Inside Girl (7 page)

“Ow!”

“Sorry, sorry,” he mumbled.

“No, no, it's really okay. I'm sorry.”

“Sorry.”

“No, I—”

“Yeah, okay, see you.” And he took off down the block, leaving me standing on my front steps, shaking my head. I was so unprepared for all this.

Oh my God!” Sara-Beth squealed, leaping up from where she was crouched at the living room window. “That was the cutest first kiss I've ever seen. It was so real and awkward and … real!”

“It wasn't
my
first kiss. Jonathan kissed me when we were going out—and hey, why were you watching me?” I set down my stuff on the floor. It was sort of creepy that she was peeping out of the curtains like that.

“I look out the window all day. I don't want to get taken by surprise. Besides, you told me to hide out. I wanted to know what I was hiding from.” She folded her arms across her chest. “Now, don't change the subject, Flan. Who is this boy? Why haven't you told me about him?”

“You keep being at photo shoots in the evenings. Anyway, I only really started hanging out with him
today.” I looked away. The truth was, I hadn't talked to SBB much about high school at all. With her glamorous life, I figured she couldn't offer me much good advice anyway. How could she not be clueless about normal teenagers, when she'd basically lived in a bubble?

“Well, that kiss was the greatest thing I've ever seen. It was so genuine. I wish my first kiss had been like that.”

“It wasn't my first kiss.”

“Whatever. It looked totally unrehearsed, and that's what counts.” Sara-Beth sighed. “My first kiss was in front of a live studio audience.” She flipped open her cell phone and started scrolling through her address book. “Listen, we need to go out and celebrate. How do you like Italian food?”

“Sara-Beth, I have school tomorrow.”

“Good point. All that starch would make your face puffy. How do you feel about Swedish? I'll treat.”

“Okay, okay.” I walked into the kitchen to pour myself a glass of water. “Hey, there's a message on the machine. You know who it's from?”

“Oh, Philippa Frady. I think it's for Patch. She sounded kind of upset.” I was about to play the message, but then SBB poked a new button on her phone and started making dinner reservations.

So we ended up going to this crazy little restaurant where they served different-colored globs of herring on stone plates and everyone was very somber like they are in old black-and-white Swedish films. After a really intense conversation about Sara-Beth's phobias and her search for a new shrink—she'd decided she couldn't keep going to David's parents, since she planned to marry their son—“And there are certain things you don't want the grandparents of your kids to know!”—we both needed some cheering up.

So Sara-Beth took me to this hot new club in the East Village, Cube, where the floor lights up in all these crazy multicolored squares. It kind of reminded me of Dance Dance Revolution or maybe Twister, the way people were bending over backwards and twining around one another, but way cooler. Sara-Beth yelled something at me I couldn't hear as we went in, so I went and squeezed in at the very end of the bar where it was quieter while she got us drinks and came over to sit with me. She'd gotten a Cosmopolitan for herself, but for me she'd picked something that looked like a green milk shake in a martini glass.

“It's a Grasshopper,” she said. We could actually hear each other now, which was definitely an improvement. I took a little sip. It tasted like a Thin Mint in liquid form, but I knew I shouldn't drink the
rest of it. My brother and sister let me drink beers every once in a while, but I never have on a school night. Still, it was pretty cool to be sitting there with Sara-Beth in this way-trendy club, with our girly cocktails and the floor lighting up.

“This is so much fun,” I told her, tucking my hair behind my ears. Just as I said it, my cell phone rang. I flipped it open. It was Judith. “I'll be right back,” I told SBB.

Somehow, amid all the flashing lights, I found my way to the women's bathroom. It was fairly quiet in there. As I dialed Judith's number, I hoped she wouldn't be able to hear the club noises in the background.

“Hey,” I said, trying to sound as school-night normal as I possibly could. “What's up, Judith?”

“Flan! I'm so glad you answered. I didn't wake you up, did I?”

I looked at my watch—it was almost midnight. “No. I was … in the shower.”

“Cool. So what happened with Bennett? I'm dying to hear all the details!”

“Oh.” I rubbed my ear thoughtfully. Somehow it seemed mean to tell her what had happened. I thought of her and Meredith giggling and hesitated. I didn't want Bennett to be embarrassed. “He's really sweet.”

“Yeah? Do you think he likes you?”

“Maybe. I hope so. I definitely like him.”

“What did you guys talk about?”

“The usual stuff. He collects comic books.” I faked a yawn. “Hey, listen, I really better crash. I'm glad you called, though.”

“Okay. But you better give me the juicy stuff tomorrow!”

I hurried back out into the club, worried I'd find SBB lonely and forlorn, hunched over her drink. But when I got back, she wasn't alone at all. This other girl—very tall, very blond, very East Side—was sitting right next to her at the bar. I recognized her immediately, of course. Her name was Liesel Reid, and all of Manhattan had been at her sweet sixteen party earlier in the summer. In fact, that was where I'd met SBB. Liesel had ridden into the ballroom on a white horse in this Michael Kors eyelet dress, and she'd looked exactly like a princess. Which, of course, she was.

Liesel hadn't changed at all since the last time I'd seen her, except tonight she had her gold hair piled up on top of her head and she was wearing a Diane von Furstenberg dress with matching gloves. On anyone else, it might have looked old-fashioned, but on her it was just sophisticated and right.

“Hey,” I said, slipping back up onto my bar stool. “Remember me?”

Liesel gasped. “Flan! My darling little Flan Flood! You're so grown up, I hardly recognized you!” The truth was, Liesel had seen me just three months earlier, at my fourteenth birthday party, which she'd helped to plan. I didn't think I'd changed much since then, but hey, you never know. She offered a gloved hand for me to shake. “How
is
Patch?”

“He's fine,” I said, feeling like the lame little sister again all of a sudden. It made sense that she'd ask, though. She used to go out with another one of Patch's friends, Arno, who was almost as beautiful and fashion-conscious as she was, and she knew Patch pretty well too.

Liesel ordered a brandy Alexander. The bartender disappeared.

“I hope to God he gets it right this time,” Liesel said, rolling her eyes. “Last night he got the proportions all wrong. Bartending is an art form. Mixology, it's called. I wish people would take it seriously.”

“You've been coming here a lot?” I asked tentatively.

“Darling, I have to. It's my job.” The bartender came back and gave her the drink. He looked kind of nervous until she took a sip, shook her head, and handed the glass back to him. “I'm a promoter. I keep the club chic, classy, and exclusive.”

“How do you do that?” I asked.

“By just being here, of course.” Liesel scanned the room. “They offered to pay me, you know, but I consider it philanthropy. This place was an absolute
hole
before I started coming in. Now, Sara-Beth, I thought you were in Gdansk.”

“I don't even want to talk about it,” SBB said. “Ric Roderickson is a lunatic. He wouldn't even keep my masseuse on call.”

“I know, snookums, he's a tyrant.” Liesel kept scanning the room. I guessed she was looking for unchic people. I held my Grasshopper close and tried to look as cool as possible.

“Look at that,” Liesel hissed suddenly. She cut her eyes across the room, and we turned to see.

About a dozen feet away, a model in baggy ripped jeans, flip-flops, and a weathered Mickey Mouse baby tee was shouldering up to the bar. She had short, spiky blond hair, and she was yelling, “Who do you have to sleep with to get a drink in this hellhole?” while she rooted around in her fanny pack for cash. She used her elbows to get through the crowd, knocking drinks over and making green apple martini spill all down the front of one girl's white dress.

Under one arm, the model carried an orange Pomeranian with a red bandanna tied around his neck. The dog was squirming, trying to get away from
the model and gnaw off the way-tacky neckwear, but every time he thrashed she just squeezed him harder—at one point, he even yelped. I felt sorry for the little guy. It was kind of hard to believe that such a nasty, tasteless woman would have such a cute pet.

“That bitch is trying way, way too hard,” said SBB. “And I don't mean the dog.”

“It's always the models,” Liesel said. “They keep confusing crazy and ugly with cool.” Liesel set down her drink. “Excuse me, darlings. I can't just sit here while this club's reputation gets into the E-Z Pass lane and takes the Holland Tunnel out of town. I've got a job to do.”

Liesel walked toward the woman and the noise in the bar seemed to suddenly die down. Even the music got quieter. People parted to let Liesel through, and I felt like I could even hear the heels of her shoes hitting the light-up floor. When she reached the woman with the dog, she tapped her on the shoulder with one gloved finger. The model turned around, still snarling from her fight with the bartender.

“Excuse me,” Liesel said. “I don't like you.” She looked down at the Pomeranian, who wiggled around wildly, trying to escape. “But what's even worse is that your dog
hates
you.”

Everybody started applauding. And then Liesel
took the dog right out of the model's arms and started walking back to where we were sitting. Meanwhile, two bouncers dragged the woman out, still yelling and cursing.

“That was awesome,” I said as Liesel took her seat.

“All in a day's work, darling.” The little dog was looking at me with his big brown eyes and waving his paws wildly in my direction, like he wanted me to pick him up. “Now you, he likes.”

“He's adorable.”

“He's yours.” Liesel handed him to me, and the dog started licking my face. He made little high-pitched noises in his throat and snuffled at my hair.

“Oh, I couldn't take him,” I said. “It wouldn't be right.”

“I think he'll be much happier with you than with that other lady,” said Sara-Beth. The little dog squealed like he was agreeing.

“Consider him a gift,” said Liesel.

I would have said no, and maybe I should have, but the little guy was staring at me with his huge eyes all wide and kind of crazy with love. Besides, I didn't want to make Liesel mad. She could probably have turned my social life to ice with just one look. And I thought I remembered my mom saying that if someone gives you a present, you better take it.

So I untied the dog's ugly bandanna and took him home. On the way back, Sara-Beth and I stopped for bubble teas at this Asian place right by my house, and the waitress liked the little dog so much that she gave him a plate of lo mein. When I was watching him wolf it down, I decided to name him Noodles.

By the time we finally got to Perry Street, it was too late to even think straight, but I felt happy just the same. Now all I wanted to do was fall down on my bed and go to sleep. But when we walked through the door, we banged right up against three enormous suitcases, and they definitely did not belong to my parents.

“Philippa Frady,” I gasped. “What are you doing here?”

“I called earlier. Didn't you get my message?” Philippa was sitting on the couch, with mascara-stained Kleenexes piled up all around her. She was wearing a pair of tight, charcoal-colored Diesel jeans and a wifebeater tank top, and her usually light brown hair was dyed a kind of maroon color and cut so the ends looked all jagged and wild. She looked like a badass with a broken heart.

I've known Philippa Frady for a while, from a distance, because she went to grade school with SBB and because, for as long as anyone can remember, practically, she's had this on-again, off-again relationship with Mickey Pardo, one of my brother's best friends and her next-door neighbor. I've always kind of admired Philippa because she's like a younger,
taller version of Jennifer Connelly, with long brown hair and this kind of downtown, artsy vibe to her. She's really chill and ironic and laid-back—laid-back about everything except for her relationship, that is.

See, ages ago, I guess that Mickey's father, who is a sculptor, got in a big fight with Philippa's father, an art dealer, over this big piece that he was supposed to buy from him or something. Nobody really knows the details, and probably the two sets of parents don't even remember anymore, but the end result is that they hate each other and never ever want their kids to be dating. So Mickey and Philippa are like Romeo and Juliet, because they always have to keep it a secret when they're going out. For a while it seemed like they were actually broken up for good, because Philippa announced that she was a lesbian, but then she broke up with this way-irritating girl she was seeing and decided she wanted to be with Mickey again after all.

It was a weird situation, but I really admired how Philippa went out and reinvented herself and tried something crazy and different and risky. I don't think I'm going to start dating girls anytime soon, but I know in my life how important it is to change and experiment with stuff, so I guess I always kind of looked up to Philippa for giving the lesbian thing a try.