Charmed Thirds_ A Jessica Darling Novel - Megan McCafferty [29]
“Shanny can only hope to have a thought as profound as her visible panty line.”
Tyra smiled. “Well done,” she said, patting me on the head.
Knowing that she would be ripped apart in next month's issue, I almost felt sorry for Shanny. Almost. Not enough to tell Marcus about it, anyway. I just knew he wouldn't approve. And I didn't want to feel bad about my big break.
the fourteenth
Last Thursday Tyra asked me if I had a fake ID.
“No,” I replied.
A few minutes later I was visited by True's art director, Smitty, a self-described “bitch” who makes the Queer Eye guys look butch.
“Hand over your license,” he said, holding out a perfectly manicured hand.
“Why?” I asked.
His eyebrows hit the ceiling. “Why? You dare to ask me why? Don't ask why! Just do! Do!”
So I did.
The next day he returned it.
“Thanks,” I said.
He stood there, tapping his foot impatiently. “Aren't you even going to look at it?”
I did. “It's my license,” I said. “Thanks.”
“D.O.B.,” he said testily.
1-19-82.
A smile slithered across his face.
He handed over my real—1-19-84—ID. It was impossible to tell them apart. Impressive, because the NJ license is not an easy one to dupe.
“I know, honey; I'm an artiste,” he said.
Equipped with my new fake ID, I was sent on assignment for True: Go to a bar in midtown called Persuasions.
“The owners recognize how a surprising number of hedge-fund hotshots spent their formative years on the Jersey Shore, and long to recapture those days without having to resort to reverse bridge-and-tunneling,” Tyra explained as she rifled through a stack of papers on her desk. “I think it might make an interesting story, how tacky Jerseyness is spreading like a cancer, beyond the Jersey Shore, beyond Long Island, and into Manhattan.”
“I could tie it in with the guido idea I pitched you,” I said. “About how they're taking back the name . . .”
“Mmmm . . . what?” she replied, barely looking up.
She had no idea what I was talking about.
“Uh . . . nothing,” I said, not wanting to remind her of my lackluster ideas.
This unexpected coup meant that I wouldn't be going home for the weekend to see Marcus.
“This is your first professional assignment,” he said when I told him the news. “How can I be mad?”
I guess I wanted him to be a little bit mad.
“Besides,” he said, “it's probably better anyway. My dad really needs my legs.”
“I need your legs, too,” I said. “And your arms and your back and your . . .” And I stopped there because phone sex is something I have never quite mastered.
So it was settled. I would go to Persuasions. But I didn't want to go alone. Unfortunately, I didn't know who I could possibly persuade (heh) to come with me on such short notice. There were only three girls I could imagine asking. Hope was in Tennessee. Bridget was in Pineville. Jane was in Boston. A few of my second-tier friends were in the city doing internships of their own, most located in the well-paid financial district, but I didn't really feel like going with them.
“I'll go with you!” my sister offered, when I made the mistake of sharing my dilemma over the phone.
“But who will take care of Marin?” I asked. “You don't like babysitters . . .”
She sighed. “That's something that Marcus and I discussed.”
“Something you and Marcus discussed,” I said through clenched teeth. “Isn't that something you and your husband should discuss?”
Bethany pressed on, ignoring the slight against G-Money. “Children learn best by example. And Marin needs to learn that her mother has a life outside the home, so she will grow up to be more independent-minded—”
“Bethany,” I interrupted, not wanting to hear any more of Marcus's words coming out of her mouth, “I'm just not sure Persuasions is appropriate for you . . .”
Actually, it was far more appropriate for her than it was for me. I needed a fake ID to get in. My sister, at eleven years my senior, hadn't been carded since grunge was a pop cultural force to be reckoned with.
“Oh, I get it!” she said. “Now that I'm a mom I'm not allowed to have any fun. Well, let me tell you something,