached-blond dye job. “I’m such a huge fan of yours. I read on Page Six you were a dancer, but modeling is much more your speed. I’ve already picked out a bunch of dresses I could see you in—I know everyone will want to look like Jack this season!”
His name tag read MICK and he was practically jumping up and down like Magellan, who was probably peeing on her bed right now. “Can I please show you?” Mick begged. The cloying smell of Acqua di Parma seemed to emanate from his pores. “And of course, your boyfriend as well. You sure know how to pick them.” Mick winked showily.
Jack stiffened. While free clothes sounded amazing in theory, something about his attitude made her feel naked and exposed.
And she was saving that for Friday night.
Jack shook her head, the mood broken. “You know, I think I’ll have to come back another time. Thanks, Nick.” Jack smiled tightly.
“Of course! And, um, it’s Mick? Here’s my card. Call me for anything,” he added urgently. “I really want to be a stylist. I think we’d make a good team!”
Jack snorted to herself. “Let’s go,” she said shortly to J.P., who was standing awkwardly with his arms crossed in the ways guys do when they’re tagging along on a shopping expedition with their girlfriends.
“I thought you needed something?” J.P. asked, sounding confused.
Jack shook her head definitively. “Nope. Come on!”
They burst back onto Madison, where a small crowd was still huddled near the entrance, obviously drawn to the guy with a camera like sharks to blood. Jack pulled down her Gucci aviators and tried to look busy and important. Perfect, she chanted to herself. It was her mantra, the word she used whenever she needed to nail a pirouette, ace a test, or just calm the fuck down.