by Jody Gehrman
Just as I was getting so bored and caffeinated I thought I’d scream, Bronwyn breezed in, all smiles, home for the weekend. She was wearing a jade green sundress with a chunky turquoise choker and cute little sequined shoes. I thought she was lovely, but this was definitely a new look for her. She usually sported men’s trousers from Goodwill and little T-shirts that said “Meat is Murder” or “Eat More Kale.”
After about two minutes of listening to the EUWW go on about the virtues of pears as a decorating motif, Bronwyn jerked her head toward the kitchen and I extracted myself from the couch to join her there.
“So,” she said, pouring herself an icy glass of lemonade and adding three spoonfuls of sugar, “I hear you’re being recruited as a chaperone.”
I grimaced. “Is that messed up or what?”
“I’m just glad it’s you and not me. Dad knows I’d hand Hero a box of condoms and call it a day.”
“Yeah, but what are my qualifications?”
She eyed me thoughtfully as she sipped from the frosty glass. “I guess he thinks you’re suitably hostile toward the opposite sex.”
“I’m not hostile.”
She gave me her Yeah, right smile. “Then why not go out with this Ben guy?”
“No way!”
She nodded patiently; she was in full-on therapist mode.
“Does your father’s relationship with a younger woman make you feel like men aren’t trustworthy?”
“Have you been sniffing Wite-Out or something? What’s that got to do with anything?”
Bronwyn put her glass down. “Here’s what I’m seeing: Hero’s finally starting to grow up, and now she finds you’re not moving forward with her. Dating is an essential step, and whether you date Ben or someone else is beside the point. You just can’t stay angry at your dad, that’s all.”
My jaw dropped. “Bronwyn, aren’t you the one who said relationships stifle your individuality?”
“Maybe . . .” She sat on a stool at the marble counter and swiveled a couple times. “But that was before I met Richard.”
Great, I thought. Another one bites the dust. “Who’s Richard?”
She pressed her lips together, suppressing a giggle. “My poly sci professor.”
“And you call him Richard?”
Her grin turned mischievous. “We have . . . chemistry.”
I almost choked on my soda. “Are you doing him?”
She leaned toward me. “Shhh! You want Dad to hear?”
I was shocked. “So you are?”
“Well, that’s not exactly the term I’d use, but yes, we’re in a relationship, if that’s what you’re asking.”
“No way!” I couldn’t help it—I was horrified and fascinated at once. “How old is he?”
“Thirty-eight.” She said it casually, like it was no big deal.
“Yuck!” Dad’s only a few years older than that.
“Fine, we won’t talk about it if you’re going to be such a baby.”
I was shamed into silence by that, as she knew I would be. She took advantage of that and changed the subject. “Hero thinks I’m a bad influence on you.”
“Hardly. Normally you’re the only person over eighteen who makes any sense.”
She smiled. “She says I’ve filled your head with feminist propaganda.”
“I love your feminist propaganda!”
“That’s sweet. But the point is, you and Hero both have to live your own lives, you know? You can’t let my paradigm color your experiences. You’ve got to explore relationships in your own way, at your own pace. You get what I’m saying?”
I squinted at her. “You’re saying I should go out with Ben Bettaglia?”
She shrugged. “I can’t tell you what to do. But Hero says he’s pretty cute.”
A car honked outside. Bronwyn sprang from the stool and raced to the window like a cat suddenly drawn to the flutter of wings. Then she darted around the kitchen in a mad flurry, grabbing her leather clutch and rearranging her hair.
“How do I look?” she asked me.
“Great. Why?”
She shot me a sly grin. “Hot date,” she muttered under her breath, and then yelled a vague “See you later!” to the house at large before escaping out the door.
“Where’s she going?” Uncle Leo walked into the kitchen, looking tired. Hero and the EUWW trailed in after him.
“Don’t ask me,” I said.
He ran his hand over his face and blinked at Hero, who was pointing at a catalog excitedly while the EUWW took notes. “Get lots of these vases, the silver glittery ones, maybe fifty? And I think the cake should be three-tier, at least, with one of these figurines at the top.”
“That’s a bride, hon. That’s for wedding cakes.” The EUWW’s smile was strained.
Hero looked crestfallen, but then her face lit up. “I know! We’ll paint her dress pink, with glitter—then she’ll look like me.”
I didn’t think I could take much more of that, so I went outside and practiced my board flips. I needed a challenge right then. I was all worked up from the Rock Star soda, Bronwyn’s crazy relationship counseling, and Hero’s descent into Pink Glitterland.
After a good forty minutes of ankle-braking maneuvers, I was sweaty again and feeling better. When I went back inside, I found Uncle Leo in the kitchen with several wineglasses and five bottles set up in front of the EUWW. Leo’s so into his wine, he’ll make a taster out of anyone. He poured from a bottle of red and she sniffed it, then took a sip, swishing it around in her mouth.
“That’s our old-vine Zin,” Uncle Leo was saying.
“Mmm,” she said, taking another sip. “I bet it would be wonderful with black truffles.”
“You’re going to love this,” he told her, pouring her half a glass. “Much more complex.”
She stuck her nose in the glass and said, “Plums and . . . tobacco?”
He clapped his hands together. “Exactly!”
The EUWW could talk the talk. Uncle Leo was in heaven.
Hero was nowhere in sight, and the scene here was starting to get to me. I suddenly felt disgusted with everything and everyone; even the thought of skating home depressed me. It occurred to me that Amber might have her mom’s car. I could meet her halfway and we could go get cones at Baskin-Robbins, or maybe catch a movie. I grabbed the portable phone from the living room and headed out to the deck. When I pushed the button, though, I heard voices instead of a dial tone.
“I told you I’d take care of it, didn’t I?” Hero was saying in a clipped, businesslike tone. I started to hang up, but then I heard the other voice and I nearly peed my pants from the shock.
“Yeah, but I want to know how.” It was Amber! I covered the mouthpiece with my hand, holding my breath. “Alistair Drake is like famous, okay?”
“He’s our neighbor. It’ll be easy. Still, I’m only saying you’ll meet him. I can’t guarantee anything else.”
“That’s all I’m asking. But it has to be someplace where we can talk. I need time to work on him.”
Hero sighed impatiently. “I know. I’ll handle it. What I’m worried about is Geena. You really think she’ll do it?”
“Oh, totally. Just do what I say when I say it, and she won’t even know what—”
There were voices behind me then, Uncle Leo and the EUWW coming out onto the deck with big goblets of wine. Hero said, “Hello?” I hung up the phone, dropped it on a lawn chair, and grabbed my board.
“You going home?” Uncle Leo asked, surprised.
“Yeah, I forgot I have to—to . . .”—I looked around wildly, spotted a sculpture in the garden of a barefooted nymph— “trim my toenails!”
“If you wait ten minutes I’ll give you a ride,” he offered, but I was already skating down the drive, bombing Moon Mountain so fast I almost wiped out on the turn.
Sunday, July 20
4:00 P.M.
When I got to Triple Shot Betty’s this afternoon for work, I was surprised to see Hero and Amber in th
ere together. Usually they avoid the same shift. I thought of the conversation I overheard yesterday. Coincidence? I wondered . . .
I approached the back door slowly, trying to be quiet. I wasn’t sure if they’d seen me skate into the parking lot. At first I thought they had, but neither of them waved, so maybe not. I wanted to see if I could glean more clues with a little detective work.
“The thing is,” Amber was saying in a clear, loud voice, “Ben’s crazy about her. He thinks she’s totally sexy. But you know if we tell her, she’ll only use it to humiliate him in front of everyone.”
“I know.” Hero sighed. “She’s so anti-love. All she cares about is her skateboard and her GPA.”
I was having absolutely no trouble hearing either one of them; they were talking at a volume that ensured the entire parking lot would catch their drift. Gee, guys, thanks for being so discreet while stabbing me in the back.
Amber half shouted, “I feel bad for Ben. He hasn’t been eating or sleeping at all. It’s interfering with his training too. He might not even race this year . . .”
Hero said, “That’s terrible. Do you think we should tell her? Maybe deep down she likes him. Don’t you think he’s cute?”
“Are you kidding? He’s gorgeous! I’d totally go for him, but he’s way strung out on Geena. It’s all he can talk about.”
“Let’s tell her,” Hero suggested again.
“No, we can’t. She’ll just twist the knife—you know her.” I heard a car drive up to the window then, and Amber said, “Hi, what can I get you?”
I hung back and waited for a few minutes, thinking they might say more. They didn’t talk about me again, though. I went inside and worked my shift, but the whole time my mind was abuzz with Ben Bettaglia. Was this really possible? Was he seriously into me? I put whipped cream in a lady’s iced tea and lemon in someone’s mocha. I was a mess.
After work I went into Safeway for the newest issue of Skateboarding magazine and ran smack into Ben in the frozen food aisle.
“Hey Sloane,” he said. “How’s it going?”
I just sort of stood there, feeling crazy inside. It was like running into Ashton Kutcher after watching his movies four times back to back. I’d been thinking about him so much all afternoon that actually seeing him was totally surreal.
“You okay?” he asked.
“Huh? Yeah, why?” I pulled at my braids self-consciously.
“You always have a smart-ass comeback. I’ve never seen you speechless.” Just then his eyes moved from my face to my chest. I looked down too, and was horrified to discover that my nipples were totally erect under my thin white Triple Shot Betty tank top. I folded my arms quickly across the Uniboob, mortified.
“It’s cold in here,” I said.
“Yeah.” He smirked at the shelves of Tater Tots and Lean Cuisines. “Well, it is the frozen food aisle.”
“Profound observation. Have you always had such a firm grasp on the obvious?” Before he could answer, I added, “Wouldn’t get near the butcher shop if I were you. I know the smell of blood makes you faint.”
“There’s the old Sloane. Had me worried there for a sec.”
As I walked away I told him, “Don’t worry about me, Ben. Snarky’s still my middle name.”
8:40 P.M.
Lying on my bed, staring at the ceiling, thinking about Ben Bettaglia. Why was I so mean to him at Safeway? Why did the Uniboob have to betray me?
Oh God, can it really be true? Does Ben like me?
Misery, thy name is Boy.
11:30 P.M.
I wonder if those Victoria’s Secret bras with extra padding actually eliminate the bullet-nipple effect. Maybe they can do something about the Uniboob too.
Wednesday, July 23
2:40 P.M.
In my campaign to think about anything but Ben Bettaglia, I came up with a fantastic weight-loss idea this morning. Amber and I both noticed that, after yesterday’s binge on chocolate chip cookie dough ice cream, our butts were looking noticeably larger.
“Hero’s party is in ten days,” I said. “No way around it. It’s boot camp for the Bettys.”
Hero sent out invitations two days ago, and I was relieved to discover that Amber was on the guest list. I still haven’t figured out what they’re up to exactly, but they seem more civil lately, less openly hostile.
“God,” she groaned. “I don’t care if my ass gets big as a house—I hate sweating.”
Just then Mrs. Smeby, our high school guidance counselor, drove up in her bright red Beetle. She was flashing a huge, immovable smile that consumed the better part of her face.
“Good morning, girls.” The grin was so stiff and unyielding, when she spoke I was reminded of a ventriloquist’s dummy. “One triple low-fat caramel macchiato, please.”
Mrs. Smeby wasn’t a regular, and I wanted to make sure I’d heard her correctly. Despite our name, we don’t get all that many triple shot requests. I leaned slightly toward her and said, “Did you say triple shot?”
Her smile faltered for a fraction of a second, but it was back in place so quickly, I couldn’t swear it had moved at all. “Precisely.” There was an edge to her voice. “Thanks so much, Beatrice.”
I turned around and rolled my eyes at Amber. Mrs. Smeby had been my counselor for two whole years now, and in all that time, despite repeated reminders, she couldn’t get it through her brain that nobody, not even my mother, ever called me by my real name.
“Beatrice,” Amber said in a sickly sweet voice, “would you like me to steam the milk for that?”
I just nodded at her in an I’ll get you later fashion, and went to work brewing Mrs. Smeby’s triple shot. When she’d gone, Amber cracked up.
“Oh my God, why did she call you that?”
I thought about lying, but what was the point? It would be on my driver’s license in a matter of months, anyway. “It’s my first name. Geena’s my middle name.”
“Beatrice?” Amber looked incredulous. “You’ve got to be kidding. I thought you said your parents were hippies.”
“Yeah, well, hippies with a love of Shakespeare.”
“No biggie,” she said. “I won’t tell anyone. My real name’s Margaret.”
“Seriously?”
She stuck her tongue out. “Disgusting—total fat girl name. When we moved here, I reinvented myself. My mom still calls me Maggie. Don’t tell anyone.”
I shook my head. “Of course not.”
“Wow, did you see Mrs. Smeby’s face? She’s got a serious case of perma-grin. Her jaw must be so sore at the end of the day.”
That’s when my brilliant idea hit me.
“Wait a minute. What if we could do that, but with our butts?”
Amber didn’t immediately recognize the sheer genius of it. “Smile really fake with our asses?”
“Seriously—like a constant workout, without the sweat. We’ll just walk around with our butts clenched all day. By the time we get off work, we should have buns of steel.”
Amber paused to think this over. “You mean, we just tighten them, and walk around like that?”
“Yeah.”
“We don’t have to wiggle them or squat or anything?”
I shrugged. “Why should we? Isn’t the point of exercise to flex the muscle? We’ll use Mrs. Smeby’s patented Constant Clench Technique. Did you see how hollowed out her cheeks were, by the way?”
“The cheeks in her face?” Amber asked.
“Shut up!” I said, slapping her arm playfully. “Come on, let’s get started. Are you clenched?”
We spent the rest of the morning and the early part of the afternoon working on our CCT. I have to say, though, Amber really lacks discipline. I had to check her form every ten minutes by poking at her with a broom handle to see if she jiggled. Usually she did, but that was all she needed to activate CCT again. Some people just won’t do what’s good for them unless you make them.
After work, we were so proud of our success with CCT, we decided to
get double scoops at Baskin-Robbins. Sitting there in the pink plastic chairs, I suddenly couldn’t stand it another second. I had to ask her what she knew about Ben.
“Amber, how well do you know Ben Bettaglia?”
“I know him,” she said. “Why?”
“I just . . . I heard somewhere—”
“That he likes you?” she interrupted.
I could feel myself blushing. “Yeah. Do you know anything about that?”
She considered me a moment, then sighed. “I promised him I wouldn’t say anything. Everyone’s afraid you’ll just throw it back in his face.”
“Do people really think I’m that mean?”
“Mean? Not exactly, just . . .” She trailed off.
“What?”
“Boy-hostile. You’ve got a reputation as a guy-basher.”
“I’m not a guy-basher!” I pounded the table so hard my top scoop of chocolate peanut butter almost fell off. An old lady at a nearby table scowled at me. I lowered my voice. “I’m not. That’s a vicious rumor.”
She shrugged. “I guess there’s only one way to prove everybody wrong.”
“How?”
“Be nice to him. See what happens. Maybe you’ll even gain a little experience.” She licked her orange sherbet suggestively.
Saturday, July 26
1:10 A.M.
To: [email protected]
From: [email protected]
Subject: Hi there
Ben,
So, I know we’ve Never really gotten along that well, mostly because you’re insanely competitive and I’m a peaceful saint (who will, by the way, be valedictorian) but I just wanted you to know that I am Not “boy-hostile.” Got it? I don’t know who started that rumor, but it’s slander. Period.