Read Online Being Audrey Hepburn by Mitchell Kriegman - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Mitchell Kriegman
Tags: Juvenile Fiction, Love & Romance
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pulled a waiter over, handed him a note, and pointed in my direction.
“And I’m afraid I will be on my way as well. It’s been lovely meeting you,” I said and turned from my newfound “friends.” But ZK grabbed my arm. First the creeper, now Mr. Underwear-Man … these rich people were so grabby.
“I’m curious, have we met before?”
“Darling, I assure you, no one knows me. I’m quite a homebody, actually,” I said in my quietest Audrey voice.
“Excuse me,” the waiter interrupted. “I believe this is for you.”
“Thank you, dear.” But before I opened the note, a perky thirtyish young woman with a blond ponytail and an expensive camera interrupted us.
“Page Six?” she asked.
“I’d rather not,” Dahlia started.
“Oh, come now. Take one of the three of us,” ZK said. He put one arm around Dahlia and the other around me before I could say a peep. God, he smelled good. Like citrus, musk, and leather—all sex appeal. ZK squeezed me tighter, as if we were old friends. It was so totally absurd that I practically giggled as the camera flashed.
I caught Jess’s eye. She was in shock. It took a second to register what I had just done. There was now Page Six photographic evidence of me wearing the Audrey dress. Oh God, I was a total screw up.
“Thank you,” the photographer said, looking down at her camera. “Would you mind spelling your name?” Before she looked up, I slipped into the crowd without answering.
ZK, Dahlia, and Page Six were probably wondering who I was and where I came from.
I walked deliberately in Jess’s direction, savoring the last few seconds of everything—the champagne, the dress, the sad pop princess, and my too-big shoes, leaving the world of my dreams to begin the unavoidable descent back to my sad, uneventful life.
11
The Hole.
If you wanted to visit my own personal version of hell, it was right off the Jersey Turnpike, exit 14C.
Everybody called it the Hole, except tourists. Our semiofficial motto was, “It’s gotta taste better than it looks.”
It wasn’t the worst job in the world, but it was close.
At 11:08, I was late for my shift at the Hole. I overslept—if staying up all night and passing out for two and a half hours could be considered oversleeping. It seemed more like undersleeping. But how could I stop thinking about that night? The shimmering dress, vomiting pop stars, and gorgeous baby moguls.
And Page Six. Holy shit, Page Six.
I acted totally horrified that the Page Six reporter snapped my picture, but secretly I was amped. I spent the night at Jess’s place; her mom was totally cool as usual. After Jess fell asleep, I googled Page Six on her computer and hit refresh over and over until it posted at 5:43 A.M.
ZK Northcott, Dahlia Rothenberg, and little ole me. Me .
It was so Technicolor vivid in my mind that it already didn’t feel real anymore. It seemed more like a movie I had seen, a dream I had, or a lost scene from Breakfast at Tiffany’s, which was why I couldn’t wait to see Jess at the Hole that morning to rehash every glorious second of it. I’d promised myself over and over, though, that I’d be considerate of how freaked Jess was.
I dropped off some of my things at the house around 10:30 A.M. , tiptoeing in and out as Mom was leaving for work. She seemed pretty hungover, so we barely said hi. Not a word about the calls.
I could see the neon-pink DINER sign perched on top of the dilapidated, art deco train car from a block away. Roaring into the lot, I overshot the parking space a little, screeched on the brakes, and choked the Purple Beast. One tire was up on the parking block, but I grabbed my stuff off the seat and slipped through the front door, trying to blend in as fast as I could.
I’d worked the past two and a half years at the Hole, where the smell of coffee and bacon permanently emanated from the cracked orange Naugahyde booths. There was greasy black gunk in every corner of the floor from decades of
“And I’m afraid I will be on my way as well. It’s been lovely meeting you,” I said and turned from my newfound “friends.” But ZK grabbed my arm. First the creeper, now Mr. Underwear-Man … these rich people were so grabby.
“I’m curious, have we met before?”
“Darling, I assure you, no one knows me. I’m quite a homebody, actually,” I said in my quietest Audrey voice.
“Excuse me,” the waiter interrupted. “I believe this is for you.”
“Thank you, dear.” But before I opened the note, a perky thirtyish young woman with a blond ponytail and an expensive camera interrupted us.
“Page Six?” she asked.
“I’d rather not,” Dahlia started.
“Oh, come now. Take one of the three of us,” ZK said. He put one arm around Dahlia and the other around me before I could say a peep. God, he smelled good. Like citrus, musk, and leather—all sex appeal. ZK squeezed me tighter, as if we were old friends. It was so totally absurd that I practically giggled as the camera flashed.
I caught Jess’s eye. She was in shock. It took a second to register what I had just done. There was now Page Six photographic evidence of me wearing the Audrey dress. Oh God, I was a total screw up.
“Thank you,” the photographer said, looking down at her camera. “Would you mind spelling your name?” Before she looked up, I slipped into the crowd without answering.
ZK, Dahlia, and Page Six were probably wondering who I was and where I came from.
I walked deliberately in Jess’s direction, savoring the last few seconds of everything—the champagne, the dress, the sad pop princess, and my too-big shoes, leaving the world of my dreams to begin the unavoidable descent back to my sad, uneventful life.
11
The Hole.
If you wanted to visit my own personal version of hell, it was right off the Jersey Turnpike, exit 14C.
Everybody called it the Hole, except tourists. Our semiofficial motto was, “It’s gotta taste better than it looks.”
It wasn’t the worst job in the world, but it was close.
At 11:08, I was late for my shift at the Hole. I overslept—if staying up all night and passing out for two and a half hours could be considered oversleeping. It seemed more like undersleeping. But how could I stop thinking about that night? The shimmering dress, vomiting pop stars, and gorgeous baby moguls.
And Page Six. Holy shit, Page Six.
I acted totally horrified that the Page Six reporter snapped my picture, but secretly I was amped. I spent the night at Jess’s place; her mom was totally cool as usual. After Jess fell asleep, I googled Page Six on her computer and hit refresh over and over until it posted at 5:43 A.M.
ZK Northcott, Dahlia Rothenberg, and little ole me. Me .
It was so Technicolor vivid in my mind that it already didn’t feel real anymore. It seemed more like a movie I had seen, a dream I had, or a lost scene from Breakfast at Tiffany’s, which was why I couldn’t wait to see Jess at the Hole that morning to rehash every glorious second of it. I’d promised myself over and over, though, that I’d be considerate of how freaked Jess was.
I dropped off some of my things at the house around 10:30 A.M. , tiptoeing in and out as Mom was leaving for work. She seemed pretty hungover, so we barely said hi. Not a word about the calls.
I could see the neon-pink DINER sign perched on top of the dilapidated, art deco train car from a block away. Roaring into the lot, I overshot the parking space a little, screeched on the brakes, and choked the Purple Beast. One tire was up on the parking block, but I grabbed my stuff off the seat and slipped through the front door, trying to blend in as fast as I could.
I’d worked the past two and a half years at the Hole, where the smell of coffee and bacon permanently emanated from the cracked orange Naugahyde booths. There was greasy black gunk in every corner of the floor from decades of
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