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Shayne.” They just didn’t seem to get it. There was no Mary Shayne—there was just this skinny, wet-haired girl who happened to have been born pretty, standing in her last pair of clean white panties and a black Victoria’s Secret bra that she’d dug out of the middle of the hamper and sifting anxiously through un-returned loaner dresses in her musty closet.
    The worst of the hangover seemed to have washed away with the sweat and dried blood that had spun down the shower drain beneath her feet. You met some people and killed some brain cells and partied somewhere , Ellen had said, dismissing all her fear, all her confusion about the night before. Mary tried to believe it. Whatever had happened, she was determined not to let it ruin her birthday. The shower felt like it had cleansed her completely, and she vowed not to worry anymore—especially since she had to concern herself with the far more pressing issue of what to wear to school.
    The outfit had to be birthday presentable without drawing attention. It couldn’t be too dressy or it might convey the promise of a late-night rager to the sex-crazed seniors, but it couldn’t be a Strokes T-shirt and some get-away-from-me sweatpants or it might draw a totally different kind of attention. She didn’t want anyone asking, “What’s wrong with Mary today?” She couldn’t have anyone thinking there was anything remotely unusual about this birthday—that was essential. She’d finally settled on a black FCUK tee, True Religion jeans from Patrick, black leather Frye boots and her black Michael Kors trench. Another minute and a half to snag a banana and swap in her spare BlackBerry battery, and she was gone.
    For the next hour—as she’d done once a week, without fail, all senior year—Mary tried to restore her sanity. Her first class on Fridays was a free period, and using that precious hour as her own private time was practically the only thing that got her through the end of the week and into the weekend. She’d seen an old movie called Breakfast at Tiffany’s once and fallen in love with it (and with Audrey Hepburn as Holly Golightly, the luminous, vulnerable, adorable, perfect main character). The movie’s title wasn’t hard to figure out, since the opening scene showed Holly standing in front of the perfect limestone facade of Tiffany & Co. on Fifth Avenue (in a perfect black gown she was obviously still wearing from the night before), eating a danish and drinking from a paper cup of delicatessen coffee while looking in the famous jeweler’s windows at the diamonds on display. Later in the movie, Holly explained how good those windows made her feel, and Mary understood exactly.
    Ever since then—all senior year—Mary had spent her Friday mornings the same way: after getting off the crosstown bus, she would buy a Starbucks cappuccino and wander down Madison Avenue for the next hour, looking at the clothes in the fashionable store windows and making her peace with the universe. She had never tried to explain it to anyone (except once, to Ellen, who, predictably, sympathized without really understanding), but her solitary, peaceful, Friday-morning Breakfast at Tiffany’s routine actually kept her sane. She even found herself humming “Moon River” under her breath, like in the movie, as she gazed through the plate glass at the tall, skinny, perfect mannequins in their perfect clothes, their lovely, sculpted cheekbones catching the morning light, radiating serenity and self-confidence and perfection that Mary imagined she could soak up like a recharging battery, preparing herself for the hours and days to come.
    Now, crossing Ninetieth Street, coolly returning the avid stare of a reasonably cute young businessman who was walking in the other direction, Mary tried to tell herself she felt fine. Men looked at her so constantly, so dependably, that their attention was really only notable when she wasn’t getting it, or when she was getting the wrong kind,