Spin (22 page)

And every time I tried to tell them that they had it all wrong, no sound would come out. I woke up several times, but I couldn’t escape the dream. It was always waiting for me the moment I fell back to sleep. Ah, there you are, Katie, we’ve been expecting you. Don’t think you can get away from us that easily.

I wipe the sleep from my eyes and tie my hair back with an elastic. Still in my pajamas, I sit down in front of my computer. The light streams in the dirty window and lands on my desk, warming my keyboard. Everything is all set for me to write.

I just have to find a way in.

I wish I had a higher power to pray to, that I believed in something, anything bigger than me. In the tree outside my window, or the little patch of grass between the sidewalk and the street. In the small square of sky visible above the buildings. In me.

I wish this choice didn’t feel so elemental, like standing on a precipice. Write the story. Don’t write the story. Get everything you’ve always wanted, but lose everything you already have. Lose everything you’ve always wanted and be left with . . . nothing, it still seems like nothing.

I am nothing, I am nothing, I. Am. Nothing.

If I say it enough times, I can make it come true.

So do it then.

Do what?

Write. Anything. Everything. Just try. Like Rory said, you have nothing to lose.

I have nothing to lose.

Now you’re getting it.

But what about . . . ?

Forget it. Tabula rasa.

Start over?

No . . . start at the beginning.

I can do that.

When the Stars Go Blue

By Kate Sandford

The first time I see Amber Sheppard in the flesh, she’s acting like a frog.

She’s been in rehab for six days, detoxing from the combination of cocaine, alcohol, and nicotine that’s been her rocket fuel for the last six months. She’s very thin, and wearing a green velour tracksuit. Her black hair is slicked back into a bun. She sits on her heels on a chair in a circle of fellow addicts.

She croaks. She has our full attention.

I spend the whole day writing. It spills out of me, day after day, thought after thought, conversation after conversation. The little confidences. The strange behavior. Connor. Everything I know, and some things I guess. A little novella of the days of her life that I shared.

I don’t know if it’s what Bob is looking for. I don’t know what it says about Amber, or about me (though I try to keep me out of it). I only know that as I transfer the memories from my brain to the paper, I feel lighter. Not because I’m doing something good, or right, but because of the weight of it all. The last six days of agonizing about how I was going to write the story, if I was going to write it. That’s all gone now. I’ve written it. Maybe I’ll turn it in. Maybe I won’t. But I have one less decision to make now, and that feels good.

I run a spell check as the sun disappears behind the cityscape, then press print and listen to the clickety-clack of my printer forming words on paper. I’m going to have to read it all again tomorrow to clean it up, but I want a paper copy in case my ancient computer crashes.

I have two days to polish it, and then the next day, deadline day, I’ll decide if I’m going to turn it in.

Sounds like a plan.

I stack the pages neatly on the edge of my desk and stick an old rock from my parents’ garden on top of it. I save the document one last time and shut down my computer. I inhale and exhale a long, deep breath.

And then I go out and get completely fucking drunk.

Chapter 22

The Boys Are Back in Town

I
t all starts when I agree to meet Amber and a few of her friends for dinner.

Why, oh why, would I do such a thing given what I’ve just spent the day doing?

Am I a total masochist? A glutton for punishment? Have I gone totally insane/developed a superhuman ability to withstand guilt?

No.

I am, however, fond of Amber, and in the small corner of my brain that isn’t swayed or controlled by rational thought, I’m holding on to a little bit of hope that everything will work out. That Amber will never have to know about the stack of paper on my desk. And if it doesn’t work out (OK,
when
it doesn’t), I’ll have this one last night as a nice memory.

So, when the Show up @ Stolen @ 8:30, UR on the list, bring a friend if u want text arrives, I don’t agonize over whether I should go, or why I want to. Instead, I hop in the shower and start inventorying my wardrobe. When I come to the conclusion that nothing I own comes close to being cool enough for a night at Stolen, I call Greer in a panic and convince her to lend me something in exchange for a tagalong.

Greer arrives forty-five minutes later looking fabulous in a dark brown suede skirt and green halter top, her hair in a perfect tangle. If it weren’t for the fact that she’s carrying a garment bag containing the perfect outfit, I’d call the whole thing off.

When our cab pulls up at eight thirty on the dot, I’m wearing a black linen dress with a tie at the waist that emphasizes all the great things about by my rehab diet and hides the things that’ll never disappear. My hair has been straightened, and it feels good to be made up and feeling pretty.

Stolen occupies a building in the old financial district, and the city’s young glitterati snake around the block hoping they’ll get inside before last call. We walk to the head of the line past group after group of half-starved beautiful people. I feel kind of giddy, almost like I’ve had a couple of glasses of champagne. We’re on the list! How cool is that?

I give my name to the emaciated woman in a backless black cocktail dress who guards the door. As she runs a red-painted talon down the list her whole aspect exudes,
There’s no way you’re getting in,
until she finds my name with a plus one just below Amber’s. She gives a little shrug of defeat before she puts on a welcoming smile.

A waitress leads us down a grand staircase to the heart of the restaurant set on the old trading room floor. The ceilings rise thirty feet above us, the height emphasized by bright uplights set against velvet curtains. The room feels alive, young, and the right place to be.

Amber’s sitting at a table with three nearly indistinguishable unnaturally blond women all dressed in short, glittery designer dresses I recognize from
Fashion Television.
She waves vigorously as we approach and jumps up to greet me. She’s dressed in a white pantsuit and looks tanned and healthy.

“Katie! It’s been
ages!
You look fabulous!”

“Thanks. You too. This is my friend, Greer . . .”

“Hi, Greer! I’m Amber.”

“Pleased to meet you.”

“Are you Scottish? I
love
Scotland!”

What is this girl on?

I look at her closely, trying to discern whether this new-found enthusiasm is chemically based, but she seems only excited and happy, not high.

“Have you been there?” Greer asks.

“Loads of times. I’ve been to Glasgow for the festival, but I especially love Edinburgh.”

I smile inwardly as Amber pronounces the word “Edinborough.” Greer will have to love her now.

Sure enough, Greer gives her a welcoming smile.

Amber introduces us to her three friends: Olivia (her publicist), Eva (her makeup artist), and Steph (her personal assistant). They’re all in their mid-twenties, and I recognize them as the hardcore party girls Amber’s been hanging out with for the last couple of years.

The waitress comes to take our drinks order. Greer and The Party Girls order cocktails, and Amber orders a bottle of San Pellegrino for the two of us. We peruse the menu. It’s a collection of Asian dishes served like Spanish tapas. By the look of the dishes on the passing trays, each is just big enough for four people to have a mouthful. The prices are shocking. I hope this Last Supper is on Amber.

“Shall we share?” Olivia asks.

“For sure,” Amber enthuses. “Does everyone trust me to order?”

We all nod, and Amber orders a few delicious-sounding dishes that I suspect will be enough food for only two people. The waitress makes a polite suggestion to that effect, but Amber shoos her away.

Sigh. I guess I’ll fill up on bread. Only there doesn’t seem to be any bread. And San Pellegrino doesn’t fill you up in quite the same way as, say, a Cosmo.

We spend the next hour listening to The Party Girls cackle as they recount a dozen incidents that Amber missed while she was “away,” as they put it. They’re all extremely funny, in a bitchy, it’s-funny-because-it’s-not-about-you kind of way. At least their talk distracts me from the fact that, as suspected, the food comes in Rory-sized portions.

“You should’ve seen her, Amb,” Eva says as she pops the last salt-and-pepper shrimp into her mouth. She didn’t even ask if anyone wanted it, though I was clearly
eyeing it. “She was totally copying that look you pulled off at the Teen Choice Awards
last year.
”

“And she looked like a
cow
in it,” Steph chimes in.

“A mad cow, more like,” Olivia says. “She really shouldn’t show those legs of hers at her
present weight.
”

“Who’s ‘she’?” Greer whispers to me, giving me a whiff of the Tartinis she’s been drinking.

“I have no idea.”

After a few more stories, I work out that “she” is Kimberley Austen, Amber’s rival for It Girl of the moment status, and for Connor’s affections. She’s the sexy Moneypenny in the
Young James Bond
movies, and she and Connor were photo-graphed frolicking in Cabo in one of his and Amber’s off-again moments.

“Whoever are you texting like a mad person, Amb?” Olivia asks.

Amber shoves her phone into her purse. “What? No one. Should we get the check?”

Steph downs the rest of her drink. “Totally. Where to next?”

“How about Round the Corner?” Olivia suggests.

“Perfect.”

Amber hands the waitress her black card and waves off my weak protest that she doesn’t have to pay for us. The Party Girls don’t even try to pay. I wonder what they did when Amber was “away.”

On the way out, Amber catches my arm. “They’re back!”

Uh-oh.

“Who’s back?”

“Connor and Henry, of course.”

That’s what I was afraid of.

“Oh.”

“Aren’t you excited?”

I force a smile. “Yeah, that’s great. I’m happy for you.”

“What about you? Don’t you want to see Henry again?”

No, no, no, beats my heart.

“I guess.”

“They’re meeting us later.”

Of course they are. I should’ve guessed from the texting. And the frenetic enthusiasm. I’ve only ever seen her like that around Connor.

“Great.”

Amber gives me a look. “You two sure are funny.”

“How so?”

“Connor said Henry didn’t seem that excited about seeing you, either.”

I feel queasy. “Well . . . why should he be?”

“You don’t have to keep the sexual tension up until the last season, you know.”

“What are you talking about?”

“You like him. He likes you. What’s with all the indecision? Just
go for it!
”

Olivia calls to us from the doorway. “Yo, girls! What’s the holdup?”

“Coming!” Amber yells. “You ready to go, Katie?”

“I need to use the bathroom. I’ll meet you guys outside.”

She leaves, and I head to the bathroom, Amber’s words spinning around in my head. Fuck, fuck, fuck. Why did I go out with her tonight? I should just sever all ties and move on!

I stand in front of the silver-rimmed mirror. The self that looks back at me is pale under my runner’s tan. I’d love to splash water on my face, but that would undo all of Greer’s good work.

Just get a grip, will you? So you might see Henry again. So what?

I wash my hands and dry them on paper towel from the dispenser. And there it is—a drink, gin and tonic by the looks of it, sitting nearly full and abandoned on the marble countertop, the ice just melting.

I look around for the drink’s owner, but there’s no one to be seen. In fact, I’m totally alone in here.

After a moment’s hesitation, I take the drink in my hand. The glass feels cold and inviting. I can already taste the quinine on my tongue.

What are you doing?

I’m feeling guilty, guilty, guilty for even touching the glass that holds this drink, that’s what.

As you should.

Yeah, but you know what? I’ve had just about enough of guilt, thank you very much.

I bring the glass to my lips and down it in three large gulps.

Guilt, meet guilt-killer.

O
h how I love that first-drink feeling. It’s one part I-can-do-nothing-wrong and one part I-should-do-something-wrong. I’m funnier, the world is brighter, and anything troubling me seems to be no trouble at all.

I join Amber, Greer, and The Party Girls outside the restaurant right when the gin kicks in. As we wait for cabs to take us the short ride to Round the Corner, I catch a look from Greer when I belt out a laugh at one of Olivia’s catty comments.

Oops. I’ve become someone whose whole personality changes after a trip to the bathroom.

“Are you OK?” Greer asks me in the cab. Eva’s chatting loudly on the phone, trying to persuade someone to join us at the bar.

“Just peachy.” I pull a packet of gum out of my purse and pop a square into my mouth. The mint flavor mixes badly with the gin and tonic, like it’s Antabuse.

“What were you and Amber talking about?”

“Nothing.”

She leans in closer. “You didn’t tell her, did you?”

“No.”

“Are you going to?”

“I don’t know.”

“She’s nice.”

You are so killing my buzz!

“I know.”

“Maybe you
should
tell her.”

“Mmm . . . so, you think there’ll be any cute men there?”

“Here’s hoping,” Eva says as she gets off the phone.

Eva directs the cab to pull around to the VIP entrance at the back, where Amber and the others are already waiting. A large man with a blond crewcut leads us into a small elevator that clunks its way to the top floor. We disembark onto a rooftop bar with a terrace that has a 360-degree view and a large square of floor space that’s part bar, part dance floor. The bouncer takes us to an alcove created by three white vinyl couches nestled next to the glass railing.

It’s a beautiful night, and the city’s lights replace the stars. A line about pretty colored lights from Steve Earle’s “Ft. Worth Blues” floats through my mind.

A small army of waiters appears with two bottles of Grey Goose in stainless-steel coolers, glasses, mixers, and ice. The Party Girls make themselves drinks (heavy on the Grey Goose, light on the mixers) as Amber distractedly hands over her black card while simultaneously searching the crowd. I make a virgin mix of orange and cranberry juice, with some seltzer for fizz, and Greer, surprisingly, joins me, muttering something about “cutting down.”

Olivia takes a pull from her drink and props her long legs up on the glass coffee table. As she looks around, she narrates the cast of characters. “See that table over there? That’s the cast of that ambulance show. They just got picked up for another season. That lead guy is cute, but a total asshole.” She looks to her left. “And over there’s the cast of the new Will Smith movie—they just wrapped this morning.”

“I don’t see Will,” Greer says.

“Nah, he never parties without the wife. He’s creepy that way.”

Steph interjects. “I heard he has an open marriage. Apparently he just has to tell Jada first, and she’s OK with it.”

“As if,” scoffs Eva.

Greer considers the crowd. “What do you reckon our best shot is?”

“You looking for relationship potential or right-now potential?” Olivia asks.

“If I wanted to be in a relationship I wouldn’t be partying on top of a building.”

“Gotcha.” Olivia scans the room. “I’d say you’re cute enough to break into the
Gossip Boy
crowd.”

“What’s that?”

“A new spinoff full of beautiful twenty-three-year-old boys.”

“Sounds perfect.”

“You want an intro?”

“Let’s hit it.”

I watch them walk off and end up making eye contact with a geeky-looking guy in a suit that’s one step removed from leisure. He gives me a how-
you
-doing nod, and I quickly look away.

Maybe I should’ve rolled with Greer and Olivia . . .

I try to strike up a conversation with Amber, but she’s too distracted with watching out for Connor to put coherent thoughts together. Eva and Steph are talking to two guys I recognize from a show about a pizza shop in a mall that got canceled after five episodes.

Bored, and coming off my buzz, I half want to leave, or at the very least have another drink.

But how to get a drink without getting caught?

Why do you care about getting caught, dummy? That’s the least of your worries.

Shut the fuck up, will you? And I don’t want to hear anything more from you tonight. Now, where did Mr. Leisure Suit go?

Ten minutes later, I’m ensconced at the bar like I own the place. I’ve downed two double vodkas, given out my phone number to a couple of generic men (OK, Joanne’s cell phone number. At least a girl will answer), and I’m feeling all right.

I pop some more gum in my mouth and head back to the table. Greer’s the only one there, and we’ve been invaded by a couple of punks wearing their first business suits. They’re both portly and shorter than me. The one on the left has bleached-blond hair jelled straight up, and his sidekick has a mop of black curls that’s the only cute thing about him.