The Wild One (2 page)

No, really. Why couldn't he just be
nice
to me? I'm so nice to him! I iron his shirts whenever he sleeps over, and I read the books he suggests. And when I make him dinner, I send the leftovers home with him in a Tupperware container for work the next day. Tonight I even got him to come out with my friends by offering to pay for everything, which was fine, really—

No, it's not. It's not fine.

Great, now I'm hearing things. Maybe I really am crazy.

No you're not. You're perfect. And you're better than this.

My eyes narrow as a tiny fire sparks deep inside me.

I
am
better than this. I don't deserve this—this kind of
bullshit.

I'm going to kick his ass.

But as I walk out of the toilet cubicle ready to get back out there and confront Ethan, Madeleine bursts into the bathroom. She's half carrying, half dragging my big sister, Julia, who has puke running down the side of her face. She's hammered.

With a high-pitched chorus of “ewwwwws,” the other girls in the bathroom part, scattering like a lip-glossed red sea.

“Coco!” says Madeleine, her long hair swishing behind her. “Thank God. Jules just barfed on a sofa.”

“I am allergic to vodka and cranberry juice,” Julia enunciates slowly.

“Everyone is allergic to vodka and cranberry juice if they drink nine of them.” Madeleine splashes water on Julia's face. “Coco, paper towels?”

This is unusual. Julia is probably the most sensible one at Rookhaven. She's not the one who gets out-of-control drunk. She just works long hours in her entry-level position in an investment bank and saves twenty-five percent of her salary (seriously, who
does
that?) and talks about “M&As” and “AUMs” and “DDMs” and other confusing aconyms. That's it.

Madeleine is the quiet, skinny accountant, Chinese American, obsessive about two things: working out and Spektor, the band she sings with.

Angie is naughty and sarcastic, always. She works in fashion.

Pia is a party-hard drama queen. She runs a small food truck empire.

Me? I'm … I don't know.

I work as an assistant in a Brooklyn preschool. I like to read and bake.

The good one. I'm the good one.

“Coco,” Maddy snaps. “Towels.”

I grab a huge fistful of paper towels from the dispenser just as Jules flops forward and starts vomiting in the sink. Ugh. I don't think it's actually the vodka and cranberry that's the problem, it's the predinner wine and flask of schnapps that Angie passed around on the subway from Brooklyn to Manhattan, but whatever.

“That is, like, totally gross,” says one of the glossy-lipped girls, looking at Julia's shiny brown ponytail flopping over the sink.

“Shut up,” I snap. “You don't like it, find another damn bathroom.”

Madeleine glances at me in surprise.

Julia squints at her vomit. “Carrots!” she exclaims. “Always carrots. I'm going to stop eating carrots, you know, as an experiment, and next time I puke, we can—” She pauses to throw up again.

“Great idea,” says Madeleine. “Conduct a science experiment with your binge drinking.”

Angie and Pia burst in. “What is going on?”

Julia stands up. “I'm a lil' drunk! Fivies!”

Pia and Angie automatically reach to high-five Julia. Somehow my sister manages to miss both of their hands.

“I'm taking her home.” Madeleine tucks her dark hair behind her ears. “Julia! Stand up!”

“I'll come with you,” I say, putting Julia's arm over my shoulders so I can help her walk.

“We'll come too,” says Pia. “It's not like we're here to score anyway.”

Pia and Angie are both in long-distance relationships while Julia and Madeleine are single. And I have a boyfriend … who is cheating on me. And now we'll break up and I'll be single again, with no more texts and no more Saturday-night movie dates and no more … anything. I'll be single again. No one will ever ask me out. And my life will be empty. I will be alone. Forever.

I can't bear it.

I stare into space for a moment, holding up my swaying sister.

Maybe I can pretend it didn't happen.

Should I find Ethan before we go? Tell him I'm leaving, at least? No. Staying with Julia is the right thing to do. She needs me. I'm good at looking after people, I always have been. Besides, that strange, fiery anger I felt is gone now.

I just want to go home with my friends. And for everything to go back to normal as soon as possible.

“Turn the radio up, Mr. Taxi Driver!” shouts Julia.

Maybe it didn't happen.

Maybe I imagined it.

Maybe everything will be fine.

Or maybe it won't.

 

CHAPTER
2

I hate my job, by the way.

I'm a preschool assistant. I really love the
idea
of it—reading and singing and playing with adorable children. But the reality is very different. It's hard and tiring and kind of lonely. Boring, even. It's just … not what I expected.

All day I'm exhausted, yet at night I can't seem to fall asleep. I feel all twitchy and unfulfilled, you know? And I'm hungry, all day, every day. This morning I had a really big breakfast—oatmeal, a buttered bagel, fruit. But now I'm starving and it's only ten in the morning.
Starving.

“Class?” Miss Audrey claps her bony hands together. “Cleanup time!” She shoots me a look and hisses. “Wake
up,
Coco.”

Ah, yes. That's the other reason I hate my job. Miss Audrey.

Miss Audrey is kind of, um, a bitch. Apparently she's gone through three assistants in five years. She's skinny and dried-out-looking and brown around the edges, like an apple core that was left outside for a month.

I know what you're thinking. Why don't I just quit if I hate it so much?

This is my first job, and quitting would look bad, you know? Plus it's the only thing I'm qualified to do, and the preschool is only a five-minute walk from home. Besides, I was so nervous at this job interview, I'd do anything to avoid having another one ever again.

Maybe I'm just not one of those shiny, golden people who get to have a job they love. In the past year I've seen Pia and Angie both go after exactly what they want—their dream careers—and get them. And Julia and Madeleine work so hard sometimes that I think they're going to make themselves sick.

I don't have the same drive.

Or maybe I do, but I haven't figured out what to drive toward yet.

I don't know. I'm just so tired of everything.

I wait for Miss Audrey to become busy on the other side of the room before sneaking over to the storage cubbies. I keep candy in my purse at all times, for sugar attacks on the go.

I snack way too much, but lately I can't help it. I've always been a little bigger than I want to be … but at least I'm not as big as I was in high school. At the time I was on these antidepressants that I don't think helped. Luckily, I went off of them and managed to lose some weight. Not that it mattered, it's not like it did any good when it came to guys.

Ethan.

My stomach flips as the memory of Saturday night pops back into my head, as it has with annoying regularity for the last forty-eight hours. Ethan went to Philadelphia for work yesterday. We haven't spoken. He called last night, but I couldn't bring myself to pick up. I can't confront him. I know! I know. It's so pathetic. I haven't told the girls either. I just can't do it. Not yet. Acknowledging it out loud would make it real.

Eventually, the day is over. The children all run to the open arms of their mommy or daddy or nanny. Finally I can go home and be alone.

“Coco, a word?”

A chill goes down my spine.

I walk over to Miss Audrey. She flashes her apple-core smile at me.

“Mrs. James and I would like to have a talk with you.”

My stomach clenches. I'm going to the principal's office. I never got called to the principal's office in high school. Never.

I follow Miss Audrey through the halls toward Mrs. James's office. My mind is a blank on the way there. I stare at floors a lot. I am
so
over floors.

“Coco!” Mrs. James smiles warmly. “Come on in. Take a seat.”

Mrs. James is the opposite of Miss Audrey. She's cozy like a grandmother—mono-boob, twinsets, pearls.

“Miss Audrey and I wanted to have a little talk,” she says.

I try to smile back, but my heart hammers so loudly I actually want to put my hand over my chest to calm it.

“We're concerned that you're not enjoying your role to the fullest extent possible.”

“And it's reflecting in your job performance,” interjects Miss Audrey.

“Little Gardens is a magical place,” says Mrs. James, smiling so widely that I can see her molars. “We want everyone here to be happy, including you, Coco.”

Happy?

“Are you happy?” asks Mrs. James.

“Um,” I mumble, my voice barely audible. Do you ever find it difficult to speak loudly? I do. My voice gets lost somewhere deep down inside me. “I—um, I'm happy.” I pause, choking over the word
. I'm not happy.

“Are you sure?” asks Mrs. James. “Sometimes you seem a little—”

“Look, you're not doing your job properly,” interrupts Miss Audrey. “You spend half the damn time daydreaming!”

“Maybe it's time you took a leave of absence to think about whether or not Little Gardens is the right place for you,” says Mrs. James.

“You're expelling me?” I whisper.

“You're not a student. You can't be expelled,” snaps Miss Audrey. She looks over at the principal. “See? She's a child.”

“I'm not, I'm twenty-one…” My voice squeaks.
Oh, God, shut up, Coco.

“We're putting you on probation.” Mrs. James sounds excited, like she's telling me about a promotion. “Between now and the end of the school year, we want to see what you can make of each and every day at Little Gardens! We want you”—she lowers her voice, as if telling me a secret—“to be happy!”

She claps her hands and stands up, smiling cheerfully.

Meeting over.

“Thanks, um, thank you, thanks, Mrs. James, thanks, Miss Audrey, thank you,” I stammer. Why am I thanking them for putting me on probation? Why don't I just thank Ethan for cheating on me, while I'm at it? “Um, totally great to see you. Thank you so much for your time, as always, I—”

Shut up, Coco. Just shut up and get out.

 

CHAPTER
3

I'm not fired. I'm not fired. I'm not fired.

Yet.

I know I'm not fired, but I still can't shake that jumpy, panicky feeling. Food. I need food. If I am chewing and swallowing, I can't think about what just happened, and when my body is full and buzzing from sugar, everything will feel better. Right?

That's what I always think, anyway. So when I get home I practically inhale the last slice of the pecan pie I made yesterday in a hey-my-boyfriend-cheated-on-me baking fit and a glass of nice cold milk. Why does dairy soothe my nerves? I don't know, but it always does. Then, because I don't know what else to do, I make some mac and cheese for everyone to have for dinner. Madeleine won't eat it, and Pia might not either, but Julia and Angie will.

The secret to a good mac and cheese, by the way, is three kinds of cheese. I like the stuff from the box as much as the next gal, but that's not real food. That's what my mom always said, and I agree.

Then I go upstairs to my little attic bedroom, the same one my mom had growing up. The décor hasn't changed in about forty years. Flowery wallpaper and faded glow-in-the-dark stars on the ceiling, a pale pink curtain over the crooked little window. It still doesn't quite feel like home—we only moved in last summer, after all. But it feels safe, and familiar. We spent vacations and weekends here all the time when I was growing up. The only thing I changed about my bedroom was the full-length mirror. I put it in Julia's room. I hate mirrors. I never look at myself if I can help it.

Sighing, I sit down on the bed, taking in all my stuff. My books. My photos. My life.

Then I call my dad. He's very reassuring in the same way that Julia is: he always takes charge. When I talk to him I always feel like I don't need to worry about anything, because he's got it all figured out.

But today he doesn't pick up. This isn't unusual: he works about fourteen hours a day.

I leave a message.

“Hi, Daddy! Just me … um … love you. Call me! Bye.”

I hang up and
boom,
the big thought that I've been avoiding all afternoon comes back.

What am I going to do with my life?

Then I hear the front door bang. Someone is home. Thank goodness! I run downstairs and into the living room, where Pia is sitting on the sofa, going through our mail. She starts work super early, but she's often the first home after me.

“What up, sugarnuts?” she says as I come into the living room. “Isn't it nuts that junk mail still exists? Like, don't you think they should just use the damn Internet? The Internet doesn't cut down trees.”

“Um … totally,” I say.

I suddenly don't want to tell anyone about what happened at work today. Just like I don't want to tell them about Ethan. It's too … I don't know. It's too personal.

So I just grab an old copy of
Daddy-Long-Legs
from the bookshelf and sit on the sofa next to Pia. I love this book. I remember reading it, lying on a picnic rug, one summer when we went to Martha's Vineyard. I love how, with books, you are connected to the past—and to everyone else who ever read and loved them too. It's so comforting.