Oh Yeah, Audrey! Page 13

I’m serious. I need that dress back.

  What a jerk. He probably faked the whole thing—faked being able to afford it in the first place. Just to see if he could get me to go out with him, to jump into bed with him. And it almost worked, because I was just as big a jerk as he was. I blew off my friends for Dusty, and for a dress.

  There’s a sign hanging above me, swinging from a metal rod up over the sidewalk. It’s faded, in old-fashioned letters, red and blue stripes down either side, like the French flag.

  VIE DE FRANCE DRY CLEANING AND TAILOR. FRENCH METHOD. SAME-DAY SERVICE AND HAUTE COUTURE ALTERATIONS. SINCE 1953. HOURS: 9–6 EVERY DAY.

  I turn and look at the door. In the window just to the side of the door handle is a newspaper clipping, yellowing news-print in a black frame. I look more closely: The headline reads

  FAMED FRENCH DESIGNER PRESENTS TRUNK SHOW TO HIGH SOCIETY

  It’s dated 1963, and there’s a photograph of a tall, sophisticated-looking man in a dark suit and close-cropped hair, holding up two hangers with a simple black dress hanging off each one. The story reads:

  Couturier Hubert de Givenchy, who rarely leaves Paris, arrived in New York City Saturday to present his newest collection for the American market in an exclusive showing to a select group of customers. A who’s who of New York society arrived at the show, held in the apartment of Mrs. George W. Clark, where Monsieur de Givenchy draped models in the gowns.

  “Every woman should have a little black dress,” Monsieur de Givenchy said through an interpreter.

  Mrs. Sanford Greenburger, a longtime client of Monsieur de Givenchy, was delighted to purchase three gowns. “I’ll still travel to Paris for the collections, of course,” she said.

  This reporter was curious how the dresses looked so fresh after the long trip from France. Monsieur de Givenchy explained: “I send all of the dresses out for cleaning and pressing shortly after my arrival at Idlewild.”

  And whom does the designer trust with the task?

  “Vie de France, bien sûr,” de Givenchy said.

  Vie de France. Exactly where I’m standing right now. What are the odds? I look up at the pink sky and think, Thank you. I mean it for Audrey.

  I look at the “I Heart New York” bag hanging from my fingers, filled with a treasure of a dress. Made by the hands of the man in the photograph in the frame in front of me.

  I hang it from the doorknob of the Vie de France dry cleaner’s and text the address of the place back to Dusty. Then I delete his number from my phone.

  5:45 A.M.

  Everything about the street outside Tiffany’s this morning feels familiar. It’s just like it was yesterday. The empty sidewalk. The cool air. The crawling cabs. The distant sound of a siren snaking between the buildings, singing about a distant tragedy in another part of town. The mist in the air, a cool mist that’s almost prickly. The white deli bag and paper cup of coffee I have in my hand, the pastry bought at the same store I visited yesterday. The wondering if anyone else will show up.

  But even if everything feels familiar, nothing is the same.

  For one thing, there’s my outfit, which could be comical if I’d planned it that way. Black V-neck. Black sweatpants. Black strappy heels. What would Audrey say?

  That’s the other thing that’s different: I don’t care. I look like a wreck, but it takes more than a dress to become Audrey Hepburn. I’m not Audrey. And I’m not Holly. I look at that reflection in the Tiffany’s window and, this time, I see what’s really there: Gemma Beasley.

  My phone buzzes. It’s Dad.

  I don’t pick up.

  I walk to the edge of the curb and stand at the corner of the sidewalk, at exactly the spot where Gladiator nearly peed on my foot yesterday.

  “Hold on, Dad,” I say out loud. “Not yet. Soon.”

  I notice another cab, then another. A horn. The city is coming to life around me. I walk back toward Tiffany’s and lean against the building, heavy and alone.

  My shoes are killing me, the black straps digging into my cold, swollen feet. I shift from one foot to the other and back again, but it doesn’t help. I raise the coffee to my lips and I wait.

  6:00 A.M.

  A dog barks around the corner, and another dog answers with a yap.

  I scan the sidewalk. They’re not here.

  Of course they aren’t here. There’s no way they’re coming. Why would they? They’re pissed at me, and I don’t blame them.

  I’m pissed at me, too.

  After the movie, the best movie of all time, they all probably went back to the Four Seasons to sleep in those deep, soft, comfortable beds, and that’s where they are now, piled among the pillows, so many pillows, slowly breathing and dreaming of the room service breakfast they’ll order later, to eat on the balcony overlooking the endless expanse of Central Park, and talk about how much they love New York City and how they never want to leave—why would anyone ever want to? After all, they had good reasons to want to get away from home, too. Bryan, bullied so badly. And Trina, working so hard at the Corral.

  Twenty-four hours ago I would have thought: Here I am at Tiffany’s, after a glamorous night out with a rich young man, just like Holly Golightly. I accepted dinner and gifts, and I met fabulous people.

  If a simple pastry and a paper cup of hot coffee at the Tiffany’s window is good enough for Holly Golightly, it’s good enough for me.

  But now I realize I was so, so wrong.

  I know better now. I know what breakfast at Tiffany’s really is.

  It’s sitting on a cold sidewalk, alone, wondering who you are, wondering why you’re here, what you’ve done wrong, and where you’re going next. And there’s all that beauty so close, just beyond that window, that it seems like you can almost touch it, but really, you can’t go inside. This is what Audrey Hepburn felt when she played the part in the movie. I see it now.

  Having breakfast at Tiffany’s isn’t glamorous at all. Holly Golightly was just lost. She might not have gone to bed with all her suitors, but she paid a price for getting fifty dollars for the powder room.

  6:15 A.M.

  Is it her?”

  The voice sounds so close. So familiar. But still, I’m not sure I recognize it.

  I slowly turn around from the Tiffany’s window and I see them.

  “It is her,” says Telly.

  “She has a lot of nerve coming back here after what she did,” Trina says.

  I burst into tears and slide down the side of the building till I sit. For the first time in these twenty-four hours, I cry for the mistakes I made. I cry for letting down my real friends. I cry the tears I haven’t let myself cry in the months since my mother died.

  “Now she cries?” Trina says. “Give me a break.”

  “Save it, Trina,” Telly says. “Not now.”

  Telly leans down and touches my forearm. “Gemma,” Telly asks, “are you OK?”

  My eyes flicker across Telly’s face, so pure and pale and white. I look up to see Bryan, magnificent Bryan, so perfectly groomed and wearing a perfectly tailored suit, tortoiseshell sunglasses, and those beautiful cognac oxfords.

  “Oh, Gemma,” Telly says. “Help me get her up,” she says to Bryan.

  Bryan leans down and drapes my arm around his neck. They stand up, and so do I, wobbling as I rise.

  “I—I—I’m so glad to see you,” I say.

  Trina stomps a few steps away. “Tell me when you’re ready to leave,” she says. She turns toward the street, which is filling up with traffic.

  “Look at you,” Bryan says, swatting dust off my sweatpants. “Oh, Gemma. You’re in sweats. Where’s your dress?”

  “Where do you think it is?” Trina says, walking back toward the wall but not looking at me. “She obviously left it at his house.”

  I don’t answer. I don’t really know exactly what to say. I could tell them the truth, but I’m not sure they’ll believe me, or care.

  “Did he hurt you?” Bryan says. “Gemma?”

  I sha
ke my head no. “I’m so sorry,” I say. “He didn’t hurt me. I’m the only one who hurt anyone. I never should have left you.”

  “Whatever,” Trina says.

  “Trina,” Bryan says. “Look at her. She’s a mess.”

  “What?” Trina says. “Of course she’s a mess. She deserves it after her little rendezvous last night. After ditching her friends. After lying to us! Don’t look at me to help her now. If she wants help, she can just call her mother.”

  Her words sting in a way that I know she’ll never be able to understand. “My mother,” I say. “I don’t have—”

  But before I can finish, I stop, catching my breath in my throat, stifling a sob.

  “What?” Trina asks. “What don’t you have?”

  Not now, I think. Later. “Nothing,” I say. “Listen. I know I did the wrong thing last night. I know I hurt you. But I just wanted one more chance to see you. I know this is the end of our weekend. And the end of Oh Yeah, Audrey! Even if last night had been different, if I’d said no to Dusty, if I’d stayed with you and stuck to our plan and gone to the movie and done everything I was supposed to do—I knew this morning would still be our last chance to see one another. And I didn’t want to miss it.”

  Trina turns around, swiftly, sharply. “You ditched us,” she says. “Who does that?”

  Who does that? I repeat in my head. Holly Golightly?

  “I’m sorry,” I say. “I don’t expect you to forgive me. I was . . .”

  “She was swept away,” Bryan says, finishing my thought. He turns to me and says quietly, “But she got in over her head.”

  I close my eyes.

  “Are you sure you’re OK?” he asks.

  “I am now.”

  “Oh, Gemma,” Telly says. “It’s OK.” She puts her arm around my waist.

  “Trina,” I say.

  She ignores me, so I say it louder.

  “Trina, I know I got carried away. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean—” I inhale sharply. “I learned what it really means to take fifty dollars for the powder room,” I say.

  She doesn’t answer.

  “I know what it’s like.”

  “Tell us, Gemma,” Trina says, challenging me. “Tell us what it means to take fifty dollars for the powder room. Tell us what it’s really like to be the fabulous Holly Golightly in her fabulous dress. Please. Enlighten us.”

  I look down at my feet, then up at the Tiffany’s sign. I don’t have exactly the words to say.

  “That’s what I thought,” Trina says. “Come on, you guys.”

  “Wait,” Telly says.

  “It’s lonely,” I say. “It’s cold. It’s exhausting. It’s . . .”

  “What?” Trina asks.

  “It’s empty,” I say, and I feel a tear drop onto my cheek. “I don’t want to be Holly anymore. Or even Audrey,” I say. “Just Gemma.”

  No one says anything for a moment. The three of them stand around me, looking at me, at my pathetic self in my pathetic sweatpants with my tousled hair and smudged makeup.

  “Just Gemma.”

  Trina sighs. “Gemma was always enough for us,” she says.

  Hearing her say that makes me smile. It’s a weak smile, but it’s a smile. “I have something to tell you,” I say.

  “What is it?” Bryan says.

  “My mother was a writer,” I begin quietly. “She wrote stories. She loved stories. She especially loved my stories. The crazy stories I made up in my head. She was always so happy to hear them.”

  “Was?” Telly says.

  “Was,” I say.

  My three friends are silent.

  “I wish she was here to listen to this story,” I say. “I wish I could tell it to her. I don’t know if she’d even believe it — believe that I pretty much ran away from home to have breakfast at Tiffany’s.”

  “Wait, what do you mean, you ‘wish she was here’ . . . ,” Trina starts.

  “Oh, Gemma.” Bryan pulls me into a hug. “Why didn’t you tell us? You never said . . .”

  “I’m sorry,” I say.

  Telly grabs my shoulders and tears slip down my cheeks again. “I was afraid you’d treat me differently. And I didn’t want you to see me as some sad and needy girl, sitting at home alone with her depressed dad, writing on her blog, feeling sorry for herself. It was easier to just talk about Audrey.”

  “When did it happen?” Telly asks.

  “A few months ago, pretty much right when I started the blog. I guess I needed something to help me escape from my real life.”

  “We all did,” Bryan says.

  “Yes,” Trina says. “We all did.”

  “I know,” I say. I sniffle.

  Telly pulls a Kleenex from her backpack and hands it to me.

  “But we’re here for you now, Gemma, just like we always were,” Bryan says. “We’re all here for one another. Aren’t we? Audrey just brought us together.”

  “I promise never to ditch you for another one of Audrey’s ten-thousand-dollar dresses ever again. If you’ll forgive me?”

  “Deal,” Telly says.

  “Come on, guys,” Trina says and grabs my hand. “I’m starving. Let’s go to the diner.”

  7:00 A.M.

  We’re sitting in the same diner we sat in yesterday, poking at plates of pancakes and stirring packets of sugar into our coffees.

  “You should have been there,” Bryan says. “The crowd went crazy when the opening credits came up. Everyone was humming ‘Moon River’ while Holly was shuffling across the sidewalk to look at the Tiffany’s windows.”

  “And the girls behind us, they recited every single line along with the movie,” Telly says. “At first it was annoying, but then—”

  “They got a few lines wrong,” Bryan says. “Like when Holly was having those bad dreams and yelling for Fred?”

  “Yeah,” Trina says. “You would have gotten them right, Gemma.” She smiles at me, almost, sort of a half smile that doesn’t say much. But it’s the first smile she’s given me this morning.

  Maybe she’ll forgive me. I know she’s mad, but maybe, maybe we’ll be the friends we were always supposed to be. I know I’ve changed since yesterday. I know more about . . . everything. I smile back at Trina.

  “Thanks,” I say, and for a moment, I feel like Holly Golightly, having her happy ending with Paul Varjak and Cat in Breakfast at Tiffany’s. But this is my happy ending. And it’s real.

  I feel my phone vibrate in my clutch. I know it’s Dad. I reach into my purse, then hold the phone in my hand for a long moment.

  One buzz. Two. Three.

  “I have to take this, you guys,” I say.

  Bryan smiles.

  I get up from the booth, walk out the front door of the diner, and finally answer the phone.

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  Thanks to Tamar Brazis, Dan Mandel, Brenda Bowen, Maria Middleton, Susan Van Metre, Jason Wells, Jim Armstrong, Andy Fishering, Paul Zakris, Pizzeria Locale, Hubert de Givenchy, Truman Capote, and Audrey Hepburn.

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Tucker Shaw is the author of many popular books for teens, including The Girls, Confessions of a Backup Dancer, Flavor of the Week, and Anxious Hearts. He lives in Boston, where he is an editor at America’s Test Kitchen.