AllFreeNovel
Share Us
Saturday, September 18, 3 p.m., bathroom at Nobu 57
For reasons that are completely beyond me, Lana Weinberger and her clone, Trisha Hayes, are actually being nice to me.
Well, the reasons aren’t completely beyond me. Lana already told me why she’s being so nice to me: “Because I’m finally over the Josh thing. It wasn’t your fault.”
When I pointed out—as politely as possible—that she hated me well before her boyfriend ever dumped her to date me (then went back to her when I, in turn, dumped him), she said, while we were sorting through size 36Cs (I’m a 36C!!!! Not a 34B anymore!!!! Lana insisted on my getting measured by an actual intimate apparel expert, and the expert confirmed what I’ve been suspecting, that I’ve grown a whole cup size and an inch around as well!), “Well, it wasn’t you so much I hated as that jerky friend of yours.”
To which Trisha added, “Yeah, how can you like that Lilly girl, anyway? She’s so full of herself.”
I wanted to burst out laughing at that. Because, hello, the Evil Death Twins, calling LILLY full of herself?
But I started thinking about it, and it IS kind of true. Lilly CAN be a little judgmental and bossy.
But that’s why I like her! I mean, at least she HAS opinions about stuff. Stuff that matters, anyway. Most of the rest of the people in our class don’t care about anything except who wins on American Idol and what Ivy League school they get into.
Or, in Lana’s case, which shade of lip gloss looks best on her.
But I didn’t say anything in Lilly’s defense because the truth is, even though I miss her and all—though not so much that it hurts sometimes, the way I do Michael—I need to figure out how to get out of this hole I’m in without the help of the Moscovitzes. Because as recent developments prove, neither Lilly nor Michael is going to be around to help me when I need them. I’ve got to learn to stand on my own two feet, without Lilly OR Michael to lean on as emotional crutches.
So I didn’t say anything when Lana and Trisha were (mildly) badmouthing Lilly. The truth was, I could see their point. It’s not like Lilly’s ever tried to put herself in Lana’s size 8 Manolos and see what it’s like to be Lana.
But I have.
And the view from Lana’s size 8s? It’s not all it’s cracked up to be.
Don’t get me wrong, she’s gorgeous and every guy in the store who wasn’t gay (of which there were approximately two) followed her around with his gaze like he couldn’t help it.
And she’s a SUPER MEGA EXCELLENT shopper—I mean, I would never in my life have tried on a pair of True Religion jeans. Just because Paris Hilton wears them, and even though I don’t know Paris personally, she doesn’t seem to do a lot for charities or the environment, that I know of.
But Lana insisted they would look good on me and made me try on a pair and so I did and…
I look AWESOME in them!!!
And don’t even get me started on what a difference having the right size/style bra makes. In my Agent Provocateur demi-cup underwires, I actually have breasts now. Like breasts that balance out the rest of my body so I don’t look pear-shaped or like a Q-tip. I actually look curvy.
And, okay, not like Scarlett Johansson curvy.
But like Jessica Biel curvy.
With each Marc Jacobs babydoll top Lana threw over my arm and commanded me to try on, I began to feel less and less like this whole thing was a trick, and more and more like Lana really was trying to make amends for past wrongs, and really did want me to look good. Every time she or Trisha made me try on something—like a faux tiger fur miniskirt or a gold Rachel Leigh link hip belt—and they went, “Oh, yeah, that’s hot,” or “No, that’s not you, take it off,” I felt like…well, like they cared.
And I will admit, it felt good. I didn’t feel like it was fake, or like I was Katie Holmes and they were Tom Cruise’s Scientologist friends love-bombing me, because there was plenty of, “Oh my God, Mia, you can NEVER wear red. Okay? Promise me. Because you look like crap in it,” to ground me.
It was just…girl stuff. The kind of thing Lilly would have totally looked down on. She’d have been all, “Oh my God, how many bras do you need? No one’s ever going to see them, so what’s the point? Especially when so many people are starving in Darfur,” and “Why are you buying jeans that have HOLES in them? The point is that you’re supposed to wear your OWN holes into your jeans, not buy a pair someone ELSE already made hole
s in.” And, “Oh my God, you’re getting one of THOSE TOPS? THOSE TOPS are made in sweatshops by little Guatemalan children who are only paid five cents an hour, just so you know.”
Which isn’t even true, because Bendel’s doesn’t carry products made in sweatshops. At least, none of the ladies at the trunk show do. I asked.
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.
