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it.”
    I didn’t own a black card, nor a Bentley, and I most definitely didn’t own a Birkin. With prices ranging anywhere from ten to two hundred grand, a Birkin was an outrageously priced handbag typically reserved for Park Avenue princesses. Out of principle, I couldn’t imagine myself ever buying one. But I did take note when someone around me had one. Carrying a Birkin is like the female version of walking into a locker room with a monster-sized dick. Eyes turn in your direction; perceptions shift. When I see a Birkin on the street, I eye it the way I do a girl who’s prettier than me. It’s a mixture of jealousy, lust, and begrudging respect. I try to guess if the owner bought the bag herself or if she’s just letting someone else’s husband come in her mouth. If she looks at me, I smile. I even offer my help if needed. No matter how hard I try to fight it, I’m disarmed, subservient, and mildly depressed.
    I stared out at two grungy-looking paparazzi standing near the valet. They waved to a Hollywood tour bus filled with sunburnt white people in visors.
    “I don’t have any of those things,” I said to Debora, trying to bring her back down to earth.
    “Uzo got a Céline from Beyoncé for her birthday. My birthday is next week. I’m about to be fifty! That’s a big birthday.” Debora let the information hang in the air as a waiter walked over and handed Jason the check. “You’re only fifty once, after all,” she said, as if you’re other ages more than once.
    “Oh, I think I wanna order something for later.” Debora looked at us innocently. She told the waiter she’d like the lobster pasta and another order of shrimp toast to go. Jason shot me a look, then gave the waiter his credit card.
    “You’ve got one of them Célines, though…” Debora said. She’d clearly been digging through my closet while I was out.
    “It’s a knockoff,” I shot back, defensive. “I got it in Turkey. Jason, tell her it’s a knockoff.”
    “It’s a knockoff,” Jason said, handing me Sid and excusing himself to the bathroom.
    “I actually have a fake Birkin, too,” I confessed under my breath. “I got it from my guy Elan here in town. I just can’t justify spending all that money on real bags. I don’t care about them enough.”
    Debora looked at me, shocked. Her jaw hung open. I could see bits of macerated shrimp waving at me between her teeth. “You carry a fake bag?”
    “Well, yeah. Sometimes.”
    The truth was I loved fake bags. They provided me with all the respect and credit that comes with a real bag for a fraction of the cost.
    “I could NEVER. Debora don’t break for fake!” She threw an arm in the air for emphasis.
    Debora and I walked with Sid out toward the valet. The paparazzi were still waiting, to Debora’s satisfaction. She giddily applied lipstick and grabbed Sid from my arms. I smiled at the two broken men with beat-up jeans and telescope lenses as they scanned my face through their mental database, coming up with absolutely zero reason to take my picture.
    “Weird. They aren’t shooting us.” Debora shrugged, disappointed. “When I was with Hollice people basically attacked us for photos.”
    I felt a pang of defeat in the pit of my stomach. I knew Debora was judging me.
I
was judging me. Just then, Jason appeared and the men sprang into action.
    “Quick, Debora! Go hold his hand!” I heard myself say. “Give him a peck on the cheek! See if he’ll dip you!” The words poured out of my mouth. It was as if the Holy Ghost had inhabited my body, only instead of speaking in tongues I was speaking in Kardashian.
    Jason gave Debora an awkward, obligatory hug, then jumped into the car, rattled. We didn’t speak about the incident until later that night.
    “I couldn’t disappoint her! She wanted it so badly. Uzo bullies her and makes her feel like she’s not a high-profile-enough baby nurse, it’s just not fair!” I said, like a mom talking about her overweight teenage