Hold up—do you guys even know what an “Experiences” event is?
Okay, stay with me for a second. Before the age of social media, events like these never could have existed. Corporate soirees were meant to be private and elitist, behind-closed-doors galas with a black-tie guest list at a five-star restaurant or club. You wouldn’t even know they had transpired if not for the glossy pages of society tabloids, the Overheard section of New York Magazine. None of that was accidental. Publishing was kept hush-hush with the purest of intentions: to invite envy and inspire intrigue. Curiosity used to be a powerful form of currency, back when knowledge was scarce, and thus, powerful.
Today, that intel is readily available and practically worthless. The internet has rendered access equitable. Everyone has access to the answer to any question at any time, at the tips of their fingers. Social media means we can measure intrigue, and the only way we’re able to maintain the attraction is by constantly stimulating the mind. It’s voyeurism at its peak. It’s performative. Posting on Instagram is essentially exhibitionism without having to take your clothes off. Although, you’re welcome to do that too.
Think of Refinery29’s 29Rooms. Or the Museum of Ice Cream. Think of a fucking Yayoi Kusama exhibit, which requires tickets bought months in advance and compels a line around the corner.
What do these events all have in common? They’re “experiential” and meant for the masses. Brands don’t throw Experiences events for the crème de la societé. It doesn’t matter who you shake hands with in the foyer or play footsie with under the table. In fact, what you actually do there doesn’t quite matter at all. The purpose lies in the aftermath—how it looks the next day on your phone, tablet, or laptop screen. No one cares if an Experiences event is a “fun time.” The truth is, most include being herded around like cattle, forced to move from room to room on a tight schedule, with only a few minutes in between each to snap a picture or two. As long as it presents as the time of your life, nobody gives a shit—especially brands.
When Loretta tells me that I only have two weeks to put together a showstopping Experiences event that will—must—rival Vinyl’s holiday issue in success and piss Jade off enough that she’ll throw up her arms and retreat, I don’t panic. Instead, I allow Shabnam to take over. She knows how to handle situations like these.
Me? If I were to take the reins, my anxiety wouldn’t even let me come into work the next day.
I make a list of everything we need—an incredible venue, a sought-after guest list of influencers and NYC cool girls, and a showstopping “Experience” idea. Dickhead Daniel can help me with the first two items on my agenda, but I’ll have to come up with the latter on my own. Loretta has made it clear she wants the mood to ignite “holiday magic.” I just hope it doesn’t come out like a DIY middle school science fair project gone rogue.
During week one, Daniel and I put together a budget and deck of all our venue options. We sift through everything from warehouses in Bushwick to showrooms on Spring Street. The location needs to feel adaptable, so that we’re able to pop up quickly—redoing the space, transforming it into a fantasy world—and then strip it back down to whatever it was before. We finally land on the House of Yes, a psychedelic nightclub right off Wyckoff Avenue that used to be an ice warehouse and is now home to cabaret, exotic dancers, disco queens, and circus freaks. Walking into House of Yes is like stepping through a time portal back to the age of extravagance and grandeur. Except, like, much queerer. It’s a weird and wonderful paradise and a perfect fit for Vinyl.
The guest list is also surprisingly easy to collect. I spend my nights in Leila’s apartment scrolling through Instagram and DMing my favorite DJs and activists. (Okay, fine. Leila helps me too.) I invite all of New York’s “it girls,” sending so many messages that my thumbs turn red and my mind goes numb. But my plan works—within seventy-two hours, I have over a hundred RSVPs, not including SPP staff. I might actually be able to pull this off.
But now comes the most challenging part, which could be the undoing of all this hard work: the actual experience. I know anything with the potential to go viral must have one overarching quality: the ability to be photographed well. Our event can’t just look good in pictures—it has to look positively mind-blowing on Instagram. Otherwise, people won’t feel compelled to buy tickets for the week it’s open in November, and we won’t turn a profit. Giving up our holiday issue will have been for nothing. SPP will lose money. Loretta will get fired, and it will be all my fault.
Yes, I’m spiraling.
***
“I don’t really get whose side you’re on anymore,” Saffron tells me.
We’re sitting in the beauty closet, brainstorming. They keep clicking their pen and it’s making the most irritating clacking noise.
“I’m not on Loretta or Jade’s side—they’ve both done really shitty things.”
It’s true. Loretta taking all the credit for Jade’s work was wack, but Jade stealing Print’s holiday cover star was, in my humble opinion, a totally different realm of fucked up. “I’m on Vinyl’s side. I just want what’s best for the reader, okay?”
They nod and continue clicking their pen. I’m about to ask them to please, for the love of God, stop, when their ballpoint suddenly flies across the room. I can see the light bulb turning on in Saffron’s brain.
“I’ve got it!” they exclaim. “What if you set up an artificial snow machine to literally snow on guests? Obviously, it would be fake snow. Just so no one, like, slips and cracks their head open. But think about how sick that would look in pictures. And you can project images of mountaintops onto the walls, like Dan did for Serena in season one of Gossip Girl.”
Nice. I always appreciate a vintage CW reference. Their idea makes a lot of sense too. I start to get excited.
“We can serve fondue and spiked hot chocolate and cider and pass out furry blankets to all the guests. Maybe even rent out yurts for VIPs!” I squeal. “We can call it Vinyl Sleighs or whatever! Saffron, this could actually work.”
Before getting too carried away, I take stock of all the moving parts. We’ll have to order gallons of artificial snow from Michaels and figure out how to get it to fall from the ceiling in a way that looks natural, not tacky. We’ll need to work with a caterer—maybe Lilia? Café Gitane?—on procuring fondue stations. I can’t even begin to think about where I’ll be able to find a yurt on such short notice. Who would have ever thought I’d need a yurt guy? And then, of course, we’ll need someone to help us out with the electronics and projections. An engineer of some sort who can deal with the soundstage and lights and anything involving electrical wiring.
Gulp. I know exactly who to call.
The phone rings three times before Cal picks up. His voice sounds rough, hoarse even. As if he just woke up or is getting over a bad cold. I can practically hear his mischievous, toothy smile and see his dimples indenting in his cheeks, solely from his breathing on the other end of the line.
“I thought you’d never call. What’s up, Little Light?”
“I need your help with something,” I tell him.
He chuckles into the phone. “Of course you do. What can I do you for?”
The night of the event, I wear red, white, and green, in honor of Iran. Red for my people, the sacrifices they have made, all in the name of independence. White representing peace. And green symbolizing vitality, the color of nature, Nowruz: of a great spring, clean slate, and new beginning. And also because I look really fucking hot in green. I sewed the dress together myself, out of fabric swatches from different thrifted pieces, which I collected across three different boroughs. I wear my hair long and naturally curly. It cascades down my back and kisses my hips. My jewelry is bold and golden, like the plated armor of warriors. It’s not lost on me that we’re still at war.
But tonight, we drink, dance, and most importantly, post.
I decide to bring Leila as my date, for good luck and support. She dresses in a gorgeous leather jumpsuit, one that hugs her curves and makes her look like a young Donna Summer or Googoosh. She totally pulled through with the guest list, by the way. As of this week, we were still about thirty-five influencers, actors, models, and party guests away from our goal number of two hundred and fifty. She hit up her entire contact list, inviting everyone in her orbit—old clients, their friends, their enemies. Leila crossed so many lines considering her, uh, reason for being let go, but it worked. The house is packed, and Loretta is pleased. As we enter the venue, I squeeze Leila’s hand. She squeezes back three times.
“I love you too,” I tell her.
House of Yes looks like Frozen’s Elsa went off.
There’s a light reflecting off the dance floor that makes the surface look glossed over, as if it’s made of ice. Flakes of fluff, like cotton balls or the inside of a pillow, both fall from the ceiling and ricochet from the floor. There are tiny white tents, which look like teepees or the Midsommar commune, gated off by the right-side entrance. The bar is brewing pumpkin-spiced everything, and the smell of rum is diluting the sweaty, crowded air. And the wall projections? Cal absolutely nailed them. It looks like attendees are dancing on the inside of a kaleidoscope. Virtual snow tumbles down the sidelines like an avalanche. You can see the wind blowing from east to west. If I squint, I feel like I’m sitting in a ski chalet in Aspen or Zermatt. It’s hard to believe it’s all AI. That the part resembling the most potent displays of nature is actually generated by a computer.
An outdoor terrace nears the entrance that’s been tented off for influencers to take photos of themselves, cloaked in faux-fur blankets, with the simulated snow pooling around them. By the time I arrive, there’s a line out the door to “experience” Vinyl’s winter wonderland. It’s exactly how Saffron and I envisioned it—simultaneously still and buzzing with energy.
People are so busy taking photos that they’re hardly talking to each other. Perfect.
I see Loretta and Sarah enter, fashionably late as always. Sarah is wearing a patent leather suit covered in zippers and platform oxfords. Her black pixie cut looks particularly spiky. She looks like an emo Polly Pocket. On her arm is Loretta, dressed in a floor-length, red satin gown with a mermaid tail. Her flaming hair has been blown out and brushed to the side, and her signature combat boots are peeking out from beneath the gown. We make eye contact, and she gives me a warm smile. It’s almost as if she hasn’t been texting me all day about “photo stations” or I didn’t call her Uber here.
“We did it, darling!”
I subtly roll my eyes. Loretta has done nothing but give orders and assume Daniel and I will carry them out. To be fair, she wasn’t wrong.
Sarah gives me a quick hug hello then goes to give Leila a firm handshake. Watching her wife approach her, Loretta suddenly becomes aware of Leila’s presence.
“Is this your sister?” she asks.
“Pleasure.” Leila extends her hand. Loretta looks at it as if scanning for ticks. She reluctantly takes it and gives it a strong shake, looking her directly in the eye and giving her that manic smile. Then, without another word, she grabs Sarah’s arm and walks away. Leila lets out a slow whistle.
“What just happened?” Leila asks, bewildered. She looks visibly shaken, as if Loretta slapped her across the face.
“Ignore her,” I say. “She’s weird like that. Let’s go mingle. I bet this room is just brimming with young creatives desperate to hire an in-touch-with-Gen-Z, woke, queer, Middle Eastern publicist.”
Leila pretends to dab. In her silver lamé jumpsuit, she looks like she walked straight off a movie set. I beam with pride as we stroll around the event. That’s my sister.
“Okay, let’s go network!” she says.
I hate that word—networking. It seriously makes me cringe. Like forcing chemistry on a bad first date, I choose to believe that if the opportunity is a good fit, the conversation will flow freely. Just like it did with Saffron. There’s nothing more juvenile than this coy game of chess, this back-and-forth, this verbal jousting of I’ll do something for you, but what can you do for me?
Leila and I do the rounds, even stopping to take our picture and post it to our stories with the hashtag #VinylSleighs. The entire Print team has showed up for something that isn’t a prod meeting for the first time maybe ever. Editors dripping in J. Mendel and vintage Chanel snowsuits, with dashing male models, whom I’ve definitely seen on Broadway billboards, on their arms. I feel way too uncool to be here, and yet, none of this would exist if it weren’t for me.
I see Beth standing in the corner, checking her phone. I’m surprised she showed; I didn’t peg her for a party mom. Our eyes meet and she raises her glass. I guess I finally did something right.
No one from Digital showed, of course. I begged Saffron to come, considering this entire thing wouldn’t have happened if not for them. But they refused, citing that Jade had called a staff-wide strike of the event, calling it an opportunistic “spectacle.” She has a point, but it’s working. If it ain’t broke, don’t break it—right? Even though I think threatening to fire anyone who goes and takes a selfie in front of a mound of fake snow is a little extreme, I didn’t argue. The last thing I need is some sort of showdown between Print and Digital causing a scene and bringing in bad press.
“Will you come with me to the bathroom?” Leila asks. Then something else catches her attention. Or rather, someone. “Holy shit, who is that?”
I look up to see a man, clean-shaven, his dark skin glowing under the light of the projections. He’s dressed in a straight-cut tuxedo, with a deep-maroon velvet bow tie that would look absolutely heinous on someone who didn’t have the confidence to pull it off. The suited look is dressed down by a pair of fresh white sneakers.
I groan.
“That’s Cal.”
“Oh, my FUCKING God, Noora,” she says, freaking out. “Are you serious? That’s Cal?”
Before I can control what’s happening, Leila has left my arm and is marching over to where he’s standing, admiring his own handiwork.
“Hello, Gorgeous,” she flirts. “Pleased to meet you. I’m Leila, Noora’s sister. How come you haven’t taken my sister out yet?”
“Leila!” I shout, catching up to her. Man, she moves fast. “I’m sorry about her, she was hit by a cab as a baby.”
Cal’s eyes are twinkling. Or is that just the artificial snow falling on his ridiculously long eyelashes?
“I’ll leave you two to it.”
With that, Leila disappears into the crowd. I look up shyly at Cal, hyperaware of the effect he has on me. I try channeling Shabnam, but she dissolves into the butterflies in my stomach, which honestly, feel more like moths. The kind that fucks up all your sweaters.
The song switches to “I’m Not the Only One” by Sam Smith. Cal extends his hand out to me.
“Should we dance?”
I follow him onto the floor, his hand shocking my fingers with an electrical pulse. He gives me a quick twirl, and we settle into a rhythm. I gently lay my head down on his shoulder and inhale. He smells of Old Spice and whiskey.
“Why didn’t you ever text me again?” I find the courage to ask, pulling back from his embrace.
“Hey, now,” he says, surprised. “If I remember correctly, you’re the one who stood me up on a Saturday night.”
Okay, fair.
“That’s true,” I admit. “But only because I was working. And you’ve been totally MIA ever since, but now you ask me to dance and are five seconds away from letting your hand wander down my spine and cup my ass. Seriously, what are we doing here?”
I can tell Cal doesn’t get called out very often. He suddenly looks pale, as if the wind has been knocked out him.
“Look, if I’m being honest, I’m only looking for something casual right now,” he says. “I don’t know if I gave you the wrong impression, but I just have a lot of stuff going on in my life. It’s not you, I just need to really focus on growing my business. I’m trying to launch a start-up, you see. I’m designing an app that will deliver medical marijuana right to your door, like a Postmates for Kush. It’s going to be huge. And I just can’t get distracted, so I’m not in a place to start something serious, you know?”
This speech. I’ve heard this before one too many times. The ol’ I’m only casually dating, so I don’t want to be your partner, but I will hang out with you at times and places of my choosing, 100 percent on my own terms. Every woman I’ve ever met has been in this position; let’s call it an almost-relationship. And I know from experience that they’re just not for me. No judgment, but I just end up getting hurt.
“Got it.” I can’t lie, I’m disappointed. “Then why ask me out in the first place?”
“Honestly? I don’t know. There’s something about you, Noora.”
There they are. The moths. The fucking moths.
“From the first day I met you, all frazzled in that elevator, I could tell there’s more to you than meets the eye. We’re a lot alike, you and I. We’re both driven by ambition. There’s a darkness inside of you, isn’t there, Little Light?”
He inches back toward me, slipping his hands around my waist. I can feel his breath on my cheek, hot and humid. His eyelashes tickle the nape of my neck. Then, he takes both of his hands, rough like a carpenter’s, and holds my face, pulling me closer to him. I can feel my heart racing. My brain feels like the spinning pizza wheel on a broken Mac.
Cal is about to kiss me. Me and Cal are about to kiss. I’m going to kiss Cal! I close my eyes and lean in. The entire party somehow fades away, until all I can hear are the clicks of the influencers’ camera rolls filling up until they’re out of memory.
“YOU WHITE, CIS, MICROAGGRESSIVE, SECOND-WAVE, FAUX-FEMINIST, FUCKING LENA DUNHAM–LOVING, ANTIQUE-HOARDING BITCH.”
Cal pulls away.
No! I was so close! So close!
Jade has entered the venue. She’s dressed in a Fenty lingerie set and Vetements cargo pants. Among the highbrow, old-school Print elite, she looks like a total tourist. Her face is bright red. She’s shaking her finger at Loretta while Loretta grips Sarah’s hand, as if she’s afraid she might get sucker punched. The entire party has formed a circle around them, like a Jake Paul boxing match.
What the fuck?
“You will pay for this. You hear me? You are canceled. Finished. I know it was you, Loretta. I KNOW IT WAS YOU!”
Jade turns around and storms out. The ring dissolves, and the DJ continues playing campy Christmas remixes.
“What just happened?”
“I’m not sure,” Cal whispers to me. “Everyone’s checking their phones.”
I run over to Leila, who’s holding my purse, and grab it out of her hands. Her face is stoic, dripping with concern.
“It’s going to be okay,” she says, rubbing my back. I nod, attempting to search Jade’s name online. My hands shake and my heart rate starts to race as sweat pours down my back. I can’t breathe.
Then everything gets a little fuzzy.