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Authors: Melissa de La Cruz
Hominie had lurked behind each one of my monumental failures. Teeny stalked the runways of Paris while I made do with car commercials in Japan. Teeny won an Emmy for her portrayal of
The Girl Who Spelled Freedom
while I starred in failed sitcoms. Teeny, whose visage was the face of mannequins in the Costume Institute, Marianne of France, and the Trinidad and Tobago ha’penny! Teeny, who had introduced my ex-boyfriend Brick to the Victoria’s Secret supermodel. If I hadn’t been on Xanax I’d have felt practically murderous.
Teeny was a social climber of the worst kind—a successful one. She didn’t have friends—she had sponsors, sycophants, and handlers. We met in junior high, in between my Hollywood coming-of-age and the subsequent modeling stint in Japan. Teeny was loud, exuberant, ambitious, and cheated at Monopoly. In Beverly Hills she was best friends with Monica Lewinsky
and
Tori Spelling. Teeny played both ends of the popularity game. She adored me so much that she consistently updated her own wardrobe according to my purchases. Every birthday and Christmas, Teeny would wait until I sent over the requisite Lucien Pellat-Finet sweater or token from Fred Segal, only to reciprocate with a gift that matched, to the last dollar amount, the exact cost of my gift to her. Teeny boasted an infinite knowledge of discounts and sample sales, and once when I placed an Impostors ring in a Bulgari box, Teeny responded with an ABS dress with a Versace label.
Much worse, Teeny was insufferably vain and even more insufferably gorgeous. Married at nineteen to a dentist from Scarsdale, she divorced him at twenty-one and moved back to New York with a hefty alimony. For years, she was just another divorcee partial to bluebloods with blue-chip stocks, but that ended when she married a ballet dancer who was also the heir to a mammoth Austrian fortune. There were rumors that the union was less than … how should I put this? Consummated. But no doubt Teeny would land on her feet in the arms of another, richer man. She was that breed of female more commonly known as a “guy’s girl,” in that everyman who had ever met her was immediately charmed into thinking she was the sweetest, most innocent, involuntarily-but-devastatingly-sexy woman who wouldn’t wish ill on a fly. Her male defenders numbered
Manhattan Files
Hot 100 Bachelors list. But girls knew better. Teeny would steal your husband in your borrowed dress. Just ask several well-married debs who have lost managing-director-husbands to this upstart.
What was hardest to swallow was that Teeny was also prosperous in her own right. Unlike other Park Avenue heiresses who let their fortunes slip through their fingers …
ahem
… Teeny, a born-again Christian, parlayed her Machiavellian skills and generous inheritance into a flourishing line of moderately priced polyester imitations of the latest designer fashions. Her Tart Tarteen label continually sold out in malls across the country, and was patronized by a gamut of young Hollywood starlets, including the entire roster of the WB network. I absolutely abhorred Teeny.
But the thing is, I just wasn’t built for confrontation. It made me queasy and off balance. Hair-pulling-knock-’em-down-all-out tussles were for tough chicks who wore pancake makeup and Revlon lipstick. On the other hand, I felt weak in the knees when my slashed-elbow Helmut Lang sweaters pilled. I was the type of person who was unfamiliar with complaint departments. I never sent back food in restaurants, no matter how badly overcooked was a plate of “raw” tuna. I preferred that things not be “uncomfortable.”
I mean, sure, I harbored fantasies of ripping Teeny’s spine out of her ass and of sticking my fingers through her eyeballs, but this was real life, not claymation. If I really wanted to hurt Teeny, I’d have to switch her black market Phen-Fen capsules to fat pills. Then I could let it slip to certain gossip columnists that Teeny had a history
The Girl Who Spelled Freedom
while I starred in failed sitcoms. Teeny, whose visage was the face of mannequins in the Costume Institute, Marianne of France, and the Trinidad and Tobago ha’penny! Teeny, who had introduced my ex-boyfriend Brick to the Victoria’s Secret supermodel. If I hadn’t been on Xanax I’d have felt practically murderous.
Teeny was a social climber of the worst kind—a successful one. She didn’t have friends—she had sponsors, sycophants, and handlers. We met in junior high, in between my Hollywood coming-of-age and the subsequent modeling stint in Japan. Teeny was loud, exuberant, ambitious, and cheated at Monopoly. In Beverly Hills she was best friends with Monica Lewinsky
and
Tori Spelling. Teeny played both ends of the popularity game. She adored me so much that she consistently updated her own wardrobe according to my purchases. Every birthday and Christmas, Teeny would wait until I sent over the requisite Lucien Pellat-Finet sweater or token from Fred Segal, only to reciprocate with a gift that matched, to the last dollar amount, the exact cost of my gift to her. Teeny boasted an infinite knowledge of discounts and sample sales, and once when I placed an Impostors ring in a Bulgari box, Teeny responded with an ABS dress with a Versace label.
Much worse, Teeny was insufferably vain and even more insufferably gorgeous. Married at nineteen to a dentist from Scarsdale, she divorced him at twenty-one and moved back to New York with a hefty alimony. For years, she was just another divorcee partial to bluebloods with blue-chip stocks, but that ended when she married a ballet dancer who was also the heir to a mammoth Austrian fortune. There were rumors that the union was less than … how should I put this? Consummated. But no doubt Teeny would land on her feet in the arms of another, richer man. She was that breed of female more commonly known as a “guy’s girl,” in that everyman who had ever met her was immediately charmed into thinking she was the sweetest, most innocent, involuntarily-but-devastatingly-sexy woman who wouldn’t wish ill on a fly. Her male defenders numbered
Manhattan Files
Hot 100 Bachelors list. But girls knew better. Teeny would steal your husband in your borrowed dress. Just ask several well-married debs who have lost managing-director-husbands to this upstart.
What was hardest to swallow was that Teeny was also prosperous in her own right. Unlike other Park Avenue heiresses who let their fortunes slip through their fingers …
ahem
… Teeny, a born-again Christian, parlayed her Machiavellian skills and generous inheritance into a flourishing line of moderately priced polyester imitations of the latest designer fashions. Her Tart Tarteen label continually sold out in malls across the country, and was patronized by a gamut of young Hollywood starlets, including the entire roster of the WB network. I absolutely abhorred Teeny.
But the thing is, I just wasn’t built for confrontation. It made me queasy and off balance. Hair-pulling-knock-’em-down-all-out tussles were for tough chicks who wore pancake makeup and Revlon lipstick. On the other hand, I felt weak in the knees when my slashed-elbow Helmut Lang sweaters pilled. I was the type of person who was unfamiliar with complaint departments. I never sent back food in restaurants, no matter how badly overcooked was a plate of “raw” tuna. I preferred that things not be “uncomfortable.”
I mean, sure, I harbored fantasies of ripping Teeny’s spine out of her ass and of sticking my fingers through her eyeballs, but this was real life, not claymation. If I really wanted to hurt Teeny, I’d have to switch her black market Phen-Fen capsules to fat pills. Then I could let it slip to certain gossip columnists that Teeny had a history
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