Food Whore Read Online Free Page A

distracted myself with my laptop. A new email landed in my NYU inbox, which had been empty moments earlier, save for a very purple welcome email from the University president.
    SUBJECT: Fall Graduate Schedule
    Name: Tia Monroe
    Core classes: Clinical Nutrition Assessment & Intervention, Food Systems: Food and Agriculture in the Twentieth Century
    Internship: Madison Park Tavern: Operations, Coat Check
    Elliott and Emerald were still talking. Apart from gagging a little, I sat stone-­still. What was this? Madison Park Tavern? Coat check? I was going to grad school . . . for coat check?
    I tried to calm down and take stock. Helen Lansky was my first choice, but something had happened. I’d been edged out by someone else. But who? Why? I took a deep breath.
    Five days ago, Michael Saltz had said he’d put in a good word. He must’ve forgotten, or maybe he didn’t have as much clout as he thought. Maybe Helen was so mad at him that she’d purposely gone against his wishes.
    â€œHey,” I whispered to Elliott, holding my hand out. It swung around languidly, like a heavy piece of underwater kelp.
    I tried to telepathically tell him to kick Emerald out, but they were still deep in conversation. Elliott had already talked to my roommate ten times longer than I had. Somehow, they were chatting like old friends.
    â€œNow,” Elliott started, locking eyes with Emerald, “here’s something I’ve always wondered: why in the world would anyone pay two hundred dollars for a pair of jeans? Is that a girl thing?”
    â€œThere’s a huge difference in denim quality,” Emerald said, crisp and cocky. “It’s like the difference between leather and pleather.”
    I held out my hand again, this time higher, but Elliott didn’t seem to see. This whole thing with Emerald played before my eyes as if I were a cook observing her rising soufflé. The conditions were set. Now everything that happened was beyond my control.
    â€œPleather! That’s another thing I don’t get.”
    â€œWhat’s not to get?” Emerald raised her perfectly tweezed eyebrows. “It’s a synthetic leather. Typically associated with strippers.”
    â€œYeah, but why is it this taboo thing? It’s just fabric,” Elliott responded, arching his own handsome brow. “There’s no scenario in which you and a pole dancer could each live your separate lives and find happiness with clothes made of the same fabric?”
    Oh, Elliott, I thought. Stop! You’re falling right for it!
    Emerald thought about this for a moment with mock gravity. “Maybe you’re right, Elliott.” Then, she wrapped her freckled arms around herself, like a little girl. Her lips curled up in a wry smile, as though she and Elliott were sharing a private joke. “I suppose, under certain conditions, strippers could offer me some useful style advice.”
    Elliott shaded his eyes like he couldn’t face some terrible truth, but he was grinning like an idiot. “No, no, no. Don’t tell me any more. I think we’ve just crossed some invisible line into seriously inappropriate material for first conversations.”
    â€œOh, agreed,” Emerald said. “We should probably save this discussion until we’ve known each other for at least fifteen minutes.” Then she giggled maniacally and tossed her disturbingly adorable chin, the wind from her hair slapping me across the face.
    Suddenly I saw Elliott through a stranger’s eyes. Elliott was hot. He wouldn’t be seen as the geeky, sweet college kid with the scary encyclopedic knowledge of worms and plants for long. He’d be Elliott Chambers, a naturally handsome guy who charmed naturally lovely girls . . . girls like Emerald Grace.
    â€œElliott,” I finally said in a just-­loud-­enough squeak. “I didn’t get Helen Lansky.”
    He turned to me, and his beaming smile