Confessions of a Triple Shot Betty

by Jody Gehrman

  “What about this?”

  “I don’t know, Cuz. You really think cornrows are your style?”

  She looked unsure. “Maybe not.”

  Thank God someone drove up right then. I was about to run screaming from Hero’s Wonderful World of Hair. Unfortunately, the person who happened to appear when I looked out the window was John Jamieson. His cold, reptilian smile greeted me as I slid the window open. Ever since Saturday, when I snooped in his room, I’ve had a sick feeling about John; I just haven’t known what to do about it.

  “Okay, Skater Girl, here’s your quote for the day: ‘A man cannot be too careful in the choice of his enemies.’ ”

  “Oscar Wilde,” I said.

  He slapped the steering wheel in delight. “Very good! Amazing.”

  “You always have a quote for the day?”

  “Not always. Just when I’m feeling pretentious.”

  “Would you like some caffeine with that pretension?”

  He threw back his head and laughed. It’s a sound that’s slightly famous at Sonoma Valley High; you’d hear it at pep rallies and football games and everyone would turn around and search for its source. It’s one of those harsh, hard laughs that sounds more like heavy artillery than happiness. When he was done laughing, he made a little gun with his left hand and pointed it at me. “You’re a card, Skater Girl. I’ll have a macchiato.”

  “With stiff foam,” I said, remembering his order from before.

  “Exactly.” I went to make his drink and I heard him saying,

  “Oh, look, it’s the lovely Hero.”

  Hero waved. “How’s it going?”

  “Wonderful, wonderful. I hear you and my Italian brother Claudio are . . . friendly.”

  “I’m not sure what you mean.”

  “Nothing at all. Anyway, I’m happy for you. He’s infatuated, of course.” He lowered his voice a little, but I turned off the steamer just in time to hear him add, “I can see why.”

  I brought him his macchiato. “Anything else?”

  “Oh, yeah,” he said, taking his drink. “I’m having a party tomorrow night. Parents are out of town. I know it’s last-minute, but carpe diem and all that.”

  Hero started to say, “But—”

  I stepped on her toe. “Great. Is it at your dad’s?”

  “Yeah—should start around nine or ten.”

  “Okay, cool. That’ll be two dollars.”

  He paid me, tipped a dollar, and revved his engine. “Oh, almost forgot! It’s got a theme—pimps and hos.”

  “Really?” I said. “Like costumes?”

  He smiled. “Sure, you know, get a little trashy—have some fun. Just to mix it up.” He looked at Hero with a suggestive smirk. “It’s a chance to express that bad girl inside that’s just dying to come out and play.”

  The guy was really outdoing himself on the slime-o-meter with that one.

  When he was gone, Hero whined, “But my party’s Saturday. Everyone will be exhausted and hungover now.”

  “You really think John Jamieson is going to cancel his shindig because you said so? If you complained, he’d probably move his to Saturday, just to see what would happen.”

  Her pale, delicate forehead wrinkled with confusion. “I doubt he’d do that.”

  I shook my head. “I don’t trust him.”

  “You think he’s throwing this party specifically to mess mine up?”

  I thought about it. “I don’t know. But he’s got something up his sleeve. I can feel it.”

  “Amber’s so into him.”

  I pulled a face. “I know, but why?”

  She looked surprised. “Wait a minute! When he asked me out last month you acted like I was crazy to say no.”

  “Yeah, because—I don’t know—everyone wants to go out with him.”

  “So why’s it weird if Amber likes him?”

  “Because she dated him already and he doesn’t—you know—respect her.” I felt flustered. A part of me wanted to tell her about the photos, but I didn’t want to freak her out. Who knows? Maybe someone else had written those stupid captions—Corky, maybe. I wouldn’t put it past a guy like him. Still, if John wasn’t a total scumbag, why hadn’t he deleted them?

  “Amber went out with John?” Hero asked.

  “Yeah. For a little while. It didn’t work out, though. I just worry she’s going to get hurt. Something about John seems sketchy . . .”

  Hero shook her head and adopted a condescending tone.

  “You should really examine that hostility of yours.”

  I frowned at her. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “You know what Bronwyn would say—it’s your chronic distrust of men flaring up again.”

  That pushed my buttons. “Hello! Can you not see this? Don’t you think he seems slightly two-faced?”

  She sized me up. “You’ve got to get over this, Geena. It’s not healthy.”

  I threw a rag in the sink. “Fine! Don’t listen to me. But John Jamieson is not to be trusted. That’s all I’m going to say.”

  Friday, August 1

  10:15 A.M.

  Less than twelve hours until John’s party and still the ho-muses have failed to inspire. I hate shopping. I mean yes, when you find the right sweatshirt or the perfect pair of Pumas, and the wallet holders cough up the funds without too much hassle, that moment when you slip into your purchase can be magical—a new lease on life via retail rebirthing. But those moments are rare. Usually, shopping is a torturous activity involving fluorescent overhead lights exposing way too many quivering bulges. I’d rather kick it in a burlap sack than follow my mom into Macy’s, where she’ll inevitably press a Little House on the Prairie floral sundress to my body and sigh wistfully before my death stare forces her to put the hideous thing back on the rack with a pouty, “If only you’d wear something pretty.”

  It took me two weeks to find something halfway decent for Hero’s party. Now, in less than twelve hours, I’m expected to transform myself into a glittering specimen in full bootielicious regalia.

  Oh my God! BB just sent me a text message. RU going 2Night?

  Got to think of a clever response, without seeming like I’m trying too hard. Something simple yet funny, memorable, charming, titillating but not raunchy. Brevity is key. I must leave him wanting more.

  Oh, for God’s sake.

  Yes.

  Hitting SEND . . . there. Let him chew on that for a while.

  1:45 P.M.

  Hero called this morning. “Amber’s coming over,” she said. “You want to come?”

  “Wait wait wait. Amber’s going to be at your house?”

  “Yeah.” Her tone was annoyingly nonchalant. “So?” Let’s review, shall we?

  June: Hero and Amber declare themselves mortal enemies.

  July: Secret pact forms between them, thus avoiding actual scratching out of eyes and/or ritual scalping.

  August: “Amber’s coming over. You want to come?”

  I’m all for peace, love, and understanding, long live the sisterhood, blah, blah, blah, but this is ridiculous.

  “Geebs? You there?” Again, Hero’s tone implied nothing out of the ordinary was happening.

  “Yeah.” I swallowed hard and tried to get a grip. We were sixteen, not six. I should be able to share a friend with my cousin. That was the whole point of introducing them, right?

  It’s just that it would have been totally different if Hero had invited me first. The idea that I’m the afterthought really gets to me.

  “Are you mad or something?” Hero sounded impatient.

  “No. Not at all. What time should I come over?”

  “Whenever. I’ll be here.”

  I paused, chewing on the end of one braid. “When is Amber coming over?”

  “Any minute now.”

  “Right,” I said. “See you soon.”

  I made record time skating to Hero’s. She lives about three miles outside of town, and her road, Moon Mountain Drive, is a n
ightmare grade you can’t possibly skate up, though it’s heaven coming down. Usually I make Hero pick me up at the bottom of the hill in her dad’s golf cart, but today I just went ahead and ran all the way up, carrying my board. I was determined to get there before Amber did. When I arrived all sweaty and panting, I realized immediately that my mission had failed. There was the gold El Dorado in all its dented glory, soaking up the sun. It was parked right in between Uncle Leo’s gleaming Mercedes, his antique Jag, and Bronwyn’s red Jeep. The four cars side by side looked a little perplexed, like they couldn’t quite figure out how they’d come to occupy the same patch of real estate.

  I walked in without knocking; cousins have certain birth-rights, don’t we? I wasn’t sure what to expect. It was hard to picture Amber as her usual brassy self in the midst of Uncle Leo’s marble sculptures, linen drapes, and crystal bowls filled with Asian apple-pears. There was just something unnatural about the whole idea.

  When I walked in, though, there they were, spread out on the huge leather sectional couch. All four of them were laughing their heads off. Amber was wearing a humongous pair of garish plaid pants, a polo shirt, a stiff white visor, and enormous mirrored sunglasses. The whole outfit was clearly Uncle Leo’s. She was standing on the couch with no shoes on, gripping a golf club and pretending to prepare for a swing. Bronwyn and Hero were both collapsed against the couch, immobilized by giggles. Uncle Leo sat on a nearby ottoman, his belly shaking as he wiped away tears.

  I was speechless. I just stood there, surveying the scene, unsure of how to proceed.

  It was Amber who noticed me at last. “Hey, G,” she said. “How do I look?”

  This prompted another wave of hysterics from her fans. “I get it,” I said. “You’re Uncle Leo, right?”

  “Close.” Amber winked. “I’m actually his evil twin.”

  Hero laughed so hard at that, I thought she might hyperventilate. Was it me, or was this just not as funny as they all seemed to think? I mean yeah, whatever, Amber looked mildly amusing in a clownish sort of way, but was she really entertaining enough to warrant such violent hysterics?

  “Cool,” I said, and headed to the kitchen for a soda.

  What was happening? Why did I feel suddenly like the kid who gets picked last for dodgeball?

  Bronwyn came into the kitchen while I was in there gulping down my Rock Star. She was wearing a little white miniskirt and a polka-dotted halter top. It seemed like she was drifting further from her rebel-chick roots every day. “You should try these kumquats I got at the farmer’s market,” she said. “They’re amazing.” She held out a bag of what looked like baby oranges.

  “Thanks,” I said. “I just ate.”

  She shrugged, and popped one into her mouth.

  “You sure are home a lot this summer,” I said. “Why aren’t you in Berkeley?”

  She pursed her lips in an I’ve got a secret smirk and kept chewing.

  “What’s that look for?” I asked, leaning in a little closer.

  When she’d finally swallowed, she said, “I’ve got my reasons.”

  “Like . . . ?”

  “Richard has a summer home in Glen Ellen.” There was a gleam in her eye that was slightly manic.

  “But couldn’t you guys hang out just as easily in Berkeley?”

  The gleam went dull and she shook her head. “Not exactly.”

  “Why not?” I was starting to get a slightly queasy feeling about all this.

  She mouthed the word married just as Amber and Hero came running into the kitchen. I kept my eyes on Bronwyn, reeling with this new information, but she turned and slipped out the door.

  Meanwhile, Amber and Hero were all pink-cheeked and excited. “Let’s go to Goodwill,” Hero said to me, grabbing my hand.

  “No better place for whoring clothes,” Amber added.

  I was so relieved to be included in their circle again, I made up my mind to go along with whatever it was they wanted. “Okay, but I’m not going to squeeze the Uniboob into a bustier, okay? Let’s just get that straight right now.”

  “Oh, come on!” Amber teased. “Your rack would look awesome in a bustier.”

  “No way.”

  “Yes! You’re always hiding them under baggy T-shirts.” Hero laughed. “Let them be free!”

  “You mean, let it be free. That’s why it’s called the Uniboob, okay?”

  Amber and Hero were laughing hysterically when Uncle Leo walked in. “Okay, okay,” he said. “Stop that, or I’ll be forced to drug test you.”

  “We’re not on drugs,” Amber told him. “We’re just high off July!”

  “Why do you need to go to Goodwill? Is this some kind of costume party?”

  “Pimps and hos!” Hero cried. “We’re going to dress like cheap tarts and drink beer like normal teenagers.”

  Uncle Leo didn’t look too happy about that. I did my best to intervene. “Come on, Leo, it’s just a healthy expression of intense hormonal activity. Besides, I’m going to be there, so how much trouble can we get into?”

  He looked skeptical, but he patted my shoulder and said, “I hope you mean that, Geena. I really do.”

  4:30 P.M.

  John’s party begins in approximately 330 minutes. Oh my God.

  I’ll probably have a nervous breakdown right here on my bed just thinking about it.

  Is Ben Bettaglia going to kiss me again?

  4:50 P.M.

  I’m not wearing this hideous vinyl bustier. I don’t care what they say—I’m just not doing it.

  7:00 P.M.

  I’ve got on the bustier. Oh. My. God.

  Amber and I are at Hero’s. They totally gave me a hard time when I tried to pair my regular old Sector Nine T-shirt with the too-tight red miniskirt I got at Goodwill. Eventually, I caved and tried on the bustier they insisted on buying for me, “Just in case.” I feel like a sausage spilling out of my casing. I can’t breathe. My voice sounds like I’m on helium.

  Although, I have to admit, it does sort of separate the Uniboob into distinct entities.

  En-titties. Har-har.

  I think the lack of oxygen is getting to me.

  7:35 P.M.

  I can’t believe it. Ben Bettaglia called me. On my cell. He called me.

  I was way too nervous to talk, so Amber relayed the message: He’ll be there tonight.

  Please, God, don’t let him laugh at my newly cleaved Uniboob.

  9:10 P.M.

  As we were huddled before the mirror in Hero’s bathroom getting ready, Hero had a mini-meltdown. She suddenly tossed her comb onto the counter and said in a petulant voice, “I don’t know how to be sexy. I look ridiculous.”

  “You look fabulous,” I said, retrieving the comb and running it through her baby-fine bob. I wasn’t just saying it either— she really did. She’d chosen to go with a Matrix-esque, sleek, Catwoman-of-the-future motif, and it was working for her. Frustrated by the lack of choices at Goodwill, she’d opted to shell out the cash for proper fetish wear at the mall. She had on a black catsuit and a dark leather jacket. But the thing you noticed most about her outfit was the pair of thigh-high lace-up patent leather boots that would make any dominatrix proud.

  “I can’t go like this,” Hero complained. “Everyone will laugh their asses off.”

  Amber was leaning close to the bathroom mirror, concentrating on applying a pair of gold, glittery false eyelashes. She was wearing leopard-print bellbottoms and a sequined tube top that left most of her midriff exposed. “Are you joking?” she asked, glancing at Hero over her shoulder.

  “No.” Hero was still pouting.

  “Then you’re blind,” Amber said.

  “Hero,” I said, “you look amazing.”

  She shook her head. “Bronwyn’s the sexy one. All I can hope for is runner-up.”

  I put my arm around her. “That’s so not true.”

  Amber was focused on her false eyelashes again. I kicked her gently. “Is it?” I prompted.

  “Ow!” She turned
to look at Hero. One false eyelash was only partway on, and it dangled precariously as she blinked. “Chica, you’re obviously a lot hotter than you realize. Hello! You’ve been in town like two minutes and you’ve already got guys banging down your door.”

  Hero allowed herself a bashful half smile. “I do not.”

  “Come on, cut the false modesty, okay? You’ve totally got it; you just need to work it a little.” Amber turned back to the mirror. “Man, I’m about to shove this stupid eyelash kit up Maybelline’s ass!”

  Touching scene of female bonding officially over.

  9:45 P.M.

  We’ll leave in about fifteen minutes. Amber says getting there any earlier is the social kiss of death. To kill time before we go, Amber and Hero are messing around on Hero’s laptop. They found John Jamieson’s Web site; he’s got all these headshots and resumes on there, like for casting directors, I guess, or in case Lindsay Lohan suddenly needs him as a costar.

  “Oh, my God,” Amber said. “Why does he have to be so cute?”

  “He’s not that cute—ouch!” I was experimenting with a curling iron at Hero’s dressing table, with rather painful results.

  They both looked at me like I was crazy.

  “What? He’s not.”

  “So if he asked you out, you’d turn him down?” Amber challenged.

  I didn’t even hesitate. “Absolutely. Hero did.”

  Amber turned to Hero. “He asked you out?”

  “Um, sort of. It wasn’t a big deal.” She looked uncomfortable.

  “It was too! He tried to get her out on that yacht his friend owns.”

  Amber sucked her breath in. “And you said no?”

  “Of course she said no. She’s into Claudio. Anyway, John’s totally overrated.”

  Amber looked at me. “What do you have against John all of a sudden?”

  “I just don’t trust him.” I was thinking of those creepy photos I saw on his computer, but I pretended to be too engrossed in my hair-curling to say more than that.