So Lyrical

by Trish Cook

  “Maybe he’ll even want to get back together with you,” I added, putting my arm around Bebe’s other shoulder and squeezing tight.

  “What are you two talking about?” she asked, looking more confused than ever.

  “You know. My dad, Billy. And you,” I said.

  “Now, that’s a threesome that will never happen,” Bebe answered. “And I don’t know what’s gotten into you guys, but let’s get Spike to make the introductions.”

  “I thought you and Billy already knew each other,” Zander said.

  “Yeah, so did I,” I said. “And there’s a picture hanging in the downstairs bathroom to prove it.”

  “It may look like Billy and I are old pals in it,” Bebe said. “But the truth is, I only met him once and when I did, I was so nervous I could barely squeak out three dopey words: ‘I . . . love . . . you.’ My friend snapped a picture of us, and that was the end of it. He’ll never remember me.”

  “There’s one person you can cross off your list,” Zander whispered to me, sticking out his hand to shake Billy’s.

  That Saturday, I was idly scratching Billy Squier’s name off my Post-it list as I waited for Zander to pick me up for the Country Day Cotillion.

  “Trace, your chariot awaits,” Bebe yelled up the stairs. “Look out front!” I peeked out the window and saw Zander’s head sticking out of the moon roof of a stretch Navigator limo. He had a rose clenched between his teeth.

  “Don’t wait up,” I said, kissing Bebe on the cheek and stepping through the front door carefully, trying to stay upright in Bebe’s Jimmy Choos.

  Zander let out a whistle when he saw me and yelled, “Hey, baby!”

  I twirled around, grinning. “Hey, baby, yourself.”

  Zander’s head popped back in the limo and a minute later, his whole body came out the door. He took the rose out of his mouth and handed it to me. “You look gorgeous,” he said, helping me into the car.

  Inside were three other couples, the female halves of which looked like they’d just waltzed out of Gone with the Wind. I hadn’t realized there was that much taffeta and tulle in all of Chicago. The whole posse eyed me like they’d just picked me up at the Kato Kaelin house and wanted to know where the main estate was.

  “Nice outfit,” the girl in the pastel pink said as I slid into the seat next to her. Bebe had talked me into wearing vintage clothes instead of going to a cheesy store at the mall to pick out an even cheesier dress.

  And as outdated as her musical tastes are, I have to admit that Bebe’s fashion sense is rockin’. The low-slung velvet pants fitted me like a glove, and the black halter made my flat chest almost noticeable.

  “Très retro,” added the chick in baby blue.

  “Where did Zander find you?” asked the stunner wearing a simple ivory gown.

  I assumed it was a rhetorical question and kept my mouth shut. Zander came to my rescue. “I picked her up on the street. Saved her from a life of too much running, too little playing.” He casually leaned into my shoulder and whispered, “Don’t worry about the candy cane girls. They’re just jealous.”

  Zander turned to the group and started to introduce me to the rest of the gang, who looked totally uninterested in participating. “Trace, this is—”

  “This is my fuckin’ favorite song, dude!” Robb interrupted, cranking the radio up so high I could feel the bass thumping throughout my entire body. I never found out anybody’s name right then, not that I really cared. It didn’t look like I was going to be making any new best friends, anyway.

  Next stop, Brina’s house. She looked ravishing in a hot little number cut down to her boob cleavage in the front and butt cleavage in the back. It was like that dress J. Lo wore to the Grammys a few years ago, only in black.

  The volume on the stereo was still maxed out. “How are you going to sit in that getup?” I yelled in Brina’s ear as she settled into the seat between me and Robb.

  “Twat? I cunt hear you! I’ve got an ear infuckshun!” she yelled back. Her idea of total hilarity. Luckily no one heard.

  “I said, watch your boobs. They’re trying to escape.”

  “I’ll be sure to keep my eye on them,” she said, hitching up the straps of her dress. The minute she let go, those giant bazongas started bouncing around underneath the silky fabric. It almost looked like they were laughing at her. Robb, along with every other man in the car, couldn’t peel his eyes away from the natural wonders.

  “So will everyone else,” I said.

  “Wow,” Robb said, never raising his eyes higher than Brina’s chest.

  She grabbed Robb’s cheeks and forced him to look up. “Down, boy. The night is young,” she yelled over the music. Everyone laughed, even the rotten fairy-tale triplets. Then Brina put her mouth right up against my ear and screamed, “Who the hell are these chicks?”

  I rubbed my ringing right ear and wondered whether it was possible I’d suffered permanent hearing loss. “Thank God we don’t go to Country Day, huh? I don’t think we’d quite fit in,” I said.

  “Who’d want to?”

  Zander dug around the various compartments in the limo, finally coming up with a bottle of champagne. He popped the cork and started passing around glasses of bubbly. The Ivory Princess was the only one who declined.

  “The headache kills me,” she said, passing it on over to her date.

  “It always killed me, too,” Zander shot back, winking at her.

  Whoa. This was going to be hard to swallow. Zander had obviously had some kind of fling with this chick before he met me. I prayed it wasn’t serious, and that it was good and over.

  “Surprise, surprise. The princess is a prude,” Brina said in my ear.

  I laughed and wondered whether Zander still had a thing for her. Why wouldn’t he? She was beautiful. And definitely not the type who’d get caught peeing on his property.

  The limo stopped short as we pulled up to Lakeview Club. I was pleased to see the pink and blue girls spill champagne down the fronts of their dresses. “Shit!” Pinky screamed, sounding very unprincessy. The two of them took off for the bathroom, making swishing noises as they wiped beads of liquid from the taffeta.

  “So who’s your old girlfriend?” I teased Zander on the way in, making sure everyone else was out of earshot.

  He looked everywhere but at me. “That’s the infamous Belinda Tillingham-reading Buffy I was telling you about the other day.”

  “Oh,” I said, kicking some loose gravel with my Jimmy Choos. I wished I hadn’t asked.

  “It’s no big deal,” he said. “We broke up months before I met you. The only person sad about it was my mother—” He clapped his hand over his mouth to try and stop the last part from flying out, but of course by that time it was too late.

  “She was pretty disappointed, huh?” That goddamn hunch was back, and worse than ever. I did a few discreet neck rolls, hoping to loosen it up.

  “It would have looked good on the social register someday, that’s all. Buffy’s a St. Claire,” Zander said, as if that explained everything.

  “She’s a what?”

  “You know, St. Claire? The luxury hotel chain?”

  “Gotcha.” So my new boyfriend’s ex-girlfriend was Paris freaking Hilton, with a father richer than 99.9 percent of the world. How lovely. If my father turned out to be someone other than Bruce Springsteen, I’m sure he was probably drumming on old plastic tubs in the subway for change at this point.

  Zander put his arm around me. “You’re the one I want, Trace. Only my mother cares about the designer genes, I swear.” The poor thing was starting to sweat, and he wiped his forehead with the sleeve of his tux. “Let’s just have a good time tonight.”

  I couldn’t help throwing out one last parting shot. “Couldn’t you have at least mentioned that she was going to be here tonight?”

  “Would it have made you feel any better, knowing beforehand?”

  Good point. “I guess not. I probably would have hid in my room all night, pre
tending I wasn’t home.”

  He shrugged. “Well, there’s your answer.”

  “I still think I need a drink.”

  “OK,” he said, leading me over to the bar. “A Coke for the young lady, please.”

  “That’s not exactly what I meant.”

  “It’ll have to do,” Zander told me. “Your fake ID isn’t gonna work at this dance. Not with everyone’s parents here. They’d have a fit.”

  “Why so many chaperones? You Country Day kids go wild at school dances often?”

  “Trace, don’t you even know what a cotillion is?”

  “Sure I do. It’s a fancy-schmancy name for a dance,” I said.

  “Wrong. It’s an event where girls are presented to society.”

  “What is this, the fifties?” I asked him. “Why don’t boys have to be presentable?”

  I felt a tug on my hair and turned around. It was Brina. “Let’s hit the ladies’ room.”

  “I don’t have to,” I said with a forced smile. I had actually been preparing myself to hold it in all night, just in case Buffy wanted to get her well-manicured claws back into Zander.

  “Then come keep me company,” Brina said, grabbing my hand and dragging me away.

  “Chicks,” I heard Zander mutter. “Can’t even pee by themselves.”

  “I can’t stand another minute of this,” Brina said once we were inside the bathroom.

  I checked myself out in the mirror. Not so bad. The hump had nearly receded. “Of what? Having a good time?”

  “I am not having a good time, if you hadn’t noticed. Robb is a disgusting, horny pig.”

  I provided a little reality check for her. “Excuse me for pointing this out, but didn’t you get up close and personal with that oinker last weekend?”

  “Only my hand did,” she admitted. “And you know what? He’s hung like a two-year-old. It was so gross—I felt like I was yanking on his big toe.”

  This time, I really was in danger of peeing in my pants. The bubbles from the champagne and then the Coke were making me totally giddy, and the “big toe” was quite possibly the funniest thing I’d ever heard.

  But Brina didn’t even crack a smile. “Trace, I’m gonna blow this Popsicle stand before Robb thinks he’s getting an instant toe-pulling replay.” She glanced at her watch. “I’ll call you later.”

  “Brina, where are you going? How are you getting home?” I bit my polished fingernails one by one. I was afraid Brina might do something stupid or dangerous. Probably both.

  She tossed off my concerns with her patented head-flip thing that sent dark hair cascading down her shoulders. “Never fear. I have a plan. Later, Trace.”

  With that, she was off. I returned to our mingling spot sans Brina. I couldn’t imagine what I was going to say about where she went, so I hoped no one would ask. Of course, the first thing out of Zander’s mouth was, “Where’s Brina?”

  “Ummmmmmmm . . . ,” I stalled.

  “Did she hook up with someone else?” he asked, scanning the crowd.

  “Not quite. Just took off. Decided she didn’t like Robb after all.” I held my palms upward and shrugged my shoulders in a lame little apology for my fickle friend.

  “Yeah, I usually feel that way after getting naked with someone, too.” Zander gave me a distracted kiss on the head. “Kidding. Thank God you’re normal. Well, almost. Wait here—I’m going to try to fix things up.”

  I stood sipping my soda, not bothering to clarify that Robb was in fact the only one who had gone au natural during their hook-up, as Zander walked over to where Robb was standing. He must have explained about the disappearing act of Brina and her Great Bazongas, because Robb looked like he was about to blow his top. Zander kept talking and patting Robb’s shoulder until he seemed calmer, and then steered the guy across the room toward a group of dateless debutantes. The plan totally worked, because seconds later, Robb was walking around with a harem.

  The lights flickered on and off, our cue to move on to the dining room. I followed Zander to our table, where he did the gentlemanly thing and pulled out my chair. Unfortunately, I am not all that accustomed to good old-fashioned manners, so instead of my butt finding the chair, it hit the floor. The Country Day crew howled like I was the grand-prize winner on America’s Funniest Home Videos.

  “What a clod,” I heard Buffy say. “I don’t know what Zander sees in her.”

  I wished I could make myself invisible, and then slam one of those snails from the appetizer up her nose. No such luck.

  “Don’t worry about it,” Zander whispered in my ear. “I like everything about you. Even your pratfalls.” Then he said loudly enough for everyone else to hear, “That was your best Chris Farley imitation yet, Trace. Buffy’s just jealous because she got booed off the stage during Improv class junior year.”

  I don’t think they bought it, but I had to give Zander huge points for trying. “I’ll be right back, Trace. I have to hit the head,” he whispered to me. I wanted to grab on to his pants leg and beg him not to leave me alone with these people, but I controlled myself.

  The minute he was out of sight, I heard Buffy say, “I actually feel kind of sorry for her. She’s clearly retarded. What other explanation is there?”

  Buffy was obviously talking about me. Not only didn’t she keep her voice down; she was looking straight in my eyes. She wants me to hear her, I thought. I got so pissed off I couldn’t see straight.

  “You’re so off base, Daddy’s girl,” I hissed, not sure how I pulled off the presto chango from fat Chris Farley to a skinny snake so quickly.

  “Oh, and who’s your daddy, honey? Our mechanic or our pool boy?” Buffy’s hand flew to her mouth, like she hadn’t meant to say it out loud. It was obvious she had.

  “He’s . . . he’s . . .” What in hell was I gonna say now? He’s an astronaut on an eighteen-year space mission? A CIA spy who’s stuck in the Middle East, defending the U.S. from potentially deadly virus attacks? Bruce freaking Springsteen? C’mon, think, I urged my brain.

  “Oh, I see. He’s a big fat nothing,” Buffy said ever so sweetly.

  “Do you normally refer to world-famous rock stars as nothing?” I asked her, immediately regretting it. Way to go, Trace. Now Buffy could tell everyone at Country Day that Zander’s new girlfriend was a mentally disabled, schizophrenic klutz.

  “Yeah, right. And I’m the queen of England.” Her statement was probably way closer to the mark than mine.

  Zander came back from the bathroom and sat down next to me. He chatted on and on, but all I heard was, blah-blah-blah, you are the world’s biggest loser, blah-blah-blah. I added a “Hmmmm?” here and an “Oh, really?” there so he’d think I was paying attention.

  I ate the rest of my dinner in silence, trying to wrestle the slimy escargot and purple-hued rack of lamb into submission before it escaped my fork and landed in someone’s lap. But if I had to humiliate myself again, I at least hoped Buffy would be the recipient of the flying food.

  During dessert, when the fathers introduced their daughters to society—the chauvinism of which made me want to barf—I suddenly realized I could never be one of them. Not that I’d ever compromise my feminist ideals that way, but it would have been nice to know my dad would stand up for me if I ever went completely mental and decided to become a debutante. But the fact was, he wouldn’t. Couldn’t. Because in my life, he didn’t exist, except maybe on CDs and stages where I’d never be able to get close enough to find out if it was really him.

  Tears threatened to fall from my eyes. Zander must’ve thought I was getting all gushy about the old-fashioned ceremony, because he put his arm around me and said, “See? I knew you’d like it.”

  The thing was, he couldn’t have been further from the truth.

  I arrived home to find Bebe freaking out again, though thankfully not about me this time. “What the hell happened, Trace? Mrs. Maldonati called raving about how she just found Brina passed out.”

  I shook my head, not surprise
d in the least bit that this was how Brina’s night had turned out. “Bebe, you know what a wacko she can be. She decided she didn’t like Rob-buh anymore, so she split.”

  “Mrs. Maldonati said her feet were all bloody. You don’t think she walked home that whole way, do you?”

  “I have no idea. She said she had a plan. You know I can’t stop her when she gets like that,” I said, ducking into my room and getting ready for bed.

  Bebe peeked her head in the door. “Sorry. I forgot to ask how your night was.”

  “I would classify it as heavenly in its horror.” Brina and I coined the phrase back in seventh grade when we couldn’t decide whether Matt Casey’s French-kissing was completely great or entirely disgusting. We finally agreed that his lips were fabulous (soft and plumfy) but his tongue action was gross (it felt like he was screaming into your mouth). And so, playing spin the bottle with him was heavenly in its horror.

  “Let’s start with the horror.” Bebe lay down next to me on the bed and stared at the ceiling, her hands behind her head.

  “OK. Horrifying was the fact that Zander’s beautiful ex-girlfriend Buffy was there in ivory taffeta, flanked by her friends Muffy in pink and Fluffy in blue.”

  Bebe flipped over on her stomach to get a better look at me. “No shit?”

  “Muffy and Fluffy are aliases, but the dresses and Buffy were all too real,” I told Bebe. “She’s only your run-of-the-mill debutante with a spectacularly wealthy father. Last name’s St. Claire.”

  Bebe’s eyebrows shot up into her hairline. “Of the bazillionaire St. Claire hotel family? Whoa. And heavenly was?”

  I held my hand up. “Not so fast, Bebe, the horror’s not over yet. Next, Brina tells me her date has a tiny willy and takes off.”

  “Talk about too much information,” she said, crinkling her nose.

  “Sorry,” I giggled. “And for my grand finale, I landed on my butt when Zander pulled my chair out at the dinner table.”

  Bebe laughed even harder about the chair thing than I did when Brina first told me about the big toe. “Trace, you remind me so much of myself when I was your age, it’s scary.”