But, Avery reminded herself as she patted the thick black and silver Marc Jacobs headband perched atop her wheat-blond hair, her luck seemed to be changing. Ticky Bensimmon-Heart—the world-famous editor in chief of Metropolitan—was on the Constance overseers’ board and had rescued Avery by offering her an internship at the prestigious magazine. Soon, all of the New York media world would love Avery, and Jack Laurent and her bitchy posse would wet their pants in jealousy.
She marched up to the marble-topped security desk in the corner. A bored, white-haired guy looked her up and down.
For security purposes only.
“Avery Carlyle. I’m here for Metropolitan,” she said in her most professional voice. The impressive lobby had waterfalls flanking the escalators and gorgeous white marble floors, and she suppressed the urge to twirl around, Funny Face style.
“ID?” the security guard asked in a bored voice, oblivious to the moment Avery was having. She fished for her Massachusetts driver’s license in the brand-new Hermès bag she’d bought in Soho this weekend as a starting-work present.
“Good luck.” The security guard winked as he handed her a dorky visitor’s pass sticker. “Floor thirty-five. Top of the heap. Make sure to wear the pass until we get you a permanent one.”
Avery slapped the sticker on her skirt, where she could camouflage it with her bag—no way was she going to wear it like a dorky name tag. She followed the herd of gazelle-like girls up the escalator and toward the elevator banks, pretending to know where she was going. On floor thirty-five, the elevator opened into an all-white reception area decorated with huge, blown-up photos of Metropolitan’s most famous covers. Avery stared at the images of Andy Warhol, Edie Sedgwick, and Jackie Kennedy. She sucked in a deep breath. She was in.
“May I help you?” The girl sitting behind the desk didn’t bother to look up from her gleaming white iMac. She had straight black hair that landed halfway down her back and thick bangs that skimmed her eyes. She looked like Angelina Jolie in her goth, vial of blood–wearing years.
“I’m here to see Ticky Bensimmon-Heart,” Avery announced, pleased with how official that sounded. She was even more excited than she’d been on her first day at school.
And remember how well that day turned out?
“Who are you?” The Angelina look-alike looked up from her computer.
Avery smiled her best first-day-of-work smile and squared her shoulders. The photograph of Jackie seemed to be smiling at her. “Avery Carlyle?” She hated how it came out like a question. “Avery Carlyle,” she said again, emphasizing her last name. “I’m the intern,” she added.
“You’re an intern,” she repeated, the way she might have said, You’re a garbage truck driver, or You’re a proctologist. “You’re not seeing Ticky, trust me. I’ll call McKenna to fetch you. She’s the intern wrangler.”
Avery furrowed her eyebrows. Intern wrangler? What did they think she was, a farm animal?
Avery perched on the black leather couch and flipped through the latest issue of the magazine. A fashion spread featured models lying languorously on the Brooklyn Bridge, about to get hit by oncoming traffic. The headline screamed, The Danger of the Downtown Look, followed by text deriding the downtown boho style. Avery smirked, thinking of all the girls at Constance who tried to downgrade the simple elegance of their uniforms by pairing them with flip-flops, keffiyeh scarves, and ripped leggings. She was definitely going to like it here.
“This her?”
Avery glanced up. Standing at the glass door was a super-tall, super-skinny girl with a severe blond bob and whispery bangs framing her heart-shaped face. She was probably just out of college, and wore straight-leg jeans and a pink Thakoon blazer Avery had seen in this month’s Vogue.
“Avery, this is McKenna Clarke,” Goth Girl said as she turned back to her iMac.
“Avery Carlyle.” Avery stood up and stuck her hand out formally. “So good to meet you, McKenna.”
“Follow me.” McKenna turned crisply on her four-inch purple suede Christian Louboutin ankle boots. Avery had to practically run to keep up with her as they walked down a white hallway.
“So, how long have you worked here?” Avery chirped, struggling to match McKenna’s supermodel strut. Inside the office were rows and rows of cubicles. They passed a glass-walled conference room filled with willowy, pouty models. A harried-looking blond girl was frantically taking Polaroids of each of them.
McKenna sighed, not breaking her stride as she darted between racks of fur coats that had been set up, mazelike, in the hallway. “A year. And, listen, generally, interns are seen and not heard. That’s just the way things are at Metropolitan.”
Is it, now?
Finally, McKenna slowed down, in front of a glass-walled corner office. Avery could see Ticky, holding a rotary phone receiver in one hand and frantically typing on a typewriter with the other. Ticky’s bright red henna-highlighted hair was teased a full three inches above her heavily Botoxed forehead, and she wore a beaded gold Chanel jacket.
“I’m going to just say hi to Ticky—she’s expecting me,” Avery explained, moving toward the ’50s retro–style office.
“Shh!” McKenna hissed, wrapping her thin fingers around Avery’s wrist and yanking her down the hall. She opened an unmarked door, pulled Avery in, and shut it behind her.
The room was a windowless space with shelves and shelves of beauty products. The ground was covered with containers of even more products. Three girls were sitting at one long desk, their shoulders hunched over laptops, and a phone kept ringing in the corner.
“Um, I think I’m supposed to talk to Ticky to see what she wants me to do. But thanks for your help,” Avery said politely, moving again to the door.
McKenna shot Avery a death stare. “Listen, I’m in charge of all the interns, and I think it’s best if you stay in the closet for a few days, until you learn more about the culture of Metropolitan. Gemma?” A brown-haired girl sitting at one of the computers turned around and raised her eyebrow.
“Come here, Intern,” Gemma called impatiently, as she stood and walked toward a huge chest of plastic-laminate drawers. She pushed her black Prada frames further up on her ski-jump nose and looked Avery up and down.
Intern? She didn’t even get called by name?
“So, I guess what I’ll have you do is organize these drawers.” Gemma turned to face Avery. She had a zit threatening to pop from her angular chin, and her complexion was splotchy, but she wore a Dries Van Noten gray sweaterdress over black leggings with zippers up the calves that accentuated her height. She looked cool, and she knew it.
Avery tried to smile through her disappointment. She quickly opened the drawer and began pulling out lipsticks, scattering them on a white counter that lined one wall. Okay, so this wasn’t investigative reporting. Or photo-shoot styling. But it also wasn’t hanging out with odd-smelling old ladies, which was all she’d done after school for the past few weeks.
Avery was in the middle of creating a drawer of light pink lip stains when the door creaked open again. McKenna.
“What’s the burgundy doing here?” McKenna picked a MAC lip stain from the drawer of pale pinks and waved it accusingly in front of Avery’s face.
Avery took it back guiltily, feeling like she was a kindergartener getting yelled at for not putting away her crayons properly. “Sorry,” she muttered.
“You need to be more careful,” Gemma warned, squinting down at the drawer.
“Anyway, since this is too complicated, there’s a Stella sample sale down in the Meatpacking District. I wrote down a couple things. Would you mind fetching them for me? I’m a little smaller than you, so whatever’s too tight on you will probably work.” McKenna smiled angelically, passing Avery an AmEx.
Avery’s eyes narrowed. Did McKenna want her to run out and do her personal shopping?
“Hope they take credit cards! Oh, also, since you’re in the nabe, can you return these to Jeffrey? These shoes totally aren’t working
for me. Or the magazine.” McKenna arched her eyebrow.
Just then, Avery’s cell phone rang loudly from her new Hermés purse: a Madonna-techno ringtone that Baby had set as her personal ring, just to be annoying.
“Is that a personal call?” McKenna was actually tapping her foot, as if she were a floor manager in a factory.
“Sorry.” Avery furiously pushed silent on the phone, and instantly a text from her sister flashed: Back from España! Great. Her sister went to Spain, and all she got to do was go to the Meat-packing District.
Avery grabbed the heavy handles of McKenna’s Jeffrey bag and turned crisply on her heel. She made her way out the of the office, marching past goth Angelina with her head held high. Her dream job might turn out to be a nightmare, but she wasn’t about to break down for all of Metropolitan to see.
That’s what the backseats of taxis are for.
the couch
Baby Carlyle’s dirty white Havaiana flip-flops thwacked against the gleaming hardwood floors of Constance Billard on Friday afternoon. Officially, flip-flops weren’t part of the uniform at the elite all-girls school, but Baby had broken so many rules lately that she doubted anyone would care. Her flight from Spain had landed just two hours ago, and all she wanted to do was crawl into bed and take a long nap. But as soon as she’d landed and turned her phone on, she’d received a frantic message from her mom saying that Mrs. McLean, Constance Billard’s headmistress, wanted to see Baby immediately. Baby had known she’d have to face the headmistress eventually; after all, she’d skipped a week of school for her impromptu vacation.
Donna, the stringy-haired secretary, stuck her head out of the office as soon as Baby rounded the corner. “Mrs. McLean’s waiting for you,” she announced self-importantly.
“Thanks,” Baby mumbled, shuffling into Mrs. McLean’s inner office. It wasn’t as if she needed directions. She’d already been here four times in the past month.
“Baby!” Mrs. McLean exclaimed, poking her large, doughy face around her office door.
Baby flashed her best I’m just a dumb but endearing teenager who does impulsive things smile. It was a look she’d mastered during her short time at Constance. She just hoped it’d be enough to persuade Mrs. McLean to let her behavior slide.
Again.
Baby plopped down in the center of the royal blue velvet love seat.
“Well, welcome back. Your mother called and told me to expect you today,” Mrs. McLean began, sinking down behind her heavy oak desk. She normally favored bold-colored pantsuits from Talbots, but today, she wore a simple black jacket and skirt.
Baby nodded politely. More than anything, she wished she were back on La Rambla at an all-night café sipping a trifásico, the super-delicious alcohol-spiked coffee she’d discovered. A smile played on her lips as she remembered how one of the cute servers tried to teach her Catalan. It sounded so absurdly sexy, even if all he talked about was how much he loved his Vespa.
The whole experience had been magical. When she’d left, she was itching to just go somewhere, to get away from the status-obsessed world of the Upper East Side, where she still hadn’t quite found her place.
“Baby, I’m concerned about you.” Mrs. McLean leaned her fleshy forearms against the desk and peered at Baby thoughtfully. “Are you concerned about you?”
“I’m sorry,” Baby said contritely. “I thought I’d be able to make everything up.” She shrugged. Obviously, running off to Barcelona wasn’t the most responsible thing to do, but she knew her classmates were taken out of school for weeks at a time for Gstaad skiing vacations or African safaris with their parents. It wasn’t as if she’d missed anything important.
“It’s not your grades,” Mrs. McLean said ruefully, clearly wishing it were Baby’s grades so she could hire a tutor and be done with it. “Frankly, it’s your attitude. I’ve given you chances and we’ve tried some ways to make Constance more comfortable for you. Maybe it’s time that you do the work and really prove to me that you want—and deserve—to be part of this community. You say you do, but your behavior says otherwise.” Mrs. McLean pursed her lips together expectantly. “The only reason I’m letting you continue to stay is because of your involvement, however brief, with Rancor.” She slid a thin magazine across the desk.
Baby peered at the cover, which said FOCUS ON FASHION in bubbly, pink scripted letters. Baby grinned. She and her classmate Sydney Miller, a self-described womyn with a penchant for body piercings, had created a whole fashion spread with guys dressing in girls’ clothes, and vice versa. It was cool and daring, and Baby was sad she hadn’t been around when it came out.
“This caused quite a stir,” Mrs. McLean said with a tight smile. “While I would have liked to discuss your, ahem, artistic vision, I do appreciate how hard you and Miss Miller worked on this.”
“I can write a paper on the trip if that’d help.” She focused on the spot between Mrs. McLean’s bushy Bert and Ernie–style eyebrows. Teachers loved when kids offered to do extra work. Back in Nantucket, she’d written more than a few crappy extracurricular essays for her stoner boyfriend Tom so he wouldn’t flunk out.
“No, that won’t be necessary,” Mrs. McLean replied dismissively. She began rifling through a huge Rolodex.
Baby’s eyes narrowed. What could Mrs. McLean possibly have in mind? Scrubbing the Constance trophy case? Peeling wads of sugarless gum off the bottom of the birch-wood cafeteria tables?
“I’d like you to turn your taste for discovery inward,” Mrs. McLean intoned. She yanked a card from the pile and slid it and a piece of paper across the desk. “I’ve already spoken with your mother about this. You are to complete twenty hours of therapy and have a therapist sign this form when your treatment is finished. I took the liberty of setting up your first appointment for this afternoon at four. That’s in fifteen minutes,” Mrs. McLean added in a warning tone.
“Thanks,” Baby mumbled as she examined the thick ivory card suspiciously. DR. REBEKAH JANUS, PSYCHOTHERAPIST, was all it said, along with an address on Fifth Avenue. In a school surrounded by narcissistic, overdramatic, shopaholic girls, she was the one who needed therapy?
Mrs. McLean leaned forward on her elbows. “Dr. Janus is a therapist I recommend to many students, but if you have your own practitioner you’d rather use, that’s fine. However, if you don’t fulfill your twenty-hour therapy requirement by the end of the month, then you’ll simply have to find a school that’s a better fit.”
Baby nodded. “I think you’ll enjoy a journey of the mind.” Mrs. McLean smiled as she walked Baby to the door.
“I guess,” Baby agreed weakly. It wasn’t like she had a choice.
Baby found her way to a brownstone on East Eightieth Street and walked into what seemed like a waiting room, decorated with tacky Van Gogh prints on the wall. Piles of back issues of The New Yorker and The Economist sat on an antique oak coffee table. Immediately, a door flung open.
“You’re late,” an immaculately dressed tall blond woman said smoothly.
“Sorry.” Baby shrugged and shifted from one dirty flip-flopped foot to the other.
“Oftentimes a patient’s punctuality says something about their feelings toward the process,” the woman noted, as if she’d read Baby’s mind. “I’m Dr. Janus.” She stuck out her hand and Baby took it cautiously.
“Follow me,” Dr. Janus said as she ushered Baby into her office. The walls and ceiling were bare and white, but the huge bay windows facing west lent a cheery glow to the otherwise stark room. “Now, lie down,” Dr. Janus commanded, pointing at the low-slung leather couch in the center of the room. She sounded like she was trying to teach a dog a new trick.
Stay, Baby. Stay!
“I’ll just sit.” Baby spread the fabric of the gauzy maroon dress she’d bought from a street cart in Barcelona over her jeans.
“Lie down,” Dr. Janus urged. “It’s better that way.”
Not wanting to seem rude, Baby flipped over on the couch and lay on her back, pulling u
p her knees. A collection of carved-wood elephant sculptures were clustered on a shelf, next to row after row of books by and about Freud. She wondered what the elephants were supposed to make her think of.
“Now, tell me about yourself,” Dr. Janus said, her voice dropping an octave.
Baby stared up at the ceiling. “I’m Baby Carlyle. I’m sixteen and a triplet. I have a brother, Owen, and a sister, Avery, and we used to live in Nantucket. We moved to New York a month ago. And I just got in three hours ago from a trip to Barcelona and I am very tired,” Baby added. Maybe Dr. Janus would take pity on her, fill out her form, and let her go home and take a nap.
“And?” Dr. Janus prompted from her desk. Baby turned and propped her head on her hand. What else was there? Baby turned back to Dr. Janus, hoping she’d ask another, less difficult question, sort of like how in French class Madame Rogers always switched to English as soon as she realized no one had any idea what the fuck she’d said.
“Don’t look at me,” Dr. Janus warned.
Baby sighed and flopped back on the couch. There was an ugly tan watermark staining the all-white ceiling. Was it some type of Rorschach test?
“What about your parents? Mom? Dad?” Dr. Janus prompted.
“I live with my mom. She’s great. We don’t know our dad. We were a surprise, probably courtesy of Burning Man.” Before they were born Edie was a groupie who traveled around the country in the back of band buses. Avery was mortified by that part of their history, but Baby thought it was kind of cool.
“And?” Dr. Janus pressed.
“That’s it,” Baby said firmly. She didn’t want to be one of those people who bitched about their parents ruining their lives. Sure, their mom was nutty, but she was also pretty fun.
“Fine.” Dr. Janus sounded disappointed. “Tell me about Barcelona,” she finally said.