Sad Desk Salad (10 page)

“But remember that one time you guys got into that huge argument in class about Deleuze? And when you were walking out of the room she called you a De-loser?”

“Now you’re being deliberately obscure.”

“I’m just trying to help! Honestly, I can’t really think of anyone else you’ve mortally offended,” Jane says.

I sigh. “Well, think on it and get back to me,” I say just as our waiter arrives. He’s got neck tattoos and his ears have big floppy gauges in them, but he’s wearing a crisp white shirt tucked into black slacks. “A blood orange margarita, no salt, please,” I tell him. He sneers at my smile, so I drop it.

“Hair of the dog?” Jane asks after he’s left the table.

“Yes. I need it to deal with this latest fresh hell. Do you remember that book that came out last year,
How to Raise a Genius, Times Four
?”

Jane frowns. “Vaguely? Some fertile midwestern lady crowing about how great her kids turned out, right?”

“Basically. It’s by this former executive Darleen West and it’s about how well her radical parenting techniques worked on her quadruplets. I found out that one of those ‘great kids’ apparently loves coke, and I don’t mean the soda.”

“Oooh, juicy!” Jane exclaims. “How did you find out?”

“Someone sent me video of Darleen’s twenty-year-old daughter snorting a ton of the stuff and taking her top off.”

“Geniuses gone wild, huh?” Though I’m judgmental about my job, Jane’s mostly amused by it, if not actively entertained. Like most of the girls we hung out with in college, she holds the
New Yorker
and
Us Weekly
in almost equal regard.

“Pretty much. Mostly I’m wondering if I’m going to destroy this girl’s life if I post the video. I sort of enjoy the fact that we’re going to prove that Darleen West is an enormous hypocrite, especially because she’s shamed so many other women into thinking they’re bad mothers. She’s running for office in Nebraska now, so proving what a fraud she is could actually be kind of important. And it certainly won’t hurt my status at work. But the kid, oy. She’s going to be totally humiliated. She might also be prosecutable because of the coke. Is it worth it?”

“You’re right, that is a pickle,” Jane says just as the waiter returns with a snarl on his face and roughly sets down our drinks. “Uh, thanks?” Jane says as he storms off.

“Be nice,” I tell her. “We come here for the dirt-cheap booze, not the service.”

“Maybe,” she says. “But doesn’t he rely on our tips to pay for all those Magritte tattoos?”

“True, true.” I laugh. But I don’t want the conversation to get away from my dilemma. “So what do you think I should do?” I ask, pushing.

She considers it for another moment and then says, “If the lawyers are okay with it, I think you should post it.”

“Really?” I thought she would probably take the high road on this one because she works with teenagers.

“Yes. That girl was stupid enough to record it. It’ll be a hard pill for her to swallow but I don’t think you’re responsible for her bad decisions.”

“I’m surprised you’re on board with this.”

“Why?” Jane says, her face unmoving, almost hard.

“Well, I thought maybe because the girl is only twenty, you’d be against my posting the video. That’s not so much older than your kids . . .” My voice trails off a little at the end.

“Those girls are nothing like my kids,” Jane says sharply, taking a big swig of her drink. “Most of the kids I counsel will barely graduate from high school. Nobody’s writing bestsellers about how great
they
are. You’re high if you think a cute rich girl like this is going to go to jail because of this video. This little brat deserves to be taken down a peg.”

“Way harsh, Jane.” While I hold only contempt for Darleen, my whole problem is that I’m sympathetic to Becky. I can imagine being in Becky’s shoes—but I guess the always-pragmatic Jane can’t. Or maybe she just doesn’t want to.

“Real talk, Alex.”

“I guess you have a point,” I say, conceding.

“Just do me a favor?” Jane says as she sucks down the rest of her margarita.

“Shoot.”

“Do not mindfuck this to death. If you decide to do it, do it and just move on with your life. Do not endlessly obsess about it afterward.”

“Um, do you know me? In the seven years we’ve known each other, have I been able to ‘just move on’ without obsessing about
anything
?” I smile at Jane across the table.

Jane smiles right back at me. “No. But a girl can dream, can’t she?”

The waiter finally comes back to our table and Jane orders a second margarita while I opt for a club soda. I get up to go to the bathroom and as I’m walking toward the back of the restaurant, dodging the fake palm trees, I see a girl about my age who looks really familiar. She’s got curly brown hair, the kind of perfect sproingy curls that you see in photographs of children from the thirties. Her nose is small and inoffensive; her standout characteristic has to be the dimples in her cheeks. You could fit dimes in those suckers. I’m about to walk past the table where she’s having a muted conversation with another, slightly older, woman when I place her: It’s Molly!

I do the mature thing: I turn my face away from her and rush toward the bathroom.

In the bathroom I lock myself in a stall and sit for a while, trying to decide what to do. I really don’t feel like exchanging fake pleasantries with Molly.

I get up to splash some water on my face. I look at my reflection in the bathroom mirror. I tell mature mirror Alex, You are older and wiser than Molly is—a whole two years older. You should go over and introduce yourself, which is the polite, adult thing to do. This girl has been nothing but nice to you, and you shouldn’t resent her for being a hard worker.

Also, if I go over and show my face, I can say something just a tad menacing so she will get the message that she needs to step off my beat.

I check to make sure my ponytail is high and proud, leave the bathroom, and stride confidently over to Molly’s table, where she’s still chatting quietly and intently with her friend.

“Molly?” She looks startled when I say her name, and since I’m standing over her, I feel powerful for a second, like I could take my hand and smush her curls into oblivion if I needed to. “I’m Alex Lyons. I recognized you from your Twitter photo.”

Her dimples start flashing when she realizes who I am. “
Oh my God hiiiiii!
” she says, and before I have a chance to appear threatening, she gives me a bear hug. I can feel a dampness from her armpits on my shoulders, and she smells like Clinique Happy perfume, which is what I wore in the sixth grade. I hug back limply. “It is so amazing to finally meet you in person!”

“It’s good to meet you in person, too.” I stand there awkwardly. Now that my plan to be cool toward her has been foiled, I don’t know what to say. Molly doesn’t introduce me to the woman sitting across from her, but I do get a good look at her. She’s wearing an expensive-looking dress and some worn-in Louboutins; the signature red heels are pretty scuffed. I’m not getting a vibe that she cares to say hello. She’s already taken out her iPhone, which has a bright pink vinyl cover, and appears to be playing Angry Birds.

I ask Molly the only question that I can think of, which makes me sound like a wizened barfly: “So, do you come here often?”

“I live in Fort Greene, so it’s not too far for me, and the drinks are so cheap!” Molly chirps.

We stand in uncomfortable silence for another moment before I say, “Well, I should get back to my table.” Molly is still quite close to me, smiling so widely that it’s starting to creep me out. I take a step away from her.

“Okey doke! Hey, I am sorry about that Breaking the Chick Habit site. What an old meanie that person must be!”

“Wait, what? How do you know about that site?” Whatever feelings of strength I had before have completely dissipated. Obviously I know that anyone with Internet access can see the BTCH site, but as long as I was only talking about it with Tina and Rel, I could fool myself into thinking that we were the only ones who had read it.

“Tina told me! Doi! I barely read it, it was too mean for my blood,” Molly says, shaking her perky little head, while still smiling.

I’m not sure how to respond to this. Is she trying to make me feel bad by bringing up BTCH? Is she going to mention my blasted a cappella performance? Is she really just trying to sympathize? While I’m attempting to figure this out I realize I haven’t said anything for an uncomfortably long time. “I have to get back to my friend,” I finally blurt out.

Molly doesn’t appear to notice how weird I’ve gotten. “Okay! I am so glad you came over! We should come here and drink margs together ASAP.”

“Sure,” I tell her, knowing I would rather drink lighter fluid. But before I can turn around to leave, Molly leaps up and hugs me again.

“Can’t wait to see you online tomorrow, Alex!” I can’t even manage to respond to this, and so I just start backing away slowly.

I head outside to my table, feeling off-kilter. Why was Molly so dementedly friendly? Is it because knows something about BTCH that I don’t? And furthermore, who was that woman Molly was with? Was she just some friend who didn’t feel like feigning interest in a stranger? Now that I think of it, she looked sort of familiar. I feel like I’ve seen her ombré dye job before.

“What’s wrong?” Jane says. “You look constipated.”

I don’t feel like going into my weird exchange with Molly. I don’t want to sound like a complete nut job by telling her that I think my coworker is trying to gaslight me because she gave me a really big hug.

“You got me. I have not pooped for like four days,” I tell her.

Jane orders a third margarita, and I get another club soda, mindful of the hangover I’m still nursing. I also want to be sober when I get home. We linger outside the Cactus Inn for another hour gossiping about our mutual acquaintances (apparently two of our guy friends from college have swapped girlfriends, after a particularly poignant orgy).

Finally, we each put $10 on the table and stand to leave.

“Promise you’ll tell me what happens with the video and this hater website?” Jane asks.

“I promise.”

“If it turns out that we do know your hate blogger, I will go pee on her doorstep.”

“You’re a real pal,” I tell her.

The ten-minute walk home feels longer than usual. It’s not even eight
P.M
. yet and so the temperature’s still hovering near ninety. Small half circles of sweat stain my once-fresh dress, and I wish that I had brought my iPod so I could drown out the worries that are crowding back into my brain. Talking to Jane was cathartic but despite her go-ahead to post the Becky video I’m still anxious about it. I’m also slightly freaked out by running into Molly. I resolve not to look at my e-mail until I get home, just to ward off the anxiety for a few minutes more.

The apartment is empty when I get there, and I take off my sundress and put on some of Peter’s old boxers and a white T-shirt. Finally I do check my phone—no word from the lawyers yet, and no further communication from the video leaker. I must admit I’m relieved. I do have a text from Peter, though.

Peter Rice (7:55 PM): I’ll be home in an hour, can’t wait to see you!

I flop onto the couch to await his return. I decide to put on the TV and flip until I find something that will take my mind off my predicament. Oxygen is airing their perpetual reruns of
America’s Next Top Model,
and I’m delighted to discover that Amber’s cycle is on tonight. The models have been flown to Madrid for the last leg of the competition, and Amber accuses another girl of stealing her rice cakes. Weaves are pulled; threats are made. Amber utters that well-worn reality TV cliché about not making friends. “I came here to win, I didn’t come here to make friends . . . or share my rice cakes,” Amber says.

I don’t remember who was kicked off at the end of that episode, and I don’t get to be reminded, because I fall asleep before the judging panel begins.

WEDNESDAY

Chapter Six

“Hey, babe.” Peter’s hovering over me in the early morning light.

“What time is it?” I ask. I notice that he’s fully awake already and fear that I’m starting off yet another morning on Moira’s shit list. As soon as my eyes focus I try to locate my iPhone. Maybe there’s an e-mail waiting for me from one of our lawyers telling me I can’t post the Becky West video—thereby rendering all my dithering moot.

“Don’t worry, it’s only six fifteen. You fell asleep on the couch before I got home.”

“Ooof. I’m sorry, I wanted to hang out last night.”

“It’s really okay. I was beat by the time I got back here at eleven. This report on Omnitown is killing me.” This is the deal he’s been working on for at least a week. I know that Omnitown is trying to acquire a media company and Peter’s advising them on it, but that’s about the extent of my understanding.

“Are you sure?”

“Absolutely. We’ll have time together this weekend. Besides, you looked so cute all tuckered out on the couch, I didn’t want to disturb you.”

I smile up at him. I don’t have the heart to ruin this moment with my agita over the Rebecca West exposé.

He smiles back. “I gotta hop in the shower.”

Peter has already made the coffee, so I pour myself a cup and sit down at our small kitchen table. I want to fully wake up for once before I make the commute to the couch. There’s a binder taking up most of our tiny Ikea table, and before I move it I open it to see what’s inside.

I realize immediately that it’s a PowerPoint presentation from Peter’s work and my eyes glaze over as they see foreign jargon like “Significant synergies create value” and terminology like “double-digit IRRs.” I’m about to shove it away and get to my laptop when my eyes focus in on the name Tyson Collins—a.k.a. the big boss man, owner of the media conglomerate that owns Chick Habit.

Peter’s singing an off-key rendition of “Gigantic” by the Pixies in the shower. He generally starts vocalizing halfway through, so I know he’s got a few more minutes in there. I read the report as quickly as I possibly can, stumbling over the business-speak and trying to make sense of the numerous graphs and earnings projections. Maybe the inclusion of Collins’s name is innocuous; maybe he’s just an investor in Omnitown or he’s on the corporate board.