Triple Shot Bettys in Love

by Jody Gehrman

  “You look fine.”

  “Whatever. So, we agreed to meet at the restaurant. When I got there he asked if I wanted a drink, so I had to make up this whole thing about my mom being an alcoholic—actually, that’s the first honest thing I’ve told him, really. Anyway, that’s how I got around the drink thing.”

  “Good thinking,” I said.

  “Except at that point I would have given anything for a Crantini.”

  I nodded sympathetically. “You were nervous?”

  “Nervous! I was terrified. I studied the MySpace profile you set up for me, and I really, really wanted to sound like that.”

  “Like what?”

  She scoffed. “You know! Smart. God, if you’re such a genius, how can you be so lame about some things?”

  I raised an eyebrow.

  She sighed. “Sorry.”

  “So he’s there, you’re there—what happened?”

  “We ordered dinner, and . . .” She trailed off, staring into space.

  “And . . .?”

  “He wanted to talk about books. Of course.” Tears started spilling over her bottom lashes and sliding down her face. “He brought up that Kerouac guy before the appetizers even came. Last night I got online and read all the Wikipedia entries about On the Road, I watched clips of the beats on YouTube—I learned everything I could—but it’s not that easy. He knows like . . . everything . . . about everything. I know nothing.”

  I squeezed her knee. “You know all kinds of stuff he’s got no clue about.”

  “Oh yeah?” Her lip trembled. “Like what?”

  “Like tattoos, for example.”

  She rolled her eyes. “He’d find that very impressive, I’m sure.”

  I weighed my words carefully. “Don’t be mad, but this is what I was trying to say yesterday. Hanging out with him is so much work. Wouldn’t you rather date someone you can relax with?”

  She looked at me for a long moment. I was afraid she’d go off again—I could see something a little like anger in her eyes—but when she spoke, her voice was even. “Geena, I don’t know if you realize this, but the world I come from isn’t really the world I want to stay in.”

  “Yeah, but you want to be yourself, don’t you?”

  She pulled her hair back from her face and sighed. “I don’t know. I mean, who is that? I wake up every day in a filthy house that reeks of cigarettes, and I say hello to my mom’s latest boyfriend, who’s still in his underwear. Is that me? Does being myself mean hooking up with someone who can relate to that shit? Because I don’t think I want that guy.”

  She kind of had a point, but there was something off about her logic too. “I’m not saying that. I just don’t think love should require a complete personality transplant.”

  “But what if I want to change? What if I want to be the kind of girl Rex could fall for?”

  I didn’t know what to say—the truth? That she’d have to completely transform herself, redo her whole life, and become a completely different person? Not only that, but she’d have to stop being sixteen, which will happen eventually, but not in time to be very useful with Mr. Sands. She was taking this so seriously, when really it was hopeless from the start.

  After a long silence, Amber seized the half-eaten brownie and stuffed it into her mouth. When she’d swallowed, she said, “It’s okay. You don’t have to answer. Just because I want to be that girl doesn’t mean I can. I see that.”

  I felt embarrassed for some reason, as if she’d read my mind. “So, how did your date end?”

  She shrugged. “I made it through dinner, but he was obviously dying to get away. Afterward I walked around for like . . . I don’t know, an hour?” She looked down at her feet and I saw several angry red blisters.

  “Ouch.”

  She touched one and winced. “I can’t believe I messed everything up so royally.”

  “You didn’t.” I ran a hand over her back. “It’s just tough, you know? He’s intimidating.”

  She made a sound in her throat. “You can say that again.”

  “I bet he’ll ask you out again.”

  “Yeah, right.” She tried to sound like she’d given up all hope, like she’d raised the white flag in surrender, but I knew by the faint glimmer in her eyes that her heart wasn’t ready to call it quits. She was wounded, yes, but still she lingered dangerously in the line of fire.

  “Listen, why don’t you just take a little break? Don’t contact him, try not to think about him so much.” She opened her mouth to protest, but I stopped her. “Not forever! Just for a few days. See if anything changes. Maybe he won’t seem so great if you just get a little distance.”

  “I don’t want to stop liking him.”

  “You don’t have to. Just take a little time to get some perspective.”

  She shrugged. “I guess I don’t have much choice. He’s not going to ask me out anytime soon, and I can’t force myself on him.”

  “So we agree? There’s a Mr. Sands moratorium in place until Sunday?”

  She nodded reluctantly. “I won’t contact him, but I can’t say I won’t think about him.”

  “That’s good enough for me.”

  Friday, January 30

  2:10 P.M.

  Ben’s been ignoring me since Wednesday. Okay technically, he’s not ignoring ignoring me—he says hi—but his enthusiasm is approximately one-sixtieth what it was a couple weeks ago. And yes, I admit I didn’t return some of his calls earlier this week, but I was busy trying to end world hunger. Actually, I was busy writing ridiculous MySpace messages for Amber. The point is I was busy, and now Ben’s totally blowing me off, which seems a little cruel and unusual.

  Example: Yesterday, walking from history to English, I had to run to catch up with him. When I did, his conversation style was distinctly monosyllabic.

  “Hey, stranger!” I punched his shoulder playfully, trying to keep it light. “What’s going on?”

  “Oh. Hi.”

  “You okay?”

  He didn’t meet my gaze. “Fine. You?”

  “I’m good.” I couldn’t help but recall that just three weeks ago he found me irresistibly kissable between fifth and sixth period. Now he couldn’t even look at me. “You just seem kind of . . .”

  “What?”

  “I don’t know,” I said. “Distant, I guess.”

  Before he could answer, we both spotted Sophie De Luca headed our way, her hair swinging around her shoulders with its usual shine and bounce. Actually, it wasn’t just her hair that was shiny; everything about her seemed to glow. She strode toward us in a butter-colored leather blazer and perfectly cut wool trousers. Instantly I felt like a disheveled Oompa Loompa.

  She fell into step beside Ben and spoke with unnecessary intimacy into his ear. “Can I borrow your notes on The Stranger, Benedict?”

  “Sure.”

  “Oh, thank you so much!” She squeezed his arm affectionately. “I completely spaced out last week. Dylan—the guy I was seeing back in New York?—we broke up. It completely ruined my concentration. Relationships can be such a drag.”

  Apparently, it’s not enough for Sophie De Luca to have everything anyone could want in life: Slavic cheekbones, mile-long legs, enough fine Italian footwear to launch a Gucci empire. No, now she’s got to invade my turf, crowning herself Queen Bee and turning Ben into one of her drones.

  I hoped Ben would pointedly turn his attention back to me, his girlfriend. Instead, he offered her a sympathetic smile. “That’s good you’ve got such a healthy attitude.”

  “Well, you know, c’est la vie, carpe diem—”

  “Que sera, sera,” I added, my tone nastier than I’d intended.

  They both looked at me like I’d just sprouted horns or something.

  “Hey,” Sophie said, her tone going from bubbly to snide. “What’s up with your friend Amber?”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I said dismissively.

  By then we’d reached the classroom. Mr. Sands s
at grading papers behind his desk. I cast a nervous glance at him, not liking where this was going.

  “Hello! She’s always got some weird wig on these days. I just saw her in the bathroom wearing a horrible blond thing—it looked so not sanitary.”

  “Unsanitary,” I mumbled.

  “What?”

  Ben, handing his notes to Sophie, said, “Why is she wearing wigs lately?”

  He’s supposed to be my boyfriend, and he’s siding with Sophie De Luca in my hour of need? I looked from one to the other in mute horror.

  Praise God, the bell rang just then, saving me from their queries. Mr. Sands put his pen down, stood up, and we all shuffled off to our seats like good little AP robots.

  Now here I sit in my uncomfortable desk, listening to Mr. Sands go on about Camus. My journal is artfully concealed inside my binder, and I look up now and then with an engrossed nod so Mr. Sands will assume I’m jotting down his every word. Normally this posture is authentic—I really do write down everything he says—but now I’m too distracted. I can feel all these questions hatching in my brain. Namely:1. How long can Amber keep up her bizarre little charade?

  2. Is Ben actually my boyfriend anymore?

  3. If I didn’t like it when he kissed me in the hallway, do I like it better now that he ignores me to provide spontaneous relationship counseling for Sophie De Luca?

  4. Is he going to ask me to the Valentine’s dance, or will he ask Sophie?

  5. If my mind launches off into rapid-fire fantasyland whenever Mr. Sands calls on me, or looks at me, or turns to write something on the board, does this mean I’m cheating on Ben inside my brain?

  6. Can I really cheat on Ben if he’s barely even talking to me?

  7. If I pluck my eyebrows just right, will they look like Sophie’s?

  Saturday, January 31

  3:30 P.M.

  Amber came into work today wearing a ragged, torn sweatshirt and stretched-out sweats. She also had on black lipstick—a sure sign she’s harboring death-rocker ennui.

  “What’s up with you?” I asked. “Channeling Marilyn Man-son?”

  “Men suck.” She tossed her bag on the counter and pulled out her sketchbook.

  “Oh-kay.”

  She glared at me accusingly. “He hasn’t messaged me—obviously.”

  “I figured.”

  “Oh, you ‘figured.’ What does that mean?”

  “Um, Amber? We’re not talking about this, remember?”

  She groaned.

  “Everyone knows the best way to get over someone is to think about someone else.” See, I have a new plan—or rather, an old plan taken up a notch. I’m determined to convince Amber that Jeremy Riggs is hot. Well, if not hot, at least intriguing. I’m sure once she sees how much fun it is to be with someone who’s not, well, totally wrong for her in every way, she’ll toss Mr. Sands aside and fall for Jeremy—someone who likes the real Amber, not some fake intellectual she’s busting her butt to become.

  I powered up the ancient boom box we keep on the shelf above the Italian syrups and stuck Jeremy’s CD in. I still hadn’t given it to her, despite my promise. I knew if I simply handed it over it’d just end up on the floorboards of her mom’s filthy El Dorado, so I had to trick her into listening and hopefully liking it. If I could just distract her from this Mr. Sands fixation, I knew our lives would get easier. I pushed PLAY and, after a brief pause, Jeremy’s voice filled Triple Shot Betty, startling us both.

  “Listen, Amber, I’m incredibly shy and not very good at talking to—well, human beings in general—but I can express myself through music, for some reason, even if I do it badly sometimes. I write way too many songs, and lately every song I write seems to be about you. Here are a few I put together. It’s me on guitar, me on bass, me on everything, actually. So yeah, this is what I call the Amber Collection.”

  The first song started up. The sound had a different flavor from the Aqua Nets; this was quirkier, more poetic, sort of Death-Cab-for-Cutie-meets-the-Magnetic-Fields. I liked it a lot.

  “Oh my God,” I gushed, grabbing the jewel case and pulling out the scribbled song list. “It’s so romantic! He’s got like seven songs on here. ‘Tattoo Diva,’ ‘Stock Boy Soliloquy,’ ‘Ode to a Triple Shot Betty.’ This is like a John Hughes movie!”

  “Let’s not overreact,” she said, but I could see the intrigue in her eyes. “Jeremy gave this to you?”

  “Yeah. Wednesday.”

  “Wednesday? And I’m just now hearing about it?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Why?”

  I gave her a look. “Let’s just say you were preoccupied.”

  She started to say something, paused to listen as he segued into the second verse, and finally asked, “Wait a minute—why did he give it to you?”

  I shrugged. “You were busy painting your nails.”

  We stood there and let his surprisingly deep voice wash over us; he was hitting the chorus now, gaining momentum. I want to be the sugar in your coffee, I want to be the honey in your tea, you’ve got enough attitude for both of us, can’t you turn your attitude on me?

  I laughed. “He’s got you pegged.”

  Amber tried not to smile but failed. “Shut up.”

  Jeremy, the little emo-kid-who-could, had her attention at last. I wanted to do a victory dance, but I knew if I pulled out I told you so too soon, she’d go on ignoring him just to be perverse.

  “What are you going to do?” I squeezed her hands, squelching the urge to jump up and down. “You have to respond—the poor guy! He’s dying to know what you think. He’s dying!”

  She bit her lip. “No wonder he was so weird at work yesterday.”

  “Romeo of the tattoo parlor. Oh, swoon!”

  She slapped my arm. “You date him if he’s so cool.”

  “He doesn’t want me. He wants you. And bad!” I put on my I-just-got-a-brilliant-idea face, even though I’d worked out this plan hours before. “Hey! He’s playing at the Raven tonight in Healdsburg. We should totally go!”

  “Really? You want to?” She looked excited for a second, but then her face fell. “I can’t get the car, though. Could Ben drive us?”

  It was my turn to frown. Since Ben and I are barely speaking, I didn’t feel like asking a favor.

  She must have read my expression, because she asked, “What’s up with you guys, anyway?”

  “We’re kind of not talking.”

  “What? How did that happen? Why didn’t you tell me?”

  “It’s not that big a deal. I don’t think.” I started chewing on the end of my braid. It’s gross, but it helps me when I get freaked out, and it’s better than eating your fingernails. “He told me he messed around with Sophie last year.”

  “Before you got together?”

  I nodded.

  “So, what’s the problem?”

  “I feel weird about it.”

  “It’s not like he cheated on you. Mocha?”

  I nodded, and she started brewing us a couple shots.

  “It’s weird when you get involved with someone, you know?” I started arranging the paper cups into neat little rows. “Like sex starts to take over everything.”

  She spun around. “You had sex?”

  “No! I just mean—you know—messing around. Sometimes I feel like he’s more interested in my body than my brain.”

  She snorted. “Wish I could get Rex to stop probing my brain and start noticing my body.”

  I shot her a look. “One word: moratorium.”

  “I know, I know. Anyway, you guys aren’t breaking up, are you?”

  “I don’t think so.” I gave up on the cups and went back to my braid. “But how am I supposed to know? I’ve never had a boyfriend before.”

  Just then I heard the distinct cough of a decrepit old Volvo, and my heart leaped into my throat. Ben!

  It wasn’t, though. It was the other ancient Volvo driver in my life, the one I didn’t choose but still have to deal with: Mungo.

&n
bsp; “Good morning,” he called in his thick accent. He looked all soccer coachy in a bright yellow Windbreaker and blue baseball cap. “How, are you, Geena? Hi, Amber! Having a good weekend?”

  Okay, about Mungo: He’s really nice. I mean, he’s so nice that it’s almost impossible to dislike him. I generally disappear into my room when he comes over, but I can already tell that hating him isn’t an option. That accent alone makes you grin, even if you’re dead set on being surly. Still, just because he’s preternaturally likeable doesn’t mean I have to welcome him into the family with open arms or anything, right?

  “Hey, Mungo,” I said. “What can I get you?”

  “What’s your mum’s favorite coffee drink, do you know?”

  “Probably a soy latte. You want one of those?”

  He smiled, all starry eyed, as if just thinking about her favorite beverage made him giddy. “Please. And a double cappuccino. Can’t seem to wake up this morning.”

  “Because he’s been so busy every night,” Amber mumbled into my ear.

  I made a face at her and shoved her toward the espresso machine.

  “What size on those?” I tried very hard not to think about this man—or anyone—having sex with my parental unit. Gag.

  “Medium, I guess.”

  While Amber brewed his drinks, I attempted small talk. It’s awkward, though. I don’t know him any better than the millions of other random people who drive up to my window in search of a fix. Yet in his case, we both know we could end up living together someday—maybe even exchanging Christmas gifts and going on road trips. That’s just weird.

  “What are you and Mom up to this weekend?” I asked.

  “Taking her to dinner tonight. There’s a new place in Healdsburg—supposed to be very good. Tomorrow we might go for—”

  “Wait, did you say Healdsburg?”

  He nodded. “There was a review in the PD. Did you see it? They gave this little bistro five stars. I thought your mum might fancy it.”

  Amber and I exchanged are-you-thinking-what-I’m-thinking looks. It wasn’t ideal, getting ferried to a show with the geriatric set, but it sure beat not going at all. I turned back to Mungo. “You think we could get a ride? There’s a band we want to see at the Raven.”