Confessions of a Triple Shot Betty

by Jody Gehrman

  Beside me, Amber dug an elbow into my ribs.

  “Yes, sir,” PJ said.

  After a pointed look, Claudio echoed PJ. “Yes, sir. Thank you.”

  “Now get your gear out of here, and if you ever spread rumors about my daughter again, I will personally remove your testicles and display them in the plaza with your names on them.”

  Whoa. Go, Uncle Leo.

  When we heard PJ’s truck start up, we all ran downstairs and found Uncle Leo on the couch, flipping through Wine Spectator.

  Hero flung herself onto the cushions beside him. “Dad, what was that about?”

  He continued to study the magazine. “It takes more than a little guitar and a turntable to make up for their stupidity.”

  “That was sweet,” Amber said. “I love that testicle bit. Man, where’d you get that, an Al Pacino flick?”

  Leo’s eyes glittered. “Your generation didn’t invent the art of invective, you know.”

  Bronwyn sat on the other side of her father and slipped an arm around his shoulders. “Brilliant performance, Pop. Really.” She seemed to have recovered some from her jilted-mistress meltdown.

  “But now I’m supposed to be in Connecticut!” Hero complained. “And I want to go to dinner too.”

  Uncle Leo put the magazine down. You could tell he was enjoying all the attention. He took off his spectacles and polished them with a handkerchief. For a moment, his face and the smell of his aftershave reminded me of my father’s. I felt a thickness in my throat, but I swallowed hard and the moment passed. “If he thinks he’s really lost you, he might appreciate you more.”

  “But I get to go too, right?” Hero asked.

  “Of course. Until then, just let him worry about how badly he messed up.”

  Hero got all hyper then. “I’m going out with Claudio!”

  “Friday, right? We have to check out Blood Moon. It’s opening Friday at midnight,” I said.

  Amber high-fived me. “Right on! That’s so perfect.”

  “All right then, you can stay out until two. At which point, fearing for his testicles, Claudio will return you safely to my doorstep.”

  “Two?” Hero whined. “Don’t you think that’s a little harsh if the movie doesn’t start until midnight?”

  He put his glasses back on. “Not at all.”

  “I think two thirty is a lot more realistic,” Amber said.

  He glared at her.

  I nodded. “Two thirty would be extremely generous.”

  He picked up his magazine again. “Two fifteen. That’s my final offer.”

  We all squealed and hugged him and jumped up and down on the couch until he yelled, “If you don’t leave me in peace, I’ll make it midnight!”

  Wednesday, August 13

  3:40 P.M.

  Hero can’t work her final week at TSB, so Amber and I are covering for her. We don’t want word to get out that she’s not in Connecticut at all, but is actually serving up lattes and mochas at Sonoma’s finest coffee establishment. It’s okay with Hero; she’s got plenty to keep her busy between now and then. Since Bronwyn needs something to take her mind off “Professor Prick,” she’s made Hero her little improvement project. Every day Bronwyn piles her sister into her Jeep (making sure Claudio doesn’t spot them from the vineyards) and whisks her off to a different spa, shopping center, or salon. She’s even convinced Hero to redecorate her room; it seems Little Miss Arrested Development has finally agreed that the pink ruffles she once adored have grown stale.

  I asked Bronwyn if all this retail therapy and spa touring wasn’t a tad bourgeois for someone who spearheaded the “Fashion Kills” awareness week. She just shrugged and said,

  “People change, Geena. Get over it.”

  I thought about that as I watched Amber walk through the door of TSB sporting a brand-new look. She was wearing her Betty tank top, but instead of her usual Daisy Dukes or distressed-denim mini, she’d paired it with a pale pink knee-length skirt, matching ballet flats, and a pure white cardigan.

  “Wow,” I said. “Look at you.”

  She propped her cat-eye sunglasses on top of her head. “What?” Her tone dared me to mock her.

  “Nothing, just . . .” I touched the sweater, confirming my suspicions: cashmere. “You look good.”

  She bit her lip. “You think so?”

  “Yeah, totally. Different, though. Are those new clothes?”

  She nodded. “Hero was getting rid of some stuff.”

  “Oh, right.” I was tempted to feel jealous for a moment— why wasn’t I offered first dibs? Then I remembered the last time Hero tried to give me her hand-me-downs. I told her, “No offense, Cuz, but if I wanted to look like an Ice Capades contestant, I wouldn’t wear cutoff Dickies, now would I?”

  “You think I look dumb?” Amber asked.

  “No. It’s just a big change for you, that’s all.”

  She started making herself a vanilla latte. It was foggy out, and she made it hot this time. “You know, the truth is, I want to cultivate a new image. I’m sick of living with this white-trash ho-bag persona. I want a little respect.”

  “People respect you,” I said.

  She wasn’t buying it. “Come on, Geena. The only respect I get is for my alleged blow job record, and that’s not even factual.”

  “But you have . . . ?” I hesitated.

  “Had sex?” she supplied.

  “I mean, I know not with John, because he couldn’t—get it up, or whatever—but with someone else . . . ?” I wasn’t trying to pry, but I’d been wondering, and it seemed like the right moment to ask.

  “If you ever tell anyone this, I’ll kill you, okay?”

  I nodded. “I won’t tell anyone.”

  She leaned closer and whispered, “Technically, I’m a virgin.”

  My jaw dropped. "Yon?”

  “I would have with John.” She made a face. “Though now I’m glad I didn’t.”

  “You’re not a virgin,” I said, amazed.

  “Swear to God.”

  “But you’re so not like that. I mean—you know what I mean.”

  She shrugged. “I figured it was better to embrace my skank status than to fight it. I didn’t want to be Marcy Adams.”

  Marcy Adams is a junior who looks and acts like a PTA mom, but is rumored to have hosted several orgies in the basement of her parents’ mansion. Also, she supposedly poses on a regular basis for an Internet porn site called Lolita’s Lair and frequently exchanges sexual favors for crack. She wears Peter Pan collars and floral skirts, but the rumors spread like wildfire anyway. She went out with John for a little while last year.

  Amber looked down at her outfit, suddenly horrified. “Oh, God. I’m turning into Marcy Adams, aren’t I?”

  “Amber, what if Marcy Adams is as innocent as you?”

  She looked at me like I was totally slow. “Well, yeah, I bet she is. But what does that matter? John is king around here, and he’s told everyone we’re beer sluts.” She looked depressed now. “This isn’t going to work. I’ll just be a skank in pink chiffon.”

  “But John will be at Yale soon,” I said. “You’ll have a new lease on life.”

  She shook her head. “Doesn’t matter. There are so many little John Jamieson acolytes at school, the rep will stick. And if I manage to shake it, he’ll still be home for holidays. He can do more damage in a week than most people manage in a decade.”

  “You’re right,” I said. “The only solution is to publicly humiliate him with such force that he’ll lose all credibility forever.”

  Amber blew her hair out of her eyes and sipped her latte. “Good luck. The guy’s got Satan on his side.”

  Just then—speak of the devil—John drove up in his Beemer. As usual, Corky was riding shotgun, looking like a muscle with hair. Jay-Z was blaring from the stereo. I went to the window and waited until he turned it down to a bearable level.

  “How’s it going?” My tone was polite, even friendly, but inside I was seething.
My reasons for pandering to him now were different than they were a week ago. Before, I was afraid of him. Now I was scheming. A plan was starting to formulate in the dark workshop at the back of my brain, and I didn’t want my enemy to be even remotely aware of my diabolical intentions.

  “I’m okay. What about you, Skater Girl?”

  Right then, even though I hated him, I could totally see why so many girls had fallen under his spell. The blond hair, those high cheekbones, the little dimple that showed up in his right cheek when he grinned—it was all too perfect. But his sex appeal went way beyond that. He was like a bright golden box with a dark, bitter secret inside. Who could resist the sinister intelligence that blazed behind his ice blue eyes?

  I forced myself to sound nonchalant. “I’m good. Hi, Corky.”

  Corky was applying oil to his enormous biceps. He looked at me and said, “You got a thirty-two-ouncer?”

  Déjà vu. God, that guy’s a loser. “Nope, sorry, just eighteen. You want a Coke?”

  He nodded, and turned his powers of concentration back to oiling his muscles.

  “What can I get you?” I asked John.

  “The usual—macchiato, stiff foam.”

  “Coming right up,” I said.

  As I got busy with their order, Amber hung back, trying to make herself invisible in the shadows. John spotted her, though, and treated us to his machine-gun laugh. Corky joined in, and soon everyone within twenty yards of us was turning to see what the big deal was.

  Amber marched over to the window. “You got a problem?”

  John shook his head. “No, Ginger. I think it’s great.”

  She fell for it. “You think what’s great, exactly?”

  He held his palms up. “The new look.”

  Corky laughed so hard, he could barely get the words out. “Is this the Blowjob Barbie ensemble?”

  That was it. Screw keeping a low profile; these bastards needed some instant karma. I reached up to the top shelf where we keep the extra-super-hot habanero sauce. Amber keeps it stashed there to go with the mircowave burritos she usually brings in for lunch. I squirted a healthy shot into each paper cup, then poured espresso and steamed milk into John’s, Coke with ice into Corky’s. A couple of lids and voila! Volcanic caffeine, coming right up.

  I went to the window and handed them over. My hands were shaking slightly, but they were laughing too hard to notice. John reached for his wallet. “Those are on the house,” I said. “I hope the foam’s stiff enough.”

  “Thanks, Skater Girl.” The schmuck actually winked at me. “I’m sure it’s plenty stiff.”

  I giggled coquettishly. Amber was looking at me like I was a total traitor. I shot her a look that said, Just wait. "Enjoy,” I told them.

  That’s when they both took their first sips. John’s face turned red as a radish. Corky started choking. John leaned over and spit macchiato con habanero all over the side of his spotless car. His glazed eyes found mine. “You,” he wheezed.

  “Is there a problem?” I gave them my concerned customer-service face.

  Corky was hyperventilating. Amber bit her lip, trying not to laugh.

  John narrowed his eyes at me into scary little slits. The effect was slightly marred, though, by the tears streaming down his cheeks. “You’ll pay!”

  “Actually,” I said, my voice still sweet as sugar, “you’re the one who’s going to pay.”

  He chucked what was left of his coffee in our general direction, but luckily I slammed the window shut quickly enough to avoid major splatter. They tore out of the parking lot, tires squealing.

  Amber threw her arms around my neck. “Oh my God,” she said. “No one’s ever done anything like that for me.”

  “It was nothing,” I said. “Really.”

  Suddenly she pulled back, her eyes scared. “He’ll come after you, G. You’ll be his next victim.”

  “Not if we get to him first,” I said.

  “But how?”

  “We need to get phone numbers for all the girls John’s dated, okay?”

  “What? Why?”

  I got out the phone book. “Safety in numbers.”

  “You’re not making sense,” she said.

  “Trust me,” I told her. “I’ve got a plan.”

  “But what do we say when we call them?”

  I thought for second. “Ask them if they’d like to be charter members of the BAM Committee.”

  “BAM? What’s that?”

  “What else?” I grinned. “Bettys Against the Man.”

  Amber took the phone book from me. "This,” she said, "is getting good.”

  Thursday, August 14

  9:40 A.M.

  Operation Redwood Terror is scheduled to begin twenty minutes from now. Please, Bettys throughout the ages, hear my battle cry!

  We will be avenged!!!

  1:20 P.M.

  The trap is set. Hero called John this morning. All the BAMs were there in her room, sipping our TSB drinks and clamping our hands over each other’s mouths whenever a giggle would threaten to erupt.

  “Hi, is this John?” Hero employed her sweetest, most sex-kittenish tone. We had him on speaker phone, which was admittedly dangerous, yet irresistible.

  “Yeah. Who’s this?”

  “It’s Hero. What’s up?”

  “Uh, nothing much. Wow. Didn’t expect to hear from you.”

  His surprise wasn’t exactly surprising. I mean, the last time she’d seen him she’d called him a “total slime” and puked all over his deck. She looked a little panicked, though, and I hurriedly scribbled on a piece of paper DON’T PANIC!!!

  “Well, tell you the truth, John, I owe you an apology.”

  We all nodded encouragement at her.

  “I just got so wasted at your party—I totally didn’t know what I was saying! I don’t even remember it, but I hear I wasn’t very nice to you.”

  “It happens.” John still sounded a little cagey; we needed more ammo. Amber grabbed the Sharpie from my hand and scrawled, C DMPED YR ASS. B SAD!!!

  Hero nodded, then started in with some muffled sobs. “And now Claudio thinks I’m a slut because of this whole MySpace thing—what a disaster. I just can’t believe he’d be so shallow. He’s not the person I thought he was at all.”

  “Hey, you sound upset . . .”

  “God, you’ve been so nice to me all summer, John. I had it all wrong! I thought Claudio was so great. Now I see he was just a decoy, distracting me from what I really felt all along.”

  John lowered his voice to an intimate, throaty growl. “And what do you really feel?”

  “Oh, John. I feel so much. For you.”

  Insert fiNger down throat! Hero was transforming before our eyes into a full-on soap opera goddess! I was a little shocked, and slightly worried it might be too much for John to swallow.

  “Hero, I’ve been waiting all summer to hear you say that.”

  Never fear; evidently John speaks fluent cheese.

  “Will you pick me up tonight at eight? My dad will be out.” She lowered her voice to a near whisper, and Marcy had to practically tackle Kim, she was giggling so convulsively. “I’m dying to see you.”

  “Uh, yeah. Sure. I can rearrange my schedule.”

  All six of us BAMs silently danced around like a pack of mimes on E.

  “Great. See you then.”

  Excellent! The unsuspecting swine is right where we want him. Now all we have to do is combine the brainpower and labor potential of seven extremely vengeful, super-caffeinated girls and we’ve got ourselves a coup d’etat.

  4:30 P.M.

  Equipment check:

  Courtesy of Nikki’s family’s theater company, seven black robes with big, roomy hoods: check.

  On loan from Marcy, a fabulous iPod docking station with four detachable speakers: check.

  From Lexa’s dad, who hopefully won’t notice them missing, one pair of real handcuffs: check.

  Torn from my old Halloween witch costume, a silk blindfold
: check.

  11:50 P.M.

  Oh my God, what a night. Dura lex, sed lex! (For uninitiated plebeians: “The law is harsh, but it is the law!”) I’m exhausted, but filled with righteous exhilaration. Maybe I should be a lawyer, or a judge, or a freelance feminist vigilante when I grow up.

  Here’s what happened: John picked Hero up at eight and, at her urging, drove to a spooky redwood forest kind of by Geevana Ridge. It’s way out there, with no houses nearby, and the atmosphere at night is pure ghostliness. Amber, Marcy, Nikki, Kim, Lexa, and I were all waiting by a fairy ring at the heart of the forest, with Virg, Dog, and George lurking in the shadows armed with film equipment. The gods must have smiled on our questionable venture, because a thick, mysterious fog rolled in, slithering through the trees and licking at the ferns and generally adding to the creepiness of the place.

  Pretty soon we heard Hero giggling as she walked through the forest, and a few seconds later we could just make out John’s voice right behind her.

  “Hero! I never knew you were so kinky.”

  “Don’t take the blindfold off,” Hero answered. “We’re getting close. Just hold my hand—I’ll lead you. Ooh, don’t trip! Okay, I’m letting go now. Just follow my voice. We’re almost there.”

  That was our cue to yank our hoods up over our heads and shrink deeper into the shadows. In less than a minute Hero had reached the fairy ring, and I tossed a robe at her, which she threw on immediately, pulling the hood over her hair like the rest of us.

  “You’re almost the-ere,” she repeated in a flirty, singsong voice.

  At last he stumbled into our trap, blindfolded, a wide smile on his face, his hands stretched out before him like a child playing blindman’s bluff. He was trying to be a good sport, that much was clear, and I could tell he found her little cat-and-mouse game titillating, but I thought I could see little lines of anxiety starting to form around the edges of his smile already. Good. Anxiety was part of the plan.