Read Online Queen of Babble in the Big City by Meg Cabot - Free Book Online Page B

basically from nine to five every weekday—and I’m left on my own, all of my insecurities come rushing back, and I realize that I’m as close to striking out in Manhattan as Kathy Pennebaker did. The only difference between us, really, is that I don’t have a personality disorder.
    That’s been clinically diagnosed, anyway.
    “Sorry,” Chaz says. He’s trying not to smile as he looks down at me. “Do you want to tell me what you’re doing sneaking into my apartment in the middle of the afternoon? Luke won’t let you cry in his mom’s place, or something?”
    “No.” I stay where I am on the floor. It feels good to cry. Also, Shari and Chaz keep the place pretty clean, so it’s not like I’m worried about getting my dress dirty or anything. “Shari gave me your spare key so I could come in and measure for the slipcovers and curtains I’m making you.”
    “You’re making us slipcovers and curtains?” Chaz looks pleased. “Cool.” He stops looking pleased when I keep on crying. “Or maybe not cool. If it’s making you cry.”
    “I’m not crying because of the slipcovers,” I say, reaching to dab at my eyes with the backs of my wrist. “I’m crying because I’m such a loser.”
    “Okay. I’m going to need a drink for this one,” Chaz says with a sigh. “You want one?”
    “Alcohol won’t solve anything,” I wail.
    “No,” Chaz agrees. “But I’ve been reading Wittgenstein all afternoon, so it might make me feel less suicidal. You in or you out? I’m thinking gin and tonics.”
    “I’m i-in,” I hiccup. Maybe a little gin is what I need to buck myself up. It always seems to work for Grandma.
    Which is how, a little while later, I find myself sitting next to Chaz on his gold-trimmed couches (the cushions are gold, too. If I didn’t know they came from a law office, I’d swear his couches camefrom a Chinese restaurant. An upscale one. But still), telling him the wretched truth about my finances.
    “And now,” I conclude, holding on to my tall, frosty drink glass, the contents of which are mostly consumed, “I have a job—I’m not going to say it’s my dream job, or anything, but I think I could learn a lot—but it doesn’t pay, and I have no idea how I’m going to get rent money for next month. I mean, I can’t even temp now, because I don’t have my days free, on account of having to be at Monsieur Henri’s. And you know how much I suck at bartending and food service. Honestly, unless I sell off my vintage clothing collection, I don’t think I’m going to make it. I don’t even know how I’m going to get the subway fare to get back home from here . And I can’t tell Luke, I just can’t, he’ll just think I’m stupid, like Madame Henri does, and it’s not like I can ask my parents for money, they don’t have any, and besides, I’m an adult, I should be supporting myself. So clearly I’m going to have to tell Monsieur Henri that I’m very sorry, but I made a mistake, and then head down to the closest temp agency and hope they have something— anything— for me.”
    I draw in a deep, shuddering breath. “It’s either that, or go back to Ann Arbor and hope my old job at Vintage to Vavoom is still available. Except that if I do that, everyone will go around saying how Lizzie Nichols tried to make it in New York but struck out, just like Kathy Pennebaker.”
    “She the one who used to steal everyone’s boyfriend?” Chaz asks.
    “Yes,” I say, thinking how nice it is that Shari’s boyfriend already knows all the important people and references from our lives, so I don’t have to explain them to him, the way I do Luke.
    “Well,” he says. “They won’t compare you to her. She’s got a personality disorder.”
    “Right. She has more of an excuse for striking out in New York than I do!”
    Chaz considers this. “She’s also a big whore. I’m just quoting Shari, here.”
    I think I’m getting a migraine. “Can we leave Kathy Pennebaker out of