Exposed

“Oh, that reminds me. There’s supposed to be a big fashion show next week. We just got the account. I know fashion isn’t your thing, but I may need to help out.”

She’s referring to the fact that I don’t exactly have my finger on the pulse of celebrity culture. It’s rare that I have to work the red carpet of anything other than a restaurant opening—and it’s not my favorite thing to do—but of course I say yes. It must be a big show if she needs all hands on deck.

“Knew I could count on you, Mace,” Reka says being hanging up.

I momentarily consider what it would be like to have Reka’s job. Coming to the office before the ass crack of dawn, leaving at ten, running around like a chicken with my head cut off. I know that’s what it takes to work in New York City’s cutthroat event-planning industry, but I can’t imagine being Reka. One time, when she was on a business trip to LA, she asked me to look for something in her desk and I stumbled upon an entire drawer of blood pressure medication.

Event planning is exciting—the fluttery feeling I get when someone walks down the red carpet I planned, the blinding lights, the never-ending flow of champagne—it’s all so glamorous. I’m a behind the scenes kind of girl. I like to say that I’ve walked many red carpets—it’s just that I’m always in the background of the screaming paparazzi’s shots, speaking into a headset with a clipboard in hand.

I pay for my food and the same graveyard shift cashier who doesn’t speak a lick of English gives me the thumbs-up sign and I give it back. I come to this bodega way too often.

Walking out onto the street, the air is cool and I pull my blazer tighter around me. With each step, the plastic bag from the bodega hanging from the crook of my elbow bumps lightly against my hip. I walk past a line of restaurants with outside seating, the cloth and metal barriers dissecting the sidewalk in two. I walk on the narrow path, smelling a new cuisine with each restaurant I pass. The garlicky, fresh bread scents of a brick oven pizza parlor, the spicy, exotic air of a Thai restaurant, the fresh, gingery smells of a sushi joint—they all tickle my nose as I pass. On the other side of the barrier, couples hold hands across red and white checkered tablecloths, lean in for a wine-soaked kiss or throw their heads back in laughter at their partner’s joke or anecdote.

I look down at my bag full of my measly dinner and walk home more aware of my singleness than I have ever been. I can’t think of the last time I went on a date. Hell, I can’t even remember the last time I hung out with my two best friends.

It has to have been at least a month. I think of Jasmine and Daniella—they’re both so busy with their own lives, I hope they don’t mind that I haven’t been around lately. Ella’s pregnant with her first babies (twins!) and Jazz started a not-so-legal operation out of her apartment selling ganja-infused juices. For the pothead who likes to stay trim!

But, thankfully, they know how much I love my job. It’s always been that way. Even in college, at the parties I threw, Jazz and Dani danced on our dorm-issued giant wooden coffee table while I quietly stacked abandoned red plastic cups and deposited them into the trash, shushing people so none of the RAs would show up. Watching from the sidelines while my friends shone in the spotlight, planning, cleaning up—that was me in my element. I’m happiest when I see other people enjoying themselves at an event I put together. I’m a giver by nature. So it was no surprise that Velvet Rope, Inc. snatched me up right after graduation.

I walk up the steps of my brownstone and then up another flight to my apartment.

Turning my key in the lock, I don’t feel the familiar give of the metal mechanism. I suddenly realize that the front door of my apartment isn’t locked at all. I scrunch my brow. I’ve never, ever forgotten to lock the door to my apartment, but chalk it up to the craziness of the past week. I make a mental note to triple-check the door instead of my usual double-check the next time I leave. Once inside the small foyer, I flip the switch on the wall and the hallway light glows to life. I hang my keys on key holder by the door and kick off my shoes, arranging them neatly so that they’re at an exact ninety-degree angle with the wall. I slide my handbag down my arm and put it on top of the small desk by the front door, fluffing it slightly so that the hobo bag doesn’t droop and cause a slight crease in the leather.

The cold tiled floor of my kitchen feels good on my feet that have been in high heels all day. I go over to the sink to fill the teakettle with water for my soup, but turn off the tap after a few seconds. I hear a creak. I squint, straining to hear if it will happen again or if it’s just my mind playing tricks on me. I turn the tap on and shut it off abruptly when I hear it again, and now it’s undeniable: the sound is footsteps in quick succession, a scurrying, almost like a small animal. I’m too busy to take care of a pet, but I sometimes long for an orange and white tabby to graze its body on my calf with a cheerful purr or a big, goofy dog prancing over with a tennis ball between its drooling jowls. Then I hear the clunk of something knocking into my coffee table in the living room and a harshly whispered, “Dammit!”

Someone is inside my apartment.

The front door. I swear I remembered to lock it this morning. Maybe I did leave it locked and someone figured out a way to break in. But there wasn’t any damage on the doorframe, I remind myself. The only people who have keys are Ella and Jasmine, and we agreed that it would only be in case of emergency. I look down at my phone and don’t see any missed calls or texts from either of them. I hear the small creak of metal springs; someone is sitting on my couch. Oh god! Someone really is in my place. I clutch my phone again, my finger poised above the number nine on the keypad, but realize that if I call the police, the burglars will hear my voice. Actually, they’ve probably already heard me enter the apartment, so I don’t have much to lose. If I enter the living room, they’ll probably run away, maybe even out the fire escape, and I want to get a good look at the bastards. I instinctively take a few steps toward the living room and then stop myself. I really, really have to call the police. But then a whiff of something reaches my nose. It’s not overpowering, but I detect a slight hint of something...burning. Is some maniac lighting my freakin’ apartment on fire?

I rummage through my cabinets. With a large kitchen knife in one hand and a mini fire extinguisher in the other, I charge into the living room like a Spartan soldier.

“Don’t move!” I yell. “I have a knife!”

My feet come to a halt on the carpet when I realize that the lights are dimmed and scattered all throughout my living room are lit tea lights. It’s quite pretty, actually. And then I see Dani and Jazz sitting together in the middle of my loveseat.

“Oh my god, you s-scared me half to death!” I sputter as I put the knife down on one of my bookshelves and drop the extinguisher to the floor. The bravado I had just a moment ago rushes from me in an instant. I brace my hands on the top of my thighs and bend over, panting. “What’s going on? Are you both okay? Is everything okay?”

I look around at the candles. “Are you planning to murder me?” I laugh. “It looks like you’ve set up for a ritual sacrifice.”

Jasmine gets up from the couch and walks over to me with a serene smile on her face as if she’s pitying me, as if she knows something I don’t. I look over at Dani, who’s rolling her eyes, clearly embarrassed. I look back at Jazz and it’s then that I realize she’s wearing a cream-colored pantsuit, something a preacher on television would wear. For someone who feels most comfortable in tight leather pants and a vintage T-shirt advertising a punk rock band, this is obviously well out of the norm for Jazz. In contrast to her ridiculous outfit, her dark almond-shaped eyes painted in sparkly eye shadow, a row of hoops trailing up the length of both ears, her signature silver peace sign necklace. That is, except for her hair which has changed a million times over the years—her naturally straight, black locks permed into kinky curls, dyed every color under the sun, chopped to every length, even shaved right down to the skull. It’s now fashioned into a lavender-hued Mohawk, crafted into spikes with the help of some extra-strength hair gel. Her head looks like a dinosaur.

“Are you okay?” I repeat, making sure all her limbs are intact. “Why are you dressed so weirdly?” I spin in a circle, surveying my living room. “Seriously, why did you light all these candles?”

Dani smirks and blows out a breath.

“Mace-y,” Jazz says, overpronouncing both the syllables of my name like Oprah, “I’m so glad you’ve come. Please. Join us.”

“What do you mean, so glad I came? I live here, Jazz.” I walk farther into the living room and put the back of my hand to her forehead. “You okay?” I look around the room again at the candles. “You guys are scaring me.”

“Come,” she says again robotically like the leader of a cult. “Let’s have a seat.”

“Did someone die?” I ask, still completely confused. “Are we sitting shiva? I need to remind us all that none of us are Jewish.”

“I told her this was a dumb idea.” Dani sighs, patting her swollen tummy.

Jasmine smooths her silk pants before resting her elbows on her knees and steepling her fingers. “Mace,” she says dramatically. “This is an intervention.”

I look around at the candles and then back at Dani, hoping she’ll provide some answers.

She leans in and whispers, “Jazz kinda got confused between an intervention and a séance. Just go with it.”

I burst out laughing. I wonder if Jasmine’s been sampling her wares more than usual lately.

“An intervention? Jazz, I don’t suffer from any addictions. I barely have any vices. Last time I checked, you were the party girl.”

“Hey! I was a party girl, too,” Dani pouts. “You know, before this happened.” She points to her stomach. A sliver of her dark skin peeks out between the top of her stretchy maternity pants and the bottom of her flowy blouse.

“Don’t you see? That’s the problem. I love you and I think it’s time you loosened up a little bit.”

“What are you talking about? I am loose. Here I am about to have some dinner, watch a part of a movie and relax.”

“Macy, there’s another part of you that I’m concerned isn’t loose enough.” Her eye line goes to my crotch. “I’m talking about your vajean.”

“What?”

Jasmine reaches behind one of the pillows on the couch and removes a plastic bag. A plastic bag that has been stuffed in the back of the first drawer of my dresser for years.

“Hey!” I say.

“Exhibit A,” she pronounces a little too loudly, dumping out the contents of the bag on my coffee table and pointing her finger accusatorily at a heap of lace and chiffon. She extracts something I vaguely recognize from the pile and twirls it around her pointer finger. I then realize what’s spinning around and around is a pair of long-forgotten lacy underwear. “Behold all of your lingerie.” She tosses the pair of panties back on the coffee table with the others. “Underwear, bras, teddies. All of them still have the tags on them.”

“Exhibit B,” Ella joins in, pulling a small box from behind her on the couch. What is this, a magic show? “The vibrator I got you for your twenty-fifth birthday, Frank.”

“You named my vibrator?”

“You don’t remember that? We named him Frank, like a hot dog. Get it?”

The memory comes back to me. “Ah, yes, you’re right.” Between all of the margaritas, the fuzzy memory of us giggling over the pun comes back to me. And then I remember shoving Frank into the back of my pajama drawer and forgetting all about him.

“And lastly, the most terrifying piece of evidence of all,” Jasmine says forlornly. “Your calendar.”

She flips open the glossy wall calendar, every page as pristinely white and blank as the day I purchased it.

“Is this an intervention or a trial?” I ask.

“All I’m saying is that you take way too many Facebook quizzes for a woman in your age bracket. You just took one called ‘Which donut are you?’”

I press my lips into a tight line because I can’t argue against that. It’s true.