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  I placed an order for pad Thai, then broke out a bag of veggie chips to tide me over while I waited for dinner to arrive. I realized that while being a doctor is the profession I aspire to, it’s not my passion. At least not yet.

  I’m seventeen; what do I know about healing the sick? What I do know is that I really, really love Brian. And I think I could be a better girlfriend to Brian than anyone else in this whole entire world. Winning Brian back is going to be my passion. Like Kevin said, when you’re serious about what you love, there is no plan B.

  5

  Bee-reft

  The next day, I woke up at noon and decided I was too devastated to go to class. I mean, I skipped a whole year of high school. Was I really going to get busted for taking a mental health day? I ordered a pizza for lunch, and then I wrote Brian a long letter, begging him to take me back. Then to make sure he got it, I walked over to his apartment and slipped it underneath his door. I mean in bona fide emergencies, can you really depend on the U.S. Postal Service?

  I’m pretty sure he got it, but Brian never responded to my letter. I waited five whole days for him to call me, and then I thought, You know what, maybe the letter sounded too desperate. Maybe I just needed to show him what a horrific mistake he’d made by dumping me.

  I thought about the way Aunt Zo said that eventually all of her exes came around. Maybe it was because Aunt Zo always looked so fabulous. Even though she’s a pit musician and you never actually see her onstage, she’s always dressed up.

  Unlike my mother, who owns about eighteen copies of the same black dress and then piles each of them with tons of ethnic jewelry, all handmade by some worthy woman in an economically deprived part of the world, Aunt Zo can really dress. Like when we went out to brunch last Sunday, she was wearing a cute little leather jacket with racing car patches, a black T-shirt, a cool purple skirt, and these knee-high Gucci boots. The whole time we were in the restaurant, guys were checking her out. Even guys my age.

  When I first introduced Brian to Zo, he said, “Damn, if you’re going to look like that in twenty years, Bee, we ought to get married.”

  How could I have forgotten something as important as that?!!!!!?? BRIAN was the first person to bring up marriage, not me. I had to fix whatever was wrong and I had to do it soon because I was losing my mind without him.

  Maybe if Brian saw me in a high-fashion outfit like Aunt Zo’s, he would change his mind. Maybe he didn’t want to date a girl who wore Peruvian ponchos and Himalayan yoga pants. In an ideal world, I’d just go over to Aunt Zo’s and borrow some of her clothes. But she’s like a size six and I’m like a size twelve; a size ten if I suck in my gut and don’t breathe.

  Borrowing Zo’s clothes wasn’t going to work. But what about the credit card that my dad had given me for “reasonable expenses”? Certainly, buying myself some decent clothes was a reasonable expense. I could pretend that I had an interview for an internship and that while my three-piece Nigerian boubou was considered perfectly adequate for tribal high holy days, it wasn’t going to cut it for a college student looking to intern at a major research hospital. That sounded like a feasible story, right? I mean, I planned on getting an internship at a major research hospital just as soon as I sorted out things with me and Brian.

  So I went to Forever 21 and bought myself a funky print skirt, a fake leather jacket, and a pair of high-heeled boots. I liked the way I looked in the outfit, but I needed to step it up if I was going to get Brian to take me back.

  Before a big event, like say the Tony Awards, which she goes to every year, Aunt Zo always goes to a department store and gets her makeup done. You have to buy some of the products they use, but chances are, you were going to buy some of it anyway. Zo said, “The Laura Mercier counter is good for a subtle French girl look. Nars is good for shimmer, healthy, bronze beauty stuff. And whatever you do, don’t go to the Mac counter; those guys always manage to make women look like drag queens.”

  So I made an appointment and hopped on the subway down to Bergdorf’s. The woman at the Laura Mercier counter was pretty. She had super-pale skin, jet-black hair, and ruby red lips. It sounds extreme, but on her, it was ethereal, like she was a character in an old black-and-white movie. Her name was Françoise, and she spent an hour painting my eyes the shade of lilacs and my lips and cheeks in this beautiful lush shade of gold.

  “You have amazing skin,” Françoise said. “Did anyone ever tell you that you look like a younger Savannah Hughes?”

  Yeah, like anyone would ever compare me to a supermodel. But by the time Françoise was done, it wasn’t such a ridiculous idea. There was a big billboard of “Savannah for Sephora” near campus, and Françoise had re-created the look in the ad to a tee.

  Although I knew he was going to kill me, I bought every product Françoise used—including a $65 bottle of “invisible foundation”—and paid for it with my dad’s credit card.

  I took the subway back uptown and realized that Brian had his Arabic immersion class every day from three to five p.m. It was only four thirty. So I went to the coffee shop on the corner of his block.

  Eva, the Hungarian waitress, handed me a menu.

  “Where’s your boyfriend?” she asked.

  The question just slayed me. I kept telling myself, “Do not cry. Do not ruin your makeup. Do not cry. Do not ruin your makeup.”

  Even though I’d had a burger, fries, and a milk shake for lunch, I went ahead and ordered a piece of apple pie à la mode and a Coke. I mean, they weren’t just going to let me sit in the coffee shop and drink water while I waited for Brian. And it was way too cold to wait outside.

  While I polished off the pie, I went over my plan:

  1. Go see Brian.

  2. When he sees me looking gorgeous, he’ll ask me to come home with him for Thanksgiving. I’ll say that I’ll think about it.

  3. Play hard to get if he asks me to stay for dinner. Tell him I’ve got dinner plans. But maybe the next day.

  Aunt Zo is always saying that feminist revolution or no, it never hurts to play a little hard to get. It reminds people that you’re valuable. Well, I wanted some of that. I wanted Brian to think I was more than valuable; I wanted him to think that I was irreplaceable. I had to prove to him that I was ready for the real thing. That I am mature. That I’m worthy of him.

  This is what actually happened:

  1. I went to see Brian.

  2. He said, “Wow, you look gorgeous.”

  3. I made out with him.

  About two hours later, he said, “I gotta get ready. I’m supposed to meet up with some guys to check out this band downtown.”

  “Great,” I said. “I’ll go with you. I’ve got these new clothes and this new makeup . . . I’d love to go out.”

  “It’s all the way downtown at Arlene’s Grocery,” he said. “I’m probably going to crash at my friend Ty’s place. I don’t want to have to worry about you on the subway.”

  “I’ll just take a cab,” I said.

  Brian sighed. “Don’t do this, Bee.”

  All of a sudden, I was sobbing again. “I thought you said we could still hang out.”

  He rolled his eyes. “I didn’t say that. I mean, maybe I said that. But clearly you’re too immature to deal with a casual relationship. Come on, Bee. You have to go.”

  And for the second time in a week, Brian closed the door to his apartment right in my face.

  The next day, I woke up feeling pathetic and sad. I wanted Brian back more than anything, but I needed to regroup first. I had grades to keep up, after all. My physics prof, Professor Trotter, was ruthless. So I walked over to Butler Library to get some studying done.

  I was back on track and dreaming of allotropic forms when I saw Brian and some girl coming out of the library. Maybe he didn’t even know her. Maybe he was just holding the door for her. But she was laughing and he was smiling that charming smile. I ducked behind a column so he wouldn’t see me. Then I turned around, ran down the steps, and hopped the subway to SoHo t
o MarieBelle, where I had a giant hot chocolate and instead of cracking open my lit textbook, I read the latest issue of InStyle magazine. Welcome to “Life Post-Brian,” in which our heroine (me, Bee) discovers that nothing douses the flames of heartache like a gallon or so of chocolate.

  A few days later, I was having lunch in the cafeteria by myself when Brian came up to me. I thanked God that I’d washed my hair and put on a little eye shadow despite the fact that I was still feeling miserable. But Brian wasn’t in the mood to notice. He was really angry.

  “Stop following me. I saw you at the library the other day,” he said. His normally sweet, handsome face looked so . . . different.

  “It—it was an accident, being there the same time that you were,” I said, stammering. “I mean, I’ve got to go to the library and study. You don’t own the building, you know.”

  But it was like Brian didn’t hear me, and all of a sudden, I noticed that the tiny blond girl he had been holding the door for at the library was standing off to the side, waiting for him while he told me off.

  “First you show up at my house, then you follow me to the library. And don’t think I don’t know that it’s you calling my house and hanging up.”

  Yes, I went to his house. Yes, I saw him at the library. But I wasn’t calling him. I swear. I was so confused, it was all I could do not to break into tears on the spot.

  “Someone’s been calling my house and hanging up, Bee,” he said. “The caller’s number is unlisted, but I know that it’s you.”

  “I don’t have an unlisted number. I don’t even have a landline. My cell is a friends and family phone. It shows my dad’s name. You know that.”

  Brian wasn’t having it. “All I know is that you’re the only person who is acting desperate enough to call me at all hours of the night,” he said. “I need you to grow up. This happens all the time. Two people hang out for a while, one person grows out of the relationship and moves on. Stop making a federal case out of it.”

  He was speaking so loudly that everyone in the cafeteria could hear him. I was so mortified. I just kept blinking wildly, like someone had sprayed mace in my eyes.

  “It’s over, and if you keep stalking me, I’m going to report you to campus security.”

  Then he stomped away. The boy who had been doing tongue calisthenics with me less than a week ago STOMPED AWAY.

  At this point, I was nearly hyperventilating. I was breathing in and out so quickly, I thought I was about to have a heart attack, which is why I didn’t notice this girl sit down across from me.

  “You do know that he’s a dick,” she said.

  “Who?” I asked. I was in a complete daze.

  “Lyin’ Brian. Two years ago, when we were both freshmen, he pulled the same mess with me.”

  “You used to go out with Brian?”

  “Sorry to burst your bubble, snowflake,” she said. “You’re not in a club of one.”

  I looked down at my tray of fried chicken, smashed potatoes, and collard greens. For some reason, all of a sudden, I was really, really hungry. So I started eating. I noticed that on her tray, she had a Caesar salad, an apple, and a bottle of water. Besides the fact that she used to date Brian, the goody-goody food on her plate only added to my instant dislike of her.

  “So what do you want with me?” I asked.

  “I kind of owe you one,” the girl said. “I’m the one who’s been calling Brian’s house and hanging up.”

  SHE was the girl who was calling him and hanging up! Do you believe it? Do you believe me now when I say that my luck just goes from bad to worse?

  “What? You’ve got to tell him.” I had to get her to clear my name. Brian was never going to take me back if he thought I was stalking him.

  “He ruined my freshman year, and I know that hang-ups drive him crazy,” the girl said. “So I call him nonstop for a few weeks, then I lay off and start up again. It really messes with his head.” She burst into a big grin. I couldn’t help but notice that she had nice teeth, pearly white and the kind of straightness that not even braces can produce, but at this particular moment, they looked more like fangs.

  Will somebody PLEASE wake me from this nightmare? This nightmare where I am not only dumped by the love of my life, but I find myself having lunch with his psycho ex-girlfriend?

  Granted, she didn’t look like a psycho. She was this really glammed-up Latina girl who looked a lot more like the posters in Brian’s apartment than I did. But still.

  “I’m Consuela. We should be friends,” she said, putting her hand out for me to shake.

  I did not want to shake this crazy girl’s hand. Luckily, I had my greasy fried chicken fingers to hold up as an excuse.

  “I’m sorry,” I said. “I just don’t think I want to be friends with Brian’s ex. Nothing personal.”

  “Well, I’ll see you around,” she said.

  Then she flashed me this huge smile as if she was my new best friend. As if the idea of me being friends with someone who’d swapped spit with the love of my life was even possible. I think the Latin term for this is movea onu crazae ladyil.

  As I walked home, all I could think was, This is just great. I mean really great. Truly great. I didn’t mean it in a good way. Oh no. I meant in the sarcastic, opposite-day way. Brian thinks I’m stalking him, which I ABSOLUTELY am not. And now his nutso ex-girlfriend is going to be stalking me too.

  6

  Bee-friended

  I was so freaked out by Brian confronting me in the cafeteria that I decided to avoid it entirely. I had no one to eat out with, so I ordered in. After a while, all the delivery guys knew me. And that, my friends, is how I gained the famous freshman fifteen—plus ten more, for good measure.

  I don’t know if you’ve ever been there, but being depressed is VERY TIRING work. I needed to eat for sustenance. It was like there was a great big hole inside me and it was sucking up everything: my ability to get out of bed, the energy it took to shower, the brain cells I needed to study. Eating, planning my meals, and going out for snacks kept me going.

  I was way, way over my monthly food budget, so I just started charging everything. I used my plastic at the bodega, at Rite Aid, at H&H Bagels, and of course at Ollie’s Noodle Shop. It’s not like I sat down and ate a whole pizza by myself in one sitting. But let’s just say, when Dad got the credit card bill, the Victoria’s Secret charge was going to be nothing compared to how much I was spending on food.

  The thing is that I never felt overweight. The scale was creeping up, but I didn’t feel fat. Six inches around your waist doesn’t actually feel like a tire, no matter what the infomercials say. It feels like your belly goes from flat to soft, like every day is the day after Thanksgiving and someone has been stuffing your jeans with pillow feathers at night when you sleep.

  I never wear panty hose, but I knew I was gaining weight when tights started being a problem. When you go to school in New York, a pair of warm, wool tights can be your very best friend. My old tights wouldn’t stay up. They kept slipping down around my butt and I was always adjusting them. It wasn’t until I was in the locker room at school and this girl saw me pulling them up around my thighs one day and said, “You might want to go up to the next size,” did it occur to me that my legs—never toothpick thin to begin with—had taken on a greater proportion.

  My face might have been chubbier, but I never noticed it. When I woke up in the morning, washed my face, and brushed my teeth, it was the same sleepy eyes that greeted me, the same crinkly smile when I heard Pharrell start to sing, “You’re beautiful. And I love you. You’re my favorite girl.”

  In high school, my teachers were constantly saying, “You just wait until you get to college; all these silly distinctions and cliques will fall away.” Then I got to college and found out that even at a brainiac school like Columbia, it’s still a lot like high school. There’s still the prettiest girl, the smartest girl, the most eccentric, and the most talented. I wanted to be the smartest or the prettiest or even ju
st the weird chick who wore one sock as a fashion statement and did art installations involving Chia pets. But that’s just not me. I’m too weird to be cool but too vanilla to be weird in an interesting way.

  Then when I met Brian, all of a sudden, I wasn’t just this blob. I was his girlfriend, and together we did all kinds of cool things I would have never done by myself. But now he didn’t want to see me anymore, and it was all because I was a virgin. If I was experienced, if I’d rocked that Victoria’s Secret lingerie like a supermodel, shown him I know what I’m doing in a relationship, then I’d still have Brian and everything would be okay.

  I was waiting for the Ollie’s delivery guy to show up; it was a weeknight, so it would probably be Dewei. The doorbell rang, then rang again three times before I could get over to the intercom. Definitely Dewei: he loved to lean on the horn. I buzzed him in. But when I opened the door, it wasn’t Dewei, it was Consuela. Brian’s ex-girlfriend.

  “Hey, chica, how are you?” She walked in as if she’d been over a thousand times before.

  “Hey,” I said, both annoyed that she’d shown up uninvited and relieved that I hadn’t buzzed in some serial killer.

  What was I supposed to say to her? “You know when Brian kisses you right behind your ear and you feel like you’re going to melt right on the spot, isn’t that the best?” We had nothing, I mean nothing, to talk about. But here she was, and I had to admit that even though I guessed that she’d ridden into town on the crazy train, I was kinda happy for the company.

  I walked over to the fridge and took out two diet sodas. “I’m fine,” I said, offering her one.