“And wrapped up in Astrid,” I say.
“It’s hard to have it all,” Hal laments. “The high-profile career, thriving love life, vibrant friendships.”
I frown at her ranking system. “Why did you list friendships last?”
“There was no order to it,” Hal says, a little too innocently. She stomps on the pedal and the Rocket lurches into motion down Knickerbocker Avenue. “Don’t go getting all sensitive. All I’m saying is I want to get us all together for some sisterhood bonding. And to celebrate how you’ve stepped up for us with rent, EJ. It’s impressive, really.”
Praise from Hal always makes me warm and glowy, even if I’ve made up my mind to be cold and muted. “It’s only because Chris overpaid me for watching Arnie,” I say, looking out the window at a blur of run-down warehouses and For Lease signs tacked on cracked windows.
I stayed over in Tribeca to watch Arnie while Chris was out of town. It turned into the end-of-summer bright spot I didn’t know Ineeded. Arnie and I were in the middle of watching a movie when Chris got back Sunday night, and rather than shooing me out, he plopped down on the couch with Arnie and me and watched until the end, all the way through the credits, which I never watch.
“Guess I’ve coached you well on your negotiation skills, then,” Hal says, happy to sponge up the credit. “And you too, Tara,” she says, calling out to the back seat, her voice rivaled by the roar of the aging engine. “It’s great to see how your coaching venture is taking off.”
Tara’s income is at an all-time high. She’s started giving acting lessons now that her résumé has enough credentials on it. “I don’t know,” Tara says. “I feel like I’m selling out by coaching all these rich white kids. I wish I could get more clients in Bushwick, but no one’s willing to pay and I can’t afford to do it pro bono.”
“You can start a nonprofit down the road,” Hal says. “There’s nothing wrong with making money from rich people. It’s the only way to tax them, really, since they shelter all their investments in overseas accounts.”
We start across the Williamsburg Bridge. “I thought we were going to Prospect Park?” I ask, frowning. The park is southwest of us in Brooklyn, so there’s no need to cross over into Manhattan.
“We’re picking up Jenni first,” Hal says. “Thought I mentioned that.”
“No,” I say, feeling tricked. “You didn’t. You said it was a Redstocking picnic. Jenni is anex-Redstocking.”
“Come on, EJ,” Hal says, as if I’m the one who’s being unreasonable here. As if she hadn’t been on my side too, until Astrid came into the picture and distracted her. “Just because Jenni broke the Anti-Marriage Pact doesn’t mean she’s exiled. The Redstockings existed way before the pact. Tara agrees.” Hal glances up into the rearview mirror for validation from the back seat.
“I’m just glad we’re all getting together again,” Tara says, hopscotching around the conflict like usual. “It’s been way too long.”
Tara goes off and sees Jenni on her own; I’ve known that and tolerated it for her sake. But Hal absconding too and dragging me along? That’s just too much.
“Does that mean you want to bring Lilly back into the Redstockings too?” I ask coolly. My optimism for the day is receding like a tide under a fast-moving moon.
“No,” Hal says. “Lilly was hardly ever a Redstocking. We were clearly just a blip to her. She hasn’t invested anything in keeping our friendship alive.”
Lilly has ghosted the rest of the Redstockings ever since getting married, and it’s brought me a dark sort of glee.
“But Jenni’s genuinely been trying,” Hal goes on. “And she’s still in our same city.”
“Manhattan and Brooklyn are not the same city,” I say. I don’t want to have to act like everything’s fine, like we’re still close. But I’m not going to be the downer who ruins it for Tara and Hal. I’m too old for that game, though I’m good at it.
“Why do we have to pick her up?” I ask. “Can’t she at least just drive herself or take the subway? It would be faster for all of us.”
“The whole point of today is that it’s like old times,” Hal says. “The four of us back together, crammed into the Red Rocket, spilling Oreo crumbs in the seat cushions.”
“You’re making me nostalgic,” Tara says. Out of the corner of my eye, I see her clearing the junk off the seat next to her so Jenni will have a comfortable spot. It makes me sad for her, how tightly she’s clinging to something that doesn’t exist anymore. But it makes me sad for me, too, that I’ve already let it go so readily, shed it like a snakeskin that you can’t crawl back into even if you want to.
“Fine,” I grumble, secretly glad to be having the reunion as well, to see Jenni and who she’s become since walking the marriage plank. “But I’m Venmo-requesting Jenni for the gas money.”
We sit in bumper-to-bumper traffic, snailing our way across the congested Manhattan avenues until we reach the Upper West Side.The land of new money. Hudson River–view towers, thousand-dollar strollers, and architectural insanities.
“This is her building,” Hal says as we sputter to a stop in front of a soulless skyscraper. Tara texts Jenni that we’re outside, and Jenni emerges a moment later, a doorperson escorting her out like she’s the queen of England.
Jenni is donning a pleated dress with a frilled, flappy collar as big as a bib. Right away I can see she’s fully fallen victim to the wealthy way of life, all its duties and dungeons. Peering up and down the street, she tries to locate us.
From the rolled-down window, Hal hollers, “Jenni! Over here!”
Jenni spots us, and her expression tilts. “What happened to the Red Rocket?” she hollers as she gets in the back seat. “It’s allyellow.”
“We thought it was time for an upgrade,” I say, hoping she’ll feel the pang of the dig. “It’s much improved, don’t you think?”
