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When Rose got out of the shower, Maggie's multitiered makeup case was open, and she had a row of products lined up on the counter. Two kinds of foundation, three different concealers, a half-dozen discs of eye shadow and blush, brushes for eyes, for cheeks, for lips. . . . Rose sat on the toilet and stared, feeling dizzy. "Where did all of this stuff come from?" she asked. "Here and there," said Maggie, sharpening a gray eye pencil. Rose studied the case again. "And how much do you think it all cost?" "Dunno," said Maggie, smoothing lotion onto her sister's cheeks with quick, sure strokes. "But whatever it was, it was worth it. Just wait!" Rose sat there, still as a mannequin, for the fifteen ticklish minutes Maggie spent on her eyelids alone. She got fidgety as Maggie blended foundation on the back of her hand, and brushed it on, then stood back, considering, then came forward again to brush on powder and blush, and she was downright bored by the time Maggie brought out the eyelash curler and the lip pencil, but she had to admit that the cumulative effect was . . . well, stunning. "Is that me?" she asked, staring at herself in the mirror, at the new hollows underneath her cheekbones, and the way her eyes looked smoky and mysterious beneath the gold and cream eyeshadow Maggie had applied. "Isn't it great? I'd do your makeup for you every day," Maggie said. "You'd have to start a serious skin-care regimen first, though. You need to exfoliate," she said, in the same tone another woman would have said, "You need to leave that burning building." She held up a black skirt and the blue top in one hand, a pair of thin-strapped high-heeled blue sandals in the other. "Here, try this." Rose wriggled into the skirt and the low-cut top. Both of them were tighter than the things she normally wore, and together . . . "I don't know," she said, forcing herself to stare at her body and not be distracted by her face. "Don't you think I look kind of . . ." The word cheap teetered on her lips. Her legs looked long and sleek
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in the blue shoes, and she had a veritable Grand Canyon of cleavage going on. Maggie approved. "You look great!" she said, and spritzed her sister from her treasured bottle of Coco. Twenty minutes later, Rose's hair was up, her earrings were in place, and they were out the door.
"This party sucks," said Maggie, slurping her dirty martini. Rose tugged at her top, squinting at the crowd. She couldn't see without her glasses, but of course Maggie wouldn't let her wear them. "Guys don't make passes at girls who wear glasses!" she'd singsonged, then spent five minutes pestering her sister about why she didn't just get the laser treatments already, like the newscasters and supermodels did. They were at Dave and Buster's, a glorified arcade for grownups perched on the less-than-scenic bank of the Delaware River, where the law firm was, indeed, having its semi-annual Young Associates Social. Rose's name tag, perched next to her brand-new astonishing cleavage, read, "I AM Rose Feller," and then she'd added, in parentheses, "Litigation." Maggie's original name tag had read, "I AM drinking," until Rose made her take it off. Now it read, "I AM Monique," at which Rose had rolled her eyes but decided wasn't worth a fight. The place was lousy with young lawyers, networking and sipping microbrewed beer, watching Don Dommel and his dread-locked protege show off their tricks on the Virtual Vert Ramp. There was a buffet laid out against one wall—Rose could make out what looked like a tray of vegetables and dips, and a stainless-steel pan of small fried chunks of something—but Maggie had pulled her away. "Mingle!" she'd said. Now Maggie nudged her sister and pointed at a man-shaped blob standing by the foodball table. "Who's that?" she demanded. Rose squinted. All she could make out was blond hair and broad shoulders. "Not sure," she said. Maggie tossed her hair. Maggie, of course, looked unbelievable.
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Maggie was wearing pink sandals and black leather pants that Rose knew for a fact cost two hundred dollars because she'd found the receipt on the kitchen counter, paired with a small, sparkly, silvery halter top that tied around her neck and left her entire back bare. She'd blown her hair out straight—a process that took the better part of an hour—and adorned her slender arms with rows of silver bangles. Maggie had done her lips in pale pink, loaded on the mascara, and rimmed her eyes in silvery pencil. She looked like a visitor from the future, or possibly from a television show. "Well, I'm going to talk to him," she announced. She ran her fingers through her hair, which hung in a perfectly straight sheet of shimmering auburn, grimaced at Rose, asked whether she had lipstick on her teeth, and stalked into the crowd. Rose gave her top a final yank. Her feet hurt, but Maggie hadn't budged on the question of Rose's shoes. "One must suffer to be beautiful," she had intoned, taking two steps back and surveying her sister carefully before wondering aloud whether Rose didn't have a pair of control-top panty hose that would offer a bit more control. Rose peered across the room to see her sister assailing the unsuspecting barrister with the double whammy of her hair toss and bangle shake. Then she sidled toward the buffet table, glanced once, guiltily, over her shoulder, and loaded a small plate with dip, crackers, baby carrots, chunks of cheese, and a scoop of fried whatever-it-was. She found a table in the corner, kicked off her shoes, and started eating. Another man-shaped blob—this one was short and pale, with tightly curled gingery hair—approached her. "Rose Feller?" he inquired. Rose swallowed and nodded, peering at his name tag. "Simon Stein," said the guy. "We were sitting next to each other at the pep rally." "Ah," said Rose, and tried to nod in a manner that would give the impression that she recognized him. "I gave you coffee," he said.
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"Oh, right!" said Rose, remembering. "You saved my life! Thank you!" Simon gave a modest nod. "So we're going to be travel buddies," he said. Rose stared at him. The only travel she had planned was a recruiting trip to the University of Chicago Law School on Monday. Just her, and Jim. "I'm subbing for Jim Danvers," Simon said. Rose felt her heart sink. "Oh," she said. "He got busy, so they asked me if I wanted to go." "Oh," Rose said again. "So, listen, do you live in Center City? I'll give you a ride to the airport." "Oh," said Rose for the third time, and added another word just to change things up. "Sure." Simon leaned closer to her. "Listen," he said, "you don't by any chance pl ay softball, do you?" Rose shook her head. Her one experience with the game had come during gym class her junior year of high school, when she'd failed to connect even once during the six-week session and dozens of at-bats, and she'd gotten hit in the chest with a foul ball. And there'd been nothing soft about it. "We've got a team, you know. Motion Denied," said Simon, as if he hadn't noticed her head shake. "Co-ed. Only we don't have enough women on the roster. We'll have to forfeit if we can't find some more." "Alas," said Rose. "It's an easy game," said Simon. Rose figured he was probably a litigator. The men among them tended toward a terrierlike persistence. "Good exercise, fresh air ..." "Do I look like I need exercise and fresh air?" she asked, then looked down at herself ruefully. "Don't answer that." Simon Stein continued his pitch. "It's fun. You'll meet lots of people."
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She shook her head. "Really, you don't want me. I'm hopeless." A woman came over and hooked one of her arms through Simon's. "Honey, come play pool with me!" she cooed. Rose winced. This was the girl she privately called Ninety-five, 1995 being the year she graduated from Harvard, a fact that she'd managed to drop into every single conversation Rose had ever had with her. "Rose, this is Felice Russo," said Simon. "We've actually met," Rose said. Felice reached up to smooth Simon's hair, which was not, in Rose's opinion, going to be improved by any amount of smoothing. Just then Maggie returned, with her cheeks flushed and a lit cigarette in her hand. "This party still sucks," she announced, and looked around. "Introduce me." "Maggie, this is Simon and Felice," said Rose. "We work together." "Oh," said Maggie, taking a deep drag. "Great." "What a beautiful bracelet," said Felice, pointing at one of Maggie's bangles. "It is indigenous?" Maggie stared at her. "Huh? I got it on South Street." "Oh," said Felice. "It's just that there was this little boutique in Boston that sold stuff like that, and I bought a few pieces there in college." Here it comes, thought Rose. "I went to Boston once," said Maggie. "I had a friend at Northeastern." Three. . . two . . . one. . . "Oh, really?" said Felice. "What year? I was at Harvard. . . ." Rose grinned. And did she imagine it, or was Simon Stein smiling, too? "Let's sit down," he said, and the four of them relocated to a spindly-legged cocktail table. Felice was still yammering about Cambridge in the wintertime. Maggie gulped her martini. Rose thought longingly of a return trip to the buffet. "So you'll think about Softball?" asked Simon.
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"Oh, urn . . . sure," she said. "It's really fun," he said. "Isn't it?" said Felice. "In college, I used to play intramural squash. Of course, not many schools have that, but luckily Harvard
does." And now she wasn't imagining it. Simon Stein had definitely
rolled his eyes. "We have happy hours, too," he said. "Really?" asked Rose, just to be polite. "Where?" While Simon was running through the roster of bars that Motion Denied had visited, Maggie and Felice had somehow gotten onto the topic of television. "Oh, The Simpsons, I love The Simpsonsl Do you know," Felice asked, leaning forward as if imparting some valuable secret, "in the episode about Homer's mother, where she has a fake driver's license?" "No," said Simon. "No," said Rose. "I don't like cartoons," said Maggie. Felice ignored them. "The address on the license was forty-four Bow Street, which is the actual address of The Harvard Lampoon" Maggie stared at Felice for a minute, then leaned toward her sister. "You know," she stage-whispered, "I think Felice went to Harvard." Simon started coughing and took a large gulp of his beer. "Excuse us," Rose murmured, giving Maggie a swift kick, then dragging her toward the door. "Not nice," Rose said. "Oh, please," said Maggie. "Like she was such a treat." "Not really," said Rose. "She's horrid." "Horrid!" Maggie hooted. She tugged her sister toward the exit sign. "Come on, let's go away from all this horridness." "Home?" Rose asked hopefully. Maggie shook her head. "Somewhere much better than that."
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Later—much, much later—the sisters sat across from each other in a booth at the International House of Pancakes. They'd been to a club. Then an after-hours club. Then an after-party. And then, unless Rose was desperately mistaken, or enduring some sort of vodka-fueled hallucination, there'd been karaoke. She shook her head to clear it, but the memory remained—standing on stage, her shoes kicked off, a crowd chanting her name as she wailed a not-quite-on-key rendition of "Midnight Train to Georgia" while Maggie cavorted behind her, her own personal Pips. "He's leaving ..." Rose sang experimentally. "All aboard! All aboard! All aboard!" Maggie chanted. Oh, God, Rose thought, slumping in the booth. So it was true. No more vodka, she told herself sternly, and bit her lip, remembering what had caused her to get so drunk in the first place. Jim, canceling on their trip to Chicago, leaving her with Sirnon Stein. "I think you're more into this than he is," Amy had said, and the evidence was certainly suggesting that Amy was right. What had she done wrong? How could she win him back? "You ladies ready?" asked the bored-looking waitress, pen poised over her pad. Rose ran her fingertips over the menu as if it were braille. "Pancakes," she finally said. "What kind?" asked the waitress. "She'll have the buttermilk pancakes," said Maggie, taking the menu out of Rose's hands. "I'll have the same thing. And we'd like two large orange juices, and a pitcher of coffee, please." The waitress walked away. "I didn't know you could sing!" Maggie said as Rose began to hiccup. "I don't sing," Rose said, "I litigate." Maggie dumped four packets of Sweet'n Low into the cup of coffee that the waitress had set before her. "Wasn't that fun?" "Fun," Rose repeated. She hiccupped again. The eyeliner and
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mascara that Maggie had carefully applied the night before had run and smeared. She looked like a raccoon. "So what are you gonna do?" she asked. "About what?" asked Maggie. "About your life," said Rose. Maggie scowled. "Now I remember why we never go out together. You have half of a wine cooler and decide to come up with a ten-step plan to improve me." "I just wanna help," Rose said. "You need to have a goal." The waitress arrived, dropped off the plates and a pitcher of hot maple syrup. "Wait," asked Rose. She squinted tipsily at the waitress. "Are you guys hiring?" "I think so," said the waitress. "I'll bring an application by with your check." "Don't you think you're a little overqualified?" asked Maggie. "I mean, college, law degree ... do you really just want to serve pancakes?" "Not for me, for you," said Rose. "Oh, you want me to serve pancakes," said Maggie. "I want you to do something," said Rose, gesturing with drunken grandeur. "I want you to pay for your phone bill. And maybe gimme some money for groceries." "I don't eat anything!" said Maggie, which was not quite true. She didn't eat much—an English muffin some milk and cereal there. It wouldn't add up to much. And it wasn't like Rose didn't have the money for it, either. She'd seen her sister's bank statements, which were kept in chronological order in a manila folder labeled "Bank Statements." Still, she could imagine Rose walking through the kitchen with a yellow legal pad, taking notes. One Lean Cuisine Oriental Chicken dinner! One-half cup orange juice! Two packets microwave popcorn! Three teaspoons salt! Maggie felt her face heating up. "I'll give you some money," she said, biting off each syllable furiously.
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"You don't have any money," said Rose. "So I'll get some," Maggie said. "When?" asked Rose. "When might this blessed event occur?" "I've got an interview." "Which is great, but it isn't a job." "Fuck you. I'm leaving," Maggie said, throwing down her napkin. "Sit down," said Rose wearily. "Eat your breakfast. I'm going to the bathroom." Rose left the table. Maggie sat down, stabbed at her food, and didn't eat it. When the waitress came with the job application, Maggie filched a pen from her sister's purse, plus twenty dollars from her wallet, and filled the thing out with Rose's name, checking every possible "time available" slot and adding "I'll Do Anything!" in the comment section. Then she gave the application to the waitress, dumped boysenberry syrup on her sister's pancakes, knowing that Rose did not like colored syrups, and stomped out of the restaurant. Rose came back to the table and gave a puzzled look at the ruin of her breakfast. "Your friend left," said the waitress. Rose shook her head slowly. "She's not my friend, she's my sister," she said. She paid the bill, pulled on her jacket, wincing at her blistered feet, and limped out the door.
