Thigh Highs Page 4

  I give him until the end of the song, expecting him to turn back and give me some sort of explanation. Instead he keeps staring at the piano.

  I cough. “So you’re, uh, a big jazz fan?”

  He gives a slow nod, like he’s caught in a haze.

  The third song of the night starts up, but I keep talking. “Play any instruments?”

  He shifts his eyes towards me. “Do you mind if we talk after the song is done?”

  I blink. “Uh, yeah. Okay. I’m just going to...go to the bathroom.”

  I shimmy out of the booth and take off towards the sign for the women’s restroom. I pull the door open and I’m almost blinded by the glimmering white tile walls. My wedges echo on the polished floor as I cross the room and lock myself in one of the three stalls. Pulling my phone out of my purse, I shoot a text off to Alice.

  Help. This date is weird AF. Mission abort.

  Her reply arrives a minute later. What up? Is he getting handsy?

  The complete opposite, I type. We’re at a bar with a piano player and he won’t talk at all while the guy’s playing. He’s literally been sitting there with his eyes closed for three whole songs.

  Alice’s next text pops up on my screen. Is it, like, a piano show?

  No, I write back. Everyone else is talking.

  Oh shit, girl, she answers. You’ve gotta get out of there.

  I send her a message of agreement and head back into the bar. Scooting into our booth, I find Drew at least has his eyes open now, sipping his old fashioned as he listens to the smooth sounds of jazz.

  “Drew,” I whisper, thinking he might be more likely to engage in conversation if it’s done quietly. “Something came up. Apparently there’s this, uh, plumbing issue in my apartment and my roommate needs help sorting it out, so I have to go.”

  “You’re going?” he asks, in the voice of someone waking up from a dream.

  “Yeah, there’s water all over the floor and she’s freaking out. Sorry to cut our night short. Should I flag someone down for the bill?”

  He waves a hand in the air. “Don’t worry about it. I’m sorry you couldn’t hear more of the music.”

  “I’m sure you’ll enjoy it enough for the both of us,” I reply, trying to keep the sarcasm out of my voice as I stand up.

  He reaches for my hand and kisses it again. “Goodnight, Christina,” is all he says before turning his attention back to the stage.

  I’m too stunned to be mad that he’s not even bothering to walk me out. Stepping onto the sidewalk outside, I let out a sigh that turns into a laugh and then fades back into a sigh. Alice might call me the Queen of Picky, but right now the Queen of Bad Dates sounds a lot more accurate.

  4

  #Hashtags

  “How about ‘Your sexy little secret’?”

  I shake my head at Aaron. “No. We can’t use secret. It’s too close to Victoria’s Secret.”

  He continues to pace the meeting room we’ve booked for our planning session today. I figured it would help if we tried brainstorming alone, somewhere Aaron’s ego wouldn’t find anything to inflate itself with.

  “What if we come up with a hashtag?” he asks. “Something we can use as a core base for the campaign.”

  I chew on my lip as I consider it. “I don’t know. It might come across as juvenile.”

  “Agreed,” he answers, “but not if we do it right. We need something quotable, something with the capacity to go viral. Hashtags do that. They get people involved. Just think of the #mycalvins campaign.”

  He stops his pacing and pulls up a chair at the table in front of me. I nod, still shocked every time something that makes so much sense comes out of Aaron Penn’s mouth. He only seems to be able to concentrate for about ten minutes at a time before he remembers to start smirking, but the rare occasions when he’s on task make me see why he’s one of the program’s top students.

  “Plus they lighten things up,” he continues. “They make them fun, and that keeps them relevant.”

  I watch as a grin spreads across his face. His ten minutes of focus appear to be up.

  “And speaking of fun,” he adds, drawing air quotes around the last word, “how was date night?”

  I feel my mouth draw itself into a thin, tight line. “That’s a personal inquiry. You and I don’t do those.”

  “But I’m curious. How many of your little boyfriend boxes did he tick off?”

  “Boyfriend boxes?” I repeat.

  “You know, your list of requirements that keeps you from being able to enjoy a date unless he’s the exact definition of perfect.”

  “You did not just say that,” I retort, curling my fingers around the edges of the notebook to keep myself from smacking him with it.

  “I mean, it’s kind of true.”

  “You do not know anything about my love life!” I almost shout, growing less and less under control as he continues to sit there with his arms crossed over his chest, as relaxed as I am annoyed.

  “I know enough,” he says with a shrug. “I take it the guy wasn’t up to your standards?”

  “As a matter of fact, he was very polite and had good taste in music,” I reply, “but we aren’t talking about this.”

  Aaron ignores that remark. “Polite with good taste in music? You could be describing somebody’s grandpa. You’re seeing this guy again?”

  I hesitate for a minute.

  “No,” I finally admit, “but that doesn’t make me picky. We didn’t have a connection.”

  “Oh so sparks and butterflies are on the list too?”

  He wags his eyebrows at me and I decide that I can’t take any more of this.

  “Why are you such an asshole?” I demand. “When is the last time you even went on a date?”

  Something flashes in his eyes, a lightning strike of emotion so fast I can’t even be sure I saw it. He glances away, and when he turns back to me his face has resumed its usual douchey composure.

  “Oh Peaches, I don’t date.”

  I roll my eyes. “Then stop trying to tell me how to do it.”

  His face lights up as he picks up on the chance to exploit an innuendo. “I may not date, but if you’re asking for advice on how to do it I’ve got lots of tips.” He gives me a wink. “First one is to start with just the tip.”

  This time I do smack him with my notebook. “Back on track. Now. This discussion has gone on for way too long.”

  Half an hour goes by and we’re still not any closer to settling on an idea. Pages of potential hashtags litter the table in front of me, while Aaron wheels himself around the room in his chair. I’d tell him to sit still, but I’m just as close to losing my mind as he is. I’ve yanked at my hair in frustration so many times I feel like I must have pulled half of it out.

  “Okay, let’s regroup,” I say, for what feels like the thousandth time. “What’s the central message we’re trying to get across?”

  “That wearing nice underwear makes you feel good, and every woman deserves to feel good for her own sake,” drones Aaron, his head thrown back over the top of his chair. Without warning, he jumps up and punches the air. “Wait, that’s it! Let go with #wearingniceunderwearmakesyoufeelgoodandeverywomandeservestofeelgoodforherownsake! It’s so catchy and easy to remember!”

  He laughs at his own joke while I cover my face and let out a groan. “Meu Deus. Of all people, I had to get stuck with you.” I uncover my eyes and glance at the clock. “We have ten minutes left in this room and less than three weeks left on this project, and we haven’t even picked out our slogan yet.”

  “Okay,” replies Aaron, in his getting-down-to-business voice, “our real ‘a-ha!’ moment here is when women realize we’re trying to promote that feeling they get when they put on their favourite bra. We want them to connect that sexy, powerful vibe with our brand. We need a hashtag that does that.”

  I tug my lip between my teeth, narrowing my eyes in concentration. There’s an idea right in front of me I can’t quite get a hold of, li
ke I’m swinging a bat at a piñata that stays just out of reach. Aaron starts to say something but I shush him, bringing my fingers up to my temples and squeezing until I hit the piñata in my mind with a satisfying thud.

  “#Favouritebrafeeling.”

  I put my hands down and look up to find Aaron staring at me. I know we’re both thinking the same thing: this is it. The idea encompasses everything we’re trying to say, but it’s simple enough to be catchy. On top of that, it’s relatable. It’s something I can see people talking about, and in the advertising world, buzz is always your best friend.

  “Damn, Peaches,” Aaron says. “That’s good.”

  I hold up the strike pads, alternating my right and left arms as Alice mirrors the movements with her punches. The room echoes with battle cries as everyone around us performs the same partner drill.

  “Fuck you, Subway!” Alice shouts. “Fuck you, Mr. I Ordered Whole Grain Not Honey Oat! Fuck you, Mrs. These Peppers Are Slimy! They. Are. Not. Slimy.” She matches each word with a punch, throwing them faster and faster as I pick up my speed.

  Coach Kelsey blows her whistle and I drop the pads. Alice bends over and props her hands on her thighs, panting.

  “Bad day at work?” I question.

  “The worst,” she replies between heavy breaths.

  We make our way over for the cool-down stretches.

  “Do you want to go for after-class smoothies and forget all about it?” I ask.

  Alice shakes her head. “Ice cream. The only thing that will make me forget about this day is ice cream.”

  Leaving it at that, we finish up the cool-down with the rest of the class and take our showers. All freshened up, I swing my locker closed and ask Alice if she’d like to come over for the evening and demolish a tub of Ben and Jerry’s each. I’ve been so caught up in schoolwork and my marketing jobs that I’m feeling the need for some sugary stress relief as well.

  Alice practically bounds out of the building at my suggestion, hopping into my car with a shout of “Hell yes!” while I’m still halfway across the parking lot. I join her inside and drive us over to the nearest grocery store, where we stock up on cookie dough and chocolate cherry before heading to my apartment.

  Some wall shaking and moans from Sofia’s room let us know that she and Nicholas are home, but Alice has been here often enough that I don’t feel the need to apologize for the bangfest that’s going on. She plops down on the couch and demands that I get her a spoon.

  “You sure this is just about work?” I ask, handing her one and then joining her on the couch with a spoon of my own.

  “Yeah, mostly,” she answers. “It was just really shitty today and it made me really upset and kind of scared about my future, you know? The advertising world is so hard to break into. I don’t want to end up spending all this money on school and still find myself asking people if they’d like to ‘make that a combo’ for the rest of my life.”

  I may be five years older than Alice, but half the things she said still apply to me, too. Sometimes I feel like the pressure I put on myself to succeed in this industry is enough to knock me over.

  “Hey,” I answer, nudging her shoulder with mine. “This is where I give you some wise advice learned during the several years of life experience I have that you don’t. Sometimes you just have to let go. I mean, work as hard as you can. Do everything that’s in your power, but accept that not everything is. Save your energy and worry for the things you can actually change.”

  She nods, leaning over to nuzzle her head against my shoulder. “Thank you, wise friend,” she murmurs, and then breaks the poignancy of the moment by pulling away and shoving the most massive scoop of ice cream I’ve ever seen into her mouth with one gulp.

  “Holy shit, Alice!” I exclaim. “Did you just unhinge your jaw? How did you get that in there?”

  She gives me a sly grin. “Lots of guys find themselves asking me that, too.”

  We both start cracking up, our snorts turning into full on laugh attacks when Sofia chooses that moment to let out a particularly loud “Nossa! Sim! SIM!”

  After we get ourselves under control, I switch on the TV and we combine our ice cream binge with a Netflix one. We’re well into the first season of Arrested Development when my phone buzzes on the coffee table in front of us. I pick it up, most of my attention focused on the screen, and freeze when I see Aaron’s name on the display.

  “Uh, Aaron Penn is calling me,” I tell Alice.

  “He wants the V,” she drawls, eyes glued to the latest antics of Gob Bluth.

  “Shut up,” I reply, picking up the remote and pausing the show. “It’s probably about our project.”

  I answer the call and Aaron’s cocky voice creates me with a “Hello, Peaches.”

  “Fuck off,” I retort in an even tone.

  “So nice to hear your voice,” he replies, sounding chipper. “How’s your night going?”

  “I’m on a double date,” I reply, grinning over at Alice. “His name’s Ben.”

  Aaron only hesitates for a second. “Well, sorry to interrupt what I’m sure is a subpar outing, but I have to tell you something about the project. Can you talk for a bit?”

  “Sure, go on.”

  “I was just looking into the photography request process, and it turns out we needed to put ours in, like, last week.”

  “What do you mean?” I ask, worry seeping into my voice. The school has an arrangement that connects local amateur photographers and models with students in the advertising program. It gets us our ad material for free and gives them a chance to build up their portfolios.

  “That was the deadline if we wanted it complete in time for our project schedule. They’re booked solid, seeing as it’s the end of term and everyone’s trying to finish stuff up.”

  “Merda,” I mutter, tugging at a lock of my hair. “You’re sure there’s no chance of getting anyone?”

  “I mean, there is,” Aaron answers, “but at this point we’re looking at only getting a shoot in two days before the project’s due.”

  The photos were going to be the main component of our campaign.

  “We don’t have time to rework our whole campaign,” I say, stating the obvious. “Two days is cutting it way too close, though. We’d have to work for forty-eight hours straight. Could we just book a model and photographer from somewhere else?”

  “I looked into that. Pretty much all the decent amateurs in the city are already working on requests for the school, and any who aren’t say they’d need a similar amount of time to schedule anything.”

  “Could we pay someone?” I ask, surprised that he’s already put so much work into figuring this out.

  “Wait times for professionals are even longer. Also, unless you’re sitting on a major stash of cash, I don’t think that’s something we can afford.”

  I get up from the couch and walk over to the window. “Well, I guess that really only gives us one option. Can you send in a photography request through the school tonight?”

  “You sure?” Aaron asks. “That’s going to put us under a lot of pressure.”

  “I can handle pressure,” I answer. “Can you?”

  We could conceivably spend the next two weeks getting everything but the visual stuff done, and then work our asses off to finish up once the photos come in. I’d even consider taking them ourselves, but I’m pretty sure neither Aaron nor I can learn to work a professional camera well enough to create the kind of photos we’ll need to make an impression at the showcase. This has to be top notch. That means some serious shit-getting-together will have to be done in the meantime, and I’m not sure Aaron is up for it.

  Hearing him start humming ‘Under Pressure’ into the phone doesn’t help ease my worries.

  “Seriously, Penn,” I groan.

  “Sorry,” he replies. “I’m up for it, Dominguez. We can get this done. We will get this done.”

  “You better hope we do,” I answer, adding my thanks for his putting the request i
n before hanging up.

  “Everything okay?” Alice asks, as I join her back on the couch.

  “I might need another tub of this,” I reply, reaching for the chocolate cherry and swallowing the biggest mouthful I can manage.

  5

  Suit Up

  For the next two weeks, I spend most of my time in front of a computer screen. Between my freelance work, my project with Aaron, and all the other end of term assignments I have to get done, I can barely fit in a one hour session of kickboxing each week, never mind have any sort of social life.

  I’m holed up in the library at school on a Tuesday, still wracking my brains for a way to uniquely market handmade soap. I’ve been bouncing ideas back and forth with the client for weeks now.

  “What about soap bouquets?” I ask out loud. I’ve reached the point where talking to myself in public is no longer a concern. Luckily I’m in a deserted back corner of the library, and am only overheard by an ancient stack of dictionaries. “Fruit bouquets are a thing. Why not soap? She already makes some shaped like flowers.”

  The more I think about it, the more the idea appeals to me. We could really push the products as giftware that way. I shoot an email off to the client, hoping this will finally be the idea we settle on. If I have to scroll through any more Etsy listings I might just poke my own eyes out.

  I glance at the time on my laptop screen and decide to pack up and head to Digital Marketing. We still have class time with Gary, even though he just gives us work periods with the chance to ask for his feedback. I’ve asked if he’ll review our campaign with us today.

  Settling into my chair, I watch as a trickle of students filter in. The hand on the clock gets closer and closer to the start of class and there’s still no sign of Aaron. I made sure he knew we were meeting with Gary today.

  The rest of the students have already gotten down to work and my impatient foot tapping has increased to hyper speed when Gary walks up to my desk, wearing his usual jeans and Converse.