Brooklyn Girls by Gemma Burgess

cockmonkey!”
    “The world is full of cockmonkeys.” I nod. “The question is how hot they are.”
    Coco giggles and Julia rolls her eyes.
    “Ladybitches!” says a voice. It’s Angie, hiccupping and wavering slightly on the stoop. “I’ve been at Spring Lounge in SoHo all afternoon with Lord Hugh. The drinks were sta- rong .”
    “Things getting serious with the good lord?” I am dying to ask about the fight with the Brooklyn Flea guy, but I know she’ll never tell me in front of the others. She probably wouldn’t tell me even if we were alone.
    “Ah, Hugh … my lord and savior,” she says, then squints up at the sky. “Sorry, God. You know I’m only kidd— Whoa!” She falls off the step. “Oopsh! No, never mind, all good, nothing to see here, move along.…”
    “Dude, she’s shitfaced,” says Julia.
    Duh.
    “I wanna go out!” Angie shouts. “Let’s get ready to rumble!” She starts shadowboxing, her purse whipping back and forth. “Ow, ow, owww. Bag boob bang.”
    I stand up and take one of her arms to take her upstairs. Julia gets up and takes the other one. “Come on, drunky. Upstairs.”
    “I’m not that kind of girl, goddamnit.…” Angie starts walking up the stairs slowly, mumbling to herself. “Blow jobs are a privilege, not a right.”
    “What?” say Julia and I in unison, and start laughing hysterically.
    “I’ll make her some toast and hot tea,” says Coco, hurrying behind us.
    “I am fucking starving,” Angie enunciates clearly. “Carb me up, Scottie!”
    An hour and seven pieces of buttery toast later, Angie passes out. I need to keep an eye on her. There’s that whiff of self-destruction about her. I know it well. I had it after Eddie.
    Coco and I are in the kitchen talking about baking while Julia and Madeleine watch some Nicholas Sparks movie (I just cannot handle that shit, why would I want to cry? And by the way, why are they staying in on a Saturday night when Jules was just complaining about never meeting men? I’m staying in because I’m working. That’s totally different. And, let’s face it, hilarious.).
    Coco really knows her stuff when it comes to low-fat baking. Like using canned pumpkin or applesauce to make cakes, instead of oil or butter. We agree to avoid high-fructose corn syrup at all costs, and fake sugars (most of them bloat me like a starlet in rehab). Coco suggests organic cane sugar, agave syrup, or even maple syrup.
    “Sounds perfect. I’ll spend tomorrow making just two simple salads,” I say, planning out loud. “Then all I have to do is paint the truck and get on the road first thing Monday morning. Easy!”
    “Easy,” echoes Coco happily.
    I make a list of things to buy at Trader Joe’s tomorrow. I’m glad I have that extra thousand dollars leftover from buying the truck: I think I’ll need it.
    “This is so exciting!” Coco is such a positive person to be around, I’m sometimes not sure if she’s actually being sarcastic. “I really think your truck idea is totally super-awesome.” She plays with the spine of the book she’s been reading, Rilla of Ingleside by L. M. Montgomery, then flips it open to the first page, absently stroking the name written there. Kim Lucalli. Her mom. Lucalli was her maiden name.
    “Thanks, Coco,” I say. “I think your low-fat baking ideas are totally super-awesome, too.”
    “You’re not scared at all, it’s like … wow,” she says, blinking her big blue eyes at me.
    “I do get scared sometimes,” I admit. “I’m trying to ignore it in the hope the fear goes away. And I’m kind of excited, too. I saw a hundred people doing this food-truck thing today. If they can do it, I can, too.” This really is how I feel … and whenever I think it, I feel my heart give a little elated jump. SkinnyWheels! Yeah!
    “So how about you, kitten-pants? How’s work?” Coco shrugs. She never talks about the preschool where she works. I try another subject. “Seeing anybody? Interested in