Things I can’t Explain Page 7

  If Hugh Hamilton was my writing mentor, then Loulou de la Falaise was my fashion muse before I even knew it.

  Thanks to her shining example, I browse my quirky cache of clothing until the right ensemble avails itself. I have a sense of completeness that settles over me when I pull on a snug-fitting striped jersey skirt that clicks with a twelve-dollar pair of super-clunky secondhand platform sandals. I invite my pale peach not-too-see-through blouse into the mix, topped off with an unexpected chunky red necklace, and voilà—it’s magic!

  Hopefully this won’t prove too challenging to my hoped-for new boss MT and my future position as financial writer. But just in case, I add my ace in the hole—cherished St. Anne’s thrift shop YSL black blazer—to bring it all together.

  Standing before the mirror, adjusting my blouse, I perform the usual full-bod scan as Elvis slinks between my legs. For a girl who grew up on tofu, I ended up with a pretty enviable metabolism. Not quite a yoga body, but not light-years away from it either. My physique changed a lot in my first year after high school.

  Yes, I’m that snappy, lighthearted girl who mixed prints with ease and had an affinity for leggings, scarves, and Doc Martens; but now I’m a woman in my late twenties, and I have curves—mostly in the right places—and eye makeup. My once naturally blond hair requires Sun-In to stay blond, but it’s grown thicker and lusher. Sometimes I tie it up in some random way just to get rid of it. Thank God the gap-toothed smile that always made me seem younger than I really was is gone—it never kept me from smiling anyway, but now I just feel better about it.

  After my first year in the city, my body forecast was looking stocky with a chance of thighs. But then I had a growth spurt and put in time at SoulCycle downtown and my local Pilates joint. Since my recent budget shortfall, I’ve been missing in action at the gym, but thanks to my longer-than-average legs and slender ankles, I’m okay.

  Do I wish I were more curvaceous up top and a little less curvaceous down on the bottom? Sure, but I can rock a tube dress when I want to and I’m not a skinny malinky, like Aunt Haddie—sister of dread Aunt Mafalda—used to say. To sum it all up, my body and I are good.

  My interview isn’t until two p.m., so I’ve planned some boning up on the financial sector or at least cramming into my head enough terms to talk my way through a half-hour interview. I slide my laptop into my bag and scan the apartment to say good-bye to Elvis, but he’s already gone. Witchcraft, I tell you.

  My phone buzzes just as I open the door to leave. “C! SOS JOD!!”

  As cryptic as it looks, I know this is Jody’s usual message when she’s having a panic attack. It’s the double exclamation points at the end that confirms it. I’m pretty sure she’s on a shoot for some cosmetics magazine.

  I hesitate. Prep for MT and high-finance summons.

  Then again, Jody’s always there when I need her.

  If I hustle now, I might be able to see Jody, drop into Starbucks for a job cram, and still make it to meet MT on time.

  “What’s the haps??” I text back in Jody-speak. Can’t hurt to be optimistic.

  “IT HAPPENED AGAIN!!”

  Oh darn. I hate to say I know what this is.

  CHAPTER 9

  I’m in luck. Jody’s big photo shoot today is not far from the Nuzegeek office, which happens to be right near the South Street Seaport: all within walking distance from FiDi.

  She’s seated at a table at Jack’s Stir Brew where she’s already ordered us each a cup of the patented house drink—stir-brewed java. Naturally, the whole upscale barista atmosphere makes me think of Nick. I’m starting to worry I live in a coffee-centric universe. What does that say about me? That I’m serious and focused and willing to look into the future unblinkingly? That I’ve been awake since the ’90s?

  I think it’s true that the coffee an individual drinks says a lot more about them than just that they’re caffeinated. Here’s how I see it:

  And don’t get me started on people who drink coffee with soy and almond milk.

  Fortunately, one look at the expression on Jody’s face tells me she’s so totally frazzled that it’ll be easy not to dwell on Nick and the myriad ways that coffee has recently led to disappointment.

  Even stressed out, Jody looks gorgeous. Every woman I know would kill for Jody’s lush red hair. It’s practically another person she happens to carry around on her head.

  “Rad threads,” Jody says, taking a sip of her macchiato. Her hand is shaking. Her camera-ready lipstick leaves a magenta kiss on the rim of the cup. “Totes profesh.”

  Allow me to translate: Jody is telling me my wardrobe choice is “totally professional.”

  “Thanks,” I say. “How’s the shoot going?”

  “Way behind skedge. ’Cause of moi,” she says and tries to smile, but I can see she’s about to cry, which would ruin her rather extensive eyeliner and probably drive the makeup artist crazy.

  “It’s okay,” I say. I put my hand on hers, hoping I can:

  A) stifle the tears,

  B) be the best friend I need to be, and

  C) get the hell out of there in time for my interview.

  “Gaston is freakin’, but whatevs,” Jody says, as if she doesn’t care. But I can tell she cares a lot. She looks over her shoulder out the window where the crew mulls around and there’s a very Frenchie-looking guy with a dozen cameras hanging around his neck—Gaston, I assume. He looks like he wants to kill someone. “Needed caf in my sys asap or I’d be use. Told him, then IM’d you,” she adds.

  I squint at her as I mentally translate. I notice the dark circles under her eyes hidden beneath the makeup.

  “Is this a big magazine?” I ask.

  “Totes for me, big bucks,” she says, by which I know she means yes. “Modern Orthodontia. I’m the cover.” I guess those Invisalign braces are big biz.

  I can see that Modern Orthodontia’s makeup artist has made a valiant effort to hide Jody’s dark circles, employing what I’d estimate to be about a million dollars’ worth of Clé de Peau Beauté concealer. Jody’s sparkling pearly whites will dazzle them, but clearly she needs to catch up on her Zs.

  “Jods, you look wiped.”

  “Zhausted, no winks, not one.” She sighs, looking sad, chasing her coffee with a swallow of Vita Coco coconut water. “I should never go on a big one the night before a shoot. But he was leaving for Europe.”

  “You didn’t.”

  “I did. It was our last chance. I wasn’t going to see him for another month.”

  Okay, now I notice the purplish bruises on her shoulder sneaking out of her Prada. I’m hoping they can use Dermablend or even Sephora tattoo concealer on that. And I guess there’s always Photoshop later. I know from Jods that models are always showing up with bruises and stuff. In this case it’s not nearly as alarming as that sounds because I know she hasn’t been knocked around by some guy. In fact, her BF Rupert is a pipsqueak.

  Beneath all that lithe beauty, Jody Dicippio is one tough cookie. She’s got four older brothers who taught her to throw a punch the minute she showed signs of becoming a serious hottie. She’s also got a couple of uncles in Witness Protection, which is why any asshole stupid enough to ever lay a hand on her wouldn’t live to tell the tale. Not if Lenny, Paulie Jr., and Gianni have anything to say about it. Jody could probably send the guy to the ICU herself, long before la famiglia even knew what happened.

  Besides, Rupert is skinnier than she is. He’s the kind of guy who buttons the top buttons on his shirts and wears dark-rimmed glasses even though he doesn’t need them. He’s a member of the hipsterati boy model world.

  “You fell out of bed again, didn’t you?”

  “Obvi,” she says, annoyed, and rubs her elbow, which I’m guessing is bruised. “Can I help it if I get excited? Aren’t you supposed to get excited during sex?”

  I see her point, but it’s a matter of degrees.

  Jody’s been to a couple of therapists for this peculiar problem, which has been plaguing her s
ince she lost her V-card to Bubba Mitchum, a boy she liked in our junior year of high school.

  Bubba and Jods had planned the big moment for months, and one Friday afternoon, Bubba blew off detention and took Jody back to his house, where they did the deed in the bedroom he shared with his little brother who, needless to say, wasn’t home.

  The unfortunate thing was that Bubba slept in the top bunk. Story goes that for a beginner, Jody had absolutely no trouble getting into the moment. Maybe it was because she was anxious. She goes on about how really sensitive she is down there. It sounded to me like it was great until the grand finale when Jody got a little overzealous, practically epileptic, and flipped herself right over the bunk bed’s safety rail.

  Bubba panicked and Jody didn’t want her parents to know, so she had him call me. I was elected to drive Jody to the ER, where we told the doctor she’d injured herself running hurdles in gym. He put four stitches in her left knee, but Mitchum was so freaked, he never called her again. Now it happens every time.

  “What did your therapist say?” I ask. “Isn’t there anything you can do?”

  “She calls it a ‘reaction formation,’” she says. “I mean, I’m not supposed to just sit there like a cold fish, am I?”

  “And how’s Rupert doing?” I ask, afraid to hear the answer.

  “Broken arm and a cut on his cheek,” she says sadly. “Do you think maybe next time I should tie myself to the bedpost for safety?”

  “Well, that certainly puts a kinky spin on the concept of safe sex,” I say.

  “Sups hilarz.” Jody grins for the first time.

  I try to remember I’m there to help her calm down and get back to her photo shoot. Then off to meet the punctuation-challenged MT, and time is running out.

  “Maybe if you talk about what happened, you’ll feel better,” I say but regret it almost immediately. Jody proceeds to describe in vivid detail her amorous acrobatic achievements of the night before, leading up to her ecstatic breakdown. Phew. It sounds like what you might get if you crossed parkour with the Kama Sutra. When she finally finishes her graphic play-by-play, I feel like I need a cigarette. And I don’t even smoke.

  “Well, look,” I say. “No one needs to know this besides you and me. Certainly not the Modern Orthodontia guys out there. More important, how did Rupert feel about what happened? Are you gonna see him again?”

  “Hope so, probs,” she says with a shrug.

  Hmm. Is that short for probably? Or problems? Or both? I swear, sometimes I need an English-to-Jody dictionary just to make sense of what she’s saying.

  I look at my watch and see that I have twenty-four minutes to get my butt to Nuzegeek. So much for the Starbucks job cram. There’s also some PA type standing at the door ready to lay an egg.

  “Jody, you already seem better. You can do this. Rupert loves you. He’ll be back. I’m sure you two crazy lovebirds can work this out. But now, you’ve got to go out there and smile like a million dollars and dazzle everyone, okay?” I’m crossing fingers and toes.

  Jody looks at me with those puppy eyes. There’s a long pause and a deep breath and a determined toss of her gorgeous hair.

  “Okay,” she says finally.

  “Don’t forget we’re having dinner with the girls next Thursday,” I say.

  “Yay! Where?”

  “Dunno, some dive on the Lower East Side, I think. It’s Rodgers’s turn to choose the venue. I better go.” I slide out of my chair, hoping to move us to the finale.

  “Wait! Stop!” Jody says and grabs my hand. I sit back down and wait, watching Jody knit her eyebrows and twirl her hair, deep in contemplation. Something is whirling around in that odd mercurial mind of hers. As interested as I am, I don’t have time for another session.

  “There’s something really important I’m supposed to tell you,” she says, chewing her lower lip. The look in her eyes is both excited and confused. I count to ten, wondering how long this will take.

  “Jods, I’ve got this interview for a job.”

  A painful expression crosses her face and for a moment I get really worried.

  “Something about G-bomb,” she says. Oh, please. G-bomb is Jody-speak for Genelle Waterman. There’s nothing about Genelle I want to hear. She was definitely in that category of things I couldn’t explain back in our high school days. That’s why I never talked about her much. I couldn’t stand the idea of her intruding on my life and I effectively eliminated her from my existence by graduating early.

  “Okay, what about Genelle?” I ask, half hoping she doesn’t remember.

  Then, just as immediately, the pained expression vanishes.

  “I forgot,” she says. “Maybe I hit my head?”

  “No worries, Jods,” I say, “just go out there and knock ’em dead. You’ll remember later. I’ve got to hit this interview. Wish me luck.”

  “Thanks, C. Gluck!”

  Gluck? Jeez. I grab my case and turn toward the door.

  Five minutes later, I’m standing outside the offices of Nuzegeek, right on time.

  MT Wilkinson, here I come.

  CHAPTER 10

  On my way over I rehearse my spiel, cramming as many financial terms into my head as I can remember as the elevator door closes, but I can’t help thinking about my old newspaper days.

  Don’t get me wrong: I’m excited to go digital, but I miss good ol’ Hugh. I loved every minute at the Daily Post. I worked hard for every promotion I ever got there. It’s not easy to go from gofer to an actual reporter.

  When I arrived at the Daily Post, I impressed Lillian Banion, the publisher. She thought I was “spunky.”

  * * *

  spunky (adj.) “courageous, spirited,” 1786, from spunk + -y (2). Not to be confused with moxie (n.), 1930, from Moxie, brand name of a bitter, nonalcoholic drink, 1885, perhaps as far back as 1876 as the name of a patent medicine advertised to “build up your nerve”; spunky “having a spark,” Scottish, from Gaelic spong “tinder, pith, sponge,” from Latin spongia (see sponge). The sense of “courage, pluck, mettle” is first attested in 1773. Vulgar slang sense of “seminal fluid” is recorded from c. 1888. Not to be confused with Rocko’s dog from the cartoon Rocko’s Modern Life.

  * * *

  Why are girls always spunky and boys courageous? Seems like Sheryl Sandberg might want to lean in about that. I guess I’ve been spunky all my life. Fortunately, it’s served me well.

  After I started interning for Hugh, Lillian gave me my big break—covering the police scanner and interning for Hugh. Then I was promoted to writing obits and interning for Hugh, until finally I could pitch my own stories—and—keep interning for Hugh with pay. I couldn’t shake Hugh because the big lug grew to know and love me, in addition to abusing and humiliating me, in the nicest, well-intentioned way possible, of course. Bottom line: Hugh really needed me and everyone knew it. Besides, Hugh was what they call “a brand” in the news biz.

  Then Hugh, the man, God bless him, passed away, just as he would have wanted—in the middle of eating a hot dog with mustard, onions, and double sauerkraut at Billy’s Fifty-seventh Street Nathan’s hot dog stand. The coroner’s report said something about toxic heartburn. Can you really die of heartburn? And if you die that way, is heaven just one big Prilosec?

  After Hugh passed, Lillian hired me to sort through his papers and finally gave me what I’d been striving for—my own beat! At the ripe old age of twenty-two, I was making an honest living. Ah, those were the days!

  All three of them.

  You remember the stock market crash of ’08? And remember when people actually bought newspapers? Remember when boys grew up to be men? Remember when Lindsay Lohan was a promising newcomer? Why does that seem like a long time ago in a galaxy far, far away?

  “Can I help you?” a voice asks, dripping of Ivy League dining halls and championship lacrosse trophies. In my reverie I must have stepped out of the elevator and appeared lost. I gaze up at a buttoned-up Hugo Boss Corporate 1 Percenter. His teeth
nearly blind me. Somewhere in Greenwich, Connecticut, or Shaker Heights, Ohio, or Munsey Park, New York, a proud orthodontist is still bragging to potential patients about these perfect teeth.

  He’s got a head of thick, slicked-back black hair that harkens to the matinee idols of the 1950s, and his wing tips are polished to an onyx gleam. The silk necktie (how much you wanna bet it’s Charvet?) is wound into a perfect Windsor knot under his gorgeous chin. He’s kind of hot in that Leonardo DiCaprio way. Is this the finance guy of my dreams?

  “MT Wilkinson,” I say carefully, wondering how to leave out the periods.

  “Ah.” One dark brow arcs upward in approval. “Let me guess. Swarthmore. Lunch date?”

  “Not exactly.” I return the grin. He looks me up and down, taking in my de la Falaise–inspired outfit.

  “Oh, Bennington, I assume.” He rolls his eyes but doesn’t hesitate to check me out from top to bottom.

  “No, actually I’m here for an interview.”

  His brows knit, the smile and interest vanish. He hesitates, and for one crazy second I’m afraid he’s going to shove me back into the elevator. Or maybe down the shaft. Somehow I’ve shifted from eligible possibility to desperate job seeker. And how quickly did his infatuation with me disappear? Come to think of it, I don’t really like Leonardo DiCaprio that much. He’s kind of got a big baby face. Besides, I already know more about Mr. Baby-Faced-Buttoned-Up than I want to. I’d like to tighten that little Windsor knot until his face turns blue.

  He aims his perfectly patrician nose down a corridor and walks the opposite way down the hall.

  I guess that’s all I’m going to get in the way of directions.