Size 12 and Ready to Rock
“Residence hall,” I correct her somberly.
“Right,” she says and looks thoughtful. “We better think up some activities for these girls, and fast. Outside the building, so they don’t happen to run into Magnus and his crew while they’re painting the lower floors. How about one of those Sex and the City tours? Everybody would like that, even the moms.”
“That’s good,” I say. “But how about first we take all the flowers and stuffed animals that people have been dropping off for Tania and deliver them to the Children’s Hospital of New York? Jared told me before he died that that’s what Tania likes for people to do with the gifts her fans bring her. And we could make sure that the cards get sent to his family.”
Lisa’s eyes look as if they’ve suddenly filled with tears. “Oh,” she says. “Oh, I think that would be a great programming activity for all the girls. But it would be especially meaningful for the girls in 1621, who don’t seem to have their priorities very straight.”
“Exactly,” I say. “You know what else would be fun to do with them? Take them to famous rock-and-roll landmarks in New York City.”
Lisa claps her hands. “Like that place where John Lennon got shot. Or the hotel where that Sid guy murdered Nancy!”
“Or,” I say calmly, “places not associated with murder, to get their minds off what happened here. Maybe a more positive, female-centric tour.”
“Are there any places having to do with female rock-and-rollers that don’t involve drug overdoses or murder?”
“Yes,” I say, giving her a horrified look. “Of course. Just a block away from this building, there’s the Washington Square Hotel, where Joan Baez lived. She sings about her stay there in her song ‘Diamonds and Rust.’ Not very flatteringly—she refers to it as a ‘crummy hotel,’ which it probably was back then. But she mentions it.”
“Joan who?” Lisa asks, looking bewildered.
“Never mind,” I say, my heart breaking a little. How could she not know who Joan Baez is? It’s weird working with a boss who’s younger than I am. Not that Joan and I are exactly contemporaries, but at least I’ve heard of her. “There’s Webster Hall, where everyone from Tina Turner to the Ting Tings has performed. And the Limelight, where Gloria Estefan and Britney Spears and Whitney Houston all performed before it got shut down. And . . .” I say, leaning forward, starting to feel excited, “ . . . there’s John Varvatos. He’s a fashion designer who has a menswear store at 315 Bowery, where CBGB used to be, but he uses the underground nightclub scene as his inspiration, so we could take them there, and they could feel what it was like when Deborah Harry was bringing the house down with Blondie and ‘Heart of Glass’ . . . sort of. And Madonna lived in the Chelsea Hotel, so we could emphasize that part of it, not the death part. Janis Joplin, Joni Mitchell, Patti Smith, you name it, there are so many great rock-and-rollers who stayed there—”
“I have no idea who Patti Smith is,” Lisa says, scratching Tricky on the head as he leaps up onto the couch beside her. “But I’m sure he’s great. This all sounds great.”
“What’s great?” Sarah says, stomping into the office in her Doc Martens. Her dark hair is flying every which way, and one of the straps to her overall shorts is undone. This comes off as less sexily mussed than harried and upset.
“Heather’s going to take the campers on a rock-and-roll tour of New York,” Lisa says brightly. “After we take all of Tania’s gifts from her fans to the Children’s Hospital.”
“Wait a minute,” I say, leaning back in my chair. “I didn’t say I was going to do it. I said we should do it—”
“But you know so much about it,” Lisa says. “Who else could do it? I don’t know who half those people are you just named, and I’ve never heard of the Limelight or—what was that other place? John Varvargoes?”
“That guy?” Sarah looks at me incredulously. “That guy made Sebastian’s murse.” Then she bursts into tears.
“Oh my God,” Lisa says, glancing at me in surprise, then back at Sarah. “What’s wrong, Sarah?”
“Nothing,” she says, plopping down behind her desk, tears running freely down her face. “I’m fine. Just ignore me. In case you haven’t noticed, Sebastian and I have been having problems.”
Finally, I think to myself. She admits it. I reach for the box of tissues I keep on my desk, then roll my chair toward her to pass it to her.
“What kinds of problems?” I ask, thinking about how delighted this will make Tom and Steven. Not delighted that Sarah is unhappy, of course, but delighted that she and Sebastian are breaking up, because they can’t stand him.
“Well,” Sarah says, taking a handful of tissues and pressing them to her face, “if you must know, they’re problems about the future of our relationship. I feel ridiculous discussing this with you two, because you’re so happy, both engaged—”
Lisa glances at me sharply. “You’re engaged?”
I shrug. “Nothing official. We’ve just discussed it.”
“—and I can’t even get a guy who carries a murse to commit,” Sarah wails.
“Well,” I say, scooting my office chair closer to Sarah’s desk, “if Sebastian can’t see how great you are, you’re better off without him.”
“No, I’m not,” Sarah wails. “I love him, even though he’s a rat bastard who didn’t have the courtesy to tell me to my face that he’s moving to Israel.” Sarah pulls out her phone and shows me the screen. “He texted me. Can you believe that? He’s leaving for a year and a half to join the Israeli Defense Forces. He feels like it’s his duty, as a Jewish American. Why can’t he just go live on a kibbutz for a summer, like I did?”
Then Sarah is off, going on about how Sebastian will get himself killed, and how she’s never heard anything so stupid . . . although, on the other hand, Sebastian probably will develop excellent muscle definition. But what is the point, since some hot Israeli girl who looks like Natalie Portman is just going to steal his heart away (Sarah says)?
Lisa appears stunned. She’s never before been subject to one of Sarah’s impassioned speeches. Fortunately, this one is cut off (just as Sarah is getting to the part about how if Sebastian thinks she’s going to wait for him, he’s crazy) by a knock.