“Nas said he’d be coming by,” she says to Nikki.
“Oh, Nas is always here. This is his second skin.”
“Second skin; funny Nikki,” says Jenni. “I’ll wait for Nas if you wait for Nas.”
“I’ll wait,” says Cyndi, not quite in on the inside joke.
“Anyone seen Jeremiah?” I say.
Paul gazes at me dull-eyed. Lance points to his left and to his right, and then up toward the ceiling, before he makes himself dizzy and retreats under his blonde. Arty is already lying on the floor.
“They were here when I came in,” says Tammi, plugging numbers into her cell phone.
Again. “They?”
“Angelica and him.”
“Angelica?”
“Angelica?” says Nikki.
“Angelica’s here?” says Jenni.
“Who’s Angelica?” I ask.
“You don’t know Angelica?” says Nikki. “Oh, that’s weird. You should know Angelica.”
“I don’t know Angelica.” Sniff, sniff.
“That’s baaaaad, Val,” says Tammi. “Where have you beeeen? Angelica Pomeroy is the new it girl. She’s the new new thing. You, of all people, should know Angelica Pomeroy. You should do a piece. Totally—actually.”
I grind my teeth. “ Who is Angelica Pomeroy?”
Tammi says, “VH1 VJ?”
Nikki says, “Crazy skinny?”
Jenni says, “Balloon boobs?”
Cyndi gets in the act. “She’s, like, nineteen or something. She was an underwear supermodel. Now she works the whole backward baseball cap thing.”
“She is not nineteen,” says Nikki. “She’s like twenty- two .”
“She’s from Long Island.”
“Long Island? Nobody’s from Long Island.”
“Yep. I’m not kidding.”
“Are you teasing?”
“Not teasing! Somewhere like Great Neck or Ronkonkoma or Patchogue. I don’t know. Out there somewhere.” She flicks her wrist.
“Don’t write that, Val.”
“Oh, so, now she’s our client?”
“Everyone,” says Tammi, as if it is a dictum, “is our client.”
Sniff, sniff. But Jeremiah shouldn’t be with any new new thing. He’s my Golden. We’re making it official any day now. Aren’t we? Can’t we just wait?
I claw my skirt. He’s got to be here. He’s got to be here somewhere. I’ll go find him and find out about this whole Angelicathing. So down again I go back across the floor, dizzy in the spinning lights. I push through the mass of dancers. I get a paw on my ass and a hand on my hip and a tug at my bra. I get a blinding eyeful of bodies, but no sight of him. I back off to climb the stairs. Maybe I’ll get a better view one landing up. Now I’m at the ladies’. I reach into my pocket and finger my marble. Sniff, sniff. Maybe just a quick bump and then I’ll search.
I push through the door before I hear the groans, moans. I don’t think much of it. It’s a club bathroom, anyway. This kind of thing is routine. And it’s normal to use the other stall. At first, they don’t strike me as familiar, so I take another step forward. But then there it is, the image to end my life. His black curls thrown back, his dimpled ass, and someone else’s bare thighs, someone else’s breasts. His button-down is open, her hands around his neck. Her alligator shoes are tipped over on the floor. All the pieces fall into place quickly. Jeremiah has VH1 VJ Angelica Pomeroy, the new new thing, pinned to the bathroom sink.
I scream so loud I don’t even hear myself. A girl looking for a stall assesses the scene and scuttles out the bathroom door. Jeremiah hears me and pulls back from Angelica, and she comes tumbling off the sink, headfirst into his chest.
Anyone with any sense would back out of the bathroom and run. But devil’s dust is in me and it doesn’t like good sense. I lurch forward, claws bared. I kick Jeremiah, and then ram my heel hard into his foot, to hold him steady while I dig for Angelica’s eyes. She has no idea what’s come at her, what kind of rabid bird, but I claw and scrape at her face and her hair until I’ve got some sort of hold. I don’t know what I’ve got, exactly, but
“Oh, Nas is always here. This is his second skin.”
“Second skin; funny Nikki,” says Jenni. “I’ll wait for Nas if you wait for Nas.”
“I’ll wait,” says Cyndi, not quite in on the inside joke.
“Anyone seen Jeremiah?” I say.
Paul gazes at me dull-eyed. Lance points to his left and to his right, and then up toward the ceiling, before he makes himself dizzy and retreats under his blonde. Arty is already lying on the floor.
“They were here when I came in,” says Tammi, plugging numbers into her cell phone.
Again. “They?”
“Angelica and him.”
“Angelica?”
“Angelica?” says Nikki.
“Angelica’s here?” says Jenni.
“Who’s Angelica?” I ask.
“You don’t know Angelica?” says Nikki. “Oh, that’s weird. You should know Angelica.”
“I don’t know Angelica.” Sniff, sniff.
“That’s baaaaad, Val,” says Tammi. “Where have you beeeen? Angelica Pomeroy is the new it girl. She’s the new new thing. You, of all people, should know Angelica Pomeroy. You should do a piece. Totally—actually.”
I grind my teeth. “ Who is Angelica Pomeroy?”
Tammi says, “VH1 VJ?”
Nikki says, “Crazy skinny?”
Jenni says, “Balloon boobs?”
Cyndi gets in the act. “She’s, like, nineteen or something. She was an underwear supermodel. Now she works the whole backward baseball cap thing.”
“She is not nineteen,” says Nikki. “She’s like twenty- two .”
“She’s from Long Island.”
“Long Island? Nobody’s from Long Island.”
“Yep. I’m not kidding.”
“Are you teasing?”
“Not teasing! Somewhere like Great Neck or Ronkonkoma or Patchogue. I don’t know. Out there somewhere.” She flicks her wrist.
“Don’t write that, Val.”
“Oh, so, now she’s our client?”
“Everyone,” says Tammi, as if it is a dictum, “is our client.”
Sniff, sniff. But Jeremiah shouldn’t be with any new new thing. He’s my Golden. We’re making it official any day now. Aren’t we? Can’t we just wait?
I claw my skirt. He’s got to be here. He’s got to be here somewhere. I’ll go find him and find out about this whole Angelicathing. So down again I go back across the floor, dizzy in the spinning lights. I push through the mass of dancers. I get a paw on my ass and a hand on my hip and a tug at my bra. I get a blinding eyeful of bodies, but no sight of him. I back off to climb the stairs. Maybe I’ll get a better view one landing up. Now I’m at the ladies’. I reach into my pocket and finger my marble. Sniff, sniff. Maybe just a quick bump and then I’ll search.
I push through the door before I hear the groans, moans. I don’t think much of it. It’s a club bathroom, anyway. This kind of thing is routine. And it’s normal to use the other stall. At first, they don’t strike me as familiar, so I take another step forward. But then there it is, the image to end my life. His black curls thrown back, his dimpled ass, and someone else’s bare thighs, someone else’s breasts. His button-down is open, her hands around his neck. Her alligator shoes are tipped over on the floor. All the pieces fall into place quickly. Jeremiah has VH1 VJ Angelica Pomeroy, the new new thing, pinned to the bathroom sink.
I scream so loud I don’t even hear myself. A girl looking for a stall assesses the scene and scuttles out the bathroom door. Jeremiah hears me and pulls back from Angelica, and she comes tumbling off the sink, headfirst into his chest.
Anyone with any sense would back out of the bathroom and run. But devil’s dust is in me and it doesn’t like good sense. I lurch forward, claws bared. I kick Jeremiah, and then ram my heel hard into his foot, to hold him steady while I dig for Angelica’s eyes. She has no idea what’s come at her, what kind of rabid bird, but I claw and scrape at her face and her hair until I’ve got some sort of hold. I don’t know what I’ve got, exactly, but
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