Keeping Up With Piper Read online

  She shoves her plate across the table. She wanted to sit next to me, but you were faster. Without asking for permission you just grab a piece as well.

  I take a bit and say, “delicious. I love mushrooms.”

  At least that is true. Look, Blair Morgan told the truth for once.

  6

  It only took me a month at lalamilan to become a good friend of yours, maybe even one of your closest friends. The concept of friendships is easy. You either have a lot in common or you share a determining experience. We’re both young NYU graduates, moms of children of the same age group, we’re both into fashion and we work at the same company.

  We’ve spent lots of time together. Now I’m the one you spend your lunchbreak with. I’m the one you go to Benissimo with. We go there three times a week now, and most of our colleagues, especially Amber and Valery, want to join us. We’re the cool kids at lalamilan. I’m also the one you call for a playdate. I’m the one you go to nightclubs with. I’m the one you ask for advice when Dana Isabella is sick. I’m the friend you spend most of your time with. I’m the one you ask to come over for a movie night. I’m the one you gossip with at work or at the club. I’m the one you go for a jog with. I’m the one who’s going to be your best friend.

  I’m also the one you ask for style advice.

  “What do you think,” you say. “Blue or red?”

  You’re standing in front of my desk at the office of lalamilan and show me some shopping website on your phone. You’re still addicted to shopping, aren’t you? I know where your money goes. You spend about three hundred Dollars each month for shopping. Most of your money is for your rent and The Huntington School. You have lots of subscriptions, pay TV, Netflix, premium services from online retailers, a makeup subscription box, a subscription box for kids, and some other unnecessary services you should unsubscribe to.

  “The red one,” I say. “Looks more like your style. Is that dress for Bruna’s birthday party?”

  Bruna invited me to her party and, of course, she told me I can invite you as well. You’re my plus one. Bruna loves to celebrate her birthdays. She loves to see people dance and eat and have fun, but she never liked it to take center stage. After all she’s humble.

  “I’ll wear a suit,” I say.

  “A suit?,” you say confused.

  “Yeah, a suit,” I confirm. “A suit with a long blazer and some kind of sweatpants-suit-trousers mix.”

  “Sounds interesting.”

  That day we don’t spend our lunchbreak together because we pick up our kids. With your BMW Mini we drive to The Huntington School to pick up Dana, then we stop at Kye’s kindergarten. In only a few weeks Kye’s going to transfer to The Huntington School.

  “Here we are,” you say as soon as we arrive at your apartment. I’ve never been here before. Ridiculous, right? You’ve stayed at my place a hundred times, but you never invited me to yours until now.

  We both live in Williamsburg, Brooklyn, which is so close to Manhattan that you wouldn’t expect it to be outside of it. It’s just that there’s bridges to cross before you get there, which is annoying. It strikes me but for you I endure all these inconveniences. Your apartment building isn’t as fancy as mine but expensive I guess. You live on the third floor where a woman walks outside of your apartment the moment you are standing in front of the door with a key in your hand.

  “Oh, Miss Flores,” she says.

  “It’s okay, Alyona,” she says. “Thanks for your help.”

  According to her clothing, the rubber gloves and detergent in her hand, she must be your cleaning lady. You’ve never mentioned a cleaning lady. Did you hire her just because you were expecting a guest?

  “Sorry,” you say as soon as we enter the apartment. “I told her to be gone in the afternoon.”

  Your apartment is one of those with red brick walls inside, stucco and high ceilings.

  “Looks nice,” I say. “You never told me your apartment is vintage.”

  There is a commode in the small foyer, a chandelier in the living room, a tea cart in the kitchen, and they all look like they were either bought at a flea market or antique store or inherited by your grandparents. Other furniture like the TV table or the sofa look modern. Before you invited me I mostly saw your face in front of the laptop or phone. I saw you in front of the basin and bathroom mirror. I saw you checking your social media before going to sleep, with your face being all bright because of the screen light. I never saw your apartment as a whole, only in pieces.

  We cook something together, pasta to be precise, because your daughter wanted to eat pasta.

  “Spaghetti,” Dana Isabella begged, and as always you do what she asks for. She’s your little princess, and you pamper her as much as you can.

  You told me I can stay at your place today. You don’t have a guestroom, but you told me I can sleep in your bed. It’s big enough, you told me, so I guess I won’t be the only one sleeping in it.

  “Do you hear that?,” you ask after we brought Kye and Dana Isabella to bed.

  “What?”

  We sit on your sofa and we’re watching The Bachelorette, one of your favorite shows. I’d rather bath in a tub full of bugs than watch this crap. You love these shows that are cheap and stupid. I’ll have to read a book tomorrow, maybe Jane Austen or Stephen King, to recover from this undemanding and boring entertainment program. I’d rather watch a documentary about fish, really, I don’t want to watch this.

  “I have to show you something,” you say, turn down the volume and grab your laptop.

  When you turn the screen around there’s some text on the screen. I read the title and freeze. “What is this?”

  “There’s a production firm in L.A. that is looking for a manager for corporate communications,” you explain. You smile like you’ve just discovered you won the lottery. “This is the perfect job for me. The job description totally fits my resumé. I’m thinking about applying.”

  Stop, I think, stop. No. I need you in New York. We can’t move to Los Angeles.

  You turn around the laptop and stare at the screen. “You need a bachelor’s degree in journalism, communication or English. You need about two years of experience.” You look up. “I have less but they’re just describing their ideal candidate, right? You need some language skills and experience with CMS. In school I’ve had a friend from France, and I was really good at speaking French. I might’ve forgotten a bit by now.”

  Don’t you dare talking about her. You say she was your friend? Really? Are you serious? You are responsible for what happened to her. I can’t believe you’re so blind, so stupid, always trying to manipulate others, to present yourself in a good light. You’re twisting the truth. That’s what you always did. You want the world to revolve around you. I stare at the remote to calm down and distract myself. I stare at the buttons. I stare at each number. 1. 2. 3. 4. 5. 6. 7. 8. 9. 0. BACK. EXIT. OK. It’s okay, I say to myself. That’s who you are. I knew you’re still that bitch you were years ago.

  “So, what do you think?,” you ask. “Should I apply?”

  I look at you and try not to appear angry. “Well, that sounds cool, but why would you want to quit your current job?”

  “It’s been over a year now,” you say and lean back. “I just saw the ad and I think the job’s just worth a try.”

  “Okay,” I say. “Sure, why not?”

  That night I have a weird nightmare I can’t even explain. It’s messed up. I’ll have to figure out what to do when you apply for this job in California. I don’t want to move to California. And isn’t it weird if I move with you? Why would you even want to leave New York? You found your best friend. Me. Well, just for a limited amount of time, but I need you to stay here.

  A week after you told me about your plans to apply for this job, you did. When you walk into the glass cage a.k.a. my office at exactly half past ten in the morning I know exactly what’s going on. You have your phone in your hand.

  “Look,” you say smilin
g and hold your phone in front of my face.

  “We would like to invite you to come to our office to interview for the position. Your interview has been scheduled for,” I read, “for Monday. That is next week, congrats!” I pretend to be happy for you.

  “This is so great,” you say and start jumping around the room.

  Even Amber Cassidy stares at us now. Too bad that this room is transparent. As said before I really like my privacy.

  “Blair,” you say. “Would you come with me to L.A.?”

  You want me to come with you? As your spiritual counsel?

  “I don’t think we can take leave at the same time,” I say, then I think about it. “But let me talk to Paola.”

  I’m a fucking genius. Paola said yes. Did I tell her that you want to work somewhere else? Absolutely not. I told her that we both have to go to a friend’s funeral in Los Angeles. You were fine with lying to our boss. Why would you care? You lie to yourself most of the time. I asked Nanny to watch Kye and Dana Isabella a couple of days. Your interview is on a Monday, so we fly to L.A. on Sunday afternoon.

  “Do you think they’re okay?,” you ask while we carry our small suitcases. It’s the third time you’ve been asking that question since we left Nanny with our kids.

  “They’re fine,” I try to comfort you.

  I thought you’re a cool mom but you’re just as nervous as most other mothers. You’re insecure. And you know what? I knew you would get pregnant at an early age. Earlier than all the other girls. You’re the type of girl who pretends to be all romantic and valuable while screwing everyone you know and being too stupid to use contraception. I would even say you’re the type of woman who intentionally stops taking the pill. You wanted Joe to be yours forever, right? I bet you wanted to force him to stay with you and marry you that way. You’re a manipulating bitch. You always were. And you wanted to become a mom so badly. Not an unmarried mom, not a single lady, no. You wanted to become a housewife, a mother of two, a wife of a handsome man. Joe destroyed your lovely plans. He didn’t want to be forced into marriage, to be trapped with you. You even wanted to become an elementary school teacher, but your parents didn’t let you. They thought it’s beneath your dignity.

  We bring our suitcases to the boutique hotel downtown that I booked for us. Your interview’s tomorrow so we can’t even have a night out, can we? I convince you to go to the bar downstairs to have a few drinks at least.

  “That’ll make you more relaxed,” I told you, and dumb as you are you believe your soon-to-be best friend. You’d believe anything. I rarely meet people who are too dumb or too lazy to google stuff but you’re one of them.

  A few hours later you’re not wasted, not drunk, but dizzy enough to mess up your interview. We go to sleep shortly before eleven and wake up at seven in the morning, so you can go to your interview at nine thirty. Apparently they have some other interviews that day.

  “I’m nervous,” you say. “But I don’t have to, right? I’m perfect for this position.”

  If you say so. “Good luck.”

  Not really. I don’t want you to get this job. And you won’t get this job, no matter what I have to do to screw this up. I mean I don’t really think you’re going to be shortlisted but just in case all other applicants die from cancer and starvation, and they actually want to hire you, I’ll be there to destroy it. I wait nearby at a tiny café and treat myself with a cupcake. I haven’t had cupcakes in a while. After an hour and a half, I see you walking outside. I sit at the window, so I can watch the people outside. Is it a good sign that you’ve been in there for so long? Normally they only talk to people for over an hour that appear to be a good match.

  “I was so nervous,” you say as you walk inside the café and sit down on the opposite side of the tiny table. “So nervous.” I hate repetition.

  “Great. Do you want some?” I hand you the fork.

  Without a word you grab it and eat the rest of my cupcake.

  “Thanks, Blair, you’re the best.”

  You look at your watch. A Michael Kors watch that you got for your birthday two years ago. You never wear a watch, just for important appointments like job interviews. Normally you just look at your phone.

  “We should go shopping now,” you say. “Wait, no, we should go to Santa Monica Pier first. I’ve never been there. I want to go there, let’s go, come on.”

  Piper Flores admits she’s never been at Santa Monica Pier? Groundbreaking. You’re always the first to do anything, at least you say so. I didn’t know you were able to admit not having done something.

  “Sounds good,” I say.

  We take an Uber to the Pier. It takes half an hour to get there.

  As soon as we get there you say, “I’ll get an ice cream. Can you take a photo of me for Instagram?”

  Sure, I can. I’ve once appeared in your IG story. I didn’t know you filmed me while I was at work, inside my glass cage. Nobody recognized me but I’m paranoid. What if anybody sees a picture of me and figures out who I am? What then?

  After you got your ice cream we walk to the end of the pier. The view is stunning. I haven’t seen the Pacific Ocean in a while. I’m glad we didn’t travel to San Francisco. I miss it so much.

  “Does this look good?,” you ask me. “Don’t make me look ugly. And don’t make them all portraits, try landscape.” Too many instructions, Piper, just shut up. I know how to take photos of models, so I am capable of taking a few of a trash bag like you.

  With the chocolate and hazelnut ice cream in your hand you sit down on the railing and turn sideward. The wind rushes through your hair and makes it look like it’s flying around your head. For your job interview you chose to wear a dress. It’s a production company, not a bank, so it’s a more casual business attire. I take a few photos, portrait and landscape, up-close and wide angle. When you turn around your eyes suddenly go wide in surprise.

  “Tammy?” Just when you say that name out loud I wince. “Tammy, hey.”

  You climb down the railing and tap on the shoulder of a girl that passes by. The blonde girl with bangs turns around. It’s her. It’s Tamara. I didn’t know she still has bangs. Tamara hasn’t updated her social media in a while. I see why. She gained about five pounds and she got her nose pierced. Immediately I recognize the ring on her finger. I was so busy with your life, Piper, that I didn’t know that Tammy married somebody.

  “Piper, oh my god,” Tammy says. “Hey, I didn’t know you’re in L.A.”

  “I didn’t know you’re here either, Tammy,” you say. “Wow.”

  “It’s Tamara,” she corrects you. Tamara. I guess she’s sick of being the childish Tammy anymore. Tamara may sound more mature, but I guess she deep down hasn’t changed much. None of the girls or boys have.

  You turn towards me. “This is Blair,” you introduce me to her, “she’s my colleague at the company I work for in New York.”

  “Oh, yeah, you live in New York now,” she says. “Nice.”

  She doesn’t think it’s nice. She’s jealous. She always wanted to be like you, to be you, to be with you all the time.

  “Hey,” I say. “Nice to meet you.”

  It’s not nice to meet you. I’d rather choke than see you again, all of you.

  “You have such a nice hair color,” she randomly says. “That’s the color I want my hair to be.”

  I can’t believe Tamara’s standing right in front of me. I thought she lives in the town I fled from. That awful, boring, horrible, destructive town. Your lovely home, Piper. Isn’t it sad how most of them haven’t found any new real friends? It’s like as soon as you leave that town your destiny is a lonely and sad life.

  “What are you doing here?”

  “We’re here for our honeymoon,” she says. “Well, we’ve just married and then we came here.”

  Who did she marry? And who on earth spends their honeymoon on Los Angeles? There are more restful places to travel to. I’m not surprised though. Tammy’s always been a cheap hoe.

>   “I’m so happy for you and Jason,” you say.

  I try hard not to laugh. Jason Morris. That is so sad, Tammy. But why do you know that, Piper, and I don’t? What did I miss? I guess you’re still in contact with her. I don’t check all of your emails and messages. I probably overlooked Tammy’s messages. I now understand why she never posts anything on social media. She still lives in that town, she’s married to Jason, she’s probably not very successful, and her life’s completely boring.

  “What do you work?,” you ask her.

  “Right now, I don’t,” she answers. “I’m a certified nutritionist.”

  I stop myself from commenting on that. Okay, that doesn’t work. This can’t remain uncommented. If I can’t say it I should be allowed to think it. Tammy’s a certified piece of shit. There it is. Believe me, Piper, everything I say or do is because of you. Because of Tammy. Because of Jason. Because of Penelope. Because of your other toxic friends back then, but mainly because of you. It’s Blair who does that, who says that. It’s not me, it’s not the old me. She wouldn’t do this. She wouldn’t say stuff like piece of shit or fucking dumb or cheap hoe. She isn’t like that. She wasn’t. I’d rather be her, trust me. Every day I want her back, I want to become her. But she’s dead. I just can’t get her back, not matter what I try. As much as I want her to reappear, to safe me, to kill Blair, to be me, it won’t happen. I just want everyone to know this is not the real me. It can’t be. I don’t like what I’ve become. I really don’t. I’d sacrifice everything to change the past. I don’t enjoy being full of rage and hate and all the bad thoughts I’m thinking. Who would want that? I want to be that pure lovely girl again. I just can’t think of a way to go back.

  I’m sorry for whatever I’ll do. I really am.

  “Oh, okay,” you say. “Do you want to get pregnant or why don’t you work?” Now you sound bitchy. It’s none of your business if others plan to get pregnant. It’s none of your business what other people do. You never understood that.

  “Whatever,” Tammy says, “it doesn’t matter. How old’s your son?”