Page 7 of Say It Isn't So

I could just see the neon sign hanging above my head right then: Small Town Girl. You could see it, too, right? Of course you could. Coming from a small town in Minnesota, I could assure you this: even though it was a small town, we didn’t walk anywhere. We had cars and we used them. We were proud of it, too, bringing so much business to our local gas stations.

But in New York City, I was learning that unless you wanted to pay an exorbitant amount on a garage to park the thing, having a car was not an option. Well, that was one reason. The other depended on whether you wanted to get killed because, well, have you ever seen taxi drivers in the city? If you hadn’t, it was exactly what you’d seen in the movies.

Bottom line? I needed to start doing what I came here to do, or I was going to slowly lose my mind.

* * *

What was that thing Knox told me? Evens go east. Or was it west? Ugh. I looked down at the address I was given from the guy who wrote for the newspaper, and I wanted to cry. When would getting off the subway not leave me feeling disoriented? I’d always had a lousy sense of direction, but this was just bad. My bearings were all off.

I walked into a small coffee house and decided I needed to sit down for a few minutes. Maybe pull up a map.

Just as I was about to sit at a bar stool I snagged against the window, I heard a group of teen girls next to me squeal with delight. My interest piqued, I turned to follow their gaze. Between their loud voices and general excitement, I couldn’t help myself.

Leaning over, I tapped the blonde one closest to me on the shoulder. “Who is that?” I asked curiously watching the brunette their eyes were on. She couldn’t have been older than me. She sashayed out with a to-go cup of coffee in her hand, sunglasses on her face and the highest pair of heels I’d ever seen in my life. And I was into fashion!

Turning with a full grin on her face, the girl looked at me like I was clueless. Her friends had whipped their phones out to photograph said brunette. “That’s Bianca Morelli, daughter of Regina Morelli!”

“Is that an actress?” I asked, the name not registering like I feared it should’ve.

A laugh threatening to escape, she covered her mouth full of braces and rolled her eyes. “Regina’s the coolest! She’s the editor-in-chief ofBellissima.”

NowBellissimaI knew. “The fashion magazine,” I said, my interest growing as my mind started spinning with possibilities.

She nodded and continued as if I was the lamest twenty-two-year-old ever. “Bianca is only the most fun Morelli sister ever! She’s always being photographed at parties and clubs. We love her.”

Already slipping off the bar stool as she spoke, I was halfway out the door when I shouted, “Thank you!”

My eyes never left this Bianca chick as I followed her in hot pursuit. Maybe it was crazy, maybe it was borderline stalkerish behavior, but I saw an opportunity and I was taking it.

Practically running down the streets of Manhattan, I could barely catch my breath when I finally stopped just behind her (and almost skidded into her) at a crosswalk that had us stopping.

I bent down, hands on my knees, gasping for air as I croaked out, “Bianca?”

“Yes?” She spun around and extended a hand that was clutching her phone to me. “Are you okay?” she asked, studying me closely. “You’re not going to die right here on the street, are you?”

I shook my head and gave her a nervous laugh all the while inhaling and exhaling nice and steady. “No. Can we talk?” I asked, hoping she’d say yes as the signal changed and the mass of pedestrians started moving with the traffic again.

Nodding, she turned around and we fell in step together. “Do I know you?”

“No,” I admitted right away, followed by a very rushed, “but-please-can-we-talk?”

“Sure.” She shrugged and slipped her phone into the purse on her shoulder. “I’m on my way back to work, but I can talk. Here, this is me,” she said, pointing to the skyscraper before us. “I just needed a break and the coffee from Bean is my favorite, but I doubt you want to talk to me about coffee,” she said, gesturing to a bench to sit inside the lobby and taking off her sunglasses to put inside her purse with the phone.

I followed her, because let’s be real, I’d follow her—or anyone who could help me—just about anywhere. “Thank you. I’m Rina Blum and I really want to talk because I understand you work atBellissima.”Understatement.

“Sweetheart, it runs through my veins. I eat, sleep, and breathe that magazine, just like my mother and sisters. Is that what this is about? Do you write for a blog or something and want to interview me, Rina Blum?” she asked, fluffing her hair like this sort of thing happened to her all the time and she was all for it.

“Uh, no,” I was quick to admit. “I’m actually an aspiring fashion designer and with you working at a fashion magazine. . .” I hoped she wouldn’t instantly turn me away. But searching her eyes, I could see she wasn’t about to, at least not yet, so I continued, “I thought maybe you might have some connections or advice for me. I’m desperate. I recently moved here from Minnesota and it’s not as easy as I thought it’dbe.”

She lifted her cup of coffee to her lips and took a sip before she smiled. “That’s easy enough. My mother knows all the major designers. Do you have a portfolio?”

I nodded. “But not on me.”

“Oh, you should always carry something on you, but that’s okay. Listen, it’s all about who you know and you’re in luck because now you know me and I like you, so you’re totally in. I can talk to my mom for you,” she said, then stood. “Minnesota, you said?”

I nodded, afraid to press my luck or say anything stupid.

“What’s it like being in the city?” she asked, seemingly interested.

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