Triple Shot Bettys in Love

by Jody Gehrman

“You don’t have to say that just to make me feel bet—”

  “Geena!” He looked incredulous. “Come on. I wouldn’t lie to you.”

  I looked down again. “Then I guess I’ll have to believe you.”

  “Something’s going on with you, Sloane. Why don’t you just tell me?”

  My head whirred like a swarm of locusts were trapped in there. Should I go into this whole crazy situation with Mr. Sands? What would I say? “I’ve been busy trying to seduce our English teacher”? Telling him that would just be humiliating. It’s not like Mr. Sands could ever be a real threat, since Ben is an actual person, someone I’m involved with, and Mr. Sands is more like, I don’t know, Johnny Depp or something. Then again, if I have feelings for Mr. Sands and don’t tell him, how can I resent him for secretly crushing on Sophie?

  “It’s complicated,” I said.

  “Just try.”

  I took a deep breath. “I’m trying to figure out how to be with you but not let that overshadow everything else.” Pathetic, generic, incredibly vague, fairly off topic, but not a total lie, at least.

  “Okay,” he said, obviously still mystified.

  “I’m not explaining myself very well.”

  “No, no,” he said, “I think I get that. Like you still want to be friends with Amber and keep up your grades and stuff, right?”

  I just nodded.

  “I want that too.” His eyes sparkled. “I mean, no way am I giving up my spot as valedictorian just because I’m into you.”

  “Salutatorian, you mean.” I smiled. And then, seeing as we were having a moment and I was terrified my horrible-at-poker-face would give something away, I leaned over and kissed him. The heat of his response surprised me. Suddenly his hands were everywhere. I felt his fingers tangle in my hair and I let out a low, barely audible moan and our bodies just sort of found each other, like that was what they wanted all along. Within seconds, the windows of the Volvo were steamed up and I was basically in his lap.

  “Whoa,” I breathed, pulling back a bit. He had my bra undone, somehow (who knew Ben could be so smooth?) and all at once I felt way too exposed. “Maybe we should slow down.”

  For a second, he looked so disappointed, I almost wanted to take it back. Then I thought, Wait a second, am I turning into one of those girls who has sex just because she’s desperate to please some guy? That seemed really pathetic. I reached under my shirt and fastened my bra, feeling awkward and gawky as I scooted back over to my seat.

  He sat back, his eyes filled with a strange mix of confusion and desire. “I’m sorry, Geena.”

  “No, don’t be.”

  “Listen, I want to ask you something, and maybe this isn’t the right time, but . . .” He paused.

  “What?”

  “Will you go to the Valentine’s dance with me?”

  “The Valentine’s dance?” I echoed stupidly.

  “Yeah—I know you probably think it’s lame, but do you want to go?”

  I laughed. “Yeah. Let’s do it. Why not?”

  “Cool.”

  I nodded. “Excellent.”

  The smooth, beautiful skin of his neck called to me. I wanted to touch him again. I leaned over and trailed kisses from his jaw to the collar of his T-shirt.

  He pulled back and raised an eyebrow. “You’re one confusing chick—you know that?”

  “I prefer ‘Woman of Mystery.’”

  “Yeah.” He laughed. “I can see why.”

  We stayed in the car, laughing and talking for over two hours. Things got sort of hot again once or twice, but we never moved to the backseat. I was starving, and Ben found half a bag of Cheetos for us to devour. Big, fat drops splattered against the tinny roof of the Volvo, tapping out a rhythm I can only describe as euphoric. The Cheetos turned our fingers a neon orange and later, when I kissed him good-bye, I could taste the salty seasoning on his lips.

  Who knew imitation Cheddar could be so divine?

  Wednesday, February 4

  7:00 P.M.

  Ben and I studied for our French test together at the library after school. We sat at a table behind the Norse Mythology section. Since nobody needed any books about Valhalla or Valkyries, we pretty much had that corner to ourselves. We worked out a stupid little game we called “Embrassez-moi.” Basically we tested each other with flashcards, and when one of us got ten words in a row without a single mistake, the quizzer had to reward the quizzee with a kiss. It was juvenile, yes, but still fun. The kisses seemed to get hotter and hotter. What is it about libraries that amplifies the sexual tension so effectively?

  When I got home I was in a pretty good mood, really. Then I walked into the kitchen and found my mom and Mungo on the floor.

  I did what any sane person would do when confronted with two middle-aged people in the throes of passion, one of whom is said sane person’s mother: I screamed.

  “Geena!” Mom sat up quickly, struggling to straighten out her clothes. “Jesus.”

  It’s not like they were naked or anything—I’d be hospitalized now if I’d had to deal with that trauma. Still, they were going at it in a way that nobody wants exposure to.

  Mungo turned the color of a stewed tomato. “Right. Well. Sorry about that.”

  They both got to their feet with as much dignity as they could muster (i.e., none).

  I shook my head like someone waking from a nightmare. “Okay, let’s get one thing straight: This will never happen again.” Mom opened her mouth to say something, but nothing came out.

  “I’m serious.” I have no idea where this came from, but I was bristling with righteous indignation. “I live here too, and you guys have to respect that.”

  “We do.” Mom brushed a bit of lint off her pants. “Of course we do, honey. I just wasn’t—”

  “Thinking,” I finished. “You weren’t thinking because you’re so into him. Believe it or not there are other people on the planet, though, one of whom happens to be your daughter. Don’t let it happen again.”

  Then I stormed off to my room.

  I seriously don’t know what that was all about. It just flew out of my mouth.

  7:50 P.M.

  After Mungo left, Mom came into my room and sat down on the edge of my bed. She waited until I looked up, then asked me very quietly, “You okay?”

  “Fine.”

  “That was embarrassing. I’m sorry.”

  I just shrugged. All of my moral indignation had vanished. I was left feeling tired and a little sheepish. Also, I was hungry, but I’d been afraid to venture out into the kitchen again.

  “Geena, I really like him. You know that, right?”

  I nodded.

  “I think I might even be in love with him.”

  This was skirting the edge of too much information, but I resisted the urge to cover my ears and go “Nah-nah-nah-nah-nah!” Instead I said, “That’s good. Right?”

  She smiled sadly. “Yeah. It’s great.”

  “So why do you say it like that?”

  “Like what?”

  “Like it depresses you.”

  “Well . . .” She hugged her knees. “It’s complicated. I’ve been pretty lonely since your dad and I split up. Mungo’s the first person to come along that I can see myself with.”

  She paused, her eyes searching the ceiling. My mind raced ahead. God, they weren’t getting married already, were they? Was she going to have another kid? I thought of this girl I know, Jana Clark. Her mom had a baby in September and after that Jana would show up at football games with her baby sister in a stroller, showing her off like she was a new iPod or something. I thought it was pretty tacky. I had no desire for a baby sibling accessory. Besides, our house is really small. How are we going to fit Mungo and a screaming infant in here while I’m studying for the SATs? Talk about bad timing.

  “Are you pregnant?” As soon it was out of my mouth, I knew it sounded totally ridiculous and accusatory.

  “No! Of course not. Nothing like that.” She smoothed my hair. “Don�
��t be silly. I wouldn’t do that to you.”

  I shook my head. “Sorry. I don’t know where that came from.”

  “It’s a big deal, having a guy around. You barely know him.” She lifted my chin with her finger so I had to look right at her. “You’re still the most important, though, okay? No matter what happens with Mungo. You’re always most important. Don’t ever forget that.”

  Okay, this was getting a little Lifetime movie cheese ball for me, but I could feel my throat closing up with emotion anyway. I just nodded, afraid that if I tried to speak, it would come out all quivery and then the violins would really kick in.

  She kissed me on the forehead and got up to leave.

  “Anything to eat?” I asked.

  She paused at the door. “I think there’s some leftover pizza.”

  “I know it’s a foreign concept, but most moms cook in the kitchen.”

  “Ha, ha,” she said.

  Thursday, February 5

  4:15 P.M.

  This morning as I turned in my French test I decided “Embrassez-moi” was pretty brilliant, really. The exam was horrendously difficult, but I was confident I’d aced it. I was wondering if the same technique would work with trig, my worst subject. Ben hadn’t quite finished, so I was waiting for him in the hall. He emerged looking tired but triumphant. Without warning he leaned over and bit me on the neck. I laughed, pushing him away.

  “Avez-vous bien fait sur l’épreuve?” I asked.

  “Évidemment! Je recevrai une meilleure qualité que vous, sans doute.”

  I scoffed. Before I could think up a witty Franco-friendly reply, though, Sophie swooshed out of the classroom and strode right over to us in a cloud of expensive perfume. Coincidentally, she looked quite French today in a blue and white striped sweater and a flippy little navy blue skirt—trés chic. As usual, I felt hideously unfashionable and uncultured compared to her.

  “Hey, guys!”

  Ben smiled at her. “Bonjour!”

  “Hi,” I mumbled.

  “I’ve been meaning to tell you, I’m having some people over after the dance next Saturday,” she said. “Our house on the coast isn’t rented that weekend. You two want to come? It’s not like a party or anything, just a small group. My folks will be in New York.”

  Ben looked at me, then at her. “Maybe.”

  “We can stay there that night and hang out on the beach Sunday.”

  “Who’s going?” Ben asked, sneaking another look at me. I could tell he wanted to gauge my reaction. I could also tell he wanted to go. I thought it sounded like a nightmare, for obvious reasons, but I didn’t want him to know that. Clearly, this would be the after-party, even if it was billed as a casual gathering. Monday morning, the elite few who were at the De Lucas’ place would be the envy of everyone. What kind of petty girl keeps her boyfriend from such a perfect weekend just because the invitation comes from her stunning, bitchy rival?

  “PJ and I are going to the dance—as friends, of course. His girlfriend is studying abroad,” Sophie said. “So it’ll be me, PJ, you guys, maybe two other couples. There are five bedrooms, so we can ask a few more people if we want.”

  My mom would never go for that. An overnight out of town with guys and no adults? She’d freak.

  “Everything okay, Geena?” Sophie’s icy blue eyes studied me intently.

  “Huh? Yeah. Why?”

  “You just look a little worried. Did you have other plans?” She tossed her hair over one shoulder in that alpha-female way. Was it my imagination, or was her question edged with a barely veiled snarkieness?

  “Oh, no. Not really.”

  “You think your parents would give you trouble? Ben’s folks would be fine with it, since our families are friends, but maybe your mom wouldn’t approve . . . ?”

  Okay, definite snarkieness detected this time, no imagination required. And damn my perpetually naked face! Why do I have to telegraph every single thought that ever crosses my mind? I’m hopeless.

  Ben stepped in. “I could talk to your mom. I mean, if you want to go, that is.”

  Oh, great! Put me on the spot, why don’t you? You two are just so chummy with your Tahoe adventures and coastal getaways. If it weren’t for me, you could go flitting about the state unhindered. I hated that I was the one with hang-ups, the one with an old-fashioned mother and old-fashioned rules. I felt so childish next to them.

  “I’m sure she’ll be fine with it,” I said in a rush.

  They both looked at me with raised eyebrows. What did Sophie know about my mom, anyway? Had Ben been talking about my family to her? Do they laugh behind my back about how babyish I am?

  “Sloane, really, I could talk to her—” Ben began.

  “It’s not a big deal!” I snapped.

  Ben took half a step back, startled. Sophie looked right at me and smirked. An unreasonable anger welled up inside me when I saw her expression. I’ve never really wanted to hit someone before, but right then the idea of slapping that look off her face was almost irresistible.

  Thank God, the third-period late bell rang, saving me from my violent impulse.

  What am I going to do about this nightmarish weekend getaway, though? Now I have to go. How can I not? Of course, going will mean being grounded for the rest of my natural life.

  Great. This Valentine’s Day thing is sure working out well.

  Friday, February 6

  11:45 P.M.

  Dad was in town for a couple days meeting with some clients, so he picked me up around six and we went out for pizza, then caught a movie downtown. He and Mungo exchanged niceties in the kitchen for a torturous ten minutes. Mom was in the shower, so she was spared the agony, but I had to sit there digging at the grout on the counter while they reminded each other how civilized they are, how they don’t mind at all that they’ve slept with the same woman, since they’re both such modern, progressive, open-minded guys.

  The whole experience was time suckage defined, so I was completely ecstatic when we finally escaped. Sitting across from Dad, wolfing down an extra-large pepperoni pizza forty minutes later, though, I could tell by the way he looked around the restaurant nervously and scratched his earlobe every five seconds that the awkwardness wasn’t over yet.

  “So, uh, looks like Jen is moving in.” He announced this in the same tone normal people might say “Looks like it’s going to rain.”

  I stopped chewing and just stared at him.

  “Well, it only makes sense. Rent in Santa Monica is astronomical, and I’ve got a big place—not huge, but, you know.”

  “Actually, I don’t know. I’ve never been down there, remember?” Okay, this was below the belt, yeah, but come on! Jen is the epitome of a midlife crisis mistake. Now he was telling me they were taking their sad little relationship to the next level?

  “Well, you should visit. Maybe over spring break.”

  Yeah, right! Now that the Bimbomeister is in residence, visiting him sounds majorly sucky.

  “Geena, don’t look at me like that.”

  “Like what?”

  He scratched his earlobe again. “Like you want me to feel guilty.”

  “Can I ask you something?” I put my pizza down. The gooey cheese and glistening meat didn’t look nearly as appetizing as it had two minutes ago.

  “Sure.”

  “What does Jen have that Mom doesn’t?”

  He sighed. “Your mom and I were very happy for many years, Geena. Sometimes, though, something happens and you stop being good for each other.”

  “Why, though? What happened?”

  He balled up his napkin and squinted at the far wall. I tried to be patient. He wasn’t just blowing me off, I could see that, and I really wanted to know the answer. When he finally spoke, his voice was quiet but concentrated, like someone telling a secret.

  “At first we brought out the best in each other. After a while, though, we started seeing all the flaws—to the point where we couldn’t even see what we loved anymore. We made each
other feel small. That’s just not good. If you can’t turn that around, there’s no point in staying together.”

  I looked at my lap. “And Jen makes you feel big again?”

  He exhaled a little laugh. “Sort of. I guess you could say that. Jen and I see the good in each other. I feel strong when I’m with her—strong and happy.”

  “But won’t you end up seeing her flaws eventually? Won’t she see yours?”

  “Maybe.” He shrugged. “That’s the gamble, I guess.”

  Now, staring at my ceiling, I can’t help but wonder what to do with this information. I mean, if love is all about how someone makes you see yourself, where does that put Ben and me? Sometimes he makes me feel unbearably alive and expansive, like a supernova exploding in all directions. Other times, though—especially when Sophie’s in the picture—I feel like gum on the sole of someone’s shoe.

  Can the same person be both wrong and right for you at the same time?

  Saturday, February 7

  7:30 P.M.

  Amber showed up for work today half an hour late. Her face looked like a watercolor left out in the rain; mascara ran in long tracks down her cheeks, mixing with a thick putty of concealer.

  “What’s wrong?” I asked, grabbing her hands. “What happened? Something with Mr. Sands?”

  She stared at her feet and shook her head, her long hair shielding her face. I craned my neck to see her better. Just as her bloodshot eyes met mine, I glimpsed what the concealer was intended to cover: a large, purplish bruise that spread out over her left cheekbone like an ink splotch.

  “Jesus,” I breathed. “Who did that?”

  Her hand flew instinctively to the bruise, covering it with her fingers. “Shit. You can totally see it?”

  “Yeah—I mean, it’s huge. Who the hell—?”

  But I heard a car drive up to the window then, and as she hunched over in the shadows, her body angled toward the wall, I went to take the order and get whoever it was out of there quickly so I could return to her.