Party Girl_ A Novel - Anna David [83]
“Sure thing,” Jeremy says. “I’ll do another one with you.” He motions the waitress over and she stands there expectantly.
“Hmmm,” I say, wondering how the hell I’m going to get out of this. Then, buying time, I say to the waitress: “You know, for some reason I can’t decide. Can I follow you to the bar so I can assess my options?” She shrugs and starts walking so I gesture to Jeremy, Tim, and John that I’ll be right back before following her. And once we get to the bar, I remember how I’d drink from my parents’ vodka and gin bottles in high school and fill them back up again with water. Why wouldn’t the reverse of that work now? So I say to the waitress, “I know this sounds crazy, but can you give me two shot glasses and fill one with vodka and one with water?”
She glances at me for a second, then nods. I swear, nothing is too bizarre for L.A. waitresses. She’s probably thrilled I’m not asking about the caloric intake of Absolut versus Ketel One. “Can I charge him for two shots?” she asks. I nod, and she hands me the vodka and water shots.
Oddly empowered by my water trick, I start to feel the “Party Girl” persona come over me the same way it did when I went on TV. Confidence and a sort of brazenness flood through me as I make my way back to Jeremy, swaying my body back and forth to the Jay Z song that’s now blasting through the speakers. I reach the table, where Jeremy, Tim, and John are now chatting animatedly, and hand Jeremy his shot.
“Here’s to running into each other,” I say, in an attempt to figure out if he realizes I’m the same girl he’s been introduced to before, or even if he cares.
“And to our continued relationship,” Jeremy grins, clinking his glass with mine. He downs his shot as I chug my shot of water, crinkling my nose as if it were vodka. I swear I should win a fucking Oscar for this.
“God, I love Ketel One,” Jeremy says, then takes out his cell phone and adds abruptly, “We should go out this week. What are your digits?”
I give him my number, wondering why it’s him and not Adam wanting to go out with me this week. Be excited, I tell myself. Tim and John are watching. And this would have been an entirely thrilling prospect at one point.
Just then, a Kanye West song comes on and these two girls wearing bright tube tops and roughly inch-long jean skirts jump up on the bar to dance.
“Hey, Party Girl, you should be the one up there!” Jeremy shrieks exuberantly. Tim smiles and John nods. I shake my head and think, I’m too old and way too sober for this shit, just as Jeremy starts chanting, “Party Girl” over and over. Tim and John join in the chant, and the next thing I know, Jeremy is grabbing me by my waist and trying to hoist me over his shoulder onto the bar. When I notice his friends, two agent types, walking in our direction, I realize that it’s too late to turn back now.
So I accept a bartender’s hand as he helps me to my feet on the bar and feel all eighty or so people in the club staring at me. Trying to act like this is perfectly normal, I turn toward the two prepubescent-looking tube top girls and start dancing. I’m a good dancer—I don’t flail my arms around spastically, nor do I just stand there and step back and forth self-consciously—but it can take me a few minutes to find my groove. Alcohol used to help with that. But now I have no alcohol and no crowd to surround me, just two girls whose ages together probably don’t add up to mine. I suddenly remember once trying to join a hopscotch game when I was little and being shut out.
Please acknowledge me, I think as I try to project calm confidence while I face the girls and dance. And please don’t let Adam be here. One of the tube top girls looks at me and grins.
“Look, it’s the real-life Carrie Bradshaw!” she says, as she juts her body back and forth in what looks like a succession of hip-hop dance class moves.
“Cool!” her friend says, less impressed or perhaps completely indifferent—I can’t tell