Hot Little Hands (22 page)

“Ohhh,” the guys yelled and the driver honked as they drove away.

The girls dropped their arms. “I don't think it was that way. Because, look, we came from there and we walked past that corner store.”

“Oh yeah. So we take it from here.”

They went over to the bus stop; Jenni sat down and Elise looked at the timetable. “Twenty-five minutes,” she said. “I hate catching the bus on weekends.”

“So annoying,” Jenni said. “Should we just taxi it?”

They stood on the curb and looked for cabs. They tried to hail one that came toward them, even though its lights weren't on and it was obviously taken. Eventually, an empty one passed on the other side of the road, but the driver either didn't see them or didn't want to do a U-turn, and he just kept going.

“Maybe we should walk?” Jenni said. “It's not that far.”

“Yeah, maybe.”

They started walking, but then Elise decided to call home.

“What's wrong?” her mum asked when Elise said hi.

“Nothing. We're ready to go home but the bus isn't coming for ages and we can't get a taxi.”

“Do you want me to come pick you up?”

“Do you mind?”

“Not at all,” her mum said. “What's the address?”

Elise and Jenni stood on the sidewalk and waited. Elise crossed her arms over her chest and stomped up and down on the spot to keep warm. She looked down at her shoes and said she wanted new heels. White ones or aqua, or even hot pink, for summer. Jenni said Holly was going shopping in the city the next day and they could join. Then they talked about going to Frankston that weekend because Bec was kind of going out with a surfer who lived there, and there was going to be a bonfire on the beach unless it rained. Jenni had seen pictures of Bec and the guy on Holly's phone, and they looked really into each other and he was hot. In the photos, at least.

They discussed what else they could do in the holidays. They tried to work out if they had one or two weeks left. They were glad someone had made a movie of
Persepolis
so they wouldn't have to read a whole book before they wrote their essays. They wondered why there weren't more Iranian supermodels or movie stars, and thought it was sad but would hopefully happen soon. Then they talked about who the hottest celebrities of all time were, and they debated whether they'd rather look like Beyoncé or Kim Kardashian. They loved Kim because she was beautiful and her body was really curvy but totally in proportion and she had a good sense of humor and didn't take herself too seriously, and they loved Beyoncé because she was completely stunning and her body was perfect and her songs were unique, and you could tell she was the nicest person, and she was always really sweet to her fans. Also, she had a song out with a crazy video in which she did an awesome African tribal army dance. The girls agreed they would watch it later on, when they got home. They were both relieved when Elise's mum pulled up on the other side of the road and waved at them. Jenni had to pee and Elise was hungry.

A
melia couldn't finish her book, so she decided to have a baby. She got pregnant with a gay friend, and waited six weeks to make sure it was actually happening. Then she emailed her agent.
It's going to take me longer than expected,
she wrote, even though it had already taken longer than expected and her last email, with the subject line
Any day now…,
had been sent four months ago.
It's early still and I probably shouldn't say anything but—I can't help it. I'm pregnant.

Her agent, the father of teenage twins, could hardly tell her off for wanting to procreate, but he did express some surprise. Amelia was only twenty-two, after all, and she had never—in conversation or in her writing—mentioned an interest in children.
Of course,
he wrote before signing off,
your mind must be on other matters at this exciting moment. Take your time finishing the book.
Amelia smiled at that last line. She turned off her computer for the first time in months, and felt a deep sense of relief and calm—a feeling she hadn't imagined she'd experience until the book was done.

She pictured his phone call to the editor and the editor's conversation with the sales team. No longer could they market her as the wunderkind blogger-turned-author fresh out of college. Now she would be this other thing, this uncategorizable shunner of the New York code. While her peers were all busy getting drunk and high, and sleeping their way through three of the five boroughs, Amelia would be at home, sterilizing bottles and feeling sleepy—or whatever it was new mothers did. In any case, she would have good reason not to write. It was a great plan, she thought. Soon morning sickness would kick in and lay her out for hours at a time, her essay collection left unfinished on her computer, and she helpless to do anything about it.

“You won't get morning sickness,” her mother said. It was Saturday morning and Amelia was at brunch at her parents' place on the Upper East Side. “I never had it. Auntie Annie never had it. Your grandma never had it. We don't get it. We also don't show till late. Like, five months or so. You've got a while to go.”

They were sitting in the living room, eating bagels and drinking coffee. All four of Amelia's sisters were there, too, on the couch, the armchair, and the floor, and their dad was at the table with the newspaper. While everyone else was still gulping back the news, Amelia's mother was dealing with the shock the way she dealt with every uncomfortable emotional experience: with a take-charge attitude. “You'll need to look at your insurance plan,” she said. “See what birth options are covered.”

“I'm sorry, Mom, but how are you okay with this?” Georgia asked.

“You know she should get it taken care of,” Celine said. “Just tell her to take care of it.”

“I don't want it taken care of,” Amelia told them. “I want this. It's planned parenthood.”

“It's fine to want a baby,” her father said. “You've always said you would one day. But is now the time?”

“I think so. I don't have much else going on. I'm between things.”

“You're between college and the rest of your life,” Jane said. “That's not the right time.”

“We don't do this,” said Georgia. “Seriously. It's just not done.”

Everyone fell silent and focused on their bagels. It was clear that by “we” Georgia meant all the Banks girls, and by “this” she meant have children before achieving all your goals and realizing your full potential, fully. It was, Amelia saw now, an unspoken family rule, like “Don't talk during
Gilmore Girls,
” or “Don't ask about Mom's college boyfriend, Claude.” It probably went doubly for the two younger girls, and should have applied most stringently to Amelia herself, who was the youngest, the baby, the wunderkind blogger-turned-author-turned-mother-to-be.

Hank usually came back to Brooklyn on Saturdays, and he and Amelia usually fooled around, but today he said he wasn't in the mood.

“What's wrong?” She was standing in their kitchen by the stove and he was at the table. “Don't you think I'm sexy anymore?”

“What? Of course I do. You know I can't resist a girl wearing frilly ankle socks with her glitter jellies.”

“So then, what?”

Hank shrugged. “I feel like I'd just be thinking about the baby the whole time. How there's another guy's baby in there. It's kind of a moodkill.”

“Oh no, I shouldn't have told you,” Amelia said.

“What are you talking about?”

“You get three months before you have to tell people. I should have waited till then.”

“Mimi,” he said, “I'm your boyfriend, kind of.” They'd had an open relationship since June, when he'd moved part-time to Rhinebeck for an artist's assistant job.

“Then fool around with me.” She actually had to stop herself from stamping her foot on the floor.

“Maybe later?” he said.

Later he went out. Amelia stayed in. She had to be careful now, keep away from alcohol and not overdo things. She couldn't remember the last time she had stayed home on a Saturday night. In college, she had gone out all the time just for fun. More recently, since the book deal, she
had
to go out on weekends. How could you write about the habits of a generation without seeing those habits up close? Without getting a plus one, a front-row seat, a backstage pass to those habits. Without sipping, slamming, and snorting those habits, and rubbing the remnants into your gums, just for fun.

Through her window she could see other windows, and in a third of those other windows there was a light on and someone doing something inside. Eating, watching TV, staring at a laptop. Wow, she realized, people do stay home on Saturday nights. Nobody writes essay collections about those people, but they do exist.

She wondered what she should do with the night. What did expectant mothers do? They nested. She looked around. The place was pretty tidy; Hank was better about keeping it that way than she was. She was usually busy, supposed to be writing. There was a teaspoon on the counter. She put it in the sink. She looked out the window again. A woman across the way was applying makeup without using a mirror. Amelia washed and dried the spoon and dropped it in a drawer. That was enough nesting for the night.

She went into the living room, curled up under a blanket, turned on Nick at Nite, and fell asleep. She woke up later when Hank got home. They went to bed and had sex immediately. It was better and more energetic than any they'd had in months. Amelia was on top and she came all over him and all over the sheets. This had never happened before, and she wondered if this was what it would feel like when her water broke. She was careful not to wonder this aloud until afterward, when Hank was lying next to her in the dark, in the wet spot, idly rubbing her back.

“I dunno,” he said. He had obviously not spent much time in his life so far wondering about such things. “But that was pretty cool,” he said, and fell asleep.

On Sunday morning, Amelia met her friends for brunch at Enid's. When she told them about the baby, they sat and stared at her belly for what felt like a long time.

“There's nothing to see, just my usual pudge.” She pulled her T-shirt tight over her stomach. “The baby's the size of a blueberry right now.”

“Ew,” said Dana.

“Are you hoping for a girl blueberry or a boy blueberry?” asked Gabby.

Amelia practiced a beatific, all-knowing pregnant-woman smile. “I really don't care,” she said, “as long as it's a healthy baby. Boy. I want a healthy baby boy.”

When their eggs and oatmeal arrived, the other girls talked about their news. Gabby was about to fly to Wyoming to shoot a documentary about Scandinavian cowgirls. Akiko liked her new industrial design job in Dumbo. Dana and her boyfriend were thinking about getting engaged because they wanted to get married on 12/12/12. Akiko was now dating her old boss. Gabby and her boyfriend had been broken up for a month, but they were still living together until their lease was up.

“He has this curtain, in the living room. And he pulls it across when he wants privacy. It's not like he brings girls back there or anything. He just listens to Hot 97 and draws in his sketchbook. It's so weird. Mimi, you should put it in your book.”

“I'm not writing the book anymore,” Amelia said.

“Are you serious?” asked Akiko. “What are you gonna do instead?”

“Just, like, get ready for the baby.”

Everyone went quiet. The waitress, sensing the pause, dropped off the check.

“Let us pay for you.” Akiko reached out and touched her wrist.

“Yeah,” said Gabby, “as congratulations.”

“Thanks,” Amelia said, but it felt more like a condolence than congratulations. Or, worse still, like a goodbye. She wondered if her friends might not want her around soon, with her big belly and lack of anecdotes from the night before. Maybe they were worried cute bartenders would stop comping them cocktails and KJs would stop letting them jump the karaoke queue, with a pregnant girl around. Maybe this time next year she would be just another parent trying to push a monstrous stroller past groups of staring Wayfarer-wearers in McCarren Park, on her way to ask suspicious, in-depth questions to vendors at the farmers market. And all anyone nearby would be thinking, her friends included, is that she belonged in
the other park.
So once her friends had piled their twenties onto the tray, Amelia put her elbows on the table and playfully clapped her hands together. “Hey,” she said, “who wants to hear about how I got a gay guy to knock me up?”

“Oh, me,” said Akiko. “Me me me.” They all tilted forward to hear her over the breakfast roar, ignoring the hungry people lining up outside the window with their newspapers and toddlers, waiting to be seated.

Her friends knew some of the story already. Amelia had written thirty pages of prose and a chapter outline, signed with an agent, and, after some near misses and rejections, sold her book to an up-and-coming editor at a good publishing house for enough money to live on for a New York year. She had quit her job with Teach for America and stayed home to write.

After ten years of blogging, she had finally gotten what she wanted. A book deal, and time to write. Only to—falter. Every piece she conceived seemed stupid: maybe worthy of a blog post but not worthy of a book-length collection of essays. Who cared about the purity rings she and her college boyfriend had ironically exchanged? Who cared that they ironically then never actually slept together for the whole three years they dated? Who cared about the drag queen outside Lucky Cheng's who had given her the Heimlich one time when she came out of a nearby bodega and choked on a Sour Patch Kid? Who cared about her internship at a bankrupt roller-skating rink, or her extensive Lisa Frank sticker collection, or her shameful adult Baby-Sitters Club addiction? Or her first memory, her Protestant-girl-at-Jewish-camp story, or even what it was like growing up as the youngest of five sisters? This was New York, she had realized, after months of false starts and thwarted attempts. The city of stories. Everyone had their own tales to tell about internships and drag queens and summer camp. Why would they pay money and take the time to read hers?

This realization had happened about five months into that lost year, and no amount of consoling and encouragement over brunch at Enid's was going to help her. She had made a mistake. The editor had made a mistake. Her agent had made a mistake. And they seemed like undoable ones.
They're waiting for it,
she reminded herself as she sat down at her computer each morning.
They're waiting for it,
she thought as she scrolled through her Twitter feed, posted pictures to her
People Using 10-Color Pens in Offices
Tumblr, resisted the urge to update her blog (she had taken an official break from it while she wrote the book: her editor's idea).
They're waiting for it,
as she brushed her hair, sent handwritten letters, met up with friends, took an afternoon off, had a nap, visited a friend in Barcelona, watched all nine seasons of
Roseanne,
read other people's published essay collections, and took up a few freelance copywriting jobs as supplementary income.
We're waiting for it,
her agent Scott seemed to be saying when he checked in with her periodically—both before and after her missed deadline—just to see how it was going.