And seriously, it wasn’t like Lana and Trisha and I ran out of things to talk about. They were like, “So are you going out with that J.P. guy or what?” and I was like, “No, we’re just friends,” and they were like, “Well, he’s pretty cute. Except for the thing with the corn.”
And then I explained about Michael and I having just broken up and how I feel completely empty inside, like someone shoveled out the inside of my chest with an ice cream scoop, and threw the contents out on the West Side Highway, like a dead hooker.
And they didn’t even think that was weird. Lana went, “Yeah, that’s how I felt when Josh dumped me for you,” and I was like, “Oh my God, I’m so sorry,” and Lana went, “Whatever. I got over it. And you will too.”
Even though she’s wrong. I’ll never get over Michael. Not in a million trillion years.
But I’m trying—if you call putting all of his letters, cards, photos, and gifts in a plastic I NY shopping bag and stuffing it as far under my bed as it would go last night trying to get over him. I couldn’t bring myself to throw them away. I just couldn’t.
Anyway, it was…surprisingly normal talking to Lana and Trisha. It was a lot like the way Tina and I talk to each other. Only with thongs (which by the way are pretty comfortable if you get the right size).
And okay, Lana and Trisha have never readJane Eyre (and gave me a funny look when I mentioned it as being my favorite book of all time) or seenBuffy (“Is that the one with the girl fromThe Grudge ?”).
But they aren’t bad people. I think they’re more…misunderstood. Like, their obsession with eyeliner could very well be taken for shallowness, but it’s really just that they’re not very curious about the world around them. Unless it has to do with shoes.
And I sort of feel sorry for them—for Lana, at least—because when it came time to ring up what we were buying and Lana’s bill came to $1,847.56, and Trisha inhaled and went, “Dude, your mom is going to KILL you,” since Lana had been given a thousand-dollar spending limit, Lana just shrugged and went, “Whatever, if she says anything I’ll just bring up Bubbles,” and I was like, “Bubbles?” and Lana looked all sad and went, “Bubbles was my pony,” and I was like,“Was?”
And then Lana explained that when, at age thirteen, she grew too heavy and long-legged for tiny Bubbles to carry her, her parents sold her beloved pony without telling her, thinking a swift and thorough break, with no time for goodbyes, would be less emotionally traumatic.
“They were wrong,” Lana said, handing over her credit card to the salesgirl to pay for her charges. “I don’t think I ever got over it. I still miss that fat-assed little horse.”
Which. You know. Harsh. At least Grandmère’s never done THAT to me.
Anyway, I guess I should get back to our table. We’re treating ourselves to a ladies-who-lunch-smorgasbord…the Nobu chef’s special. It’s “only” a hundred dollars per person.
But Trisha says we’re worth it. And besides which it’s almost all protein, being raw fish.
Of course, Lana and Trisha just have to pay for themselves. I have to pay for Lars, too. And he’s having a steak, because he says raw fish saps his man strength.
Saturday, September 18, 6 p.m., limo on the way to Tina’s
When I walked into the loft after shopping Mom was already mad. That’s because I had Bendel’s concierge service deliver (and also Saks, where we stopped later to pick up some boots and shoes) my shopping bags so I didn’t have to carry them around all day, and they were stacked so high in my room that Fat Louie couldn’t get around them to get to his litter box in my bathroom.
“HOW MUCH DID YOU SPEND?” Mom wanted to know. Her eyes were all crazy.
It’s true, there WERE a lot of bags. Rocky had been having a good time ramming the lowest tier with his trucks, trying to make them all fall down. Fortunately, it’s hard to damage lycra.
“Relax,” I said. “I used that black American Express card Dad gave me.”
“THAT CREDIT CARD IS FOR EMERGENCIES ONLY!” Mom practically screamed.
“Hello,” I said. “You don’t think my NEW SIZE THIRTY-SIX C BOOBS count as an emergency?”
So then Mom’s lips got all tight and she went, “I don’t think Lana Weinberger is a good influence on you. I’m calling your father,” and off she stomped.
Parents. Seriously. First they get on my case because I won’t get out of bed or do anything. Then I do what they want, and get out of bed and socialize, and they get mad about THAT too.
You can’t win.
While Mom was off ratting me out to Dad (and whatever, okay, I did spend a lot, way more than Lana. But except for ball gowns and the occasional pair of overalls, I haven’t bought clothes in, like, three years, so they need to get over it), I started stuffing my old, nonfitting clothes into trash bags to take to Goodwill, and hanging up my new, totally stylish clothes, plus packing for going to Tina’s tonight.
Which I was kind of surprised to find I was looking forward to doing. Lana and Trisha had invited me to some party they were going to at an Upper West Side apartment, given by a senior whose parents were working on their chi at a spa for the weekend. But I told them I already had other plans.
“Launching a new yacht, or something?” Lana asked all sarcastically.
Only by now I knew not to take every little thing she said so literally and straight to heart. Most of the time when she makes her little barbs, she’s just trying to be funny. Even if the only person her remark is funny to is herself. In fact, Lana’s a lot like Lilly in that way.
“No, just hanging out with Tina Hakim Baba,” I said, and left it at that. And neither of them seemed offended that I was blowing off the “party of the semester” to be with a non–It Crowd member.
I was just stuffing my toothbrush into my overnight case when my mom walked in and held out the phone to me.
“Your father wants to speak to you,” she said, looking smug, and then turned around and walked out.
Seriously. I love my mom and all. But she can’t have it both ways. She can’t raise me to be a socially conscious rebel and then get worried when the weight of my depression about the world oppresses me to the point that I can no longer get out of bed, send me to therapy, then freak out when I follow that therapist’s advice. She just can’t.
And, okay, Dr. K didn’t actually TELL me to spend that much on underwear. But whatever.
“I’m not taking any of it back,” I say to my dad.
“I’m not asking you to,” he said.
“Do you know how much I spent?” I asked suspiciously.
“I do. The credit card company already called me. They thought the card had been stolen and some teenage girl was on a spending spree. Since you’ve never spent that much before.”
“Oh,” I said. “Then what did you want to talk to me about?”
“Nothing. I just have to make it seem like I’m yelling at you. You know how your mother is. She’s from the Midwest. She can’t help it. If it costs more than twenty dollars, she breaks out in hives. She’s always been that way.”
“Oh,” I said. Then I added, “But, Dad. It’s not fair!”
“What’s not fair?” he wanted to know.
“Nothing,” I said, lowering my voice. “I’m just pretending like you’re yelling at me.”
“Oh,” he said, sounding impressed. “Good job. Oh, no.”
“Oh, no, what?”
“Your grandmother just walked in.” Dad sounded tense. “She wants to talk to you.”
“About how much I spent?” I was surprised. To Grandmère, the amount I paid today at Bendel’s equals only a small fraction of what she spends every week on hair and beauty treatments alone.
“Uh, not exactly,” Dad said.
And the next thing I knew, Grandmère was breathing into the phone.
“Amelia,” she snapped. “What is this your father tells me about our princess lessons being canceled for the foreseeable future because you have some kind of personal crisis you need to work out?”