She's All That (3 page)

We three dateless wonders somehow all ended up at a Stanford social, but there must have been something better going on somewhere else because we were the crowd. We had a dorm lounge, a TV/VCR combo and
Edward Scissorhands
all to ourselves. We bonded over Johnny Depp sighs, Now & Laters, and our love for Jesus.

Most importantly, that night we learned that all of us were raised without a mother. Mine ran off when my dad was killed and left me with my Nana. Poppy's was in and out of her life in between communes, and Morgan's died young from an unexpected stroke. It was enough to bond us for life. And it did.

Since that time, I've realized that it wasn't all that accidental that the three of us are dateless. Morgan runs everything past her overbearing and ridiculous father, who never approves of anyone without a solid portfolio and an advanced age. Poppy, meanwhile, often runs dates off with her alternative- medicine diatribe, telling them how their headaches are caused by poor liver function and the like. She makes men feel completely emasculated, as though she's saying, “You are absolutely void of testosterone. I cannot find a male hormone within you.”

Me? As I've said, I am incapable of speaking properly when attracted to a man, so I tend to stick with men I'm not attracted to. With all our quirks, this makes for a rather passionless existence for all three of us. So rather than plan our weddings, we go to the spa and whine about the complete and utter lack of available men in San Francisco. When crises arise, we head to Spa Del Mar in central California. It's a pretty cheesy spa, as far as luxury goes, but now that we (meaning Poppy and Morgan) can afford better, we're too attached to our precious, dumpy Del Mar. Morgan always pays for my portion of the spa. She insists, and I've stopped fighting her. It's like paying for 7-11 coffee for me: insignificant to her bank account. If we were going to the Golden Door or something, I could understand, but Spa Del Mar? Not an issue.

Kim emerges from behind the screen wearing a micro-mini skirt, a faux fur jacket, and a matching furry purse. She takes notice of my silent disapproval. “Just never mind. It's what I'm wearing. At least I have a place to go.”

“Suit yourself,” I say.
Or not
, I add silently, unwrapping the popcorn and putting the bag in the microwave.

Someone knocks at the door. “That must be my ride.” Kim opens the door, and her expression visibly falls. It's Nate, our upstairs neighbor. He looks at Kim's skirt, or should I say lack of skirt, and I see his face contort in confusion.

“Hi, Nate,” I say from the kitchenette.

“Hey, gals.” Nate lets himself in, as Kim has deemed his presence unimportant in her life and has walked away with the door open. “I just wanted to come by and let you know someone tried to break into my place today. The police came, but if you hear anything suspicious, just call them, okay?”

Nate has completely remodeled his loft, and it looks like something out of an architectural magazine. He's also an engineer, so the entire contents of his office look like a Best Buy store. Ah, the soothing style of slick, black particle board. Trendy, and oh-so-practical.

We, by contrast, have a TV set. An old nineteen-inch TV set. With rabbit ears—pointed ineffectively at the raised window.

“I don't think the burglars will be by here, Nate,” I counter. “I mean, I bet they could get a whopping fifty cents for that sewing table on eBay. With shipping, it's completely worthless. Sadly, I think we're safe.”

“I just don't like you two down here alone. You want to borrow Charley for a couple days?” Nate asks.

Charley, his mutt who smells worse than my musty loft? The dog with a draining ear issue? “No, thanks. I'm going away this weekend, so just keep an eye on Kim. Kim, do you want Charley?”

Kim wanders back into the loft. “I can handle myself. I'll wait for my ride downstairs.” Kim rolls her eyes. Nate is about as mainstream as they come, and therefore of no interest to Kim. She tends to lean toward bad boys who ride “hogs” and who are more covered by tattoos than not.

Kim breezes by Nate, and he watches her go down the hallway. “She'll have plenty of offers for rides in that getup.” He shakes his head.

“You're probably right, but you can't tell Kim anything. At least she's not driving, so I can keep my ten o'clock bedtime. Come on in for some popcorn. It's almost done,” I say, listening to the quick succession of pops in the microwave.

Nate saunters in, wearing his UC Davis sweatshirt and a pair of holey jeans. He's just heavenly to look at, sort of a cross between Hugh Grant and Bill Gates. I wish he was my type, but he's too into electronics and technological advancements for me. A conversation with him always includes acronyms that make me think he's speaking another language. MIS, IT, JPEG—it all gives me a vicious headache.

Maybe working with creative types is warping me, but life with Nate has got to be exasperating. And with Charley as part of the deal? It's simply not negotiable. There's not enough Lysol in the world. Nate has a view of the Bay Bridge and a complete lack of desire to “venture out” into the beautiful city he takes for granted. He'd rather see the world through the Internet, international phone calls, and ethnic takeout. His speed dial reads like a mall food court:

Pradeep (chicken tandoori)

Rupert (shepherd's pie)

Hao (sweet and sour pork)

Junien (brie—not mall court fare, but what else do the French eat?)

“So where you going this weekend?” Nate goes to my fridge and pulls out a Diet Pepsi for himself.

“It's a Spa Girls weekend.” Even as I say it, I feel my body relax.

“Ah, girls and goop. Doesn't get much better than that, huh?” He takes a swig of soda.

It sure doesn't. I flop onto my futon and grin at him. “If you're destined to be a loser in this lifetime, a chemical peel can at least make you look good while you're at it.”

chapter 2

O
nly half a day of work
. That's what I tell myself to gear up for the coming storm. I can feel the squall in the air as I think about my ride to work on Muni, San Francisco's glorious (not!) public transportation. I wish I could sneak Lysol aboard. Or I should at least remember to wipe Vicks VapoRub under my nose to ward off the lovely combination of body odor, sweat, and stale cigarettes that stick with you long after you and Muni go your separate ways. The gift that keeps on giving. I sit down at the sewing table for a gourmet breakfast of generic Grape-Nuts.
Someday
, I think,
I'll be able to afford the real thing
.

It's only a mere few hours until the smell of peppermint foot salts will put an end to this misery I call daily reality. It's depressing that I should be wasting my freshly-straightened hair on this day, but as I said, if I hadn't been out of the office thermal-reconditioning—I might be the hot, new, young designer at Sara Lang.

Kim gets up, looking like the kiss of death. Her ashen skin and bed head plastered with last night's gel give me a run for my money. She is smacking her tongue against the roof of her dry mouth, and I have to say, it's grossing me out.

“Do you have to do that?” I ask. “I'm eating.”

“My mouth is like the Sahara. Too much alcohol last night. I always regret that.”

I raise my eyebrows at her. “You're not twenty-one anymore, Kim. I think your body's rebelling. I know mine is. Sit down, and enjoy some fiber with me.”

She rubs her forehead. “It's downhill from here, isn't it, Lil? First, we're eating fiber. Next thing you know, we're drinking prune juice and doing crafts in the rec room.” She lets her head fall in her hands. “Once, we were the talk of the town. The young designers coming in to take Sara Lang into the next millennium. Remember, they even did a story in the
Chronicle
. Now we're has-beens and we haven't even been anywhere.”

“We're not has-beens. They say fifty is the new thirty, so I figure we've got a good twenty years left to make it.”

“Shoot me if I try that long.” Kim cradles her head in her hands. “At this rate I won't even be able to afford good plastic surgery when this job has sucked out my very essence. I'll be visiting one of those guys who advertises on billboards: “FACE LIFTS: $4,000.” She pulls her jet-black hair up, yanking her face unnaturally tight. “I'm going to get myself a respectable job that pays. I'm tired of walking by the window at Saks and drooling. Heck, the windows at Macy's! Pretty soon, I'm going to be drooling over the windows at Target. And they don't even have windows,” she moans.

“You're just saying all this because it's the morning after the Shane debacle. We've had other designers rise beside us. It's our turn, Kim! Sara's making big changes, and this could be our opportunity. Maybe Shane got the job because Sara has something better for us.”

“No, Lilly, the Lang train has passed us by, and we're pathetically sitting on the platform waiting for the next. Only, it's not coming. It's been and gone. Sara herself is becoming passé, which is the only reason she promoted one of us in the first place. She needs someone young to remind her that people actually have a social life beyond ruining their daughter's lives.”

“You'll feel better after you brush your teeth,” I say, hoping the reminder of minty-fresh breath will spark some action.

Kim grabs me by the shoulders and jolts me back into the moment. “What part of this are you not getting? We've wasted three years! Not to mention that you are wasting your college education and missing out on a decent job handling other people's money! Avoiding dog-breath is not going to fix this. Good oral hygiene is not our problem, Lilly.” She looks at my collection of Lysol cans. “There is not a spray available that can wipe away the infection we know as Sara Lang. It's over. She's taken over, like a resistant strain of bacteria. She's impervious to antibiotics.”

“We're on the brink of something big, Kim. I feel it.” But do I really? Or am I just avoiding the obvious: that maybe it's time for a real job. “I had a plan. Granted, this diversion wasn't in it, but we can take our designs to our own business. We've got everything we need. My sketching, your computer experience. All we need is a tad more work on color and we're gone! This is the springboard to greatness, don't you see?”

“This is why you should drink, Lilly. At least the delusions I live under are fun. Listen to you, Pollyanna! And the thing is,
you
don't even believe it. There's no way you could.”

She's right. I hate that. Even with a hangover and eight piercings, Kim makes sense. I'm twenty-nine with a master's degree, and I can't afford windows. I can barely pay to maintain my mop. Without a steady dose of pomade and hours in the stylist's chair, I'm Lilly from high school again, the girl with big hair and bad clothes.

The alternative, a real job, is too painful to think about. Proving my Nana right after all these years would be like taking my last gasping breath before allowing my face to disappear into the quicksand. I just can't do it. I have to try one last time. It
has
to be my turn. I can't bear to think of the contingency plan. Working in finance was like being monetarily rewarded for a lack of creativity.

I stand up and take my bowl to the sink. “We're going to make it, Kim.”

“We're not, Lilly. We didn't, in fact.” Kim tries to smooth a brush through her dyed tresses, but it appears something has encrusted from the night before, and she throws the brush across the room.

“So I'll give you, maybe we're not going to make it at Sara Lang. Maybe our time's up there, but we're not giving up for the likes of Shane Wesley. He's not the designer he thinks he is,” I say, feeling guilty for finally admitting the truth out loud.

“Think practically. Your grandmother is not getting any younger. Would you have her retire here in this dump with us? As if
you
don't deaden the party as it is, we need a seventy-five- year-old woman cramping our style?” Kim rolls her eyes.

“I'm leaving for work,” I say, parking the dirty dish in the sink as she so often does for me. “Are you coming?”

“No. I quit. Why should I suffer the humiliation of Shane in my job? In your job? He'll be walking around dressed like Steven Tyler, bossing anything that moves, whisking his scarf around like the drama queen he is. You
know
he'll have a scarf today. I don't have it in me to watch. There's not enough hangover left. I'd have to start from scratch to stomach it, and I'm broke.”

“What if it is our turn, Kim? And we get off the highway one exit too soon?” I don't want her to give up. Part of the reason is that if Kim gives up, I might give up, and I'll be back crunching numbers for the rest of my days. I'll be waiting for the accountant of my dreams to darken my wood-paneled doorway.

“Lilly,” Kim says as if I'm slow. “There are illegal aliens in L.A. sweatshops doing our jobs. Your degrees are being wasted, my talent is evaporating, and you think ignoring these things will make them go away. We either go with some dignity intact or we suck up to Shane, pretend nothing happened, and see how long Sara will let us hang around. What's it gonna be? Self-respect or perpetual failure?”

I look around at our hovel. “You mean there are consequences worse than this?” I pick up my Sara Lang bag, toss it over my shoulder, and head for the door. “I'll see you at work. I'll make excuses for you being late.”

“I'm not coming, Lilly. Have some dignity, will you?”

“Dignity can wait. I need a paycheck.”

“Everyone who has gotten a promotion is gone, Lilly. It's like Sara's chaining us, and this is our last chance to break free! You're handing her your wrists and begging her to lock you up!”

I think about this. I felt locked up when I was in finance. Deciding whether people like James Huntington III would make more money with a sagging property as a tax write-off or with a 1031 exchange for a high-end rental that would bring in more income…
that
was locked up. It's not that James Huntington III doesn't have the right to make as much money as he pleases. This is a free country, and capitalism is an important part of that. I just had no passion for that life, other than pleasing my Nana. She seems to think that if I get rich, all of my problems would be solved.