Perky

by Julia Kent

  “I punched him.”

  Mom grins. “Good girl.”

  “I get praised for punching a member of Congress? Fiona told me she thinks that's a felony.”

  “Then we'll use the money to get you out of jail. No jury of women affected by revenge porn would ever convict you,” Ditie says brightly, echoing Mom.

  At the words "the money," Mom flinches.

  Dad's more affected by the word "porn."

  My phone buzzes.

  Hangover tacos? Lunch at eleven?

  My stomach rolls up like a cockroach burrito.

  Not ready yet, I text back as Ditie regales Mom and Dad with her tale of woe involving one eyebrow. It looks like the Very Hungry Caterpillar dipped himself in an inkpot and took up residence above her eye.

  Hurry. We might be forced to include Mallory if you don't speed it up, Fi texts back.

  I shudder. Mallory has this OCD thing about tacos. Eating at Taco Cubed (aka Taco Taco Taco), our favorite local Mexican joint, is like a piece of tastebud heaven.

  Unless you're there with Mallory, who turns it into the food equivalent of an IRS audit. Her “perfect ratio” of meat, veggies, salsa, guac, and sour cream is an endless source of calibration she narrates and dictates.

  Narrates while she's doing it and dictates that we should adhere to her protocol, too. Who the hell has a protocol for eating tacos?

  Mallory. That's who. The woman who can't keep her cellphone charged above six percent is a cumin drill sergeant.

  Noooooo, I type back, the sound echoing in my pain-filled head like a rabid raccoon flinging rocks at the back of my eyeballs.

  Then hurry up. 11?

  I look at the clock. That's in twenty-six minutes.

  Just then, Mom sits on the edge of my bed, nudging Hirsenia's concoction my way. “Honey,” she says, with that look in her eye. You know the look. The one that says she doesn't view me as a capable, competent twenty-nine-year-old.

  Subtract two decades.

  “Persephone, Dad and I are worried about you.”

  How about NOW? I text back.

  Sofia and Bart driving you crazy? she answers. I ignore the text and stand up, my stomach flopping out of my body to slap against my toes, the top of my head leaping up into the sky to collide with a jet out of Logan.

  Pick me up? I double thumb as I pretend I'm fine, plastering on a smile for Mom and Dad. Behind them, the news cycle restarts the Parker story, his big, aw-shucks grin making my panties melt.

  Be there in five, Fiona texts back.

  “I'm going out for tacos with Fi,” I tell Mom, who looks to Dad as if asking permission.

  “Tacos? You were just throwing up. Are you really in any condition for tacos?”

  “They're the great hangover cure,” Ditie says in the voice you use when you know nothing but want to pretend you're an adult.

  “How would you know? You're only nineteen,” Dad grouses.

  See? She totally walked into that. Ditie disappears.

  Mom and Dad follow. Little sisters aren't good for much, but right now, she's saving my ass.

  So is Fiona.

  Which means I owe them both, big time.

  This is all Parker's fault.

  And as I get dressed, it hits me.

  Revenge is a dish best served cold, right?

  With salsa and guacamole.

  6

  “You smell like my four-year-olds got their hands on some old, rotten apples and a can of Sterno and turned it all into a finger-painting mural,” Fiona declares as I crawl into the front seat of her car, squinting.

  “Jesus! Could you take that crystal off your rearview mirror? I'm blind!”

  “It's to keep energy vampires out of my car.” Mercifully, she reaches for the piece of fishing line that loops the damn Pink Floyd album cover imitation over the mirror. As it slips into the cupholder, I avoid looking at it.

  “Return it to the store where you bought it and ask for a refund. It just failed.”

  “It doesn't work on emotional vampires,” she says dryly, eyes cutting my way, mouth tight with disapproval.

  Fiona adjusts her sunglasses, then slips them up over her forehead, perching them on top like a headband. Her hair is streaked with ombré lilac and she wears zero makeup. Thin, arched eyebrows frame a strong bone structure that is inexplicably delicate, too. My mother once described Fi's skin as “porcelain with steel underneath,” and damn if she isn't right.

  She smells like peaches and sandalwood.

  “Taco Cubed!” I groan as we lurch forward. Fiona drives an electric car, a putt-putt vehicle that feels like we're riding an amusement park's tram service. If Disney ever goes into the automotive industry, they've got competition.

  “You need some hair of the dog that bit you.”

  “Hairy oranges sound disgusting.”

  “I cannot believe how many blood orange martinis you sucked down. And then that beer Parker brought you! It was like watching my brother after the hot-dog-eating contest at the Dance and Dairy festival when he was in eighth grade.”

  “Shut up.” An image of Dale in 2001, projectile vomiting all over the dunking booth after his fellow baseball-team players got in there, doesn't help.

  “You're really hurting, aren't you?” She pulls out a small spritzer. “Spray this on your throat chakra.”

  “Why?”

  “It detoxes you.”

  “What's in this spray? Some new medical treatment?” Putting the nozzle to my nose, I sniff.

  “Flower essences.”

  I stare at her. Hard.

  “What?” she finally asks.

  “I pray for the children of our country if you're the one teaching them in their tender years. Unless this contains the real tears of children, collected in the moment they're told there is no Santa Claus or Easter Bunny, nothing in that spray will help me deal with detox.”

  “More like distillery. And what do you mean, there's no Santa Claus?” Mock outrage fills her features, then disappears quickly. “And you're never, ever subbing in my class again. Who would joke about harvesting the tears of emotionally traumatized children?”

  “Me.”

  “And I am an excellent preschool teacher!” She points to the spray. “And that makes an outstanding monster spray.”

  “You just told me it detoxes my liver.”

  “It does.”

  “You're spritzing kids with liver-detox spray? Do their parents know?”

  “I spray it on the monsters.”

  “Do the monsters know their livers are being treated?”

  “Shut up, Perk.”

  “I'm imagining Bigfoot walking around with jaundice, desperate for Miss Fiona to come along and spray him so he'll survive.”

  “I would if I saw him,” she huffs. “It would make him go away AND give him a hepatic boost. Betcha Bigfoot abuses his liver as badly as you do.” She turns the nozzle and spritzes me.

  “AUGH!” I open the window to get fresh air. “I need coffee.”

  “No.”

  “No?”

  “Tacos first, coffee second. You know that's the ritual.” She sniffs. “And if you'd listened to me about the lime water and ibuprofen, you'd be fine now.”

  “I'll never be fine. Not with Parker here.”

  “I assume he's gone by now. Mallory told Will he had to find another groomsman.”

  “She did? When?”

  “Somewhere between your fourth and fifth drink.”

  “You were counting?”

  “The last time you drank that much, you tripped and dropped my car keys down a sewer grate, so yes.”

  “That only happened once!”

  “We were on the Cape. In August. The day before school was starting.”

  “I got you new keys!”

  “Two days later.”

  “Picky, picky.”

  “No. Perky, Perky.” She laughs. She doesn't want to, but she laughs. “Even half shitfaced, you're adorable.”

 
“You make me sound like a golden retriever puppy.”

  “Your hair's close to the same color.”

  She grabs the crystal and holds it up, blinding me again.

  “What the hell?”

  “You know how this works.” The last thing I see before closing my eyes is Fi waving a Y-shaped stick in the air, her lips moving with words I can't hear.

  Pulling into the parking lot behind Taco Cubed, Fiona finishes her parking-spot magic and eases into a non-metered space. It's a four-block walk, but free parking in our area is as rare as a Yankees hat.

  “How do you do that? You always find free parking wherever you go!”

  “I am geopathically sensitive. I use the dowsing rod to find the Earth's magnetic lines and the rest just happens. It's abundance mentality. You should try it sometime.”

  I pat my hips. “I think it misses sometimes and hits here. If you ever have to actually pay for parking, you'll know I've gained five pounds and your abundance spell needs a GPS fine tuning.”

  “Shut up, Picky.”

  “Don't taunt me, Feisty.”

  We head down the street in the direction of the restaurant.

  “Hey! Fancy running into you two!” A bright and cheery Mallory appears just as we get to the entrance, hopping toward us with so much energy, her auburn curls bounce.

  I give Fi a sideways glance that says everything.

  “Hi!” Fiona's eyebrows climb over her forehead, into her hair, and try to rappel down her ears. “Mallory! What are you doing here?”

  Oh, no. Taco recovery time has just turned into a culinary engineering lesson where the professor grades us with her eyes.

  Mal thumbs toward the insurance agency next door. “Mom and Dad are doing something with their life insurance and I had to drop some papers in the mail slot at the insurance agent's office.”

  “Are they okay?”

  “What? Of course they are. Sharon and Roy are just crossing all the t's and dotting all the i's. You know how they are.” She makes a huffing sound, dismissive. “Some people can be so particular.”

  “Right.” Fiona and I nod in unison, thinking the same thing. Taco Hivemind is real.

  “If you're standing here, it can mean only one thing! Let's all have lunch at Taco Cubed!”

  I stifle my groan.

  No, actually. I don't. Mallory gives me a questioning look.

  “You can just sip water if that's better. You’re probably not feeling great today.”

  “No,” Fiona says with a sigh. “She needs calories she can't drink.”

  Threading her fingers together in front of her, Mallory looks like a professor ready to ask a class hard questions. “So. How are we going to approach this?”

  “This?”

  “Lunch.” Conveniently ignoring the fact that we've repeatedly told her we don't like eating at Taco Cubed with her, she soldiers on.

  I see. We're playing Let's Pretend. I can do that, too.

  “We're going to move our feet and walk into the store and Pedro Jr. will take our order and Pedro Sr. will cook it,” Fiona says while I allow a small battalion of blood piranha to destroy my circulatory system.

  “Ha ha.” Mal's tone makes it clear nothing we say will make a difference. “The last time I was here with you, you ate like rabid dogs.” She bares her teeth. “You disrespected the taco.”

  “That sounds like something you complain about after a one-night stand from Tinder. He disrespected the taco!” I blurt out.

  Mallory blushes. Pay dirt. “You're comparing tacos to sex?”

  “I'm joking about the vertical taco.”

  “The what? Oh, gross,” she groans as she gets it, rubbing her eyes as if trying to smear the image out of her mind.

  Victory!

  Fi gives me a glare. “You're still hung over, aren't you?”

  “No. But the longer we stand here being lectured by Mallory the Taco Engineer, the pornier I'm going to get.”

  Mal shuts up and instantly turns to the double doors, opening them. A wave of chile relleno hits me smack in the face. I ride it, inhaling like it's a cure, like I'm surfing on a salsa ocean. Fresh tomatoes and spicy beef can erase the memory of Parker's presence last night, right?

  If anything can, a trip to Taco Heaven in my mind can wash away the residue of Parker on my body.

  And if it can't, I'll just eat my way into a taco coma.

  “You're drooling,” Fiona says dryly, stepping up to the counter. There's no line, the lunch rush well over. I look at the wall clock. 11:25 a.m. Huh.

  Then I realize it's Sunday.

  “I'll have the special,” she says to Pedro Jr., who has no surface of his skin that is not covered with tattoos, none of which are tacos.

  “Soft or hard?” he asks.

  Mallory clears her throat meaningfully.

  “SOFT,” Fiona says loudly, making Mallory wince. It's not the noise that bothers her. We're well aware of her opinion on soft tacos. Like mayonnaise, soft tacos sit on a throne in hell where they allow lesser devils to walk the Earth, marching into our mouths and destroying civilization as we know it.

  But the devil sure does know how to make evil taste so good.

  “It's like ordering a hamburger at a five-star restaurant,” Mal says, unable to help herself.

  “Shhh,” Fiona snaps back, paying for her tacos with her debit card. I pat my pockets. I forgot my purse. One eye roll later and Fiona hands me her card.

  “I'll pay you back,” I promise.

  “You always do,” she says, completely sincere. Last month, Fiona's car had a powertrain malfunction–whatever that is–and $800 later, she could drive again. I make more than enough from my trust fund and my Beanerino paycheck, so helping her out just makes me a good friend.

  I hope.

  Pedro looks at me and shouts something to the kitchen line. Immediately, one of the workers changes his gloves.

  I smile. “Thanks. I'll have the special, gluten free, on hard tacos.”

  A toothy smile matches mine, gold glinting off one of Pedro Jr.'s back molars. “No problem, Silly Yak,” he says with a funny laugh.

  A few years ago, after I was diagnosed with celiac disease, I came in for my first taco, armed with new nutrition knowledge. Pedro Sr. talked to me, then pulled out his phone. He typed the words Silly Yak into the translator. That's my nickname now, whenever Pedro Jr. has time to poke at me.

  His father thinks that is my actual name.

  “Mi hijo was just diagnosed, too.” He thumbs to the back. “Mi papi wants to strip the store of everything gluten and use that to get more customers.”

  Mallory shoves her way past me. “You would stop carrying soft tacos?”

  “No, we'd just switch to maíz, corn.” Pedro looks at her hand, one corner of his mouth turning down. “Nice ring.”

  “Thanks!” she says brightly, his subtle but still obvious cues whooshing right over her head. Mallory may have been our high school valedictorian and may be smart, but she can be really, really dense when it comes to living life outside her bubble. Will Lotham's return to Anderhill after ten years of being gone saved her from the endless stream of bizarre dates where guys got through the dinner and then used (probably) invented excuses to get away from her.

  I'm her BFF. I don't have that luxury.

  We sit down in a booth and I elbow her as she starts stuffing her face with chips and queso. “He was flirting.”

  “Wha..?”

  “He wasn't flirting,” Fiona argues. “He was expressing his disappointment that Mallory will no longer be a potential booty call.”

  A gagging sound comes out of poor Mal, who is now so far from Taco Heaven, she'll need an air conditioner for the rest of her taco life.

  In hell.

  With me.

  A huge swallow and half her water later, and Mallory sputters, “I would never, ever be a booty call for Pedro!” At least her damaged throat makes her go quiet, the words coming out in an enraged hiss.

  “
I didn't say booty call,” Fiona soothes.

  “Yes, you did!”

  “I said potential booty call.”

  “What does that mean? I am a happily engaged woman!” Looking at her left hand, Mallory caresses the giant diamond, mouth quirking into a distracted smile.

  “We're all potential booty calls,” I remind Fiona. “Anytime we talk to a straight guy, I mean.”

  She nods.

  Wiping the corner of her mouth, Mallory looks up at us from her napkin with withering condescension. Or maybe disgust. It's hard to tell.

  “I disagree. Straight men can look at women without wanting to sleep with them.”

  We hoot. Oh, the hooting. Fiona and I were owls in a former life. We're a flock of owls delivering howlers at Hogwarts.

  “Stop!” she whisper-growls.

  We hoot more.

  Fiona wipes the corners of her eyes, chest hitching from rollicking laughter. “Oh, Mal. You're hilarious.”

  “I wasn't kidding!”

  A long sigh escapes Fiona, who looks at her through those oversized glasses she always wears. Fiona looks just enough like a character from a children's fantasy novel to leave you a little unmoored, trying to think which one she is.

  Before she can speak, I say, “Mallory, every straight guy evaluates every straight woman who isn't his mother's age. They all do. There's a mental calibration that goes on. It's a connection between eyes, brain, and–” I make a hand motion like I'm whacking someone off. “Not necessarily in that order.”

  “No way!”

  “Ask Will.”

  “I can't ask Will that!”

  I nod. “Because he'll lie.”

  “He would never lie to me!”

  We hoot again.

  “STOP THAT!” Her shout makes my headache hurt more. My mouth closes around the straw in my water. I take a sip and push the pieces of my taco around, carefully covering the refried beans. I'm done.

  And this is the last time I'm coming to Taco Cubed with Mallory ever again. Screw this. I like sushi better, anyhow.

  “Ladies.” I look up to find Parker standing there, a grin on his stupid face. He's wearing khakis, loafers, and a navy polo shirt. It's the uniform of private school boys, golfers, and–apparently–young congressmen. It should make him blend into the background, but the simple clothes have the opposite effect.