ANNIE
I’m splayed across my bed like a starfish, wearing only a tank top and underwear that are both plastered to my skin with a layer of damp, city-filmed sweat. TheVillage Voiceis spread over my stomach, the newsprint already transferring its smudgy letters onto my skin. I’ve been staring at the classifieds section for so long the ads are beginning to swim and rearrange themselves into taunting little poems about my uselessness.
The box fan in the window is engaged in a Sisyphean task, valiantly churning the soupy August air from one side of my room to the other. It does not cool. It merely redistributes the misery. Whoever wrote that song about a “New York state of mind” was clearly composing it in the dead of spring. No one in their right mind romanticizes this.
My gaze snags on an ad for the third time.Receptionist. Midtown law firm. $8/hr. Bachelor’s degree preferred.
I have a Bachelor’s degree. I have one from Stanford, no less, a fact that currently feels as practical as owning a ceremonial sword. The ad lists requirements: WordPerfect, Lotus 1-2-3, multi-line phone system. I know what these words mean individually. Together, they are a foreign language. My four years of studying narrative journalism, media ethics, and theinverted pyramid have not equipped me for Lotus 1-2-3, which sounds like a failed yoga pose.
I let the paper slide to the floor with a dispirited whisper. It joins the graveyard of other circled-and-discarded possibilities. Bartender (experience required), dog walker (must be able to handle “spirited” breeds), bike messenger (own bike, death wish). Nothing reads:Wanted: Directionless heiress with latent rebellion and zero marketable skills. Will train.
My parents wanted me to go to college—not because they thought I’d actually use the degree, but because it looked good. Colliers go to good schools. Colliers are educated. The fact that I never intended to use the degree was sort of beside the point. My mother made it very clear that I’d go to college, graduate, maybe work at a magazine for a year or two if I really insisted on having a “career,” and then I’d marry someone appropriate and the degree would become a fun fact she could mention at dinner parties.Oh, our Annie went to Stanford. Isn’t that lovely?
Except now I’m lying in a room the size of a shoebox, hunting for jobs that pay seven dollars an hour, and my very expensive education is essentially useless.
The ceiling above me boasts a water stain I’ve christened Gerald. Gerald resembles a giraffe, if the giraffe were melting. I’ve spent a lot of time with Gerald.
At least my room looks better than it did two weeks ago.
I’ve done what I can with the space. New bedding—nothing fancy, just a blue and white quilt I found at a discount store on Second Avenue and some pillows that make the lumpy mattress slightly more bearable. I bought a lamp from the thrift store down the street, one with a fabric shade that gives off soft, warm light instead of the harsh glare from the overhead bulb. I found a small rug at a stoop sale—two dollars, a faded floral pattern that’s ugly in an endearing way—and put it next to the bed so my feet don’t hit the cold floor first thing in the morning.
I hung a few things on the walls. Postcards I picked up from a street vendor in Union Square—one of the Brooklyn Bridge, one of the Empire State Building, one of the Twin Towers. And some Polaroids. Three of them, tacked up with pushpins. One of me and Cori making stupid faces in the apartment. One of Marcus painting in the living room, completely focused, not even aware I was taking the photo. One of all three of us outside, arms around each other, grinning.
Cori and Marcus have been absurdly kind to me. They’ve basically adopted me, like I’m some sort of wounded animal they found in a cardboard box, and they’re patiently teaching me how to survive in the wild. How to haggle with street vendors. How to avoid eye contact on the subway without seeming rude. Which pizza places are actually good, like the Corner Slice, and which ones are tourist traps that should be avoided at all costs. Which bodegas have good sandwiches and which ones have sandwiches that will ultimately give you food poisoning. I’ve been here for two weeks and I’m still learning the basics.
The subway, for example. I’ve been on it maybe five times so far, always with Cori, and I think I’m getting the hang of it. You need tokens—little brass coins that you feed into the turnstile—and I keep a stash of them in my jacket pocket along with quarters for payphones, because apparently that’s what adults do in New York. You’re always prepared to catch a train or make a call from a payphone on the street like you’re in a detective movie.
Cori’s shown me how to read the maps, how to tell if you’re going uptown or downtown, which trains go express and which ones make every single stop as if they’re trying to waste your time on purpose. I haven’t done it alone yet. That feels like a big step. Like learning to drive, except underground and with a lot more potential for getting lost. I’m working my way up to it.
The good news is that no one has recognized me. No paparazzi jumping out from behind trash cans. No strangers stopping me on the street to ask if I’m Annemarie Collier, the runaway bride. It’s probably the hair—shorter, with the bangs I’m still getting used to. But it’s also the clothes. I can dress however I want now.
Cori and Marcus took me shopping last week because I literally had nothing appropriate for fall or winter, and everything I brought from California screamed “rich girl with a trust fund.” We went to thrift stores and vintage shops in the East Village—places with racks crammed so full you have to dig to find anything good.
I found slip dresses in dark florals and solid colors that I can layer over t-shirts or under cardigans. A pair of Doc Martens that Cori insisted were non-negotiable, even though they cost more than I wanted to spend. A few pairs of high-waisted jeans. A leather jacket that’s worn soft and fits perfectly. Vintage band T-shirts and denim button-up shirts. Oversized sweaters and cardigans for when the weather turns. Everything feels different from what I used to wear—less polished, more lived-in.
I’m becoming someone I don’t totally recognize yet, but I think I might actually like her.
I also opened a bank account. A real one, in my name only, that my parents have no access to. I walked into a Chase branch two days after I moved in and sat down with a woman named Patricia who helped me fill out the paperwork. When she handed me my ATM card—plain green plastic withAnnie Collierembossed on the front—along with a lollipop, I felt something I hadn’t expected.
Pride. It’s the most adult thing I’ve ever done.
It’smycard.Myaccount.Mymoney, even if there’s not much of it left.
I’m down to thirty-eight hundred dollars and some change from the five thousand Eileen gave me. First month’s rent and security deposit ate through a good chunk, and then came the groceries, subway tokens, the new clothes, stuff for my room, and all the other little expenses that add up when you’re actually responsible for your own life. It’s going faster than I thought it would, which is why I’m lying here having a small crisis about employment.
There’s a gentle knock at my door.
I groan. “Enter if you dare.”
Cori pushes it open. She’s wearing a sports bra and biker shorts, her red hair piled on top of her head in a bun. “Are you alive in here?”
“Barely. I’m melting.”
“It’s notthathot.”
“It’s a thousand degrees!”
“It’s, like, eighty-five.”
