Confessions of a Triple Shot Betty

by Jody Gehrman

  I watched the boys’ expressions as they stared at the screen on Virg’s camera. PJ’s face went from skeptical to angry, Ben’s went from relieved to disgusted. Claudio just looked confused.

  “I don’t understand,” he complained. “What is this, ‘blow job’?”

  “I’ll draw a picture for you later.” PJ turned to Amber and me. “Sloane, Amber, I’m so sorry. Seriously, I had no idea. I feel like a complete idiot.”

  Ben was speaking into Claudio’s ear, explaining, and suddenly Claudio cried out, “No . . . no!” before dissolving into Italian.

  Virg said to PJ, “I got to get back to work, man. Can I get a ride?”

  “Sure.” PJ seemed grateful for such an easy exit. As Claudio and Virg piled into his truck, Claudio still spewing anguished Italian, PJ looked at Amber and me again. “We’ll fix this, okay? I’m going to do what I can.”

  “John’s got to burn,” I said. “Simple as that.”

  PJ seemed uneasy. “He’s psycho when he’s pissed. We’ve got to be chill about it.”

  “I don’t care what it takes,” I said. “I want him to know how Hero feels.”

  As they drove off I turned around and there was Ben, watching me with his dark, liquid eyes.

  Amber sensed a moment coming on, and said, “I’m going inside for a Coke. You want anything, G?”

  “No,” I told her. “I’ll be there in a minute.”

  When she’d gone inside, I turned back to Ben. The air was stifling and scented with grease. It was late afternoon, but still the sun was harsh. I stepped into the shade of the building, and he followed.

  “Thanks,” I said.

  He kicked the pavement. “For what?”

  “You know . . .”

  “Oh—what? That?” He gestured vaguely at the parking lot.

  “Yeah. Standing up for Hero.”

  “Naw, he just ate my bean burrito.”

  I raised an eyebrow and we both laughed. Then his hands disappeared into his baggy pockets and he shrugged. “I figured if I didn’t do something you’d slash my tires.”

  I nodded. “I am pretty handy with a switchblade.”

  He took a step closer. “How’s Auggie doggie handling all this?”

  “He’s hanging tough.”

  “Glad to hear it.”

  I leaned over and kissed his smirking lips. I felt like I could stand in the shade of that Taco Bell for years, tasting his mouth, breathing in the heady perfume of grease, sun-baked asphalt, and Ben Bettaglia.

  Pretty soon Amber came out with her Coke, calling, “Hey, playa! Can we get a ride back to my car?”

  Ben blushed. “Sure.”

  We climbed into his decrepit Volvo. As he drove us back to the mini-mart, Amber leaned forward from the backseat and said, “Were you really going to hit him? I mean, don’t take this the wrong way, but he’s got some size on you.”

  Ben cracked a smile and glanced at me. “I figured Sloane here had my back.”

  “Yeah, but come on,” Amber persisted. “I mean, my God, you shave your legs.”

  “Hey! I’m a cyclist. That’s what we do.”

  Amber looked from him to me and back again. “You guys are good together. Couple of freaks. I’m glad we tricked you into getting it on.”

  Normally, I’d be mortified, but I was too elated to scold her. I leaned back in my seat and enjoyed the ride, sneaking occasional sideways glances at Ben and watching his arm muscles rearrange themselves every time he shifted gears.

  It was time to fill Hero in on the whole sordid business. As soon as Ben dropped us off, Amber and I got in her car and headed for Moon Mountain.

  “You think she’ll forgive Claudio?” Amber narrowly avoided sideswiping the ice cream man, then ran a stop sign. She didn’t miss a beat. “I don’t think I would.”

  “Amber,” I said, clinging to my seat belt. “You’re aware that you nearly killed us just now? Twice?”

  “Relax.”

  “Where did you learn to drive, anyway?”

  She looked at me. “Funny. That’s exactly what the guy at the DMV asked.”

  “What did you tell him?”

  Her thick hair was flying in her eyes. “Hold on,” she said, “safety maneuver. You steer.”

  I reached over and took hold of the wheel while Amber searched the trash-thick floorboards and the seats for something to hold her hair back. After swerving to avoid a cat, I yanked the elastic from one of my braids and handed it to her. “Here,” I said, “just keep us alive, will you?”

  Once her hair was secured in a ponytail she said, “Yeah, the guy who gave me the driver’s test said, ‘Where’d you learn to drive, a third-world country?’ I told him, ‘Buddy, if you don’t pass me I’m telling your boss you tried to feel me up.’ ”

  “You did not!” I said.

  She found a pack of gum buried between the seat cushions and popped a stick in her mouth. “I don’t skate, G. I don’t even walk if I can avoid it. I had to get around somehow.”

  “Yeah, but threatening the DMV guy with a false accusation of sexual harassment—”

  “Who said anything about false? He did try to feel me up.”

  “Oh,” I said. “Well, that’s okay then, I guess.”

  The maid, Esperanza, opened the door and broke into animated Spanish when she saw us. At first I thought she was excited to see me, though we’d passed each other in the halls at least four times a week throughout the summer and she’d never been particularly effusive before. Then I saw it was Amber she was doting on. She even pinched her cheeks, exclaiming over her like she was a long-lost daughter. Amber smiled sweetly and produced a few Spanish phrases in response.

  “What was that about?” I asked, after she’d let us in and we were making our way toward the kitchen.

  “My mom used to work with her,” Amber said. “At Sonoma Mission Inn.”

  “Really? Doing what?”

  Amber undid her ponytail, handed the elastic to me, and finger-combed her hair back into place. “Housekeeping. I used to help out, before I started as a Betty.”

  “Does your mom still work there?”

  Amber made a sound of disdain. “She never works anywhere longer than she has to.”

  We entered the kitchen, where Hero was piling fruit into a blender. When she saw us she put a half-peeled banana down and stared. “What’s she doing here?” she asked me, nodding at Amber.

  Amber put her hands up. “See? I told you.”

  “Whoa, whoa, whoa,” I said. “Back up. Hero, you’ve got to chill, okay? We have amazing news, but if you’re rude we’re not going to tell you.”

  “I’m being rude? What do you call what she did to me?”

  Amber started to turn toward the door, but I grabbed hold of her arm, holding her in place while I told Hero, “I’m serious. She’s totally innocent. All you have to do is listen.”

  She sighed, thought for a moment. Finally she said in a sullen voice, “Anyone want one of these?”

  We told her everything over smoothies out on the deck: how John promised the photos would be kept secret, how the stofers found out, Virg’s footage, Taco Bell. Amber even told her about her history with John, and his history with every alleged slut in Sonoma. As she listened, Hero’s face went through various permutations of surprise, relief, and disgust. When we stopped talking at last, she rested her elbows on her knees and said, “Oh God, I’m so sorry. I totally assumed the worst.”

  “No biggie,” Amber said. “I’m used to it.”

  “But that’s what makes it so awful,” she said. “John picked you because he knew no one would believe you if you tried to rat him out.”

  I recalled Corky’s words on tape: Maybe Beezie, but who’s going to believe her? Hero was right. They chose Amber because nobody took her seriously.

  “Wow, you’re right,” I said. “That is so messed up.”

  “You guys are just now getting this?” Amber stood up and walked to the edge of the deck. She sounded annoyed. �
�I mean come on, story of my life.”

  Hero went over and leaned against the railing beside her.

  “I’m really sorry. I should have given you the benefit of the doubt.”

  “You didn’t like me.” Amber’s tone was cool, but it warmed a bit when she added, “But then, I haven’t exactly been likeable.”

  “I didn’t give you a chance,” Hero told her. “And I was wrong.”

  There was an awkward, loaded pause and I thought, Is it really happening? Are they actually calling a truce? It was like watching a pair of novice tightrope walkers—one misstep and all would be lost.

  “I know we’ve had kind of a rough start,” Hero said, “and we don’t have all that much in common. But maybe you could—forgive me?”

  Amber took her time before answering. “Actually,” she said, a slow smile spreading across her face, “we have more in common than you think.”

  “Really?” Hero let out a nervous giggle and I thought, Don’t screw it Up Now, Cuz. "Like what?”

  “A common enemy.”

  Saturday, August 9

  11:40 P.M.

  Dad called tonight and said he’s taking me to New York for my birthday; we’ll fly there Labor Day weekend, just the two of us. It doesn’t exactly make up for all the times he’s flaked on me over the past year, but it’s a step in the right direction. Maybe I should have told him off sooner.

  Something I realized this morning: With Mom, I know I’m mad at her the second she does something lame. With Dad, it sometimes takes months to admit just how pissed off I am.

  Weird. I’ll have to ask Bronwyn about it sometime—see if anyone’s come up with a theory about that one. Hopefully it won’t have anything to do with that creepy Electra chick.

  Tuesday, August 12

  11:00 P.M.

  PJ and Claudio finally got their shit together. Amazingly, it’s taken them this long to organize an apology befitting their crime. Claudio’s called; he even stopped by yesterday after work, though Uncle Leo told him Hero wasn’t home. Hero watched from her bedroom window, apoplectic with the conflicting desire to see him and to make him pay. Her advisers (Uncle Leo, Amber, Bronwyn, and I) have all assured her that accepting his apology too readily will teach him nothing. He should suffer a little for what he’s done.

  “But he was tricked,” she kept saying tonight. “He thought I was an underground porn star.”

  Amber and I exchanged a quick Not this again look. The three of us were painting our toenails in Hero’s room. It was precisely the sort of girly bonding I’d imagined back in June. Sure, it took me a couple months to get here, but I’ve arrived in the promised land of shared pedicures at last.

  “Hero, even if that was you in those photos, why is that his business? It’s not like you were engaged,” Amber said.

  Hero squinted at her toes, three of which were cotton-candy pink. “He felt betrayed. I understand that.”

  “Have you even kissed the guy?”

  Hero hedged. “What’s that got to do with anything?”

  “It’s essential,” Amber told her decisively. “First exchange of bodily fluids.”

  “You make it sound like a lab experiment.”

  Amber rolled her eyes at me, then turned back to Hero. “Answer the question, princess.”

  “Well, no. We haven’t kissed. Not exactly.”

  “There’s no exactly here, okay? Either you have or you haven’t.” Amber can be a stickler for accuracy.

  Hero sighed impatiently. “What I mean is, he blew me a kiss. It was very romantic.”

  Amber made her lips disappear in an effort to keep from laughing. I was less successful. I giggle-snorted, then tried to fob it off as a cough.

  Bronwyn burst through the door and we all turned. She looked awful—well, as awful as you can look when you’ve got terrific bone structure, amazing skin, and an eight-digit trust fund. Her cute little heart-shaped face was streaked with black tire marks of mascara and her eyes were puffy from crying. “I want you all to take a good look,” she instructed us, flinging her arms out to her sides like a mascara-streaked Jesus. “I am now officially a dumped mistress.”

  Hero mumbled, “Ever hear of knocking?”

  I led Bronwyn to a chair. “What happened?”

  “He deep-sixed me.” She dug a handkerchief from the pocket of her leather jacket and blew her nose. “I was his summer fling! I thought we were in love.”

  “I’m so sorry,” I said.

  Bronwyn closed her eyes like someone enduring a terrible pain. “I can’t believe I was that dumb. Stupid, stupid, stupid!”

  “Men,” Amber said.

  Bronwyn’s eyes popped open. “Yes,” she said, as if Amber had just revealed the cure for cancer. “Exactly. Men.”

  “Well . . .” My tone was tentative. “He is married.”

  “He’s married! Precisely my point,” Bronwyn said. “I mean really, what was I thinking? Can you believe he almost talked me into changing my major?”

  “But you love psych,” I said.

  “Not that part. Women’s studies. I was going to change from psych and women’s studies to psych and poly sci. All because he convinced me that women’s studies is for bull dykes with hairy armpits.”

  “Shhh,” Hero said. “What’s that?” We all got quiet then. The strains of an acoustic guitar floated through the open French doors. Then we heard a guy’s voice singing in Italian. It sounded a little like Uncle Leo’s opera CDs, except you can tell those guys are fat. This singer sounded skinny, and frankly, a little off-key. There was only one skinny, off-key Italian it could possibly be.

  We crowded onto the balcony to investigate, forcing Hero to stay hidden. It was all part of Operation Make Him Suffer—he wasn’t to see her until he’d proven himself worthy. Outside, twilight had taken hold; the sky was a haunting blue, with just a few stars twinkling bravely. The air smelled like dust and grapes and night-blooming jasmine. There was a crescent moon dangling near the horizon, and little wisps of fog nestled in the cracks between the hills. Down on the patio, Claudio was strumming a guitar, serenading us. His voice wasn’t exactly melodious, but his usually shaggy hair was slicked back and his face was so sweet and sincere, the flat notes hardly grated on your nerves at all.

  “What’s he singing?” I asked Bronwyn.

  She tilted her head, listening. “He’s saying, ‘My eyes are the windows of my soul, which is grieving, and my heart is as full as . . . an ashtray?”

  “His heart’s as full as an ashtray?” Amber said. “Huh, that’s pretty good.”

  Hero was flattened against the wall, hidden from sight. “His heart’s as full as the moon!” she corrected.

  “I liked ashtray,” Amber grumbled.

  The song ended, and out of the shadows came a deep, rumbling bass beat. We leaned over the balcony railing and spotted PJ with a miniature version of his usual gear set up under the awning. He grabbed the mike and stepped back a little farther, keeping himself hidden. When PJ started to rap, Claudio moved his mouth; the result was a poorly dubbed martial arts flick, hip-hop style. We laughed so hard tears streamed down our faces.

  “Listen to my tale of woe,

  I got a matter of minutes to go,

  Before my heart turns into a stone,

  I’m so tired of being alone.

  I saw your picture on MySpace

  Your golden hair and your angel’s face

  But wait, that girl wasn’t you,

  I’m so confused—what can I do?

  I was tricked by the slimy bro

  And that’s my tale of woe.

  So baby, if you’ve got a heart

  Tell me girl, can we start

  Over and over and over

  Crimson and clover . . .”

  Here PJ sampled a couple bars from “Crimson and Clover” while we laughed on the balcony, clapping and cheering. Hero was peeking through the blinds looking happier than I’d seen her all summer.

  “Hold up.” It was Uncle Le
o, striding out onto the patio in his Armani suit. He’d been at some sort of board meeting and he looked very intimidating. “Turn that off.”

  PJ immediately obliged. The driving hip-hop beat and the eighties sample cut out abruptly, leaving only crickets. “Mr. Sloane,” PJ said. “Please don’t be mad. We wanted to apologize.”

  “By sneaking into my yard and playing that—that rap crap?”

  “Sir, we—Claudio and I—we just wanted to show you how much we regret all the misunderstandings.”

  Uncle Leo drew himself up to his full height, which is well over six feet, and looked down his nose at PJ. “Misunderstandings? I’ve sent Hero back to Connecticut two weeks early because of these so-called ‘misunderstandings,’ did you know that?”

  “No. I—I’m sorry to hear that, sir,” PJ stammered.

  "I won’t have her subjected to these absurd rumors. I just won’t do it.”

  “Like I said, we’re really sorry, sir.” PJ shoved his hands into the pockets of his jeans and they nearly fell off, they were so baggy. “Claudio and I both messed up. And if there’s anything we can do to make it up to you . . .”

  “There is something. I want you to take Geena and Amber out this Friday.” He glanced up at us. “They’ve been through a lot lately.”

  PJ was definitely thrown by the proposition; so was I. “Um, okay. No problem.”

  Claudio stepped forward, his hand outstretched. “Sir, yes, we take them to dinner, because I am so sorry Hero was a hoochie.”

  From behind the curtains, Hero let out a squeaking sound.

  PJ stepped in front of his friend, saying, “He means he’s sorry she was called such terrible names and he wants to make it up to you.”

  “Fine.” Uncle Leo’s tone was brusque, but I knew him well enough to detect a note of suppressed laughter. “The two of you get here by six on Friday. Bring Ben Bettaglia. You’ll treat them to a fine meal, then take them to a movie and be home by one.”