Read Online How to Grow Up by Michelle Tea - Free Book Online Page A

broken families, and there we all were, together in Paris. It was weird and amazing, nothing short of a miracle. For a flashing moment I understood and believed in destiny. We were all exactly where we were supposed to be, and an incomprehensible chain of choices and happenstance had brought us here, together. Then, Kate Moss rudely shoved me so that her friend could pass by, breaking me from my reverie.
This
is what I was living for.
    â€¢Â Â Â â€¢Â Â Â â€¢
    The telephone rang as I was taking an afternoon nap in my luxury hotel, exhausted from a late Fashion Week after-party night and an early morning with Karl Lagerfeld, marveling at themaniacal excess of the furred motorcycle helmets he’d sent down the catwalk. It was Annie. “Meet us in the lobby in
literally
five minutes. We’re going to the Fendi showroom and I think we’ll all be able to get stuff.” I’ve never dressed so fast in my life. I ran down to the Versailles-inspired lobby and found Annie, Jo—the band’s lead singer—and an Italian representative of Fendi. We rode in a little car to the Paris showroom, where we were given espressos and trays of sushi, both of which I consumed desperately. I was as food deprived as I was sleep deprived, my schedule of party and fashion not allowing a ton of time for eating.
    The nice Fendi man gave us all souvenirs of our brush with luxury—golden combs stamped with FENDI, which lived in embossed leather comb holsters. I would have been satisfied with such swag, even if it
was
the Fashion Week equivalent of a flashlight keychain at an independent film festival.
    After giving Jo a detailed tour of the showroom, the man thoughtfully left the celebrity to “shop” in peace. I’m saying “shop” because Jo wasn’t paying for anything. Not the leather dresses, not the fur capelets. Not the stilettos or the jewelry or the purse after purse after purse. I remembered being in the van with Annie at the end of our road trip, keeping each other awake with fashion magazines.
What would you have from this page, if you could have anything you want?
    â€œGrab a purse,” Jo hissed at us, “and throw it in my pile.” Had we cast some crazy spell over ourselves during that maniacal sleep-deprived drive? A spell that took some years to manifest, but here we were, in the Fendi showroom, and what would I have from this page, being able to have anything I want?
    There was not a moment of hesitation about which purse I desired. It consisted of the slashed, long-haired pelt of some poor animal I hoped had died a natural death, not that I thought too much about it. There was no time for thinking, not when the Fendi man could return at any minute. No time to think about the probable pony that had created my purse, or the snake that had provided the handles. No time to wonder if the tigereye stones—or, for that matter, the wooden marbles that had been dipped in gold leaf—had been ethically sourced. For this was the most exquisite purse I had ever seen. I flung it at Jo and she flung it onto the pile and the door flung open and in came the Italian.
    He browsed through the enormous pile of clothing Jo had helped herself—and me, and Annie—to, murmuring appreciatively about her impeccable good taste. When he got to my purse he clucked his tongue. “So chic,” he said, nodding. “Very special. You pair with some jeans and—voilà.”
    I felt deeply validated. The man packed up Jo’s loot and brought us all back to the Westin. Jo passed me the purse in the hallway, with all the intrigue of a drug deal.
    â€œBetter not bring it around Paris,” she said. “Wait till you get home to wear it.”
    â€œI will.” I nodded, gazing at Jo. “Thank you. Thank you so much.”
    â€œPunk rock!” she hooted, going back to her room. As insane as my life was, hers was unfathomable in its rags-to-riches