Confessions of a Triple Shot Betty

by Jody Gehrman

  “You definitely shouldn’t trust him,” Amber said, “but he’s still sexy.”

  I eyed Amber. “You’re not still into him, are you?”

  Amber turned back to the screen. “No. Of course not. I mean, not seriously. ”

  Hero and I exchanged a look when she printed the page with his photo on it. “Then why are you printing that page?” I asked.

  She picked it up off the printer. “None of your business.”

  When Amber’s retorts are that lame, you know something’s up.

  Saturday, August 2

  2:30 A.M.

  I’m so exhausted . . . don’t even know if I can write. I better get it all down now, though, before it gets too muddled inside my brain.

  Disaster #1: Pimps and hos party?

  Can anyone say John Jamieson sucks?

  We got there with our false eyelashes, our catsuits, our thigh-high boots, glittery blue eye shadow, and, in one unfortunate case, a medically unsound bustier, only to find that everyone else was wearing jeans and T-shirts.

  I was ready to donate my body to science.

  If it weren’t for Amber, we probably would have turned on our four-inch heels and marched back out. While Hero and I were blushing furiously, shooting each other mortified looks, Amber assessed the situation quickly, named the culprit, and strutted over to him, her green eyes flashing fire.

  “So, I guess you think this is funny?” She stuck one hip out and crossed her arms in front of her chest.

  John was standing in the midst of four toothpick-thin freshmen girls, all of them sporting overly processed hair and faces so caked with makeup they looked like underfed mannequins. He was apparently regaling them with stories of his latest commercial, a Cheez Whiz ad that aired last week, while pouring them shots from a bottle of Jack Daniel’s. When Amber approached, he gripped the bottle in front of him like it might protect him from her wrath. “Misunderstanding, I guess,” he said, his sculpted shoulders rising toward his ears before dropping again.

  Corky, who was lurking just outside the ring of emaciated John fans, emitted a braying sound that vaguely resembled laughter, and the rest of the people crowding the living room tittered in response. Amber shot Corky a look so withering, his laughter stuck in his throat.

  Amber’s face took on a hard, determined edge as she turned back to John. “Fine. Misunderstanding, then. But don’t think for a second you can ruin our night.” She grabbed a shot glass from the nearest anorexic and downed its contents in one gulp. Without hesitation, she went over to PJ, who was set up behind his turntables, and flipped through his LPs until she found one she approved of. As he replaced P. Diddy with vintage Prince, Amber jumped up onto the coffee table, her bright white boots scattering magazines every which way. “Ladies and gentlemen . . .” Her voice was confident, loud enough to silence the whole room. “May I present to you, the Ho Brigade!” Then PJ pumped the volume up until “Erotic City” was so loud you could feel it in your throat. Amber waved Hero and me over. We glanced at each other—a split-second cousin consultation—before crossing the room and leaping up onto the coffee table beside her.

  We danced on that table for at least an hour, shaking our butts like we were confident, campy chicks out for a good time, and not the victims of a practical joke. The bizarre thing was we actually pulled it off. Some of the little freshmen toothpick girls who lived in mortal fear of doing anything remotely energetic were even copying us; I caught them imitating our hoochie-mama dance grooves like they’d just seen them on MTV.

  “Hey—Hero! Over here!” John was snapping pictures with his cell while we danced. Hero was soaking up the attention, striking silly poses with a joy and abandon I’d never seen her display in public.

  Amber kept trying to crowd into each shot, doing more and more outrageous moves just so John would notice her, but all he seemed to care about was aiming the lens at Hero. Amber wasn’t happy about that. Each time John ignored her, her expression hardened just a little bit more. Finally she turned to me and said, “I need a drink.” Then she jumped off the table abruptly and made a beeline for the kitchen.

  I spotted Ben across the room just then. He looked kind of puzzled at first, and I was seized for a moment with a debilitating self-consciousness, like those nightmares where you suddenly realize you’re naked in civics. I tugged at the straps of my bustier, horrified that he was seeing me like this. But then our eyes locked and a slow smile spread across his face—that look he gets, like Jesus, what will she do Next?—and my confidence went from running-on-fumes to spilling-overfull, just like that.

  Ah, the mystery of me.

  Disaster #2: The virgin-ho gets drunk.

  Well, one of the virgin-hos, anyway. This one can’t stand the taste of Jack Daniel’s, which is all they had since the keg fell through. Evidently, the keg company wouldn’t take Corky’s fake ID, even though he’s had to shave since the sixth grade and now looks approximately forty. Being resourceful, the Jamieson brothers conned Jana Clark into snagging six cases of Jack from her parents’ liquor store. I tried half a shot and felt like I was going to yuke, which was just as well because believe me, my co-hos needed babysitting in the worst way.

  As soon as Hero and I stepped down from our coffee table dance floor, John came over and wrapped his arm around her like a jovial uncle after too many cups of eggnog. I stood there feeling distinctly chopped liver-ish. It’s not like I was dying for John to drape his big, meaty arm over my shoulders, but let’s face it, being the odd ho out really sucks.

  “Hero, baby,” he said. “I know you’re mad, but seriously, I’d never set you up. It was an honest mistake. We changed our minds about the pimps and hos thing, but I lost your number, so I couldn’t let you know. Anyway, it all turned out fine, didn’t it? You’re the life of the party and every girl here wishes she’d thought of wearing blue eye shadow and ”—his eyes fell on me—“a vinyl bustier.” He squeezed his lips together, trying not to laugh. I just crossed my arms and ignored him.

  “You set us up and you know it,” Hero said. “You totally suck. End of story.”

  I did a double take. Was this the boots talking? Hero suddenly had an attitude.

  “Ohh, feisty,” John growled. “I love a girl who’s not afraid to bite.” A lascivious smile spread unpleasantly across his eraser pink face.

  “Come on, Geebs.” Hero swiveled out of his embrace and pulled me toward the kitchen. “Let’s get a drink.”

  I trailed after her, inwardly cursing my too-tight skirt. Between that and the bustier, it felt like I was wearing a boa constrictor. I snuck a peek at John over my shoulder, wondering how he’d take being openly dissed. He didn’t look upset; his eyes were glued to Hero’s butt like it was a priceless piece of art he had to have.

  Claudio came up to us in his striped T-shirt and pressed chinos. He said something to Hero in Italian. She shrugged, answered him in a surprisingly terse tone, and flounced off. I hurried after her.

  “What was that all about?” I asked.

  She looked annoyed. “Some guys can be so possessive. I guess he didn’t like the way I danced. Whatevs.”

  Whatevs? Since when did Hero use whatevs? She sure was on a tear tonight.

  As we turned the corner into the kitchen, we collided with Ben Bettaglia. Unfortunately, he was carrying a glass, and as we smacked into him liquid erupted from it, showering all three of us.

  “Oh my God, I’m s-so sorry,” I stammered.

  “No biggie,” he said. “Just water.”

  “My hair.” Hero fussed with her now damp do. When she saw me standing there, staring up at Ben, she smirked knowingly and kept going without me.

  “Oh,” he said, peering carefully at my face. “You’ve got a drop right”—he rubbed his thumb along my cheekbone— warm, gentle, lingering pressure that made my throat feel thick—“there.”

  “Thanks.” It came out barely a whisper. I wondered if the Max Factor mascara Amber had applied in thick coats had found its way under my
eyes, transforming me from goddess to linebacker. “So, you having fun? I guess you’re not drinking.” I nodded at the now empty glass.

  “Yes—I mean no,” he said. “I mean, yes, I’m having fun, but no, I’m not drinking.”

  “How come?”

  He thought about it for a second. “One, I’m in training. Two, I think that stuff”—he nodded at a tray of shot glasses floating past— “tastes like lighter fluid. Not that I’ve ever, you know, tasted lighter fluid, but . . .”

  “Right, no, I totally know what you mean,” I said. “The stuff’s fetid.”

  He grinned. “Fetid. Good word.”

  “From the SAT list.” I laughed.

  A loud cheer went up from the kitchen, and I peered around Ben to see Hero tossing back a jumbo-sized shot of Jack. She almost choked on it, but John patted her on the back a few times, and once she’d caught her breath, she flashed a wobbly grin. The crowd around her cheered again.

  Claudio sauntered over to us. “Hero is so . . . how do you say? A party dog?”

  I smiled. “Party animal, you mean?”

  “Yes. I’m sorry—my English.”

  “No,” I said. “I get you. And actually she’s not usually. She’s never had more than a couple glasses of her dad’s wine. I guess she’s just . . . experimenting.”

  Claudio nodded, his brow furrowed. “She may be sick.”

  “Don’t worry,” I said. “Hero’s pretty smart. She won’t do anything too stupid.”

  Just then Hero bounced a quarter into a shot glass at the center of the kitchen table. John was there at her side, egging her on. Her thin, pale arms shot straight into the air, fists clenched, and she squealed at the top of her lungs. She didn’t even resemble her old self tonight. Usually she wears a tiny bit of mascara, tops. But after Amber’s makeover her face was so plastered with blue eye shadow, blusher, and candy apple red lipstick, she was difficult to recognize. The body-hugging catsuit left very little to the imagination, especially now that she’d discarded the leather jacket.

  “She look . . . different,” Claudio observed. He kept sneaking glances at her, trying to be subtle. His worried little frown made me feel sorry for him. I wanted to go over there, seize her delicate little pink ear, drag her over to Claudio, and make her talk to him in a normal, decent, intelligent fashion—not in squeals and giggles, which seemed to be her language of choice at the moment. Here she was, barely six feet from the guy she supposedly couldn’t live without, and instead of hanging out with him she was playing quarters with the pompous prick who’d done everything he could to humiliate us.

  “John told us it was a costume party,” I said to them, smiling weakly. “Pimps and hos.”

  Ben said, “A-ha,” looking mildly relieved, like maybe those straitjackets wouldn’t be required after all.

  “It was kind of messed up,” I said. “John’s idea of a practical joke. But, whatever. We’re trying not to let it ruin our night.” I felt ridiculous again, in spite of myself—silly and exposed. I looked around for Amber. She was never self-conscious. When we’d climbed up onto the coffee table, her relentless confidence had spilled over onto me, making me feel like a glamorous guest star instead of a stupid chick who’d been had. Now her spell was wearing off, and my bustier was digging into my ribs.

  “Want to go outside?” Ben’s voice snapped me out of my morbid shame spiral. “It’s kind of . . . smoky in here.” I followed his gaze and saw that the Sandalwood Sisters were stinking up the kitchen, passing a huge joint back and forth. They were also, I noticed, laughing through pursed lips at my outfit. Like they had any right to judge my fashion choices. Rasta wiggers are supposed to be all about peace, love, and THC, but they can be petty as anyone, I guess.

  “Sure,” I said. “Okay.”

  Ben looked at Claudio. “You want to come?”

  Even though I sort of wanted to be alone with Ben, I liked that he didn’t just ditch his friend like most guys would.

  Claudio shook his head and glanced uneasily at Hero. “Maybe I’ll just . . . how do you say? Keep an eye on.”

  I smiled. “Yeah, that’s a good idea. If the hos start table dancing again, call me in for backup.”

  He nodded, but I don’t think he was really listening. Once we were outside by the pool with the cool air on our faces, I felt instantly more at ease. The night smelled like chlorine and freshly cut grass. We could hear music pulsing through the walls of the house, but all at once the party seemed distant—like something that was happening to someone else. Out here, it was just Ben Bettaglia and me. I could feel my hands tingling and my heart pounding. Sitting there with him was flooding my body with a dangerous, heady drug.

  “Are you having a good time?” In the dark, his eyes looked black.

  “Yeah, I guess so. I mean, it’s sort of embarrassing”—I gestured vaguely at my outfit—“but I probably shouldn’t care what people think.”

  He said, “It’s human.”

  "I guess.”

  We were sitting on separate lawn chairs, facing each other, and our legs were about six inches apart. I stared at the shape his knees made inside his jeans, and then the wind shifted and I caught a whiff of him. It was a great smell, like laundry detergent, toothpaste, and something else that had no name. That part was him, I guess—his skin or whatever—and just thinking about that made me feel a little light-headed. I remembered Mr. Patel, our biology teacher, saying that smell is really tiny, evaporated particles floating through the air, so when you smell cut grass, it’s actually invisible bits of grass going up your nose. Now I had Ben Bettaglia molecules floating inside me. It was a little overwhelming.

  “How’s Auggie doggie?” He was grinning at me; I could see the sarcastic curve of his lips in the moonlight.

  “None of your business,” I said, trying to sound offended, but ruining it by laughing out loud.

  “You really are the weirdest girl I ever met,” he said, shaking his head.

  “Thanks a lot!” I wasn’t pretending to be offended this time. I seriously was.

  “Don’t be mad,” he said. “It’s what I like best about you. You’re not like anyone else.”

  He scooted his chair closer to mine, so that our knees touched. Then he leaned toward me, and even though I was still a little stung by his comment, I found myself tilting my head toward his, savoring the warmth of his breath on my lips. Our faces were only inches apart now, but he didn’t kiss me. The tension was unbearable.

  “So you’ve got a thing for freaks, huh?” My voice was so low and husky, I barely recognized it.

  “Sure do. Especially cute freaks in cheap vinyl.”

  I pulled back slightly. “Don’t even start on the bustier, man, or I swear I’ll—”

  He covered my mouth with his, and my mind went blank, killing any desire to finish my sentence. We kissed for a long time, and it was different from when he’d kissed me last week. That time—the first time—it was like falling. This was more like floating. Before, we were rushed, disoriented, pushing blindly into foreign territory. This time we explored each other’s mouths quietly, patiently, like travelers tasting an exotic fruit for the first time.

  “Sloanified,” he murmured after a while. “Adjective:

  Unable to stop kissing a certain salutatorian (e.g., ‘Dude, I’m so Sloanified’).”

  “Close,” I whispered. “Except I’m sure you mean valedictorian.”

  “Oh my Gawwwwd!”

  I pulled away from Ben just in time to see a drunk, exhilarated Hero plunging, fully clothed, into the kidney-shaped pool. She disappeared for a moment, and I had visions of myself dragging her lifeless body from the depths, but luckily she re-emerged quickly, sputtering with laughter.

  Claudio stood at the edge of the pool. “You’re crazy!”

  “Look out!” John came running through the French doors and launched into a cannonball that splashed everyone on the patio. Of course, monkey see, monkey do: Corky followed suit, and soon half the kids at the part
y were bobbing, fully clothed, in the deep end.

  I looked around for Amber, but didn’t spot her. Ben and I retreated into the shadows, staking out another lawn chair that was a little farther from the fray. This time I sat on his lap, and when we started kissing again, I wondered if it was lust or lack of oxygen that was making me feel so light-headed.

  We didn’t pay any attention to our surroundings until I heard Hero’s voice raised in protest. “I said no!”

  I searched the crowd and spotted John cornering Hero at the far end of the pool. They were still in the water, and John had his shirt off. The broad expanse of his muscular back blocked my view of Hero, mostly, but I could see the top of her head and hear the tone in her voice. “I mean it.”

  “Come on,” he was saying. “Stop torturing me.”

  She shoved him back. “Get away from me!”

  Claudio, Ben, and I reached them at the same time. Claudio was going off in warp-speed Italian, endeavoring to pull Hero from the pool. She obviously wanted to get away from John, but having her shoulder half wrenched from its socket wasn’t helping much.

  “Claudio, ease up,” I said, pulling his hand from her arm. “Hero, just get out of the pool, okay?”

  She obeyed, managing to pull herself onto the deck, albeit without much grace. Claudio and I both helped her to her feet. She was dripping wet, of course, and mascara ran in inky black rivulets down her face.

  “Geena was right,” Hero spat at John, who remained treading water. “You’re a total slime! I can’t believe you’re actually popular.”

  Okay, Now he hates Us both. Great.

  John’s face was distorted with sheer contempt. “Whatever, cock tease.”

  “Don’t you ever touch me again!” Unfortunately, Hero’s righteous little speech was cut short as she bent over and puked all over the deck.

  “Uh, Cuz.” I had to mouth-breathe to avoid following her lead. “Maybe we should head out. What do you say?”

  She wiped her mouth with the back of her hand, a delicate little gesture in a distinctly indelicate situation. “Geebs, I don’t feel so good.”