Size 12 and Ready to Rock
Page 11
“Guarana?” asks the sound mixer in a hopeful voice as he drops the boom and strips off his earphones.
“Guarana for Marcos,” Christopher says. “Red Bull for everyone else. You guys want anything?” He looks at Cooper and me and without waiting for an answer says, “Hey, Lauren, grab us all some bottled waters—”
The film crew stampedes for the Allingtons’ kitchen as Christopher throws open the French doors that lead to the wraparound terrace off the dining and living area of his parents’ penthouse. Instantly a cool breeze hits us. The air this high up—we’re twenty floors from the street—seems fresher and cleaner than the air below. You can barely hear the traffic, but through some acoustical trick you can occasionally hear the sound of the fountain jets in Washington Square Park. The 360-degree views of Manhattan are stunning—the twinkling city lights and even, on a clear night like this one, the moon and a few stars.
It’s out on this terrace that the Allingtons do most of their entertaining when they’re in town, catered affairs with professional waitstaff in black-and-white uniforms. It’s out on this terrace that I also once almost lost my life. I try never to think about this, however. The professor of the class I’m taking this summer session (Psych 101) says that this is called disassociation and that it almost always comes back to haunt people.
I’m willing to take my chances.
“Who are you anyway?” Stephanie Brewer turns to ask me as we step toward a set of green-and-white-striped settees. “I think President Allington will be interested to hear how unhelpful you were during all of this. He and his wife are big fans of CRT, for your information.”
Cooper, who has overheard this, looks angry. “I’m sorry,” he says to Stephanie, though he doesn’t appear sorry at all. “Did I forget to introduce—”
“Heather,” I interrupt. I can see what Cooper’s about to do. He doesn’t like the way Stephanie is treating me—as if I’m some kind of underling—and he wants to let her know that I’m someone special.
But I get sneered at and spoken down to by people like Stephanie every single day. Like millions of administrators and service industry workers, I’ve gotten used to it, though I don’t think I’ll ever understand it. It might make sense if I wasn’t good at my job, like Simon, but I am. Stephanie shouldn’t treat anyone the way she’s been treating me, though . . .
Which is why I don’t want Cooper pointing out to her that I used to be famous. And he definitely shouldn’t give away the secret we’ve been guarding so closely for so many months—that I’m dating her boss’s son—just to teach her an etiquette lesson.
“I’m the Fischer Hall assistant director,” I say to her. “When you complain to President Allington about me, be sure to get the name right. My last name is Wells.” I spell it for her.
“Tell my dad too,” Cooper says as he pulls one of the green-and-white-striped lounge chairs out for me to sit on. “I’m sure Grant will get a kick out of hearing how you met Heather, Stephanie.”
I shoot him a dirty look since he’s spoiled my plan, but he only frowns at me. Cooper doesn’t like it when I “diminish my extraordinary accomplishments,” as he puts it, by not introducing myself as the Heather Wells, youngest artist ever to top the Billboard charts with a debut album, and the first female to have both an album and a single simultaneously at number one (Sugar Rush).
Honestly, though, what person who is practically thirty goes around reminding people of something they did when they were fifteen? That’s like using a picture of yourself as your high school’s quarterback or homecoming queen as your Facebook photo.
I can see in the glow of the terrace’s fairy lights, however, that it’s too late. Stephanie’s already figured it out, thanks to Cooper’s hint. I can tell the exact moment I go from being the shrewish college administrator in Stephanie’s eyes to Heather Wells, former pop teen sensation, and one of her boss’s biggest success stories . . . until I gained a few pounds, insisted on writing my own songs, and suddenly wasn’t so successful anymore.
I can’t hold it against Cooper, though, because Stephanie realizes she’s put her size 7 foot in it, and it’s amusing to watch her backpedal.
“Oh, that’s why you look so familiar,” Stephanie says, graciously holding her perfectly manicured hand out to me across the glass table between our two chairs. “ ‘Don’t tell me stay on my diet, you have simply got to try it,’ ” she sings, perfectly on pitch. “God, I can’t tell you how many times I must have listened to ‘Sugar Rush’ when I was younger. It was my favorite song. You know, before we all moved away from pop and on to real music?”
I keep my own smile frozen on my face. Real music? I hate that so much. Some people seem to forget that “pop” is short for “popular.” The Beatles were considered pop musicians. So were the Rolling Stones. Stephanie seems to be forgetting pop music pays her salary, and the salaries of everyone working for Cartwright Records. Give me a break.
“Right,” I say as Stephanie crushes my fingers in her own. She must do Pilates. Or press diamonds out of coal with her bare hands.
“I can’t believe I didn’t recognize you right away,” Stephanie gushes. “It’s been a while, hasn’t it? Still, you look great. So healthy. Your skin is glowing.”
When skinny girls say that you look healthy and your skin is glowing, what they mean is that they think you look fat and you’re sweating. Cooper and Christopher are sitting there, completely oblivious to the fact that Stephanie has insulted me to my face.
I know it, but I’m going to let it go, because I’m the bigger person. Not just literally but metaphorically as well. I believe what you put out into the universe comes back to you times three, which is why I try only to say good things, except of course when it comes to Simon.
“Wow, thanks,” I say in the kindest voice I can muster.
Some of the members of the film crew are drifting out onto the terrace. All of them are holding cold drinks from the Allingtons’ refrigerator. Most of them are clutching cell phones to their ears, using their break to call friends or significant others to make plans for later, from the snatches of conversation I can hear floating toward us. The production assistant, Lauren, brings us each a bottle of cold mineral water, though neither Cooper nor I asked for one.
“Guarana for Marcos,” Christopher says. “Red Bull for everyone else. You guys want anything?” He looks at Cooper and me and without waiting for an answer says, “Hey, Lauren, grab us all some bottled waters—”
The film crew stampedes for the Allingtons’ kitchen as Christopher throws open the French doors that lead to the wraparound terrace off the dining and living area of his parents’ penthouse. Instantly a cool breeze hits us. The air this high up—we’re twenty floors from the street—seems fresher and cleaner than the air below. You can barely hear the traffic, but through some acoustical trick you can occasionally hear the sound of the fountain jets in Washington Square Park. The 360-degree views of Manhattan are stunning—the twinkling city lights and even, on a clear night like this one, the moon and a few stars.
It’s out on this terrace that the Allingtons do most of their entertaining when they’re in town, catered affairs with professional waitstaff in black-and-white uniforms. It’s out on this terrace that I also once almost lost my life. I try never to think about this, however. The professor of the class I’m taking this summer session (Psych 101) says that this is called disassociation and that it almost always comes back to haunt people.
I’m willing to take my chances.
“Who are you anyway?” Stephanie Brewer turns to ask me as we step toward a set of green-and-white-striped settees. “I think President Allington will be interested to hear how unhelpful you were during all of this. He and his wife are big fans of CRT, for your information.”
Cooper, who has overheard this, looks angry. “I’m sorry,” he says to Stephanie, though he doesn’t appear sorry at all. “Did I forget to introduce—”
“Heather,” I interrupt. I can see what Cooper’s about to do. He doesn’t like the way Stephanie is treating me—as if I’m some kind of underling—and he wants to let her know that I’m someone special.
But I get sneered at and spoken down to by people like Stephanie every single day. Like millions of administrators and service industry workers, I’ve gotten used to it, though I don’t think I’ll ever understand it. It might make sense if I wasn’t good at my job, like Simon, but I am. Stephanie shouldn’t treat anyone the way she’s been treating me, though . . .
Which is why I don’t want Cooper pointing out to her that I used to be famous. And he definitely shouldn’t give away the secret we’ve been guarding so closely for so many months—that I’m dating her boss’s son—just to teach her an etiquette lesson.
“I’m the Fischer Hall assistant director,” I say to her. “When you complain to President Allington about me, be sure to get the name right. My last name is Wells.” I spell it for her.
“Tell my dad too,” Cooper says as he pulls one of the green-and-white-striped lounge chairs out for me to sit on. “I’m sure Grant will get a kick out of hearing how you met Heather, Stephanie.”
I shoot him a dirty look since he’s spoiled my plan, but he only frowns at me. Cooper doesn’t like it when I “diminish my extraordinary accomplishments,” as he puts it, by not introducing myself as the Heather Wells, youngest artist ever to top the Billboard charts with a debut album, and the first female to have both an album and a single simultaneously at number one (Sugar Rush).
Honestly, though, what person who is practically thirty goes around reminding people of something they did when they were fifteen? That’s like using a picture of yourself as your high school’s quarterback or homecoming queen as your Facebook photo.
I can see in the glow of the terrace’s fairy lights, however, that it’s too late. Stephanie’s already figured it out, thanks to Cooper’s hint. I can tell the exact moment I go from being the shrewish college administrator in Stephanie’s eyes to Heather Wells, former pop teen sensation, and one of her boss’s biggest success stories . . . until I gained a few pounds, insisted on writing my own songs, and suddenly wasn’t so successful anymore.
I can’t hold it against Cooper, though, because Stephanie realizes she’s put her size 7 foot in it, and it’s amusing to watch her backpedal.
“Oh, that’s why you look so familiar,” Stephanie says, graciously holding her perfectly manicured hand out to me across the glass table between our two chairs. “ ‘Don’t tell me stay on my diet, you have simply got to try it,’ ” she sings, perfectly on pitch. “God, I can’t tell you how many times I must have listened to ‘Sugar Rush’ when I was younger. It was my favorite song. You know, before we all moved away from pop and on to real music?”
I keep my own smile frozen on my face. Real music? I hate that so much. Some people seem to forget that “pop” is short for “popular.” The Beatles were considered pop musicians. So were the Rolling Stones. Stephanie seems to be forgetting pop music pays her salary, and the salaries of everyone working for Cartwright Records. Give me a break.
“Right,” I say as Stephanie crushes my fingers in her own. She must do Pilates. Or press diamonds out of coal with her bare hands.
“I can’t believe I didn’t recognize you right away,” Stephanie gushes. “It’s been a while, hasn’t it? Still, you look great. So healthy. Your skin is glowing.”
When skinny girls say that you look healthy and your skin is glowing, what they mean is that they think you look fat and you’re sweating. Cooper and Christopher are sitting there, completely oblivious to the fact that Stephanie has insulted me to my face.
I know it, but I’m going to let it go, because I’m the bigger person. Not just literally but metaphorically as well. I believe what you put out into the universe comes back to you times three, which is why I try only to say good things, except of course when it comes to Simon.
“Wow, thanks,” I say in the kindest voice I can muster.
Some of the members of the film crew are drifting out onto the terrace. All of them are holding cold drinks from the Allingtons’ refrigerator. Most of them are clutching cell phones to their ears, using their break to call friends or significant others to make plans for later, from the snatches of conversation I can hear floating toward us. The production assistant, Lauren, brings us each a bottle of cold mineral water, though neither Cooper nor I asked for one.
