Magnolia's Violet Page 10

  So, I pounded the pavement (sometimes literally, when I lost my temper) and went for everything and anything out there. HEDZ continued to serve as nothing more or less than a sure fire dead end. Adam wouldn’t budge, Dad was on his way out, and Dane had been promoted—to Jorie’s personal assistant.

  The only other option, then, was everything.

  I applied to every single social media outfit in Manhattan and a couple of others in Brooklyn. I updated my portfolio, and obsessively studied those of photographers I admired, literally spending hours in the apartment hovered over my laptop, a bowl of ramen in hand.

  “What photo editing program do you use?”

  “Where do you see yourself in five years?”

  “What is your favorite lens? Why?”

  Time and time again, I rehearsed my answers until I could repeat them backward, in my sleep, on the treadmill, or while scanning the grocery aisle for cheap alternatives to the type of food actually meant for human consumption. I practiced answering these questions in the mirror. I videotaped myself and made Farrah watch so that she could criticize every non-essential fidget or gesture that might possibly make me appear less than confident.

  Not once did I mention Dad’s name.

  Unsurprisingly, every time he called Mom to get parental insider updates on my progress, insisting that he could just pull a string here or there for me, she shut him down. NO, NO, NO. Oh, it was perfectly fine when it was her reaching out to a former colleague to land me that teacher interview. But God forbid Dad made a single phone call that could put me on the fast path to success. And in a lot of ways, I was kinda on her side. Because even though this was my passion, a huge part of me couldn’t accept the possibility of only recognizing it if he stepped in.

  When all else failed, I harassed Dane nonstop in hopes to pry precious information about what these places were looking for. But even his help proved limited.

  In the end, I had to do this one on my own.

  Chapter Nine

  Farrah

  “Manny, be amazing and flag down the server for me. I need to freshen this. Anyone want another?” Bennie shouted over the crowd, throwing her arms up and letting it all out in a fit of wild laughter. I glanced over at Manny, who looked like he was cumbersomely navigating somewhere between slightly amused and beyond uncomfortable. Not that it was unusual for Bennie to treat us to dinner, and not that it was uncommon for Bennie even to let loose a bit and make a few questionable comments that borderline workplace harassment.

  It was just that on that particular night, her behavior flirted with mania, even by her standards.

  “Excuse me, sir!” she tapped the rim of her glass teasingly. “You know the drill!”

  “I’m good,” said Manny.

  Pointing toward my unadulterated, dull cola that would never place me in a compromising position (my mother really came down on me the closer it came to election day), I nodded in agreement. “All good here.”

  I tried to capture Manny’s eye, but he remained busy fiddling with his straw. Definitely beyond uncomfortable. At least I wasn’t the only one. To say that our workload over at the gallery had become stressful, would be an understatement. Bennie’s less-than-professional demeanor didn’t exactly help matters. There was no denying it, her behavior was odd. Far less professional powerhouse—very much live wire, reality TV housewife.

  Manny hesitantly looked up at Bennie from the other side of his glass. “So, I must ask. What brings us here tonight? Not that I’m ever opposed to a good night on the town, because I’m not. It’s just, well, what gives?”

  I took another long sip from my glass while scanning the room for any promise of later evening excitement. From what I could gather, the hot spot was bustling with all the right people, with a line of B-list hopefuls waiting anxiously by the door. With the strategically dimmed lights, it was hard to make out anyone specific, and the crowded hubbub didn’t exactly help, but the energy was definitely getting there.

  Bennie lazily shrugged her shoulders and smirked. “There’s no fooling you, Manuel,” she replied rather cryptically. “No fooling you.”

  “Manuel,” Manny mouthed in my direction, his overall demeanor turning several shades of cabbage green.

  I stared down at the table in silence. Since when did Bennie ever refer to him as Manuel?

  It amazed me how, after several drinks in and no real explanation for our being there, Bennie still personified the living and breathing definition of it factor. With the right cashmere scarf, clunky vintage earrings, and manicured stiletto-shaped nails (each one meticulously painted to resemble a differently flavored ice cream cone) Bennie managed to transform her ordinary look of ripped jeans and a striped long sleeved t-shirt from basic to lit.

  “Well maybe it’s not that important to share right now,” Manny said nervously, and I could tell he was instantly regretting pressing Bennie for more info. “We all deserve one low key night.”

  Low key wasn’t exactly the adjective I would use to describe Dabo, where the cheapest appetizer cost about as much as a monthly train pass, but who was I to nitpick the nuances of the English language?

  Bennie shook her head emphatically from side to side. “No, no, no. We all need to talk. Manuel, you’re right.” Bennie sighed deeply and then folded both of her hands together as if in prayer. She brought them toward her heart center in a dramatic display of feigned humility. “This is going to be a hard one,” she said, “I have to admit it. A hard one indeed.”

  What on earth was she talking about? Manny and I locked eyes again, and it became abundantly clear that we couldn’t be more confused if we tried.

  As far I could see, we had our crazy days at the gallery. However, so did every other budding business in the city. When you sought any bit of success in New York, risk came with the territory. Today’s must-have could quickly become tomorrow’s faux pas by association. By and large, though, we were a success.

  “Let me just check my phone a sec,” I said, hoping to change the subject, or at the very least, edge my way out of an uncomfortable conversation. Dollars to donuts, as Sage would say, Bennie had one too many. Whatever insight she had to share would surely dissipate the next morning. “I’m waiting to hear from my friend Kat. She’s going through so much right now. Last I heard, Kat’s father is back from overseas and wants custody of her brother—”

  “No, no, no.” Bennie shook her head again—she was doing that a lot. “No, Farrah. I need to do this, no matter how uncomfortable it might be for you.”

  “Uncomfortable? For me?”

  Bennie sighed as she lazily toyed at a lone spinach leaf with her fork, separating it from the others on her plate. “This is coming from a place of love, Farrah. Please understand that… alright, here goes. Rent is impossible. You both understand that, don’t you?”

  “I would say it takes up most of my paycheck,” Manny offered.

  “No, no, no. Not that type of rent. Rent for the gallery is impossible. Running my little business, my baby, is impossible.”

  Where was she going with this? From what I understood, Bennie essentially rode the same cruise ship of perpetual wealth as Allison. Bennie did not lack in financial resources by any stretch of the imagination—or so it appeared.

  As if on cue, Bennie looked directly into my eyes and blurted, “I have to let one of you go, and it’s you, Farrah. I’m so sorry. I can’t afford you anymore.”

  “WHAT?!?!”

  SMACK.

  I slammed my cell phone right onto the table, which admittedly was probably not the best reaction to display toward any supervisor, let alone one who’s favor I so desperately needed within the moment. But it was just that shocking to me. How could Bennie even suggest firing me, after all I’d done for the gallery? For her?

  Coincidentally, at the exact same moment of my mini-outburst, Manny shot water—literally—right through his nose! Followed promptly with the sullen mug of a guy harboring a guilty conscious, he apologized, “I’m sorry
, Farrah. That looked so bad right now, didn’t it?”

  I cautiously dabbed at the tablecloth with my napkin, instantly repulsed by the little droplets of snot water Manny had left behind. “It’s water. No biggie, see,” I said, trying my best not to gag. “Bennie, are you seriously letting me go?”

  Bennie had a way of turning up the drama dial in a matter of seconds. With a single look, or change of tone, she could make you feel like the most clueless person in the room. “Farrah, no worries! You are young, beautiful, and have everything going for you. You’ll be fine! There is much you can do. Like intern for your father.”

  Intern for my father? Maybe it was years of conditioning, but I instantly scanned the room for observers, reporters, supporters from the other side—anyone who could be watching us at that very moment to gauge my reaction.

  Had someone from my father’s crew put her up to this? Had Carmine Balduccio—the competition? “I don’t want to work for my father,” I said. “I can’t stand politics, and you know that. I’ll take a pay cut, Bennie. Seriously?”

  I couldn’t begin to understand how she could drop such news on me, in front of Manny no less, and in such a way to convey that it was all no worries.

  “Excuse me,” I rose from the table. “I need time to process this. I need space.”

  “Farrah, don’t be dramatic,” Bennie chided, her voice taking on the tone of a bored and neglectful nanny who was mentally done dealing with her charge for the day. “Sit back down and finish your dinner. You’re among friends.”

  Among friends. I was livid. Friends didn’t drop friends with such blatant nonchalance. It wasn’t even a question of money. It was the principle. There were literally no indicators of financial trouble, and Bennie MacKenzie was nowhere near what one might describe as lacking in financial resources. Her the rent is too darn high excuse didn’t cut it.

  Also, that remark about interning for my father? What was that all about? The fact that November was just a stone’s throw away also rose my suspicions. Just how much of this was connected to the pending election?

  “I need space,” I repeated, picking up my phone which, thankfully, hadn’t suffered any screen damage from my mini tantrum. “I’m not leaving, I just… I need my space.”

  That was a lie.

  Without another word, I gathered all my belongings and got out of there as fast as I could.

  *

  A long time ago, I had made a promise to myself that no matter how upset I was, unless I were seriously ill with the flu or pneumonia itself, I would never, ever let bad news deter me from my morning workout routine. It often surprised me how easy it was for some people to make excuses, of any kind, to roll over and hit the snooze button instead of facing their issues head-on. So the next morning, I woke up like it was any other. I hopped out of bed the moment my alarm sounded at 5:30, brushed my teeth, threw on my workout gear, sneakers, and flew out the door.

  The only thing out of the ordinary was that I noticed my mother had called—twice. Probably while I was getting dressed. Still, I decided not to answer, because again, nothing was going to get in my way.

  A quick, two-mile jog followed by a hardcore spin class with my favorite instructor and favorite dance jams were in order. I could save a five mile-run for the next day.

  Already pumped, earbuds in place, I jogged down the block to my favorite street vendor, Marco, who aside from offering the usual mix of bagels and those cups of coffee that came in a blue cup, made the best freshly squeezed juices within a five-mile radius. Even better than the farmer’s market that rolled in on a weekly basis.

  “Good morning, Marco. Green Energy Envy, please. Extra-large. Also, the super water.”

  “The usual, then,” Marco flashed a quick grin before getting to work on his blender magic.

  My phone started to ring—and again, it was my mom. It had to be drama, and the last thing I wanted was for her to ruin the morning vibe.

  I stepped aside from Marco’s cart to work a few quick stretches in. As a few other morning exercisers and commuters passed, I smiled and offered a few “good mornings.” Unlike some people I knew, I wasn’t sold on the whole rude New Yorker stereotype, and I actually enjoyed being pleasant toward strangers. A quick smile and “good morning” went a long way in my book.

  Usually, people reciprocated. However, for some reason that morning, all I received were a few hesitant grins, with some seeming to avoid eye contact with me altogether. It didn’t make any sense.

  “Good morning!” I cheerfully greeted a jogger who stood in line after me. She barely looked up from her bottled water and acted as if I wasn’t there.

  “What’s that all about?” I wondered aloud, looking over to Marco who, instead of returning a shrug or who knows sentiment, seemed to avoid acknowledging the question.

  “Marco?” I pressed.

  He shrugged. “Maybe she’s having a bad morning. Extra ginger in your juice? Or the regular?”

  “Extra ginger, please.” As Marco slipped an extra sliver of fresh ginger root into the juicer, I couldn’t shake the feeling that something was wrong. Hesitantly, I sauntered over to a newsstand that stood adjacent to Marco’s cart. It amazed me that the stand hadn’t gone out of business. With everyone going digital, it surprised me how there still seemed to be a steady clientele that preferred paper. Personally, I didn’t get it.

  I casually glanced over the newspaper rack. Nothing struck me as out of the ordinary—at first. Then I got an idea.

  “Can I see this real quick?” I asked.

  I snatched a copy of The NYC Examiner, the one paper in the city that never seemed to have a positive thing to say about anyone, and flipped to page six. Upon closer inspection, some light was finally shed on everyone’s sudden morning cold shoulder. There I was, front and center—again. A photo had been taken of me from the night before, shortly after Bennie dropped the news. They caught me as I was leaving the restaurant.

  Underneath my photo, read the caption:

  When You’re the Daughter of a “Progressive” Candidate, Let Them Eat Cake.

  At once, the mystery behind my mother’s incessant morning phone calls had also been revealed.

  I placed two dollars on the counter and walked back toward Marco’s with the paper. As I read further, I found that not only did the article list the menu prices of some of the most expensive entrees from the restaurant, but it dissected all the nitty-gritty financial details of my entire wardrobe that night!

  Partying with some of the city’s most powerful and prestigious socialites… daughter of Congressman-hopeful… designer shoes… handbag by…

  It wasn’t even good writing! Moreover, at no point that evening did I eat anything remotely resembling a cake! The piece was complete trash!

  Reporter Carlton Haggerty essentially droned on about how, while in the midst of one of the hottest elections of recent history, I—the only daughter of a candidate running on a social justice platform—defied everything my father claimed to stand for. It also criticized my lack of presence on the campaign trail. At one point, Carlton even bared the question: Can we only hope that the weight of Farrah Ansari’s hypocrisy doesn’t overwhelm her size two waistline?

  Again, terrible writing. What did that even mean?

  Promptly, I dialed mother, praying silently under my breath that she didn’t flip a gasket on me, and would instead place blame where it actually belonged!

  “Well, it’s about time, Farrah. I’ve been trying to reach you all morning.”

  “Mother. I’m reading it now.”

  “What were you thinking? Of all the people to spot you. Haggerty???? That man has been on a campaign to destroy us for years.” The words that man dripped from my mother’s mouth like venom off a snake’s tongue.

  “Mother, the whole article is complete, utter crap! Yes, Bennie took Manny and me out—to break the news that I’m finished with the gallery due to financial concerns! Which, by the way, I don’t believe. Last night, I wasn’t out on
the town. In fact, stupid Haggerty completely missed several prime opportunities to drag my name through the mud on nights I actually was out on the town!”

  “It’s not funny, Farrah,” she snapped. “No more all-nighters until this whole mess is over—and we’re in Washington.”

  “Who’s laughing?”

  So much for that spin class.

  “Farrah, please. November is right around the corner. Your father is this close to a done deal. Do you want to risk even being perceived to be on the wrong side of this? You know they’re slinging mud on both sides, and no one’s reputation is off the table. Not even family. They will go after everyone—especially when it sells papers.”

  “Here, miss.” Marco handed me my juice. I waved and mouthed “thank you,” then began walking back in the direction of my apartment.

  “UGH! MOM! Who even reads the paper anymore?”

  “For God’s sake, Farrah. Adults—that’s who! People with mortgages and children read the paper. Not everyone gets the news from the… inane ramblings of millennial nitwits on some fly-by-night social media app! Your father and I spoke to you about this, time and time again. No wild parties, embarrassing scenes, or ostentatious displays of wealth until after the election.”

  Rolling my eyes, I bit down on my tongue to keep from pointing out to my mother how she was the last one to talk, let alone reprimand me for my fashion sense. Whatever accessories she wore that precise moment probably cost more than what most New Yorkers earned each monthly paycheck—before taxes.

  There was no point, though, since I already knew what her comeback would be. It’s about appearances, Farrah, not reality. People see what they want to see, and they want to like me. So they do. I’ve paid my dues. You haven’t.

  “Yes, Mother.” I sighed. “Well, what do you expect me to do about it?”

  “Hold on one moment… Hortensia, no, those are not the white roses. The peach ones. No. Those are peach… over in that corner. Did I even say anything about off-white? No, I didn’t. Plain white!” Mother scolded one of her many, many, personal assistants, before returning to our call. “Farrah, get your bottom down to headquarters. ASAP.”