Things I can’t Explain (11 page)

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 since 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.

“Lovely,” I mutter, and head down the hall.

The Nuzegeek offices are highly designed, sleek and industrial as expected. I stride down polished concrete hallways with various nuts and bolts embedded right into the floor as a signature design. Above, the exposed beams and metal ducts contrast vividly with the offices and their stained wooden doors. The interior design incorporates some of the elements of the ancient Seaport. There's a three-hundred-year-old winch tower in the middle of the floor that includes ancient hoists with an extra-large block and tackle suspended from the ceiling. The mix of old and new is pretty stunning for the former Fulton Fish Market warehouse, now Internet start-up.

Walking through the bustling office filled with twenty-something types who have actual
jobs
, I find the divine Druscilla Devereaux stationed at her desk outside a set of tall mahogany double doors that may or may not lead to my journalistic future.

Druscilla peers at me over a pair of tortoiseshell glasses wearing a Bailey 44 Joie de Vivre striped jacket over a white camisole. Not bad. Droozy's got her brown hair scraped upward into a severe topknot, a tight little knob that sits dead center on the pinnacle of her head. Honestly, it's a style only a Kardashian (or Tinker Bell) can get away with. Also, she's got a hickey.

“Alyssa?” Druscilla sniffs.

“Clarissa,” I correct softly, feeling like it's my fault for having the wrong name. I'm not usually this vulnerable, but between my lingering joblessness and Corporate Creep's cold shoulder back at the elevator, I'm rapidly losing my swag.

She picks up the phone and announces me: “MT? Melissa is here.”

“Clarissa,” I murmur again, but Druscilla doesn't seem to care. Then again, maybe she's pissed that I skipped the pre-interview.

When she opens the towering doors, I see nothing but glare—MT's office window overlooks the East River, and every single wall, as well as the light fixtures, the chairs, and the very contemporary shag rug, are white. Mr. 1 Percenter's dazzling teeth seem dull by comparison. The sunlight reflecting off the river floods the white room.

So what's the symbolism here? The utter purity of Nuzegeek's journalistic integrity? Or maybe I've wandered into a Clorox commercial. Where's Mr. Clean? If this were a video game, all this gleaming white light would be a very cool effect, but in this scenario it's a little nerve-racking. I blink frantically, which probably makes me look like I'm having a seizure.

Against this dazzling backdrop, I see only the faintest outline of a woman seated behind an enormous (you guessed it) white desk. Instinctively, I shade my eyes and hope she doesn't think I'm saluting her, because that would be weird. The glowing creature before me recognizes the problem. “Druscilla, get the blinds,” she commands.

Druscilla scrambles to do her bidding. In the next moment I hear a faint electronic buzz and the automated blinds unfurl and the blazing light softens to a pearly glow.

Ah, there she is: MT Wilkinson in the flesh. No throne, no spotted fur collar, no scones (too bad, because I'm actually feeling a little peckish). I stride across the room and extend my hand to hers over the tidy desktop.

My previous Google search informed me that MT was part of a wave of black Britons who came to the United States for college and put down roots. Yes, Swarthmore. She entered the start-up workforce during the “dot-com before the storm” and became a marketing exec at Zynga. She was one of the first black women tech execs and famously wrote an article in
Fast Company
about how she felt marginalized by the boys' club, but denied it was a matter of racism. She clearly got the last laugh as she sold all her stock in early 2012 before the market crashed. Savvy instincts or insider tip? I'm guessing fortuitous leak, because her Swarthmore degree was actually art history, with a minor in classical literature. Then again, maybe she's a marketing wiz and could tell which way the winds were blowing.