“How have I not heard any of this?” Terry asks.
“Because it’s mortifying and I’m desperately ashamed of my behavior,” I reply.
“That’s how you know it’s a good story. Do continue!” Terry signals and expertly navigates the Outback down the off-ramp. We’ve reached the Andersonville area and should be home soon.
I explain, “Our whole feud took on a life of its own. Normally, when something like this happens, both parties agree to hate each other and go live entirely separate lives. But because of Sars, we keep getting thrown back together and each time it’s been a disaster.”
“Wait, this is the girl who almost killed the shark?”
“Yes.”
“And she dumped the chocolate fountain on you at Sars’s wedding?”
I clear my throat. “Allegedly. Trip’s lawyers eventually made the whole incident go away. But if that had happened—and the attorneys are vehement that it did not—I’d have had so much chocolate on me, it would have been as if I’d leapt into a pool of it. It was—allegedly—everywhere. In my ears, up my nose, in my underwear. I mean, everywhere. I went through a bottle of shampoo trying to wash it all out of my hair.”
Terry nudges Ted. “Take note, please. I want this to happen to me before I die.”
I interject, “I promise you death by chocolate isn’t as great as you’d imagine.”
“I prefer to be the judge of that.”
Personally, I wish that I could be covered in scalding hot chocolate every single day of the rest of my life if it would erase the memory of the look Sars and her parents had on their faces when they saw the end result of our shared grudge. I’d do anything to take back that moment.
I can handle having an enemy, especially as I believe that good can come of conflictual relationships. But poor Sars has always been the innocent in all of this. The bystander. The sweet kid in a bad neighborhood, just trying to ride her bike to Grandma’s when she gets caught in gang cross fire. I’d always secretly hoped that somehow Kitty and I could find a place of understanding and give back to Sars what we inadvertently took away by ruining the end of her wedding. And bachelorette party. And engagement party.
But now? Now it’s far too late.
I say, “I’m dreading seeing Kitty tomorrow because she’ll make an impossible situation exponentially more difficult. I’m warning you, the coming days are not going to be a treat. I apologize in advance if I turn into a bitchy girl.” The more I contemplate what’s ahead of me, the more I twist the hair in my stubby ponytail. My brothers could always tell when I was stressed in school, because I’d end up with these long, panic-based banana curls—until I finally chopped it all off second semester of my freshman year.
Terry is a paragon of compassion. “Oh, honey, that’s terrible! But you have to tell me—what could that awful wench have done to cause such a ruckus?”
I love how Terry’s on my side, ready to defend me, whereas Teddy’s already sputtering with laughter as I explain.
In retrospect, the story is hilarious, and maybe if I hadn’t reacted so badly due to my immaturity, shock, and surprise, she’d have never pulled that business during rush and I’d have left her hair alone, so she wouldn’t have destroyed my stuff and the Sean situation wouldn’t have come to pass . . . Long story short, we’d never have reached this point.
I take a deep breath, give my locks a few extra twists, and finally say, “The fight started when Kitty claimed Ted dumped her because he was gay.”
Teddy’s laughing so hard he’s gasping for air, while Terry scratches his five o’ clock shadow, as he always does when deep in thought, trying to piece this all together.
“Um . . .” His voice is as rich, deep, and melodic as James Earl Jones. If he weren’t committed to being a pastry chef, he’d make a killing doing voice-overs.
Terry looks like what Val Kilmer should have grown into, had he fulfilled the promise of his golden youth back in the Top Gun days. His hair is still fair and full, and jawline square as ever. He’s lean in all the spots where Val became puffy and he’s so strong from hoisting fifty-pound bags of flour all day. He certainly wouldn’t need a tub of Vaseline to try to squeeze into a fitted Batman costume. (No offense, Val.) And a steady regime of injectables and microdermabrasion has kept his skin as fresh and unfurrowed as the day I met him back in 1996. Is he forty-two? Is he twenty-four? No one can tell.
I explain. “That’s why it’s funny now. At the time I thought she was just being a megabitch.”
Teddy finally manages to compose himself. “I wasn’t mad. I was relieved. We parted as friends because she was the catalyst to my being honest with myself, even if it took me a while to come out to all of you. I remember thinking, ‘If this smokin’ hot chick isn’t doing it for me, no woman ever will. I can finally stop overcompensating.’ And P.S. she was a freak in the sheets. Big-time.”
I grit my teeth. “What a poseur. She’d always tell me she was saving it until someone gave her his fraternity pin.”
Ted hoots with mirth. “I pinned her all right.”
I shriek, “Augh! No! Again, I’m going to throw up on you, Joel.”
Teddy snaps his fingers. “Actually, no—wait. My bad. I’m remembering wrong. The first night, she went on and on about the whole boyfriend/committed relationship thing, too, so I figured we weren’t going to happen because I wasn’t in the market for anything serious. Her tune sure changed after a couple of drinks. Two grenadine-spiked Zimas later, I literally couldn’t peel her off of my jock. One time, she—”
I throw up my hands. “Stop. I mean it. Kabul didn’t give me PTSD, but your story might.”
“When did all this happen?” Terry asks.
“Between Thanksgiving and New Year’s Eve in 1994,” I reply.
“And when did we meet?” He steals a glance away from the road to look to Teddy.
Ted replies, “October of 1995. I saw you for the first time on Halloween at Sidetrack in Boystown. I got your number that night. Remember? You were done up like Tori Spelling in 90210?”
“Aha! All the pieces finally fit together. Blond hair, red lips, trapeze dress,” Terry replies as the streetlight illuminates his wide grin. “Donna Martin really did graduate.”
We pull into the garage behind Terry and Teddy’s amazing Arts and Crafts home with the original millwork and stained glass. As we exit the garage, stretching and breathing in the warm night air of the backyard, Terry says, “I can’t speak for you, Jack, but I want to bake this Kitty lady something extra nice. I feel like I owe her a debt of gratitude. Can I send her a treat? What kind of pie says ‘thanks for being too much woman for my man?’ Key lime? Rhubarb?”
“Cherry?” Ted suggests, snickering.
“Stop it, you. Really, I’d like to make her something,” Terry insists. “Would that be okay?”
“Only if you add broccoli,” I reply, only half kidding.
“Consider it done.”
The guys are all smiles and jocularity as we bring my gear into the house, but I’m more solemn, worrying about what comes next. I offer up a short prayer that, no matter how tomorrow shakes out, I won’t throw the broccoli pie at Kitty.
Because Sars always deserved better.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Whitney University, Central Illinois
October 1994
“How hot are you? You’re totally smoking. For real.”
As of this moment, Jackie’s a serious ten. Not kidding. Who saw this coming? Definitely not Jackie, as she’s still gawping at herself in the mirror, completely gob smacked. Like, her mouth’s literally been hanging open ever since I did the big reveal five minutes ago. Granted, I have mad makeover skills, but wasn’t aware she had that kind of raw material under all those ill-fitting hockey shirts and sweatpants.
I arranged a signature daytime look that makes the most of Jackie’s nat
ural attributes. After applying black liquid liner cat-eye style with a neutral matte powder shadow, I brushed on layer after layer of Great Lash to make the crazy-kaleidoscope iris colors pop. (I skipped the base because her skin is, as we say in French, da bomb.) I finished her off with the same awesome brownish-bronze shade on her lips that Shannen Doherty’s been sporting lately.
I back-combed Jackie’s long hair for volume and to show off how piece-y her cut is. Stefan says these layers are the new take on the seventies shag and this style’s about to become The Next Big Thing. I also lent her a fab knee-length plaid swing dress (picture a modern Mary Quant), fat-heeled Mary Janes, and my favorite velvet choker.
“You look just like Phoebe Cates,” I say.
She knits her brows. “Have I met her? You’ve introduced me to so many girls already that I can’t remember who’s who.”
What Jackie doesn’t know about pop culture could fill a book. Mean it. Last week, she asked me if Courteney Cox lived in our dorm, because she kept hearing that name. “Phoebe Cates is the actress who took off her bikini top in Fast Times at Ridgemont High.”
Jackie seems puzzled. “That’s good?”
“Very good,” I confirm.
She returns her attention to her reflection. “You’re a miracle worker,” she says, practically pressing her face into the mirror for a closer look.
I wave her off. “Please. I’m not Jesus making loaves out of fishes. I’m more like . . . Mary Kay,” I reply. “Fact is it’s a lot easier to sculpt marble than, say, oatmeal. Your skin, for example? Your pores literally make me rage-y.”
Jackie flushes and touches her cheek. Her modesty is super-refreshing. Whenever anyone tells my sister Kelly she’s pretty, she’s all, “Yeah, and?” because she’s heard it a million times.
Jackie stammers, “My—my skin’s nothing special.”
I sit down to refresh my own makeup because I need considerably more foundation work than she does. I’m so fair that if I skip mascara or eye/brow liner, I look like a newborn baby rat.
I rest my elbows on my desk where the lighted makeup mirror’s arranged on my textbooks. As I paint my inner lids with blue kohl, I ask, “Are you kidding? I’ve never seen you with a single blackhead, let alone a full-on, stressed-out, pre-period Vesuvius, despite washing your face with hand soap. Hand soap. I don’t even want to mention your visible abs. I didn’t know girls could have those. Fortunately, I’m not a jealous person, because I’d probably be consumed by the little green monster right now. No lie. Do me a proper and don’t let my boyfriend see you all dolled up. I couldn’t compete!”
Seriously, Sean’s super chummy with Jackie. He thinks she’s hilarious.
Jackie does this all over body-roll, like she’s trying to shimmy away from the compliment. Instead of just accepting her accolades, she goes, “What’s wrong with hand soap? Skin is skin.” Then she flops down on the futon next to the mirror, legs akimbo, as though she’s sitting in the dugout, waiting for her turn at bat.
“Knees, please.” I have to keep reminding Jackie she’s wearing a dress. I swear sometimes that wolves raised her, but at least she’s open to learning. She quickly crosses her legs in a decidedly more ladylike manner, just like we’ve practiced. “‘Skin is skin’? You’re messing with me, right?” I peer back at her from the reflection in my mirror.
“Maybe not wearing makeup has been good for my face.” She pokes at her eyelid with a newly manicured finger. “Hey, this stuff will come off later, right? It’s not permanent?”
This girl is just too precious for words sometimes. We’ve started reading Brave New World in my Freshman Lit class and I feel like I’m Bernard Marx (the hero, obviously) bringing John the Savage into Utopia. She doesn’t understand our modern ways either, but she will and everything will work out great eventually. (Haven’t finished the book yet, but I’m sure there’s a happy ending.) So I tell her, “Honey, it’s eyeliner, not a tattoo. You can wash it all off in about fifteen seconds. Later, though. Not now. And not with hand soap.”
Jackie’s makeover is like those infomercials where they find some ratty old hunk of metal in a scrap yard. Looks all beat up and worthless, right? But then they dip the piece in a special chemical bath and presto-change-o, all the scum dissolves and a valuable object’s revealed!
Jackie’s totally a shiny silver doubloon now, which is amazing because when we moved into our room together two months ago, she was a bit of a sartorial train wreck. When I saw that her makeup bag was basically a tube of lip balm, I was nervous. When she put up the Top Gun poster, I was all, “What’s up with that?” And when she pulled out of her bag seven different kinds of sneakers? Yikes. But I gave her a chance and I’m so glad I did. She’s now my best, best friend and I would, like, take a bullet for her. Mean it.
I always had close girlfriends, but I was never as tight with them as I am with Jackie. For example, I appreciate how smart Jackie is, despite buying the wrong comforter because she couldn’t tell the difference between the poppy and the tulip-printed Marimekko bedding. (Actually, no biggie—the mixed florals look faboo together.) Plus, she’s a great listener and seems so open to new experiences. Her default answer is, “Sure! Let’s do it!” I can’t believe she can fly a plane by herself—how, like, brave is that? I’m still so nervous about driving that I have to take the back roads all the way home to North Shore, instead of using the expressway. We’re totally the Odd Couple, but in a way where our respective strengths, like, compensate for each other.
Sean’s right, Jackie is really funny, even though her quips go over my head sometimes. She kept giggling over how I was “farding” when putting on her makeup. (I still don’t get it and I did not eat beans.)
The biggest bonus of being roomies and best friends is that her brothers are TCFW—Too Cute For Words. (Not the crabby one, though.) The guys took off their shirts while they were building our loft and . . . rowr! They kept saying, “It’s so hot in here.” Later, my sister, Kelly, and I were all, “I’ll say it was hot!”
Teddy’s especially nice-looking. If I wasn’t dating Sean, I’d have been ignoring Teddy extrahard, alongside of Kelly. (Kelly says the fastest way into a guy’s heart is to be dismissive of him.) Jackie believes I’d get along better with Bobby, who’s supernice, albeit kind of a stoner. I dug his laid-back vibe, but he’s all the way in California for school, while Teddy could drive down here from the city in less than two hours.
Again, doesn’t matter because I do not cheat on boyfriends. Ever. Sean and I have been together since the first week of summer camp this year. He was a counselor on the boys’ side up in ’Sconsin. I thought he looked way cute in his puka shell necklace and tank top, so I tacitly ignored him, per Kelly’s instructions. Works every time! He finally sidled up to me at the campfire and we started talking. I was psyched to hear he was starting his junior year at Whitney, and when he mentioned he was not only in the best fraternity but also premed with hopes of becoming a plastic surgeon, I knew he was the one for me. All summer long we’d sneak away from our cabins to make out in the boathouse. (We never went below the belt. Kelly says pretty girls don’t need to put out, although a little bit of me might wish she was wrong.)
Anyway, I’ve been excited to go Greek ever since I started hearing my mom’s stories about dances and hayrides and all-night gossip fests. Once Kelly pledged and lent me her awesome letter sweatshirts, I was even more sure I wanted to belong. Plus, a lot of her friends are still here on campus, so I have a built-in social circle already. Unless I rob a bank or wear sweatpants to class or something, I’m guaranteed a Tri Tau bid. I’m still planning to attend parties at each campus sorority, though. Let them fight over me, right?
I’m superexcited to go through rush, which starts today. That’s why I insisted Jackie finally let me style her. Thing is, rush is a delicate dance of looking your best while saying the right thing without bragging, of highlighting academic succe
ss without sounding like a mega-dork (ahem, Sars), and of showing them you’re entertaining and freewheeling, but not so entertaining or freewheeling that you’re going to flash your ta-tas at the SAE house and ruin your chapter’s rep.
“Are the rush parties fun?” I asked my mum and Kelly back in August when they were helping move me into my fab new dorm room. I still can’t get over our great fortune—Jackie and I randomly were assigned one of the gorgeous fourth floor rooms with the beams on the ceiling and the stained glass windows. We totally scored on the half bath, too. How nice is it to share a sink with one person, as opposed to fifty?
Best part of our little piece of Wadsworth Hall is we have a fireplace! The University would have kittens if we tried to burn anything in the hearth, so on Parents’ Weekend, Mum bought us a big ol’ fern to fill that space instead. With our color—if not pattern—coordinated comforters, lofted beds, and a futon, we totally have the best room on campus.
I’m so stoked about our space because we could have ended up like Jackie’s weird little friend Sars—she and her roomie basically live in a closet behind the elevator on the second floor. I don’t know why, but their room smells exactly like spray cheese. Super-disturbing.
“Of course the parties are fun, honey,” my mom replied. “You’ll—”
My sister started speaking over our mom. “Rush parties are bullshit.”
“Language, Kelly!” Mum admonished.
Kelly paid her no attention. “Please. The ‘parties’?” she said, making air quotes with her long, elegant fingers. “Yeah, parties in name only. I’m talking no fun, no boys, no booze.” She stopped herself. “Not that you’d drink until you’re legal, I mean.” Then she winked at me. According to the ID she gave me, I’m totally legal.
Mum pressed her lips together and shook her head. We discovered long ago that when Kelly begins her conversational-bulldozer thing, it’s best just to step out of her way. She said, “These stupid rush events are more like when we have high tea with Great-Aunt Eleanor. Stiff, awkward, hot, overly formal, and you have to smile until your face cracks off. But we do it because when the old broad finally kicks it, we’ll be rolling in dough. The payoff’s what’s important, so you’ve gotta put your game face on.”
The Best of Enemies Page 10