Sing. Vivi Greene

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       92 Days Until Tour June 12th

      “HE’S AN ASS.”

      Tess arrives bearing Jeni’s ice cream sandwiches and a flimsy book of matches from the bodega on the corner. We’re on the roof deck, overlooking the lamplit West Village cobblestones and the dark, reflective sheen of the Hudson River.

      “A giant, hairy ass,” Sammy agrees. She’s sprawled across one of the chaise longues, her long strawberry-blond hair fanned out behind her. Mom picked the patio furniture on one of her visits last fall, before I’d officially moved in. Neither of us had any idea that “patio” meant something different in New York than it did in Los Angeles. Or back home in Wisconsin, for that matter. It’s almost impossible to squeeze past the matching glass tables and rustic lanterns and stocky potted ferns without tripping.

      “I mean, not that his ass is hairy,” Sammy clarifies. “Though it probably is. I just meant that his hair is big.” Between her knees is a shoebox full of cards, photographs, and other Jed-related memorabilia. She flips through a small photo book I’d had printed for Valentine’s Day. “Not big. Gigantic.”

      Tess kicks Sammy from her post on one of the cushioned benches that line the perimeter of the deck.

      “What?” Sammy whines, rubbing the side of her ankle. “It’s not a secret that his hair is huge. There could be an entire colony of small creatures reproducing in there and we’d never have a clue.”

      I laugh, even though I don’t feel like it, which is why Sammy has been my best friend since preschool. She will do or say anything to make me smile, even if it means making herself look bad, which—given her insanely long legs, porcelain skin, and freakishly shiny hair—is nearly impossible to do.

      “I’m just not sure we’ve entered the trash-talking portion of the evening yet,” Tess says flatly. She fiddles with the piercing in the soft cartilage of her upper ear, a tiny silver barbell. “We still don’t even know what happened.”

      “I told you what happened.” I groan, pulling my favorite gray cashmere sweater across my bare knees. It was the first nice thing I bought for myself when I signed to my label in LA Sammy helped me pick it out in a boutique in Santa Monica, and even though the sleeves are stretched and it’s worn around the collar, I’ve kept it with me ever since.

      “I refuse to believe you broke up with Jed Monroe because he ordered soup,” Sam says. “But even if you did, I’m sure he deserved it. I mean, look at these.” She pulls out a strip of photo booth shots we took at a meet-and-greet with fans a few months back. I’m making all sorts of wacky faces and Jed is pouting, his big, handsome features arranged stoically and identically from shot to shot. “Would it kill him to smile?”

      I sigh. “I didn’t break up with him. Stop trying to make me feel better.”

      Tess and Sammy exchange what is supposed to be an undercover look of concern. “Sorry.” Sam shrugs. She puts the photos back in the shoebox and lays the matches beside them.

      “Don’t be sorry!” Tess barks. She stands abruptly, gathering her brown hair into a knot on the top of her head, exposing a newly shorn undercut that makes her look part punk, part little boy. Tess is pretty fierce about breakups, not that she’s had many of her own. When she told us she was gay the summer after high school, I was relieved, figuring she’d finally start opening up about the girls she was seeing. But she didn’t. As far as I know, she’s never had a relationship longer than a few months. Independence is her calling card, sort of the way falling in love is mine.

      I shake my head stubbornly. “I don’t want to keep doing this.”

      “Then let’s go out!” Sammy says, bolting upright. Let’s go out is pretty much Sammy’s mantra. If they gave out advanced degrees for partying your problems away, she would have her PhD.

      “No,” I say. “I mean, this.” I wave distractedly at the shoebox. “I don’t want to keep doing this to myself. Getting dumped, and pretending to be better for it. Writing songs about how much stronger I am on my own. Because what if the truth is that there’s something wrong with me? What if I’m destined to be alone?” I bite at the corners of my thumbnail, my oldest and grossest habit.

      “That’s ridiculous,” Tess says. “The only thing wrong with you is that you have terrible taste in men.”

      I roll my eyes. “You loved Jed,” I remind her. “You said he was so much better than—and I quote—‘the industry douchebags’ I usually fall for.”

      Tess scoffs. “Hardly a glowing recommendation,” she jokes, before turning serious. “No, you’re right. Jed’s a solid guy and a kick-ass musician. You guys, your careers … it all made sense. But you deserve more than a business partner. You deserve somebody who gets the real you—crazy, silly, goofy you. That’s what you’re looking for. Right?”

      I shake my head. “I don’t know,” I say, stretching out my legs and looking up at the starless sky. “All I know is that I’m tired of my own battle cry. It’s boring.”

      “Your battle cry is Billboard platinum.” Sammy laughs, collapsing back onto the chaise. “You can’t give up now.”

      Tess kicks her again and rolls her eyes. “That’s not what she means, Samantha.”

      “I don’t know what I mean,” I say with a frustrated sigh.

      “I have an idea.” Tess shifts closer to me on the bench. “Let’s get out of here.”

      Sammy reaches down to pull on her sandals.

      “No, no, I don’t mean now.” Tess raises her thick, dark brows. “For the summer.”

      “The summer?” Sam looks confused. “Like, the whole summer?”

      I shake my СКАЧАТЬ