3. Now
THREE
now
“Good morning, Miss Ella Callahan!” Maggie calls as I walk into our living room. She holds a sheet of paper in one hand, waving it as she quotes, “Author of this fall’s most anticipated novel!”
Even though she’s lying through her teeth, it’s hard not to smile back at her. In her colorful kimono, with her cloud of natural hair and perfect ebony skin, she looks like an Aerie ad.
I snatch the page out of her hand on my way to the kitchen, laughing when I see the heading. “Mags, this is your blog post. Trust me, no one is anticipating the release of my self- published novel. There are, like, sixty-thousand titles ahead of it in the Kindle store.”
Maggie tosses her head back, lifting her chin to a haughty angle. “Well, it’s my most anticipated novel of the fall,” she argues. “And I’m an influencer . This is what I do. I teach people to have taste.”
I can’t dispute that. In the two years since we graduated from NYU, Maggie’s amassed over half a million followers, launched a blog lucrative enough to pay her portion of the rent (plus half of mine), and started an Etsy store, which means part of our common area functions as a workshop for “custom pleasure aids.”
She makes three times more than I do at my nine-to-five as an assistant at an ad agency. It’s the only way we can afford our two-bedroom-one-bath walk-up in DUMBO.
I often try to slip her part of my grocery budget to make up for the higher rent she insists on paying, but she won’t have it. And as much as I dislike letting her pay more than half, I have to admit, DUMBO is a lot more convenient than Bushwick. Or New Jersey.
In true “influencer” fashion, she managed to find an apartment in one of the last truly trendy parts of our neighborhood. We still have street artists, creator-owned galleries, and hole-in-the-wall restaurants. So far, our block has resisted a Whole Foods and one of those “brew-stilleries” owned by Guy Fieri.
Four stories up from the plant shop beneath us, we decorated the space to blend our tastes. Midcentury modern furniture for her; bright, happy colors for me. The blend of “mod” and vintage seems to work in the tiny place, especially since our kitchen is straight out of the sixties, with light blue Formica counters and tiny enamel appliances.
We split the living space in half, with matching white desks on either side of our TV. Hers is full of her Etsy “work,” while mine holds my laptop, editing books, assorted yarn for knitting, and whatever work I can’t finish at the office. She got her way when it came to the too-small, weirdly shaped end tables, and I got to keep the orange, overstuffed accent chair I use for reading.
I give my favorite spot a wistful look while pouring coffee into my travel mug. I much prefer staying home with my ugly tangerine chair to hiking all the way over to Midtown. In heels.
“So,” Maggie pushes on, sipping her morning tea while she crosses her long legs over the width of our hot pink sofa. “Where are we celebrating tonight? We could go to the High Line! I know you love that. Or Williamsburg. Ugh. It’s so been-there , but it’s close by. Or clubbing! I think there’s a rave in the warehouse district!”
I giggle while I grab my computer and work files from my desk, slipping them into the blush-colored tote bag Mags gave me as gift when I landed my first “big girl” job.
“First, it’s literally Tuesday. I can’t go to a rave—I have to work tomorrow. And second, I can’t do anything tonight. I’m staying late at the office, and then I have a therapy appointment.”
I click-clack over to the door as fast as my red Mary-Jane heels allow, trying unsuccessfully to ignore Maggie’s pout. An impossible task, it turns out.
“Okay, okay,” I relent, disengaging our deadbolt. “This weekend, we can go out to celebrate. All right? Promise.”
Maggie gives me an arch look. “Fine, but we’re doing whatever I want.”
I agree while I whirl out the door, figuring I have all week to talk her down and no time to argue at the moment. My train leaves in eleven minutes and it’ll take me eight minutes to get there in such impractical shoes.
While I totter down all four flights of stairs, I wonder for the hundredth time where Maggie stashed my favorite clogs when they “accidentally” got lost in our move.
She never did like those. She probably gave them to the lady on the corner who trades origami cranes for cigarettes…
Feeling pleasantly preoccupied, optimistic about the rest of the week, and— okay —maybe just a little excited about the thought of my book selling a few copies,... I’m completely unprepared.
But as soon as I step out onto our street, it practically slaps me across the face.
A giant sign, ten stories tall, is now draped over the building across from ours. The banner announces the development of exactly what Maggie and I feared. Words like “recreation,” “urban living,” and “lifestyle” jump out at me. All code for, “Your rent is about to triple so a bunch of yuppies can feel like cool Brooklyn kids.”
That alone would probably be enough to ruin my morning. But the disingenuous buzzwords are nothing compared to the five-story logo in the center of the billboard.
Stryker & Sons .
Grayson.