Balancing Acts (3 page)

S
o, do you think it's coke bloat or is she prego?” asked Rob.

They both peered intensely at the photo on Bess's computer screen.

“Well, if we zoom in on her eyes, you can see she's wearing those ridiculous colored contacts again,” answered Bess. “Which would corroborate the coke bloat theory.”

“What do you mean? Can pregnant women not wear colored contacts?” asked Rob, confused. “Are they made out of nicotine and mercury?”

“Nooo,” answered Bess. “I just have this theory that really fucked-up starlets wear those heinous contacts to conceal the fact that their pupils are the size of platters.”

“Wow!” exclaimed Rob. “I never even thought of that! Bess, you are a genius.”

“Tell me something I don't know,” she answered.

“Okay, run a pill-popping caption. Stay away from any mention of coke or heroin though. Last time we specifically labeled her habits her PR bitch came in, guns blazing.”

“Got it,” answered Bess, thinking for the 998th time that day that her job was absurd. She got paid heaps of money to point out celebrities' flaws to a rabid, regular public. Sometimes, very rarely, she actually did some work with a hint of substance—like the time she traveled with a certain celebrity–cum–U.N. spokesperson to Africa to research a story on her efforts there—but most of the time it was the same old story over and over again: talentless teenager falls facedown into a pile of coke and makes a sex tape. Or something like that.

She captioned the picture with her trademark snarkiness and e-mailed her pages to the managing editor. She had no articles running in this week's issue, so it was a relatively easy Friday, considering.

“What are you up to tonight?” asked Rob. “Is Dan flying in on the love shuttle?”

“I wish,” grumbled Bess. Dan was her boyfriend. Technically, he was her long-distance boyfriend, but it felt strange to think of him that way. He had moved to Los Angeles three months ago, and the coastal separation had proved to be more of a strain than Bess had been anticipating. A screenwriter at heart but a Wall Street banker by trade, he had taken a huge risk and applied to USC's film school last year. Bess had known he would get in—he really was talented—but was still shocked to find out that he would, indeed, be leaving her to do so.

They had been traveling back and forth on weekends here and there, but not having immediate access to each other was hard. Very hard. “He's staying in LA this weekend, working on a script,” she explained with a sigh.

“No nookie for you then, huh?” asked Rob, as he squirted lotion from a freebie tube that retailed for $80 an ounce into his palms. As senior editors and reporters at the most popular celebrity tabloid magazine in the country, they were forever getting the best swag imaginable. This, of course, was highly unethical, but then again, everything about their job defied any sort of ethical code.

“Zero,” replied Bess. “And the next time the word
nookie
comes out of your mouth, I am going to strap you into your time machine and send you back to the year 2000.”

“Clever girl!” replied Rob, clapping his hands. “Point taken. So you're just going to lay low this weekend?”

“Yeah, for the most part.” She had been planning to research story ideas for three weekends in a row now. Her New Year's resolution had been to break out of her ridiculous job to actually do some real reporting. Something that had nothing at all to do with weight fluctuation, hair highlights, or Botox, which were the usual topics of the freelance work she did for a couple of the major women's magazines around town.

Every time she would sit down to brainstorm, however, she was about as focused as a puppy with a bowl full of Red Bull. She found herself daydreaming about Dan, wondering what he was doing and fantasizing about seeing him again. She had become a cliché, much to her chagrin. She knew it was okay to be in love, but to shelve your own goals while doing so was a huge mistake—one she had seen too many people make.

“What are you doing this weekend, Robbo?” she asked, ready for his usual spiel: work out, see a movie, hang with his girlfriend. Rob was nothing if not predictable.

“Eh, nothing much, actually. Amelia had to go out of town for work, so I guess I'll just have a dude weekend.”

“And what does that entail?” asked Bess.

“Pizza, clothes strewn all over the place, not putting the toilet seat down, and porn.”

“Sounds thrilling!” replied Bess, laughing.

Rob smiled. “I know, right? It all sounds so good in theory, but I'll be honest, it gets old in about four hours, tops. Hey, are you busy tonight? Maybe we could grab a drink or twelve?”

“Oooh, crap, I can't,” said Bess. “I have to go to my ten-year college reunion.”

“Huh?” asked Rob. “Since when are you the school spirit type?”

“Good question,” answered Bess. “The only reason I'm going is because of this story idea I have. I think this might be the perfect way to get my rusty wheels in motion. At least, I'm hoping so.”

“Oh yeah, what's the idea?” asked Rob.

“Not to be a bitch, but do you mind if I keep it to myself for a while? Just until I have a firmer grasp on it? I'd hate to jinx myself.”

“Not at all, m'lady,” said Rob. “Keep it close to the vest as long as you like.”

“Thanks, Rob.” She looked at her watch. “Oh shit, I have to go! I'm just going to freshen up my tired mug and then I'm out the door. I hope your dude weekend is all that you have been dreaming of.”

“Thanks, Bess. Have fun tonight. Be sure to take note of how big the homecoming queen's ass is now.”

Bess made her way to the bathroom. She dropped her coat on the couch in its foyer and faced the mirror. As she reapplied her makeup, she thought about the story idea that had been marinating in her head since the reunion e-mail had landed in her in-box. She wondered if she could pull it off. She withdrew the wand from her mascara tube and brushed it through her lashes.
Maybe. But you have to focus, Bess. Really focus.

Her phone rang. She glanced at it—Dan was calling. She shoved it deeper into her bag, even though she was dying to talk to him.
No distractions tonight!
she reminded herself, as she zipped into her jacket and headed out the door.

H
i, welcome to ten years ago!” greeted an over-caffeinated woman.

“Um, hi,” replied Charlie.

The woman handed her a blank name card. Charlie hated those things, they always made her feel like a geek.
When in Rome,
she reminded herself. She filled out her name and stuck it to her chest.
Hi, these are my breasts and my name is Charlie.

She thanked the woman and moved past her into the bar, hesitantly searching the small crowd for a familiar face. No one was registering. She approached the bartender, suddenly feeling the need for a very large glass of wine.

“Could I have a glass of pinot noir, please?” she asked as she plunged into her bag for her wallet.

“Charlie?” she heard a raspy voice next to her say. She looked up and into the smile of a pretty woman with blond hair pulled into a severe ponytail.
Wow, hello cheekbones,
she thought.

“I'm sorry, do I know. . .” Charlie paused. “Bess!? Oh my God!” She moved to embrace her.

“Hey!” Bess replied. “You look great! How are you?”

“I'm well, thanks. You too. You haven't changed an ounce. It's ridiculous.”

“Well, I hope I'm dressed a little better than the last time you saw me,” said Bess as she laughed, obviously pleased by the compliment.

“Well, I guess anything's an improvement over flannel pajama pants and a hooded sweatshirt forty-seven sizes too big,” agreed Charlie.

“Very true,” said Bess. “Remember those Sunday breakfasts in the café? What I wouldn't give now for a waffle station and an endless supply of Lucky Charms at arm's length.”

Charlie laughed. “Seriously. Did we ingest anything but sugar for four years or what?”

“Barely,” said Bess. “I'm lucky all of my teeth haven't fallen out.”

Charlie and Bess had lived in the same dorm for two years and on the same floor their freshman year. Charlie remembered Bess's luxurious blond ponytail—always piled on top of her head. Bess remembered Charlie's long legs. No matter what the season, Charlie had always walked the considerable distance to and from class. Even in the depths of winter, Bess would gaze out from the T window and see Charlie loping down Commonwealth Avenue, bundled up beyond recognition except for those long, denim-wrapped legs.

“So what are you doing now?” Charlie asked Bess. “You were in the journalism school, right?”

“Yup,” answered Bess. Charlie settled up with the bartender and turned to face Bess for her explanation. “I'm working for a magazine now.”

“Oh, which one?” asked Charlie.

“
Pulse
?” Bess replied timidly. It sounded more like a question than an answer.

“Ooh, I know that magazine!” said Charlie. “That's the one that lambastes all the celebrities, right?”

“The one and only,” Bess answered wryly.

“Do you like it?”

“Eh, it's okay. I do some freelance work on the side, so hopefully I can break out of that place soon enough.” She moved on quickly; the last thing she wanted to do was talk about her job. “What about you? Weren't you a finance major? Have you taken Wall Street by storm?”

Charlie laughed. “Believe it or not, I'm a yoga instructor.”

“What!? Get out of here! That's amazing. How did you end up doing that?”

“Long story. In a nutshell, I just got sick of the rat race.”

“I hear that,” said Bess. “Seriously, I think that's incredible. To have the balls to make a career switch like that. . .that's something that I dream about all the time. Where do you teach?”

“I actually have my own studio out in Bushwick. You should come check it out.”

“Oh, that sounds good,” answered Bess. “But I'm a complete novice. I've taken yoga only once and I was terrible at it.”

“Yoga is not about being good or bad at it. You have to let go of that mind-set. You should absolutely come by, I'd love to have you.” Charlie reached into her bag and handed Bess a flyer. “And I know Bushwick seems like a long way to go for yoga, but it's only about forty minutes from midtown, door to door.”

“Thanks, Charlie, maybe I will,” answered Bess, thinking about her story idea. The premise was pretty simple actually, but based on more of a vague idea than any concrete evidence. Bess was hoping to meet women tonight who naturally fed into her hypothesis. Charlie was actually the antithesis of the type of women Bess had planned on profiling, so she wasn't sure if yoga had any promise for her on that front. On the other hand, she could use more stretching in her life.

Charlie searched the crowd. “I was hoping to pass out a ton of fliers tonight, actually. We've only just opened our studio, so I have to get the word out.”

“I'll help you! It will give me something to do besides drown my workweek sorrows in vodka. Let's take a lap.”

“Nice! I really appreciate it.” They both slung their bags back over their shoulders and turned to face the room.

“Here, give me a bunch of fliers,” said Bess. “I'll go this way and you go that way. We'll meet in the middle. Whoever has handed out the most fliers buys the other a shot.”

“Good deal,” replied Charlie, with a grin.

As Bess plunged through the crowd, she thought about her article. She had come to the reunion wanting to write about the washed-up dreams of thirty-plus women; maybe a “then and now” sort of exposé about the aging female's shifting priorities. In a way, she was taking her concerns about her own life and projecting them onto a group of virtual strangers. Since she struggled with maintaining any sort of creative drive, she figured her former classmates had to as well. Right?

But then, what about Charlie? She completely turned Bess's entire quasi-hypothesis on its head. Instead of turning into a Wall Street power-bot, Charlie was now a yoga guru. Bess panicked for a moment. What if every woman here had managed to turn their dreams into reality and she was the only one drowning in a sea of complacency? Yikes. She handed a flier to a group of leering bald men, one of whom she was sure she had taken six-foot bong hits with at a house party junior year. She avoided his hopeful gaze and kept moving. That was not a reunion she was the least bit interested in.

Charlie scanned the crowd as she made her way around the bar's perimeter. She noticed a familiar face. Who was that? She scanned the recesses of her brain. Was she in Statistics with her? No, she didn't think so. Did she take lifeguarding with her?

Charlie smirked remembering that class. Much to her horror, the teacher had flunked Charlie after she failed to properly turn over a facedown victim in the water. She blamed her summers of retail hell solely on that teacher. Had she been a little less rash, Charlie could have been tanning on the beach in Cape Cod instead of folding T-shirts at J. Crew.

Suddenly, the woman locked eyes with Charlie and smiled. She approached her. Watching her gracefully meander toward her, it struck Charlie. Naomi! The impossibly chic, camera-toting, supermodel look-alike who had lived in her dorm freshman year.

“Naomi!” Charlie exclaimed, as she went in for a hug.

“Hey, Carrie?” Naomi asked uncertainly. “Is that your name? I was trying to rack my impossible brain. . .”

“It's Charlie, actually.”

“Yes! Charlie! I knew it. Please forgive my horrendous memory. The good news is at least I remembered your beautiful face.”

Charlie blushed. Naomi, the queen of chic, actually thought she was beautiful? She suddenly felt fourteen again. “Oh please, it's fine. How are you, Naomi?”

“I'm well, thanks. How are you?”

“The same, more or less. Mostly less. Hey, did you transfer out after freshman year or something? I feel like I never saw you again.”

“I did, actually,” replied Naomi. “I actually sort of, well not sort of, what am I saying? I flunked out. My parents were less than pleased naturally, so it was back to New York for me.”

“You grew up in New York? I never knew that. But that explains your sophistication.”

“What do you mean? I was far from sophisticated in those days.”

“No way, you absolutely were. We were all hanging around in ripped jeans and North Face puffy coats, but you had your look together. And you were so elusive. Whenever I saw you, you were with that pack of skateboarding artist types. They didn't go to BU, right?”

Naomi laughed, remembering. “No, no. They went to Emerson. God, it was so long ago! So much has changed. It's really unbelievable. We're old!”

“Tell me about it,” agreed Charlie. Over Naomi's shoulder, she saw a dark-haired woman with an incredulous look on her face approach. She mouthed ‘hello' to Charlie and tapped Naomi timidly on her arm.

“Naomi?” she asked.

Naomi turned around. “No way! Sabine! Hi!” The women embraced as Charlie looked on. Sabine looked familiar to her, too.

“I'm sorry, Charlie, do you know Sabine?” asked Naomi. “She was my roommate freshman year.”

“You know, you do look familiar,” Sabine said, as she extended her hand to shake Charlie's.

“So do you,” answered Charlie. “I think you lent me laundry detergent once.”

“Wait! Yes! Now I remember. You had like, seventeen loads or something, and you ran out!”

“Yep, that was me,” answered Charlie. “I was always so busy cramming for school that my laundry would pile to the ceiling before I realized it was time to hit the machines.”

“Sabine, how are you?” asked Naomi. “It has been forever!”

“It really has,” agreed Sabine. “I was convinced I wouldn't know anyone here, but I am so happy to be running into you. I always wondered where you went.

“Naomi was the best roommate ever created,” Sabine explained to Charlie. “She was hardly ever home, number one. And number two, when she was, she would lend me clothes and straighten my hair for me.”

“And remember ‘the smoky eye'?” asked Naomi, laughing. “You always begged me to give you ‘the smoky eye.'”

“Yes!” Sabine exclaimed, clapping her hands with glee at the memory. “No one could do it better than you. And then you would take pictures of me!”

“Hey, Charlie!” crowed Bess as she broke through their circle. “I got rid of all of my fliers. I'll take a shot of Patrón, thanks!”

Charlie laughed. “We were just talking about the good ol' days,” she explained to Bess, including her in the circle.

Sabine smiled in greeting and continued her conversation with Naomi. “Are you still taking pictures?” asked Sabine. “You were so talented. You even made me look like a model, and that is an impossible task for mere mortals.”

“Excuse me, Miss Modest,” replied Naomi. “It was not an impossible task at all.”

Sabine smirked. “So, are you still photographing?” she asked again.

“Um, no, not anymore,” explained Naomi dismissively.

Charlie, sensing an opening, turned to Bess. “Ladies, this is Bess. Bess, do you know Sabine and Naomi?” she asked.

Bess peered at them inquisitively. Naomi's obvious discomfort about her photography had struck a chord with her. This was the kind of stuff she had been looking for. “Are you the girl who somehow made dreads look chic?” she asked Naomi.

“Oh, I don't know about the chic part, but my hair was dreaded back in the day,” answered Naomi.

“Yes, I know you then! You were ‘Lisa Bonet,'” said Bess, pleased to have made the connection.

“What?!” asked Naomi, laughing.

“Yeah, that was my name for you. Is she or is she not a dead ringer for Lisa Bonet?” she asked Sabine and Charlie.

Before they could answer, Bess pointed at Sabine. “And you, you were in some of my English classes! Shakespeare, junior year?!”

“With Professor Gottlieb!” exclaimed Sabine. “Of course, I remember you now.”

“What are you doing with your English degree these days?” asked Bess. “Writing bestselling novels?”

“Oh please. Not at all. I'm just an editor at a publishing house.”

Bess sensed some sadness in Sabine's tone. It looked like she had found another shelved dream in tonight's crowd. Bess was reinvigorated. Her article did have legs after all.

“What fliers were you talking about, Bess?” asked Naomi, changing the subject.

“Charlie owns a yoga studio in Bushwick. She's here to spread the word about it, so I told her I'd help out. Besides, it gave me something to do besides standing around and looking lost.”

“You own a yoga studio, Charlie?” Sabine asked. “That's tremendous. I wish I were a yogi. I've always wanted to get into it, but just haven't made the leap from the treadmill to the mat yet.”

“Why not?” asked Charlie. “You don't have to abandon running for yoga, you know. They're actually very complementary.”

“I can barely get out of bed for the gym, much less double time it between that and a yoga studio,” Sabine explained. “Or at least I've been convincing my lazy ass of that in order to make it feel better.”

Naomi laughed. “I know, it's amazing how we can persuade ourselves out of something before even attempting it,” she said. “I was doing yoga pretty religiously while I was pregnant and then, well. . .I stopped. I'd love to get back into it.”

“Ladies, helloooo!” said Charlie. “Come to my studio. Let's get a Saturday workshop going. If you all commit to six weeks, I promise you that you will never think of a reason not to do yoga ever again. Once you're in, your whole life changes.”

“Yeah, Charlie left piles of Wall Street money behind after she got hooked on it,” Bess explained to Sabine and Naomi. Bess was not the slightest bit interested in yoga, but if she could encourage Naomi and Sabine to join, she would be golden on the article front. She could probe them for details about their unrealized dreams and get to know Charlie's motivation for turning her former life on its ear. It was a win-win-win.