Love and Chaos (18 page)

“Angie, I’m really sorry, okay? I was just fooling around.”

“Yeah?” I finally turn to face him. “Well, I’m sick of fooling around. I don’t want to waste my life hanging out like this anymore. It’s fucking depressing. I need to get a job. That’s what I’m doing today. I’m gonna get a job.”

Sam nods. “Right.”

I stand up and head for the door, my face still burning from the shame of being busted as a romance reader, and pause quickly to snap at him over my shoulder.

“See yourself out.”

CHAPTER
23

Less than a week before I turn twenty-three.

And I could not be further away from having the adult life I always imagined I’d have by now.

I’m working at the Gap.

Stop laughing.

I need money. I need to pay rent. I need a job, something to focus on, a reason to get out of bed in the morning. Especially since I haven’t seen Sam since the whole romance novel sleepover fiasco last week.

He texted the next day:
I’m sorry … Forgive me?

I replied:
Totally. Not a problem
.

And he hasn’t tried to get in touch since. I haven’t called him, either. I’m too embarrassed; I still feel a hot flush of mortification when I think about him holding up the book with glee. He probably thinks I’m such a romantic. A total cockeyed optimist loser. I hate that. It makes me feel weak. I don’t know why, but it does. And I was already feeling so exposed after telling him all that stuff about my parents.…

You know what? We became such close friends so fast, it was too intense. I needed space. That’s all.

And a full-time job at the Gap has certainly provided it.

In some ways, the Gap isn’t all that bad: it turns out my folding skills are kind of gnarly. Who knew? (I never folded anything of my own before; I just pretended the wrinkles were part of my unique style.)

But the hours are long, the salary is terrible, I’m getting blisters from being on my feet all day, and wow, it’s boring. I’m so bored I almost can’t keep my eyes from closing. Sometimes I fantasize about making a bed out of T-shirts in the changing rooms and curling up for a nap, like a little puppy.

Also, people never look you in the eye when you work in retail. Don’t they realize it’s my job to ask them if they need help finding anything? It’s what I am paid to
do
. And one of the managers, Shania, has told me off twice for not having a “pleasant expression.” I can’t help it if I look bitchy when I’m preoccupied. She looks bitchy because she’s a bitch.

But the best part? The clothes. Gap isn’t exactly my style, but I genuinely like helping customers choose the right clothes. Sometimes someone asks me what style of jeans would suit them, or if this shirt will go with that skirt, and I get to style them. The smile when that person comes out of the changing room and sees they’re looking better than they expected … I
love
that. I never upsell, either. I make sure that they stay in their budget. And I’ve pointed a few people in the direction of Urban Outfitters or Zara, to pick up something that will just make their outfit. (Usually a bright belt, clutch, or pair of shoes. Pretty textbook stuff.)

But no matter what, my mind still paces back and forth, trying to think of ways to get out of here, get a real job in fashion.… I know I can’t be a designer, that dream is just that—a dream. It’s out of reach. Impossible. But I could be an assistant, right? Or a receptionist, I could work for a fashion label or a PR company or a stylist.

I am sure I could do
something
better than this, if only someone would give me a chance.

But no one will.

Goddamn, I’m lost.

Right now, it’s nearly the end of the day in this soulless part of Midtown Manhattan, and there’s a particularly bleak cross section of society in the store. Sticky little whiners in strollers who just want to be home playing with toys, backpacked tourists shell-shocked from a day sightseeing, overweight solo shoppers eyeing merchandise like a potential foe.…

Humanity. Urgh. Pia always says how much she loves working with people; she gets energized by it. I’d rather just be in a quiet corner thinking about clothes. But not my parents. Or my future.

My phone vibrates in my pocket, and I immediately duck to the floor, pretending to rearrange some sweaters so I can check it. A text from Julia.

Just letting you know that my boss just invited everyone except me to a strip club tonight to celebrate a deal. My job is worse than yours.

I grin to myself and reply.

This morning, I found a shit in the mens’ changing rooms. Not a dog shit, not a kiddie shit. A man. Took a shit. In the middle of the changing room. My job is worse than yours.

I get a reply a moment later.

You win.

Ha. Jules and I are still texting a lot. Mostly competing to see who has the worse job. It’s so cute that she’s even pretending working at an investment bank is anywhere near as terrible as working at the Gap. Pia was right all this time: Julia is kind of awesome. I’m so glad we’ve become real friends. I don’t think Pia is jealous anymore.… Though, to be honest, Pia hasn’t been around to be jealous. She’s spending every minute she can with Aidan before he leaves for San Francisco. They’ve decided to give the long-distance thing a try.

I’m surreptitiously stretching out my hamstrings—why they’re so tight from just standing around all day doing nothing, I don’t know—when an older lady comes over and starts scanning the wall of jeans.

“Hello! May I help you find anything in particular?”

She nods. “I want a pair of jeans that don’t make me look like a hoochie mama.”

I grin. “Right … hooch-free denim. Well, this pair is really well cut around the thighs, so they’re supportive but not too snug. They’ve got a ten-inch rise, which is so much more comfortable around your tummy area, and the dark shade is classic, no hoochie whiskering or wash.… It’s almost like a pair of pants, but with the comfort and ease of denim.”

“Wow. You’re good.”

“Thank you,” I say, taking down the jeans. “I love clothes. Here, just for comparison, you should try on this pair and this pair, too.”

“Thank you.… I used to love clothes. Now I just wear them.” She takes the jeans I offer her and frowns. “This is my size. How did you know?”

“That’s why they pay me the big bucks. Can I put them in a changing room for you?”

“I’ll take them myself.” She takes the jeans off to the changing area.

Suddenly, I’m in a much better mood. I
do
like this job! And I’m good at it! I helped that lady find jeans and she’ll look
great
in them, I know she will, and it’ll make her happy all day. All because of me. An old Rihanna song comes on over the music system, and without even thinking about it, I start bobbing my head and singing along, then do a teeny tiny twirl on the spot.

At that moment Derek, one of the guys who usually works the register, walks past. He frowns at me and shakes his head.

“This isn’t a nightclub, Angela.”

He’s gone before I can reply “It’s Angie, dickface,” so I just flip him the bird behind his back. Real mature, but that’s what retail does to you.

At that moment, I hear a familiar drawl behind me.

“What the fuck are we doing here, Blythe? You know my rules: no moms, no hugs, no chain stores.”

I freeze, my heart suddenly hammering in my chest. I’d know that voice anywhere.

It’s Stef.

The Blythe person giggles.

“Stef, baby, I told you, I need some tanks and Gap ones fit me best.”

“Can’t we go to James Perse or Splendid or, fuck, somewhere decent? I’ll pay.”

“Maybe later. I have to hit Intermix.”

Their voices are getting louder and louder. Keeping my head down, I drop to the floor, pretending to adjust the chinos on the bottom level. No chinos have ever been this perfectly symmetrical in the history of casual pants. I look for an error, anything that will give me something to do.… Aha! A size six in the size eights! My face still turned away from their voices, I pull out the entire stack and start realigning them, very slowly, praying that Stef just walks away, that—

“Well, look at this,” says a soft voice. Suddenly, inches from me on the floor, I spot Stef’s shoes. John Lobb. Of course. “If it isn’t the infamous Angie.”

I slowly stand up, feeling a strange combination of fear and fury. “Stef.”

Our eyes meet. He’s looking his standard privileged, oily self.

At that moment the Blythe girl comes over. She’s one of those tall, expensive brunettes that the Upper East Side breeds in litters. She’s wearing DVF shoes, dress, bag, and coat. Style by numbers.

“What’s this?” She cocks her head to one side, looking at me like I was a funny little painting.

“This is Angie,” says Stef. “An old friend.”

Blythe gives me a little fake smile. “How sweet.” She saunters away.

“I’m not your friend,” I hiss at Stef. “And I’ll never forgive you for what you did to me.”

“What I
did
? Chill out, Angie. You love rich guys. I just introduced you to some of them. Your behavior on the boat was really uncool. You totally overreacted.”

My fists clench. I want to slap him. I want to scream and make a scene and quit this stupid job and run away and drink vodka and laugh all night and pretend everything is perfect. I crave it so badly, I can almost taste the joy of that escape.

But I’m not going to do it.

I’m not running away from my problems anymore.

Because I can’t make them go away like that. Not really.

“You’re a worthless scumbag.” My voice is shaking with the effort of keeping it low. “Stay away from me. And get out of my store.”

Blythe has sauntered back toward us and overhears me.

“I don’t believe this! Where is your manager?” snaps Blythe. She looks around, her voice high and demanding and Upper East Side-y. “I need a manager here!”

“No, Blythe, leave it.” Stef is staring at me, a half smile on his face. “I have a feeling I’ll be hearing from her soon enough. When reality hits, a night of fun in the Soho Grand won’t seem so bad.”

I can’t meet his eyes, so I stare at his nose instead (an old trick my dad taught me when I was little).
A night of fun in the Soho Grand …
What the fuck happened that night? I feel sick.

For a few seconds, there’s total silence.

Then, I smile at them both. “Can I help you with anything? No? Then please excuse me. I have work to do.”

Trembling, I walk away and start refolding T-shirts, following their progress through the store out of the corner of my eye. Stef stares at me, till Blythe starts sniping at him. He snaps back. She immediately shuts up, and they leave.

And I don’t run away. I don’t give in. I just focus on getting through the day.

That night, on the subway home to Rookhaven, the sick feeling slowly subsiding in my stomach, I can’t help staring at every other worker drone, all of us jammed in side by side on the way home from our shit jobs, and everyone is doing something to distract their brains from reality. They’re either listening to music with their eyes closed, or reading the
New York Post,
or staring at BlackBerrys or iPhones, thumbs frantically tapping away.

I always thought people did that stuff when they were bored and trying to kill time. But now I know it’s because they’re all trying to forget whatever it is they had to do that day to earn a living. Because it probably sucked.

This can’t be what my life is meant to be like. It just … it
can’t
be.

But I don’t want my old life, either.

So I guess I’m stuck here. And suddenly, I know that the only thing in the world that will cheer me up is my friends. Pia, Coco, Julia, and Madeleine. And Sam. I miss Sam. It’s only been a few days since I spoke to him, but it seems like forever. I don’t care that he knows I read romance novels. I don’t care if he thinks I’m a loser. I just miss him.

When I get off the subway at Carroll Gardens, I take out my phone and call him.

“Are we friends again?” he says, instead of hello.

“Affirmative. I’m sorry I kicked you out.”

“I’m sorry I made fun of your book. Do you know that I love Harry Potter? I do. I’m crazy about that little wizard geek.”

I can’t help cracking up. “Okay, we’re officially friends again.”

“Our first fight! Man, I feel special. Do you feel special?”

“I feel hungry.”

“I’m at Vic’s, finishing off the bathroom. We’re heading up to Bartolo’s for pizza. You want in?”

“Yes.”

“Where have you been, anyway, lady? I knocked on your front door, like, four times this week.”

“Uh, I got a job.”

“Oh yeah? That’s awesome! Where?”

“If I tell you, will you promise not to laugh?”

“Yes.”

“The Gap.”

CHAPTER
24

Sam is still laughing when I get to Bartolo’s. It’s a real old-school Brooklyn Italian joint, the kind of place with mismatched plates and menus that haven’t changed in forever. Vic’s family started it decades ago, and it’s still run by one of his nephews. It has that family feeling, you know? At least half the tables have kids, and tonight, most have kids, parents, and grandparents. I gaze around at them. Real live happy families. I wonder how my dad is.

“Okay, Angie, what’ll it be?” asks Vic, interrupting my reverie.

I don’t even look at my menu. “The margherita pizza, please.”

Sam looks over at me and cracks up again.

“Shut it!” I say. “Vic, Sam’s picking on me. Just because I got a job.”

Vic grins at me, his face all gnarled and happy. “I think it’s great, girlie. Work gives life meaning. Makes you feel fulfilled.”

Working at the Gap is supposed to give my life meaning and make me feel fulfilled? The idea is so insanely depressing that for a moment I can’t say anything. Then the bartender, Jonah, comes over with our drinks. A beer for Sam, a club soda for Vic, and a vodka on the rocks for me.

“You sure you want straight vodka, honeybunny?” asks Jonah.