Anna Pitoniak - Necessary People

Jamie looked around, taking in the dramatic golden-lit pillar behind the bar, the shimmering ceiling, the view of the skyline. “Should we try and find your roommate?” he said.

Pushing through the crowds, I savored the sound of that phrase. My roommate. I was always the nameless friend, never the other way around. Jamie knew very little about Stella. I rarely talked about her. This suddenly struck me as a terrible idea. Why on earth had I invited Jamie? So that he could see us side by side, and realize how superior Stella was?

“I always thought that was a cliché,” Jamie said.

“What?”

He pointed at two girls dancing on the bar. “I thought that only happened in the movies,” he said, a look of innocent awe on his face. In this particular slice of the world, he was Dante and I was his Virgil. The two girls on the bar were teetering in their high heels, grinding to some smash hit from the past decade. One was a brunette, the other a blonde. I squinted and said, “Shit. That’s Stella.”

“ That’s your roommate?” Jamie yelped.

“Please try to contain yourself. Stella!” I called, waving at her.

“Violet!” she shouted. She hopped down from the bar and squeezed through the crowd. Her hug smelled like cigarettes and perfume and mint. “And you’re Jamie,” she said, grabbing his hands and kissing him on both cheeks. I relaxed, a little. Of course they would get along. Stella could charm anyone when she felt like it. “I’ve heard a lot about you.”

“Really?” he said.

“You both need drinks. Excuse me?” Stella said, waving down another white-dressed waitress. She plucked two glasses from the tray and passed them to us.

“We don’t have to pay for these?” I said, holding the drink hesitantly by the stem.

She laughed. “Of course not.”

Stella tossed her hair over her shoulders. Her dress was stiff and boxy and asymmetrical, interesting rather than beautiful. That was what her boss, a young fashion designer, was known for. His work was experimental and not remotely flattering, and therefore it was only feasible to wear his clothing if you were already thin and gorgeous.

“What’s this party for?” Jamie asked.

“An after-party,” Stella said. “We had our show tonight.”

“Show?” he said.

“It’s Fashion Week.” She arched an eyebrow. “You didn’t know that? I am so ready for this week to be over. It’s been endless.”

“It seems like really hard work,” Jamie said, smiling.

“It is!” Stella said, sailing past the sarcasm. “You try pulling off a runway show when half the designs aren’t even finished by the night before. And looking good on no sleep.” She drained her glass, handed it to another passing waitress. “Anyways. We might as well have some fun.” She draped her arm around my shoulders, considerably taller than me in her high heels. “Violet was so much fun in college,” she said to Jamie. “You should have seen her freshman year. She was wild. ”

“Let’s talk about something else,” I said.

“I know how it looks now. She probably seems so professional. So put together. But back in the day, oh my God.” Stella laughed. “Straight out of the Everglades. Barely civilized.”

“Stell, come on,” I said.

“Is she like this with you, too, Jamie?” She tilted her head, faux innocent. “She’d never tell me anything about home. She never wants to talk about it. So mysterious, right?”

My mind flashed through a carousel of images, any one of which Stella might choose to conjure. The obvious candidates were the embarrassing moments, drinking too much, fumbling encounters with boys. But I hadn’t accounted for the times, again and again, when I dodged her questions about home. I thought my evasions were clever. I thought, on some level, that Stella wasn’t really listening.

But she was always listening, even when it didn’t appear that way. Tucking away that knowledge for future use. There was a greedy, excited sparkle in her eye.

“I don’t blame her,” Jamie said. “You get old enough and you start to realize that no one really cares where you’re from.”

Stella looked annoyed. “That is not remotely true,” she said. Then she smiled, reassuming her power. “So this one time, freshman year, we went to this party and—”

“Jesus, is this a roast?” I snapped. “Did I miss the memo?”

Stella laughed and kissed me on the cheek, leaving a sticky press of lipstick. “So sensitive. You’ve gotten so boring, Violet. Is she like this at work, too?”

“Actually,” Jamie said, “Violet’s kind of a big deal these days.”

Stella laughed. “Oh, really? Pray tell.”

But Jamie ignored her tone. “You’re looking at Frontline ’s newest associate producer,” he said. He was smiling at me, pleased and proud.

My stomach churned. Stop, I thought, please stop. Didn’t Jamie see the look on Stella’s face? This wasn’t my role in our relationship. She could only stand the spotlight being on someone else if that spotlight was unflattering.

“She was just promoted tonight,” Jamie continued. “Youngest AP in KCN history.”

“Huh,” Stella said, turning to me and arching an eyebrow. “So this means, what? No more getting people coffee? Because that’s basically what your job has been, right?”

Sometimes it frightened me, how perceptive she was. She knew precisely where a person’s vulnerabilities lay hidden. She knew exactly where to angle her knife, for maximum pain. Maybe I loved Stella because she was the opposite of everything I’d grown up with. Or maybe I loved her because she was, at some level, just like my parents. More likely to mock me than believe in me. Moments like this, I thought, Either she’s an asshole or she’s right, and the world sure doesn’t treat Stella Bradley like she’s an asshole.

“I’m going to the bathroom,” I said.

“You’re single, right?” Stella said to Jamie, looping her arm through his. “Come on. There are some models you should meet.”

Half an hour later, my dignity somewhat restored by hiding in the bathroom and responding to e-mails on my phone, I pushed back through the crowd in search of Jamie. But Stella appeared at my side and grabbed my arm.

“ There you are,” she said. “Where have you been?”

“I’ve been here this whole time,” I said. “You just haven’t noticed.”

She put her hands on her hips. “It’s because of what I said about the coffee, isn’t it? But that’s what you always say, Violet! You’ve complained about the coffee, like, a hundred times.” Stella laughed. “You’re always saying how, what do you call it, underutilized you are.”

“I know,” I said, although the sting was still there. “It’s fine.”

“Violet!” She squeezed my hand. “I was just kidding. Of course I’m happy for you! Duh. What kind of friend would I be if I weren’t?” She took the glass from my hand and sipped. Then she made a face. “Is this club soda? Are you sober right now?”

“More or less,” I said.

“But we need to celebrate. And these places suck unless you’re drunk!” She dragged us to the bar and ordered a pair of tequila shots. “Cheers,” she said, clinking her glass against mine.

As Stella was about to order a second round, a colleague asked her to say hello to some VIP from Vogue. “I’ll find you later!” she shouted. I finally spotted Jamie in the corner, chatting with an older woman. She had cropped gray hair and purple-framed glasses and a black kimono. When I waved at him, he smiled. Jamie and the woman shook hands, and Jamie gave a slight bow as he stepped away.