Everyone Worth Knowing by Lauren Weisberger Page A

I
    just don't understand why. Why?"
    Why? Why? How could I ever answer that question? It was
    something I'd asked myself a million times. It had started innocently
    enough, with the discovery of an abandoned copy of Hot
    and Heavy in the back pocket of a plane seat during a flight from
    Poughkeepsie to Washington, D.C. I was thirteen and old enough
    to sense that I should hide it from my parents, which I did. The
    damn thing was so good that I claimed a sore throat when we got
    to the hotel and begged out of the NARAL march they were both
    attending so I could finish reading it. I learned to recognize romance
    novels instantly, ferreting out the right library shelves in
    seconds, slipping them off the wire turn-carts at the bookstore and
    quickly handing over my meager allowance in the pharmacy section
    of the drugstore while my mother paid for her purchases up
    front. I went through two or three a week, vaguely aware that they
    were contraband and therefore keeping them hidden in the little
    crawl space of my closet. I read them only after lights-out and always
    remembered to restash them before falling asleep.
    When I first discovered romances, I was embarrassed by the
    obvious suggestions of sex on the cover, and of course by the
    graphic depictions inside. Like any teenager, I didn't want my parents
    to know that I knew anything about the subject, and sneaked
    my reads only when they surely wouldn't see. But by the time I
    was about seventeen, maybe a junior or senior in high school, I'd
    come out of the closet. I'd accompanied my dad to a local bookstore
    to pick up a special order he'd placed, and when it came
    time for him to pay, I slid a copy of Her Royal Bodyguard onto the
    counter, casually murmuring, "I didn't bring my wallet. Can you
    buy this now and I'll pay you back when we get home?"
    He'd picked it up and held it between two fingers as though it
    were roadkill. The expression on his face indicated he found it
     
    about as appetizing. A moment later, he laughed. "Bettina, come
    now. Put this awful thing back wherever you found it and
    select something worthwhile. I promised your mother we'd be
    home in twenty minutes—we don't have time to play around anymore."
    I persisted and he bought the book, if only to leave the store as
    soon as possible. When he mentioned my purchase at the dinner
    table that night, he sounded confused. "You don't actually read
    those things, do you?" he asked, his face scrunched up as though
    he was trying to understand.
    "Yes," I said simply, my voice not revealing the embarrassment
    I felt.
    My mother dropped her fork and it clattered on the plate. "You
    do not." It sounded like she hoped it would be true if she stated it
    forcefully enough. "You can't possibly."
    "Oh, but I do," I sang in a halfhearted attempt to lighten the
    mood. "And so do fifty million other people, Mom. They're relaxing
    and interesting. I mean, there's agony, ecstasy, and a happy
    ending—who could ask for more?" I knew all the facts and figures,
    and there was no denying they were impressive. The two thousand
    romances published each year create a $1.5 billion industry. Twofifths
    of American women buy at least one romance a year. More
    than one-third of all popular fiction sold each year are romances. A
    Shakespearean scholar (and Columbia professor) had recently admitted
    she'd authored dozens of romances. Why should I be
    ashamed?
    What I didn't tell my parents then—or explain to Will or Simon
    now—was how much I loved romances. Escape was part of it, of
    course, but life wasn't so miserable that I had to revert to a fantasy
    world. It was inspirational to read about two gorgeous people who
    overcame all obstacles to be together, who loved each other so
    much that they always found a way to make it work. The sex
    scenes were a bonus, but more than that, the books always ended
    happily, offering such optimism that I couldn't keep myself from
    starting another immediately. They were predictable,