5. Maddie
Chapter five
Maddie
I’m still staring at the photo Nick texted me with a million thoughts racing in my head.
I can’t believe the paparazzi caught me sitting on his lap. His career must really be taking off.
I hope nobody at work sees this.
We look cute together.
He really was comforting me and had his arms around me.
My lips curve up in a smile. I didn’t imagine that. I save the photo to my favorite photos file.
Iris, one of my best friends since high school, nudges me.
People often think we’re sisters, probably because we both have brown hair, although hers is straighter, and, after all these years of friendship, similar mannerisms. We also grew up together on the Lower East Side.
Her dad owns Craic and Laughs, the bar we end the night at if we go out.
We’re sitting at the counter by the window in our favorite dumpling place, around the corner from my apartment. Not that we can really see out the glass because it is covered by a huge menu that announces how cheap the dumplings are.
“But how can you not participate in this panel?” Iris asks.
Get it together . The alumni fundraiser panel to discuss press careers at my old middle school with news legend Twyla Jackson. And me. That’s what Iris and I are discussing. Or rather, Iris is while I’m off daydreaming about impossibilities.
“Maybe Twyla Jackson can be a mentor,” Iris says. “And even if that doesn’t work out, it would look great on your resume.”
I nod and turn off my phone. I will not be tempted by Nick. This is my career we’re discussing.
Every table in this place is full—but then, only six tables fit in the front space.
The construction worker next to me places his hard hat between him and us; he’s eating a steaming dumpling scallion soup.
I pop another dumpling into my mouth and savor the soupy filling.
Another customer comes in to pick up their order.
Iris is right that I should do it, but…
“I just don’t want to go back,” I say. “What if that circle of classmates is there? They were so horrible to me.” Mocked me.
Nobody sat with me at lunch out of fear of being “contaminated” and made to suffer social ostracism too.
But they were willing to call me for homework help at night.
Luckily, I left them behind when I went to a different high school than they did.
I’ve often thought about what I did that made me the target of those bullies, but I guess I was more interested in studying and refused to participate in their mean girl games.
“This is part of an alumni fundraiser, so they could be there. I don’t want to see them again.
I definitely don’t want to have to be nice to them and pretend it’s all cool now. ”
“You don’t have to be nice to them. Ignore them,” Iris says. “Maybe they’ll even apologize. And it’s not like they can affect you now.”
“I don’t think bullies change personalities.” And I don’t want to test whether they can affect me now.
“Sebastian and I will come so you won’t be alone. We can be rude to anybody who talks to you. Especially Sebastian.”
I should do it. Even though it’s open to current students and alumni, why would they bother to show up?
Because they seemed obsessed with picking on me back then.
Thinking about it now, I can see that my refusal to be mean to those they designated as objects of scorn had to be punished, or others might not respect their fiefdom.
Once they found out my mom was Jill’s Cookies, it was even worse.
They delighted in asking me if I was chubby because I had to taste all the oatmeal cookies.
But last year, I’d written an article about Riley, a bullied high schooler who’d created a national campaign to stop bullying, and I’d been okay revisiting my experience (not that I wrote about it in the article, but in talking about it with Riley).
I think one of the reasons Riley and I connected was that I definitely understood how damaging bullying is to your confidence.
The article won an award, but that still had not been enough for a promotion.
“I’ll go,” I say. If I let the fear of them prevent me from going to this, then I really am not over them.
“Ask Nick to accompany you,” Iris says.
“Nick’s not going to go with me to some middle school event.”
“Pitch it as something that could polish his image,” Iris suggests. “We can all say we’ve never seen him with that woman if the press asks us any questions.”
“Actually, there’s a new story,” I say. “And now I’m the girlfriend.”
“What?” Iris asks.
She is not going to like this. She dated the lead singer of a band and caught him cheating on her.
I show her the article that Nick sent me, just as Jing walks in.
Jing is my best friend at The Intelligencer .
She says hello to the owner in Chinese and then takes the seat vacated by the construction guy.
“Sorry I’m late, but Maddie, what is going on with you and Nick?” Jing unwraps her brown scarf that matches her eyes. “Are you dating?”
“No,” I say, shocked. “I would tell you.”
“It looks like you’re dating,” Jing says.
“It does,” I say. It does! And then I deflate. We are so not dating.
I slide over the plate of dumplings I ordered in advance for Jing as she dumps her much more contained bag by her feet, next to my huge carryall.
I stuff another dumpling into my mouth with my chopsticks. At this point, I need to plead the full mouth excuse.
Iris looks up. “Well, now he really should attend that middle school event with you. Now that he’s stuck you in this mess . But don’t fall for him. You can say you’re good friends. But even good friends should impress that middle school crowd.”
Nick would definitely impress.
“How can you say no to being on a panel with the Twyla Jackson? She’s my idol,” Jing says. “You agree, right, Iris?”
“Yes. It shouldn’t even be a question.”
So easy for Iris to say. But the thought of seeing that group again makes my skin crawl. And it’s been years. The worst was when they painted the back of my gym shorts with spots of red nail polish, and everybody laughed at me.
“It’s especially perfect because of that Variety article,” Jing says. “They can assume he really is your boyfriend.”
“I can’t believe he has paparazzi already. And that I was in some paparazzi shot.”
“The way you’re looking at each other is smoking,” Jing says.
“But it’s not true,” I say.
“You didn’t sit in his lap?” Iris asks, her head tilted, with that look in her eyes that says, Don’t think you can try to get away with this.
Great. I’m getting investigator Iris and not best friend Iris.
“I tripped, and he grabbed me in time and then sat down with me in his lap,” I say.
“See. You were sitting in his lap, and he could have dumped you on the plastic crate if he really had no feelings for you,” Jing says.
And now, reporter Jing.
“Thanks,” I say wryly. “The emotions you’re ascribing to the photo aren’t true.”
“You guys are still friends, so there’s some emotional care there,” Jing says.
“That’s all there is,” I say.
“It’s a start.” Jing bumps me with her shoulder.
“That’s all there should be,” Iris says.
Does Jing also think I have a crush on Nick? I know Iris does. And if both Jing and Iris do, then what if Nick does? I don’t want Nick to be worried I’m falling for him and feel like he has to pull back from our friendship.
I don’t think he does. It’s not like the time in middle school when those mean girls kept sending me fake notes from the most popular guy and I believed them.
That popular guy was nice to me because he wanted my help with his homework.
I sent him a note back “reciprocating” his feelings, and that note was photocopied and plastered all over my locker with his UGH on it.
Actually, that was worse than the red nail polish on my shorts.
He made sure I knew I shouldn’t acknowledge him in any subsequent encounter.
Such unnecessary cruelty.
At least Mr. Popular failed his next English test without me to help him study.
“I’d have to bribe Nick and let him play all night or something,” I say.
“You can sleep in our living room. Or my bedroom at my parents’ house is available,” Iris says.
Her phone beeps. “Oh, we have a cybersecurity incident. I have to go and check it out.” She stuffs the last dumpling into her mouth and cleans up her trash.
Jing and I hug her goodbye and watch her dash off.
We finish up our dinner and then wrap up again in our coats and scarves to go outside.
“Is it snowing?” Jing asks.
I nod. We say goodbye to the owner and exit. I hook my arm into Jing’s and walk her comfortably back to her apartment, which is only a few blocks away from mine, so we can continue chatting. The snow flurries land lightly on the sidewalk and seem to stick.
When we arrive in the vestibule of her building, Jing turns to me and says, “Nick’s a good guy. You’d have to be made of steel not to be attracted to him.” She holds up the photo of Nick and me on her phone.
“I’m so attracted to him.” It feels good to say it out loud.
“No shame in that,” Jing says.
“He came with me to my interviews because I sprained my ankle when I tripped and fell into his lap.” At least my ankle is better now. I iced it again last night.
“Smooth move,” Jing says.
“So not smooth,” I say.
“I beg to disagree,” Jing says. “You ended up in his lap.”
I laugh. “He blinked goodbye at me. Do you think that means anything?”
“That means I love you in cat language,” Jing says.
I pout. “At least Sherlock loves me.”
It won’t be too bad. Nick will be happy to practice late at night.
But he does seem to be picky about who he dates, given that he doesn’t date.
And he’s probably not going to want to give any credence to that Variety report.
It’s not like I want to go around pretending that report is correct.
I’m supposed to be a hard-hitting reporter, not some rock star’s floozy flunky girlfriend.
Luckily, nobody at work seems to have recognized me.
And those bunny slippers . I’m throwing those out.
My bag feels especially heavy as I climb up the worn, wooden stairs to my apartment.
Nick’s door is slightly ajar. Weird . I unlock my door.
Nick sticks his head out his door as if my thoughts conjured him up.
“Maddie, I have a huge favor to ask of you,” he says.
“You do?” This could be good.
He nods. He looks so serious. “You never replied to my text of that photo in Variety .”
Because what should I reply? Was he horrified? Why did he send that to me? His “FYI” gave no context.
“I still can’t believe it,” I say. “But congratulations. You’ve got paparazzi. What’s happening with your MusEn deal? Do they want to sign you?”
“They did.” His tone sounds so dismal.
“They did ?”
“But now they’re worried that I’m a PR risk because of that woman’s video. And she put up another one complaining that I’m cheating on her with you.”
“But she’s a total fraudster.”
“Right. It’s even worse that I’m now affiliated with her and that she served jail time for defrauding an older couple.
The record company is concerned that the next headline will quote the lyrics of my last song about ‘looking for the one’ as ‘looking for the perfect victim to defraud.’ Or so they said.
” He bites his lip. “But if I could say that you were my real girlfriend…”
My heart thuds. “Your real girlfriend?”
“I’ll do anything if you’ll fake date me,” he says.
“Fake date you.” Hurray for my saying that in an even tone. Nick doesn’t want to date me. He wants to pretend we’re dating.
He says, “I know you can barely tolerate me, and the way you just said that… You sound less than thrilled. But this is my career on the line. And you would have to promise to not ever do a tell-all article. Maybe you could sign an NDA.”
He thinks I would do a tell-all article. Some friendship we have. Emotional care, my foot.
“No,” I say. No way. “I’m sure you can find a million other women who’d be willing to be your fake girlfriend.”
“No.” He shakes his head. “I can’t. Not ones that I trust.”
“You just clearly said you don’t trust me.”
“I trust you as much as I trust any reporter,” he says.
At least he sees me as a reporter. Some comfort there.
“I cover the story. I am not the story,” I say.
“Please.”
“Hard pass.” I slip inside my apartment and close the door.
I’m not falling for Nick’s puppy dog look through the opening.
The fact that my entire body did a leap of joy when he said “my real girlfriend” is all that I need to know that I would not survive fake dating with my heart intact.
But even more importantly, as a reporter, my job is to tell the truth.
How can I be part of a fake relationship?