Being Audrey Hepburn

Chapter 5

The forty-five-minute train ride was boring. I searched my phone for texts I hadn’t answered. I texted everyone and their dog, but no one texted back.

 Mom called, but I didn’t pick up. I just couldn’t deal with her tonight. I tried to slyly read the story on the back pages of the People magazine the lady directly across from me held in front of her. Something about Kim Kardashian on a shopping spree in Beijing. But the lady kept shifting, so it was pretty hard to keep my place.

As she turned the page, she caught me leaning forward and gave me the stink-eye, like I was stealing her gossip news. Everyone around me silently turned and glared at me. I shrugged “sorry,” and they went back to what they were doing.

 I stared mindlessly out the window at the southern view of highways and wires while the train sped its way to the city. I noticed another dirty scowl from the lady with the People magazine and zoned out. What was she so cranky about?

 #

 I opened my eyes, surprised I was at Penn Station. I hated falling asleep on the train and waking to find everyone gone and me just sitting there. Crap.

 Bumping my way through the closing doors, I sprinted up the stairs to catch the bus to the Met. I checked the time on my phone. I could still make it by eight.

 I got off the bus and made my way toward the employee entrance of the Met on the left side of the building.

 “Here!!” I texted, but rounding the corner at a sprint, I slammed into a wall of people crowding the sidewalk in front me, so I stepped out into the street. I heard a screech and turned to see a limo skidding to a stop behind me. I jumped.

 “Sorry,” I said. The limo driver drove by, yelling at me. A real New Yorker would have flipped him the bird. There was a flash of light, and I was startled as cameras flashed everywhere around me. I was wearing my favorite jeans and a plaid boyfriend shirt from American Eagle because I don’t have one, so I knew I wasn’t the focus of their attention.

 Through the blinding flashes, an unbelievable vision of wealth and fashion rose up before me. A perfect Bergdorf-blonde trust-fund baby, wearing a short gold shift dress with a plunging neckline and puff sleeves, posed for the cameras. Was she wearing Roberto Cavalli or even Christian Siriano? No matter, the Met was having a huge gala, and I was standing smack in the middle of a photo op. The perfect blonde was followed by a Tory Burch sequin tunic dress on a girl with the skinniest legs and a six-hundred-dollar haircut. To the right of me, a drop-dead- gorgeous guy rose out of a nearby limo.

 He flashed a megawatt smile with this amused twist like he was laughing at everybody for admiring him. He spun around to find someone and turned to look at—me. I couldn’t pull myself away. My heart slowed, thumping louder and louder. Time seemed to shift into slo-mo. He seemed oddly alone. I was so close, I could see that his eyes were hazel green with gold flecks. He was at least six feet tall, and his dinner jacket fi t him as if he were an Emporio Armani model or, better, an underwear model for Abercrombie. I closed my eyes and imagined him in his underwear. When I opened them again, I swear he was still staring right at me.

 A long pale leg, and one spectacular stiletto (Louboutin, judging by the red on the bottom) stepped out of the limo, followed by a low-cut V-shaped formal dress exposing almost every part of a lithe, tan young body. Was she wearing Versace? Mr. Underwear-Man reached down and helped her out of the car. It was Dahlia Rothenberg, the princess of all celebutantes, totally famous mostly because she was skinny, blond, notoriously promiscuous, and due to inherit half the real estate in Manhattan.

 The cameras went crazy as she posed with Mr. Underwear-Man, then alone. God, I couldn’t stop staring at her body. I bet she never ate. Linking her arm in his, they sauntered down the red carpet, smiling and chatting as they moved toward the museum entrance with the other young fashionistas. Dahlia made her way up the museum steps in those sky-high heels with elegant, tiny steps. If it were me, I’d have tripped and fallen already.