Darlings Chapter 2
The first review of the Eff It List© was posted on CNET earlier this morning. Jen reads it aloud at breakfast:
“Eff It List©: though it has some bug issues, ex-super models Day and Marcy Darling’s debut app is worth checking out. The app challenges its users to record and post a new experience (NewEx©) every day. Fun idea, but the delivery could use some polish. 3 out of 5 stars.”
John looks more haggard than the rest of us. He angrily spoons creatine into his orange juice. “Pure shite.”
Franky cuts a roasted tomato and dips it in cottage cheese. She holds it between her thumb and forefinger like an insect then bites and swallows, gags, and recovers. I watch her do this two more times.
“We’ve got busy lives,” Franky tells me, sipping mint tea, “but we always make time to have breakfast and an after-dinner drink together. Every day. That’s the house rule.”
The Mess Hall, as they call it, is designed to look like a Parisian brasserie with marble countertops and brass finishes. The booths are red; the floors are checkered. There’s a buffet that no one touches and a Greek yogurt fridge that can never stay stocked. I go to the buffet and load my plate up. When I sit down at Franky’s booth, she asks if I’m worried I’ll get fat.
“They can make you egg whites, ya know” she tells me.
“I can’t get fat,” I say, “I stay the same weight no matter what I eat.”
“Lucky dog,” says Franky and fingers her cottage cheese.
“Where are Marcy and Day?” I ask.
She abandons her breakfast and pushes it to the middle of the table. “They don’t eat with us peasants.”
“Can I ask you something?”
“Mhm” she says.
“Why are you, like, being nice to me?”
She eyes me thoughtfully. “I don’t know. Ya seem nice.”
“What if I’m not nice?”
Franky scratches her head. “At least you’re cute.”
My face feels hot. Throat’s tight. Am I sweating? I’ve got to get out of here. I excuse myself.
A staff member stops me in the hall to say that my suite is ready. I spent last night in Casey's guest room, though I don't remember going to bed. Between the hours of 5am and 12:30pm, my mind stopped recording. I thought I drank a lot before I met the Irises, but they can just keep going. I can’t keep up with that. They probably don’t do that every night. I’m sure it was for the special occasion.
I'm given a brass key and led to the farthest door on the left. My name has recently been painted on the door in French Metropolitan font. The brass key clicks and I push the heavy iron door open.
The suite is ridiculously, unnecessarily large for just one person. It’s even bigger than Casey’s. The simple foyer opens to an industrial style living room. Black concrete and floor-to-ceiling windows which overlook an interior courtyard. Exposed Edison bulbs glow orange in their sockets. Street art adorns the walls. Topless girl with a gas mask, Molotov cocktail throwing flaming human.
I find the master bedroom and lay down on the king-sized bed staring up at the exposed rafters. I glance over at the walk-in closet. They brought my luggage in and hung my three shirts. The sight is depressing so I get up and explore the rest of the suite. There are three rooms in all. The first is my bedroom.
The second has a private wet-bar, fully stocked and a hot tub. LED lights in the hot tub change the color of the water every few minutes. You get to this room by walking straight through the living room and through French doors.
The third is a guest room, much like Casey’ except with the industrial design instead of his train station motif. Music plays softly somewhere inside the suite.
Two thousand miles away my twin bed is empty. My 5x5 dorm room is empty. The cheap wooden desk chair is stowed beneath its desk. And I’m here in New York City with a rainbow hot tub. Maybe this is okay for now. I can always leave. The thought comforts me and I feel myself relax into the bed. There's a knock at my door.
"Ready?" asks Franky. She's wearing a skirt and leggings and a scarf; scratching the back of her right calf with her left foot.
"For what?"
She loses her balance and I catch her. Our eyes meet. "Klutzy me” she says, getting to her feet.
I laugh.
“Anyway,” she says, a little flustered.
Is she blushing? Don’t flirt. I’m taken. Hang on. I’m not taken. I’m single.
“We’re picking our NewEx for the day” she says, smiling back, “c’mon."
Out in the hall, the group has gathered around a rolling chalkboard. I’m reminded again of how tall everyone is. Marcy and Day stand side-by-side, waiting patiently for everyone to arrive. I join the circle next to Franky and see what’s being written on the board:
John: streak through Grand Central. Approved.
“You are both late” says Marcy.
“Sorry, Marce” says Franky, “new boy got lost.”
Marcy eyes me and I nod. Day doesn’t look up from his phone.
“Right. What’s it going to be then, Franky?" Marcy asks, pointing her chalk at Franky’s name on the board.
"I've never ridden a bike" says Franky, shrugging.
Marcy writes: ‘Franky: ride a bike.’ She turns to address the group, "all in favor?"
Only Franky raises her hand. She nudges me and I raise mine too.
"Boo” says Jen.
"C’mon," pleads Franky, "I can’t think of anything today."
Marcy erases Franky’s NewEx with her sleeve. "Who's got one?"
"Total a car" says John.
"Have a one night stand" says Brandon.
"Base jump" says Casey.
"Kiss a stranger" says Jen.
Marcy writes: "Franky: kiss a stranger" and asks for a vote. Everyone votes for it except for Franky and me.
Franky crosses her arms. "That’s disgusting. I don't wanna do that."
Marcy writes: "Approved" next to her NewEx.
“I’m not doing that” Franky says.
Marcy checks the board for effect. “It was approved” she says calmly.
She continues down the list until she reaches my name. "How will we break your NewEx cherry, Fey?"
Franky cuts in, “I said I’m not doing it.”
Marcy turns on her heel. “You aren’t?” She annunciates each word, never breaking monotone. “Do the NewEx or piss off back to the south.”
Franky follows Marcy’s line of sight. She’s looking at the door. No one speaks.
“Alright, Marce,” says Franky, “jeez.”
Marcy returns her attention to me, totally unfazed. “Ready, Fey?”
My stomach drops as the group waits for my response. I don’t want something as embarrassing given to me as Franky.
"I have a question," I say.
Day sighs. Marcy folds her arms and raises her eyebrows inquisitively.
“NewEx stands for New Experience?”
“Yessir” says Marcy, “it’s something you’ve always dreamed of doing.”
“Are there any other rules besides that?”
“It has to not suck” says Jen.
Casey laughs, giving up on the cigarette he’s been trying to light for the past minute. I’ve never been asked about my dreams before.
“Okay,” I say, feeling a rush of excitement, “I have something.”
"You don’t have anything," Marcy says, pointing her chalk at the group, "they decide your first."
"Sex in public" says John.
"Mug someone" says Jen.
"Jesus," I say under my breath.
"Ice skate" says Franky, giving me a wink.
"Boo," says Jen, “go home, Franky.”
"Shoplift" says Brandon.
Marcy writes: "Fey: will shoplift" and asks for a vote.
Don’t pass. Please don’t pass.
Six votes approve it. I have my NewEx.
“No way,” I say quietly, “how will I do that?”
Franky leans in and whispers, “at least you don’t have to kiss a damn stranger.”
"Then it's settled, Miss Clavel," says Marcy. She gives the rolling chalkboard a shove and it wheels across the hall. "All the children are accounted for."
The group starts to head out through the double doors.
“What do I do now?” I ask.
John hits me on the back. He is way too strong to make that playful. "This one’s quick, eh?"
"Figure it out," says Marcy. She follows the group out and pauses at the door: “whatever you end up doing, get it on video."
"In the app?" I ask.
She slams the door behind her without given an answer.
I can't tell you why I chose Tiffany's. It all boils down to the few things I know about New York City. I don't know much, but I'm very familiar with Holly Golightly's favorite shop. I could have shoplifted gum from Duane Reade, but I didn’t want to let the group down with a crappy first post. That, and the fact that each of these NewExs gets rated; I’d rather not be the guy who has a rating of 3.
I call an Uber and tell them to take me to the nearest Tiffany’s. He’s got to look it up on his phone.
“97 Greene” he says.
“Sure” I say.
The ride over costs me $15. If I’m going to live in New York, I’ll have to learn the subway system. I’ll run out of money in a month if I keep using Uber.
An impeccably dressed guy with manicured eyebrows holds the door open for me. I’ve never actually been inside a jewelry store. It looks like everything’s just been vacuumed. It’s super intimidating. I can’t afford anything here.
“Can I help you find something?” asks eyebrows.
“Just browsing” I say.
“Please let me know if you need something.”
Why was I thinking it would be out in the open? Of course, it’s going to be under glass. I need to stop imagining what jail will be like. I need to think of a plan.
Plan #1: The most obvious way to steal jewelry is to ask a sales associate to see something. Can I look at that broach? That bracelet? No, not the sterling silver one. The real silver one. Your jewelry is removed from the case and laid carefully on the polished glass countertop.
You hold it up to the light and check the color. No, you say, your girlfriend would not like this. Perhaps the bracelet on the other side with the jade. Yes, that will be the one. The sales associate excuses herself and steps away.
That’s when you make your move. Bracelet goes in the pocket. Walk, don’t run, but walk quickly. Let them open the door for you. Out you go.
Plan #2: Go through the process of picking out the perfect bracelet. Look at a bunch of them—more than ten. Be really picky. Ask questions. When you settle on one ask to see the necklace that pairs with the bracelet. They will step away, confident that you will be purchasing not one, but two items. Bracelet goes in the pocket. See end of plan one.
I go with plan 2. The sales associate is a guy so my scenario is already thrown off. He’s a fake blonde and his name is Rick.
“Your contacts are gorge,” he tells me, “where do you get them?”
“Amazon,” I say, looking over the bracelets.
“They always give me pink eye,” he continues, “what’s your trick?”
Must act important. Important people are rude so I ignore his question and point to the platinum diamond charm bracelet. He’s impressed by my choice.
“Would you like to try it on?”
“It’s not for me.”
He places a piece of teal cloth on the counter and displays the bracelet on it. “You can change the charms, you know, if you don’t like crabs.”
I bite my lip try to slow my breathing. “Let me see this one instead.”
He replaces the charm bracelet and takes out the new one. “This is our Ten Chain Heart Bracelet. Would you like to…” he catches himself, “sorry. It’s not for you.”
I send that one and the next four back. Nothing catches my interest. I am less and less enthusiastic about each bracelet. I ask if they have anything new in. Something really new and he says he’ll check. He walks away and I notice he’s left the counter door open. Now, Fey. Do it now. He’ll be back in a second. I take my phone out and open the app.
It’s loading. Jesus. It’s loading. Come on. The app loads and I tap the ‘NewEx’ button and it begins recording.
With the phone in one hand, I throw myself on the counter and reach for the nearest piece of jewelry—an 18-karat brooch. It’s just out of reach so I push my whole weight on the counter and hear something crack. I grab the brooch and quickly turn the phone to film my prize. I’m certain a security guard will come out and tackle me. I run for the front door. So much for making a cool exit.
The greeter with the eyebrows holds the door open and thanks me for choosing Tiffany’s. I’m outside running down the street. I keep looking over my shoulder, just waiting to see someone chasing me, but there’s no one. I round the corner see a subway entrance. Now’s a good a time as any to learn the subway system. I buy a metro card and take the subway back, laughing like an idiot the whole way back.
It’s 4:30pm and I’ve made it back to the school before anyone else. I slip the stolen brooch into my jeans pocket and double check that the NewEx was posted. Not only was it posted, I’ve already gotten views but no rating yet.
I get a beer from my bar. I drink it and reflect on how much I like the sound of ‘my bar’. I have one of those ‘am I really doing this’ moments. Did I really pack up and leave my old life to start a new one? Or is this temporary?
I’m here now and that means something. It means I made a decision by myself. Focus on that. I followed through with something. I’m in my own suite drinking my beer from my bar with stolen Tiffany jewelry in my pocket. Yeah, I did that.
Feeling pretty damn good at this point, I give myself a tour of the school. I start with the courtyard. From the courtyard, you can look into the suites next door. The blinds are closed on whoever is to the right of me. The suite on the left side is modern with a minimalistic light wood and glass look.
It’s simple and appealing. I wonder who lives there. On the opposite side of the courtyard are classrooms. I guess they haven’t gotten to renovating those yet. When I’ve finished the courtyard tour, I take myself out to the hall and up the spiral staircase.
At the top of the stairs stretches a long hallway, ordained with more street art. I see Dr. Devon Russel, the scientist who discovered the Iris gene, in the mural. He’s been drawn to look like Dr. Frankenstein in the famous movie scene. His rubber gloved hands reach to the sky, praising the lightning that brought his creature to life. I notice that the creature beneath the sheet has an erection.
I follow the hallway. It leads to another banquet hall. The entryway is a cartoony sun with a big grin and flushed cheeks. “Luna Park” shines in bright carnival lights above it. There isn’t a single booth or chair in the hall, only a disco ball in the very center with the words “no dancing” painted on it.
I think the school must end here, but then I see a fire escape and take it. The bright light of the industrial stairway blinds me. The staircase to the third story is roped off so I go down. Back on the first floor, I exit into an arcade. It looks like the arcades you see in 80s movies. Rows and rows of video games. Black lights on the ceiling. Everything is glowing and grunts and explosion sound effects echo through the place.
I find my way through the snaking arcade back to the main hall. I hear laughter and smell food in the Mess Hall. Inside, the group has pushed a couple tables together. Marcy sits on the edge of the table, phone in hand, reading people's NewEx results. She’s wearing a different outfit from this morning. Black tights, black shirt, long khaki vest, white strappy wedges.
"Franky, you got a rating 6.3," she says, "who did you end up kissing?"
Franky slams her head down on the table. "Ughhh this guy from NYU."
"Coulda kissed me," says John, twirling a ringlet of her hair on his finger.
She pulls her hair back. "You're not a stranger, jackass."
John looks hurt. “Who says?"
Marcy continues reading: "Fey? Where's Fey?"
"Right here."
"Bad news, newbie. You got a 4.2" says Marcy.
Brandon laughs and my face goes red.
"No way, I stole from Tiffany's. That's got to afford me at least a 7."
"Let's see what you filmed" says Marcy, tapping my NewEx video.
The group gathers around to watch it. The video shows some out-of-focus jewelry. It must have started recording when I put the phone on the counter.
"Your contacts are gorge," says the muffled voice of the Tiffany's sales assistant, "where'd you get them?"
"Amazon” replies a nervous Fey.
And with that, the video ends.
"What the hell was that?" laughs Jen.
"Great video, bro" says Casey, hitting me a little too hard in the shoulder. “Look at the leaderboard!”
Eff It List© Leaderboard
1. Marcy
2. Stefani
3. Jen
4. John
5. Casey
6. Franky
7. Brandon
8. Day
9. Jin-ho
10. Fey
Last place. I take Marcy's phone and replay the video.
"But I filmed that whole thing. Where's the rest of it?"
"The app is programed to take eight seconds of footage, randomly, from your NewEx," explains Marcy, "if the whole experience isn't worth watching, none of it will be."
"He faked it,” says Stefani, “move on to my rating.”
I take the brooch from my pocket and toss it to her. "Look at my clothes and tell me I could afford this."
Stefani shoots me a dirty look, “don’t throw shit at me.”
"Cheeky bastard," laughs John.
Marcy takes her phone back. "You'll do better tomorrow, Fey," she says plainly, "if you don’t, you go home."
That’s it? I get two chances? I’m not going back to my shit apartment in the LA ghetto. I’m not going back to my old life. Tomorrow I’m going to ace the NewEx. I can’t fail out of this project.