Confessions of a Triple Shot Betty

by Jody Gehrman

  “You know, she could have gone kayaking this summer in Patagonia, like her dad suggested,” I said. “But she decided to work here, with me. She likes Sonoma.” Of course, Hero also vetoed the kayaking thing because she considers camping a form of ritualized torture, but Amber didn’t need to know that. “She hates it when people assume she’s different just because she’s rich. She just wants to be normal.”

  “Normal?” Amber made a sarcastic sound in her throat. “That’s pretty funny.”

  “What do you mean?”

  She took out a compact and applied a fresh coat of lip gloss. “I doubt her idea of normal and my idea of normal are even in the same universe.”

  I watched as she pressed her lips together, spreading the sparkly orange lip gloss evenly. Her point wasn’t exactly lost on me. When Amber showed up last fall at Sonoma Valley High, I took one look at the tattoos, the tight, cleavage-baring clothes, the pierced belly button she never failed to display, and I thought what everyone else did: Who’s the New hoochie-mama? But then we started working together at Triple Shot Betty’s, and I got to know her. I was fascinated by her in-your-face attitude and her total disregard for social norms. You can learn a lot about someone when you’re stuck together in a box the size of a broom closet, and Amber’s the type of girl who’ll tell you about her dad’s meth habit, her mom’s obscenely hot twenty-year-old boy toy, and her avid interest in pornographic manga within the first ten minutes of meeting her.

  I guess since I like Amber and Hero both, I assumed they would instantly hit it off. Until today, it never occurred to me that they have absolutely nothing in common. I mean, Amber’s an uninhibited trailer-trash goddess, and Hero’s this perfect little Rhodes-Scholar-to-be. Maybe it was a mistake to get Hero this job.

  “Just keep an open mind,” I said, hiding my second thoughts with an encouraging grin. “I’m sure you’ll love her if you get to know her.”

  Amber snapped her compact closed and shrugged.

  “Are you going to graduation tomorrow?” I asked.

  “Yeah, I guess.” She didn’t sound enthused.

  “Cool. Let’s go together. Maybe Hero can borrow her dad’s car.”

  Amber’s glossy lips went all pouty. “She doesn’t even go to school here. Why would she go?”

  I tried to hide my exasperation. “She grew up here—of course she’ll want to go. Come on, Amber, lighten up. We’ll have fun.”

  She looked away. “You’re not going to like . . . spend the whole vacation with her, are you?”

  I took a step toward her. “I was hoping we’d all spend it together. Is that so crazy?”

  “Yeah.” Our eyes met and she softened her tone a little. “I don’t know. Maybe not.”

  “Give her a chance. We’re going to have a great summer.”

  “If you say so . . .” She definitely didn’t look convinced.

  Suddenly, neither was I.

  Friday, June 6

  4:15 P.M.

  I am so never getting married. What’s the point? All you get is screwed. Take my mom, for example. I came home from school today and there she was, gripping the phone with white knuckles, speaking in her I won’t let this get to me voice.

  “Oh, here she is now, Jen. . . . Yep, she just walked in the door.” She covered the receiver with one hand and said, “Your dad’s girlfriend. You want to talk?”

  I leaned my skateboard against the wall and dropped my messenger bag on the kitchen table. “Jen?”

  “Yeah. Do you want to talk to her or not?” Mom’s eyes were bulging a little; she was trying to stay calm, but I think she really wanted to pitch the phone across the room. I’m afraid she’s still a little hung up on her ex (aka Dad). He left us last year—moved to L.A. with this Jen person. I’ve met Jen a couple times, but she’s never actually called me. I figure our best policy is to deny each other’s existence whenever possible.

  Mom gestured impatiently with the phone.

  I took it from her. “Hello?”

  “Hi, Geena. How are you? Enjoying your summer?” She has this really annoying habit of emphasizing random words; it makes every sentence sound strangely significant, even if it’s just inane babble.

  “I’m okay.”

  “That’s so great. I’m really glad. I need to ask a favor, sweetie. Would you be really mad if your dad didn’t come to visit this weekend?”

  “Uh, well . . .” I didn’t like where this was going.

  “Because I just booked the most amazing trip to Maui, and I rearranged his work schedule, but then I found out he’s supposed to see you, and I felt so bad—I mean, what awful timing—but then I thought, you know, Geena is such a sweetheart, she’ll definitely understand that this is a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity and I’m sure you want your dad to have fun, since he’s been working so hard—not that he wouldn’t have fun with you, but you know what I mean.” I don’t think she took a single breath in that whole run-on sentence.

  “You can’t go to Maui another time?”

  There was a tiny, shocked pause. “Honey, I already booked it. I can’t get a refund.”

  “Well, I guess if it’s already booked . . .”

  “Thank you, Geena, that is so nice of you! Oh, and it’s a surprise, so don’t tell him, okay?”

  “Yeah,” I said, “got it.”

  After I hung up, Mom’s eyes were shooting me questions, but I didn’t feel like talking. I just grabbed my bag and trudged off to my room, where I could pout about this latest development in peace. I’ve been foiled once again by my father’s bimbo (did I say bimbo? I meant extremely sweet and nurturing life partner). I just hope this isn’t a sign of things to come. I don’t think I can take another summer filled with Sloane family drama.

  Last year I got a crash course in Why Love Sucks. Dad moved out in May, and by June Mom was transitioning from total bewilderment to middle-age rage, which wasn’t pretty. Dad didn’t actually take off for L.A. until September, which gave us three whole months to run into him and the bimbita everywhere we went. We’d see them kissing in the aisles of Safeway, nuzzling each other at Blockbuster, holding hands at Longs. We’d even see them at Starbucks, which really broke Mom’s heart. Her Frappuccinos were her only real comfort back then, and seeing Dad kicking it in the corner with one hand on his grande cappuccino and the other on his scantily clad bimboccino sent her off on a caffeine-fueled rant every time.

  Obviously, my formative years haven’t left me with many romantic illusions. Everything I’ve seen so far has just convinced me not to trust any guy ever—at least, not unless he comes with a bulletproof dossier detailing what makes him completely different from the rest of the male species. Not that they’re exactly beating down my door. I’m just not the kind of girl they go for. My usual uniform is a ratty tank top, cutoff Dickies, and worn-in sneakers. I skateboard everywhere—have since I was thirteen—and I always wear my hair in two long brown braids. I’ve got boring-but-big brown eyes and a body that is completely unnoticeable in every way, except for my boobs, which I fear are turning into the Uniboob, a hereditary trait (thanks, Mom). Right. Enough about me. Now I’m totally depressed.

  Amber’s always telling me I spend way too much time reading obscure novels and scribbling in my journal—that I should try indulging in normal teen activities, like drinking beer, smoking bud, and having sloppy sex in parking lots. Well, I’m sorry, but I just don’t see it happening. I’m simply not capable of tittering brainlessly at my male contemporaries. From what I’ve seen, a girl’s got to behave like a mental midget before she’ll get any action in this town. If resisting that makes me a freak, so be it. I may die with my hymen intact, but at least I’ll have my dignity.

  Saturday, June 7

  1:20 A.M.

  So there we were at graduation, watching the seniors bouncing beach balls in the air while the band geeks played “Pomp and Circumstance” ad nauseam. We were squirming uncomfortably on the hard wooden bleachers as the last of the grads filed onto the football f
ield and took their seats. The warm June breeze carried the smell of hot dogs and popcorn. I had Amber on my right, Hero on my left, and I was stuck in between, desperately trying to make them like each other.

  “Hey, Amber, did you know Hero’s an amazing pianist? Isn’t that cool?”

  Amber smirked and brushed a strand of hair from her eyes. “Wow. I’ve never met a penis. Isn’t it hard?”

  Hero stared straight ahead. “How original—never heard that before.”

  Code Red: If there’s anything Amber can’t stand, it’s the thought of being less than original. “Actually, I play an instrument too,” she said.

  “Really?” I was all smiles, thinking, Great, they have something in common. “I didn’t know that. What do you play?”

  Amber leaned around me and looked right at Hero. “The skin flute.”

  I laughed, and Amber let out a throaty giggle as I shoved her gently. I was hoping to hear at least a chuckle from Hero, but even without looking I knew she was sitting ramrod straight, staring directly ahead, her lips pressed tightly together.

  “Excuse me, pardon me. Coming through.” I spotted PJ walking with a stranger and Ben Bettaglia. They were navigating the stadium rows, sidestepping paunchy parents and squirmy little kids, heading in our direction. PJ was in the lead, strutting with cocksure I’m the man attitude in his sagging jeans and tight black T-shirt. The stranger was long and lanky with shaggy hair and a friendly smile. Behind them Ben had his hands shoved into the pockets of his chinos, and his dark eyes peeked out from under long lashes every now and then. As they drew nearer, he glanced up at me and I saw his lips tighten into the Ben Bettaglia trademark smirk. He’d been shooting me that look since we were kids; it seemed to say I know something you don’t know. All these years, I still hadn’t quite cracked whatever secret he thought he had on me.

  "’Sup, ladies?” PJ took a seat next to Amber. The new guy sat next to Hero, and Ben sat down on the bleacher directly behind me. “You all having a safe and sober graduation?”

  “Way too safe,” Amber said, “and definitely too sober.”

  PJ chuckled. “We can fix that. Party at the Inn tonight.”

  I looked at him, surprised. “Seriously? How’d you swing that?” The Sonoma Mission Inn is this huge, super-posh resort in Agua Caliente, just a few minutes north of town. There are rooms there that’ll set you back more in one night than the grand total of my college fund.

  “Friend of my dad’s owns it. We booked four rooms. Should be a rager.”

  PJ’s official name is Pedro Jamieson, but people call him DJ-PJ, or sometimes The Prince. The DJ bit is his claim to fame; he’s got an awesome sound system, and he spins at parties all the time. He’s got an unusual knack for getting along with everyone, not just the Pretty People. Maybe that’s because he wasn’t always a member of Sonoma royalty.

  Up on the stage, Principal Hardbaugh was fumbling with the mike, sending out an eardrum-shattering wail of feedback. We were still cringing when we heard him announce, “It’s my pleasure to introduce to you valedictorian and student body president, John Jamieson.”

  All the seniors and half the crowd began chanting, “You the Man! You, you the Man!” They got louder and louder as John strode across the stage to deliver his graduation speech. John (aka “the Man”) is PJ’s half brother, and he’s a big deal around here. He’s been in like four commercials and played the lead in every drama production at SVH for years. Supposedly he has the highest SAT scores to come out of our school ever. He’s headed for Yale in the fall. Basically, every male in Sonoma wants to be him, and every female wants to do him.

  John took the mike from Mr. H and surveyed the audience as they screamed and chanted his special cheer. He stood there with his white-blond hair gleaming, his eyes hidden behind mirrored sunglasses, soaking in the waves of adoration. When the explosive mantra finally gave way to an expectant hush, he raised the mike expertly to his lips and spoke in a voice so deep and intimate, it actually gave me chills.

  “Winston Churchill once said, ‘Success is the ability to go from one failure to another with no loss of enthusiasm.’ I’m sure we’ve all experienced failure in the last four years, but I can see just by looking at your faces, fellow seniors, there will be no lack of enthusiasm tonight.”

  The senior class roared their approval. This was John’s genius; he didn’t need to say anything profound or even particularly original to have everyone in the stands love him. It was his style—his bone-deep confidence—that kept him moving in a spotlight at all times.

  As he continued with his speech, pausing periodically for spasms of applause, I looked over at Amber. When she moved here last August, she and John had an end-of-summer fling. As she watched him now, her jaw was clenched, her hands gripping the edge of her seat, and I saw her throat move as she swallowed. I wondered what she was thinking. She glanced over, caught my eye, and instantly her tense expression turned into crossed eyes and a flash of tongue.

  I hazarded a quick look at PJ, who was watching his half brother with a strange mixture of pride and wariness. He and John are so different, it’s hard for anyone to think of them as brothers—including them, from what I hear. Their family situation’s a popular source of gossip. About three years ago, Mr. Jamieson, one of the wealthiest men in town, left John’s mother and married PJ’s mom, a petite Mexican woman who’s a dead ringer for Salma Hayek. Evidently, she used to work for Mr. Jamieson washing dishes at one of his world-famous restaurants. They had an affair, she got pregnant, and thirteen years later he left his wife for her. It was a big scandal. People say John’s never forgiven his father. Or PJ.

  My thoughts were interrupted by a voice at my ear. “How’d you do on that algebra final, Sloane?”

  I didn’t have to turn around to know that Ben Bettaglia was leaning forward, his elbows on his knees, his lips inches from my ear.

  “No problem,” I said. “Piece of cake.”

  “Oh yeah? Piece of cake, as in A plus, or piece of cake as in, Bombed it, but at least it’s over?”

  Ben and I have been vying for top academic ranking since we were in the fifth grade, when I beat him at the county-wide spelling bee; it’s been war between us ever since. In two years, we both want to be where John Jamieson is right now, spewing valedictorian rhetoric, packing our bags for a full-ride scholarship to an Ivy League college. We’ve been leapfrogging every semester, our GPAs passing each other by a fraction of a point each term. Ben knows algebra is my Achilles’ heel; I know he sucks at science, mainly because he’s squeamish about dissecting anything with a face.

  “What did you get in biology?” I asked.

  Out of the corner of my eye, I could see he was frowning. “None of your business.”

  “Oooh,” I whispered. “Did I hit a Nerve?” A couple weeks ago, he was so pale and shaky during the fetal pig dissection, he blanked on Mr. Patel’s question about the central nervous system, which lost him something like three points. This is the sort of minutiae Ben and I keep track of in our ruthless race to the top of the college admittance ladder.

  “Very funny.” His breath smelled of cinnamon. I snuck a glance at him, and noticed that already his olive complexion was starting to tan. He’s a cyclist, so he spends a lot of time outdoors, trying to be Lance Armstrong. He’s so dedicated, he even shaves his legs; the one propped up on the bench beside me was smooth as a girl’s, though his ropey muscles were hardly feminine.

  “I’m sure the fetal pig was moved by your sensitivity.”

  “What are you doing this summer?” he asked, ignoring the jab. “Going to brush up on that quadratic formula?”

  “Actually, I thought I’d intern at the morgue. Care to join me?”

  Ben and I exchanged barbed comments for the duration of John’s speech, snickering rudely at each other’s expense, drawing pinched looks from neighboring adults now and then. When John wrapped it up at last, the crowd erupted in thunderous applause, most of the girls and women screaming like wild beasts
in heat.

  Mr. H mumbled into the mike a bit more, and then they began the long, tedious process of handing out diplomas. As I watched the graduates slouch or swagger their way across the stage, one by one, I felt strangely sad. While the popular seniors were baptized in showers of rapturous screams, lots of kids were acknowledged only by a faint smattering of polite clapping. I couldn’t help but wonder who would be cheering for me when my time came. Would Hero make it back from boarding school in time to see me walk, or would she be too caught up in her glamorous friends by then to bother? Would Amber still be here, or would her pack-it-up-and-move-on mom drag her away? Could Dad extricate himself from the bimbo-monster long enough to attend?

  Luckily, PJ’s voice tugged me back from my morbid reflections. “By the way, you guys, this is Claudio.” He nodded at the shaggy-haired guy. “He’s from Italy. He’s studying viticulture there, but he’s staying at our place this summer ’cause he’s doing an internship in Sonoma.”

  “At a winery?” I asked.

  “Yeah,” PJ said. “I forget which one.”

  “Where’s your internship?” Amber asked Claudio. He looked blank; his smile was open and pleasant, but he clearly had no idea what she was saying.

  Hero mumbled something shyly in Italian, and his face lit up with astonishment. He carried on in rapid-fire Italian for a few minutes, turning fully toward her. Hero’s cheeks flushed bright pink and her mouth quirked up at the corners, her eyes darting from his face to her lap to his face again. Even I understood the gist of his reply: He was interning at Monte Luna. From that point on, we completely lost the two of them; they were locked in animated conversation, with Claudio doing most of the talking, and Hero tucking her hair behind her ears a lot.