Being Audrey Hepburn

“Poor Tabitha—we’re looking out for her.” Wasn’t that what he’d said? ZK, Dahlia, and Tabitha had all seemed like such good friends, although I agreed Dahlia seemed pretty scary.

“How do you even know them?” Tabitha asked, like a spoiled brat trying to hide her hurt feelings. Maybe she was more smashed than I’d thought. None of it made much sense.

“Don’t worry, darling,” I said in my most reassuring Audrey accent. “I ran into them at an event ages ago, and quite coincidently they were here when I came in. I hardly know them at all.” She glanced up at me with that same disoriented expression I recalled from the Met bathroom floor. Tabitha was so odd. She morphed from superconfident pop queen to abandoned child in seconds.

“Were you talking about me?” She seemed genuinely concerned.

“Actually no, we were talking about me!” I laughed because, unbelievably, it was true. “One thing you can always be sure of, darling,” I said, taking her hand in mine, “I never gossip about my friends.”

Tabitha’s eyes brightened, and it occurred to me that maybe she’d been worrying about ZK and Dahlia since we rode up the elevator together and just hadn’t had the nerve to say anything about it.

“Oh my God, what’s he doing?” someone near us yelled. There was a commotion across from the DJ at the center of the pool. We tried to see what was going on. A gorgeous-looking guy bounced playfully on the end of the diving board, stripping off his shirt. He had one of those uberperfect hairless bodies, and I couldn’t help but wonder if he waxed, or threaded, or blasted his follicles with some industrial-grade laser.

“Isn’t he a spokesperson for Power?” a woman standing next to us asked. She was wearing thigh-high boots and practically drooling over the guy.

“You’re right!” her too-pretty-to-be-straight companion agreed. “By the way, is Power a cologne or an energy drink? I forget.”

The new spokesman for whatever tossed his shirt into the crowd and dropped his pants. The entire party gasped. He had not a scrap of underwear whatsoever. Not even a thong or anything other than his anatomical parts, if you know what I mean. At least we knew he wasn’t a spokesman for underwear. The security guards rushed him, and he dove a perfect half pike into the pool to a round of applause.

“Come on,” Tabitha said, reenergized. “Follow me.” As security fished the flasher out, we scooted along the poolside behind a group of stuffy Wall Street warriors who were smoking cigars and observing the action. Tabitha gave me a mischievous grin.

“Watch this,” she said and hip checked some random guy. He didn’t know what hit him. Cell phone, Armani suit, keys to his Porsche (I assumed)—all in the pool. Another guy almost fell in and regained his balance until somebody off balance elbowed him, got pissed, and pushed another dude, who grabbed a lady standing next to him. She teetered on her high heels until both of them fell into the water.

Soon it was sheer mayhem as everyone pushed everybody else into the pool. Tabitha gri

“Let’s hide here for a while,” said Tabitha as she flopped onto a red velvet love seat. “Cozy, right?”

I checked out our little refuge and the rest of the room. The wall of concert speakers on the small stage seemed out of place with the plush sofas, armchairs, and soft lighting. Tabitha’s band, Coma Romance, was on stage, finishing their sound check. I didn’t know if Tabitha was a promotional genius or just a kook, but her prank brought the entire pool crowd downstairs. They crammed into the small space like lemmings.

Coma Romance’s lead guitarist, Max Ferme, looking very emo, shuffled up to us.

“Tabby, we’re ready to rock,” he said in an emotionless monotone as if playing in a Top 40 band was the most boring thing in the world. I knew the names of all of the guys in Tabitha’s band by heart, having seen every one of her videos about a million times. Max was the one who always seemed totally bored no matter how hard they rocked. He seemed even more low-key in person.

“Do I have to?” Tabitha whined.

Max rolled his eyes.

“I’m about to get swallowed up, Lisbeth,” Tabitha whispered. “I don’t want to wait so long to see you next time.” She paused, suddenly worried. I thought she might break into tears. Then, just as quickly, her mood brightened. “Come shopping with me next week, okay?”

“Shopping? Ah, of course, I’d love to,” I said. Yeah right. Couldn’t wait to use my maxed-out two-hundred-dollar-limit prepay.

“Really? That’s so cool!” Tabitha squealed. “I know just the place—this new store on Fifth…” She stopped, frozen midsentence.

“That was quite a stunt you pulled on the rooftop, Tabitha,” an authoritative voice said. Staring down at us was the old guy in the Armani from that first night at the Met, Robert Francis.

“Hello Robert,” she responded, looking uncomfortable. He leaned in to give her a kiss. She closed her eyes and turned her cheek in a formal ma

“Nice to see you again as well, Miss Dulac.” He leaned forward to kiss me, too. In high school Health and Home Economics, they had skipped right over social kissing and gone directly to condoms and STDs, so I had no idea why accepting a peck from someone I disliked was good ma

Tabitha stared at me oddly, and I realized she didn’t know that I had encountered Mr. Armani after helping her escape through the freight exit at the Met. More troubling was that he acted as though he expected me to say or do something. What did he want? Was I supposed to blab to Tabitha about the “plans,” which I knew nothing about? I put on my happy face and ignored him, completely clueless what to do next.

After a couple of excruciatingly long moments of the two of us fervently praying he would go away, Robert Francis politely wished Tabitha good luck with the new album and departed. We both breathed a sigh of relief.

“You know Robert, too?” Tabitha asked, regarding me with suspicion.

“Not really. I met him shortly after I encountered you in the … well, bathroom.” I figured there was nothing to lose by being honest. Reminding her that the first time we met her head was in a toilet had to count for something. “He simply asked how you were.”

“That’s a laugh. And that was all?”

“Pretty much.” I wondered if I should in fact ask her about her “plans,” whatever they were.

“Figures.”

“Who is he?” I asked.

“My keeper, my prison warden. It’s a long story,” she said. “But I’m not worried about him anymore. Mother’s coming back soon, and she’s going to make him go away.”

“Your mother? Where is she?” I asked. “I’d love to meet her…”

“Tab, love, we have to begin,” Max interrupted. He was holding a headset mic with an earbud out to Tabitha. Who knows how long he had been standing there with his hangdog face? The band appeared ready to go, and the crowd was growing rowdy for a bunch of rich kids in fancy clothes.

Tabitha let out a dreary groan, grabbed the mic from Max, and headed for the stage, yelling over her shoulder, “I’ll explain everything when we go shopping! Can’t wait!”

The band kicked into a club beat, and not a minute later she strutted across the stage, dancing and singing.

Surprisingly, people kept saying hello or nodding to me as they passed by, as though I were actually part of this crowd. Maybe they’d noticed me hanging out with Tabitha. Maybe it was the dress. Either way, mission accomplished.

I felt like I’d successfully passed in a world that seemed utterly unattainable to me only a week before. Every single moment so far had been more interesting and exciting than any moment I’d spent in South End Montclair.