What else what else what else—oh, here’s another juicy item: Lily Morton, Miss I’ve-Met-Everyone-Famous-Alive, might as well be a born-again Christian for all the romantic experiences she’s had. Damn. Maybe Margaret Morton should run a holiday special on how to attract a guy with home-baked desserts, just for the benefit of her daughter. Not that America’s best homemaker’s too concerned with the goings-on inside her own slobby penthouse, to judge by the shocking tour Lily gave me this afternoon. Blech! Underwear littering the bedroom floor—I’m not kidding! Which is OK if you’re a teenager, but for a parent? Double Blech. But more on that later. I think I need to lie in bed and stare at the ceiling and contemplate other more recent traumas. Which, no offense, Dr. D, must remain nameless for the present moment. Hugs and drugs, Mimicita xx
Attack of the Killer Myrtle
“WHAT!” I ROARED INTO THE PHONE. My mother had really outdone herself this time. “You told her she could what?”
“C’mon, now, honey!” My mother clucked. Uh-oh: she used pet names only when she knew she was in trouble with me, which was all the time these days. “Why are you making such a fuss when your father doesn’t seem to mind at all?”
I looked despairingly at the couch, which had preserved highlights in the form of grease marks, deeply embedded breadcrumbs, and the occasional tomato-sauce smudge of about eighteen consecutive pizza brunches. “Of course Dad doesn’t mind—but that’s only because he’s the nicest man in the world! And I don’t think he’s going to be the one who’s doing the babysitting. For the love of God, can you tell me how you’re still managing to destroy my life from ten thousand miles away?”
“Now, sweetie”—there she went again—“we’re only fifteen hundred miles away, so please, let’s skip the conversational hyperbole. And another thing—well, you know our family has always been liberal about language, but Myrtle and Maurice are more traditional, so I’d appreciate it, I really would, if you could respect her upbringing for one teensy weekend.”
“Her upbringing? What about my upbringing, Mom, which you’re so totally dead-set on destroying? And teensy? TEENSY? It would be a TEENSY hyperbole to say that you’re completely and totally out of line this morning!”
There was a long pause that I filled with huffing and my mother with sighing. “Simon says hi,” she said finally. “He stands by his water bowl and meows for a good half-hour every morning, even after I’ve put food in it. I think he really misses you.”
So now she was resorting to the old guilt trip. And it worked.
I felt a stab of sadness. My poor baby Simon, the most reasonable being left in that nuthouse. When I thought about everything I’d left behind in Houston, Simon was what I missed most, without a doubt, even more than Rachel.
“Anyway, hon,” my mother went on when it once more became clear that I wasn’t going to answer, “what I wanted to talk to you about is Myrtle.”
And off she went. My mother was unstoppable once she’d made a decision, and for some unknown, satanic reason, she had decided that Myrtle, Maurice’s seventeen-year-old cretin of a daughter, would be “more than welcome” to “crash” with me and my dad for an entire weekend—this weekend, since Myrtle was looking at Barnard and Columbia. In fact, today. She’d been planning on visiting in December, but then her interview had to be bumped up last minute, and Mom would’ve asked Dad, but you know how tense he’s been lately, yadda yadda yadda . . . I couldn’t believe it. I didn’t even have a full twenty-four-hour cycle to prepare for my doom. I was cursed. I really did hate my mom so—
“SO, SO, SOOOOOOOOO much,” I finished, meeting my friends’ eight sympathetic eyes. At least the Myrtle catastrophe gave me an urgent excuse to omit any mention of my tryout kiss with Sam the night before. With Myrtle thrust on the horizon, I’d almost stopped thinking about it, truth be told. Ugh, but still: I could’ve learned a Life Lesson (my mom was totally into Life Lessons) at a much lower price.
“This girl is an uber-loser,” I said for maybe the fourteenth time, with my every detail of Myrtle’s odious personality—her magnetically charged orthodontia; her high-rise jeans; her hairball-collecting obsession—earning more laughs. I neglected to tell them that she’s also annoyingly pretty. “She’s here looking at engineering programs, can you believe that? Engineering? She’s seventeen, only a year younger than my sister, and I’ll bet the only guy she’s kissed is her stuffed Tyrannosaurus rex doll!” I blushed at my false confidence, thinking of you-know-what.
“Engineering, no way—that’s the worst! I would never become an engineer.” Pia was practically bursting her seams. “Omigod, wait! I have the best idea—what say we show Myrtle the time of her life tonight, huh? We’ll show her what real engineering’s all about—social engineering! What time did you say her plane gets in?”
Pia’s laugh was almost vicious enough to worry me. But not for long. I remembered the morning in Houston that I found Myrtle wrapped up in my monogrammed bathrobe, chomping on tortilla chips and dribbling salsa all down the sleeves. Pia was right. It was high time my mom learned a lesson about boundaries. I gave the thumbs-up to our leather-clad ringleader. “She should be at the house by four-thirty,” I said.
“Perfect.” Pia clapped. “Just in time for happy hour! Girls, go home and get feline, ’cause tonight we’re making a field trip to Meow Mix!”
Meow Mix was one of the oldest lesbian bars in New York, and also, word had it, the hottest. Unlike the skeevy watering holes in the West Village known for attracting senior citizen dykes, Meow Mix drew a young set that danced on tabletops and wore shimmery vinyl halters. Preston sometimes took Jess there to watch her grind against various vixens. Jess, of course, would much rather spend her date nights at Upper East Side trattorias. (Have I already mentioned Preston’s a total pig—and I’m not talking about his eating habits?)
After returning home and exchanging the barest of greetings with Myrtle, the two of us met up with my friends at this choice destination. We sat crowded around a small table surrounded by—surprise, surprise—women. I was disappointed to see that none of them looked all that feline. I was disappointed to find the crowd way less foxy than it had appeared in the photo spreads in the Village Voice. Even the Judys Upstairs could’ve passed for Miss Venezuela and Miss Brazil in there. Jess had wisely skipped the event. Preston’s parents had retreated to their country house yet again, leaving the young lovers unsupervised.
“Well, Mimi, you’ve certainly integrated yourself into the megapolitan social infrastructure with remarkable efficiency,” Myrtle said—she seriously did talk like that. And she really was wearing a humongous red turtleneck over white leggings, an outfit that she must have ordered from a catalog. I don’t think it’s legal to sell atrocities like that in stores.
Pia was staring hard at Myrtle, determined to flirt with her until she’d freaked the living daylights out of my unsuspecting houseguest. Why Pia had this mean streak, I couldn’t say, but I was starting to wish she wouldn’t inflict it on Myrtle. “So.” Pia leaned way forward. “What did you say you’re going to major in again?” Pia reached across the table and grabbed Myrtle’s thigh.
I couldn’t believe Pia was hitting on Myrtle—it was so completely embarrassing. Why hadn’t I just taken Myrtle to the Carnegie Deli instead, like a normal, unpsychotic hostess?
“Biochemical engineering,” Myrtle replied with a placid smile. She didn’t seem at all bothered by Pia’s advances, not even when my lovely Italian friend reached forward to tickle Myrtle’s lower abdomen.
“Mmph, how fascinating,” Pia purred, pouting her lips and gazing at Myrtle as if she were the hottest man on earth. Without releasing Myrtle’s thigh, the diplomats’ daughter deftly shoved her elbows together to showcase her cleavage. I couldn’t tell if Pia was being sarcastic when she added, “I’ve always thought biochemical engineering was really cross-disciplinary and thrilling.”
“Not really, but it sure is a great way to meet guys! The sciences are severely understocked with X
-chromosomes, if you catch my drift, and all those long nights in the lab can get pretty steamy.” Myrtle snarfed beer out her nose and giggled as Pia pressed harder into her leggings. “But don’t tell my boyfriend I said that—physicists are a highly jealous breed of men!”
“You have a . . . boyfriend?” I asked, beyond flabbergasted. Huh? Here was Maurice’s geeky-beyond-belief offspring rattling on about nights in the lab, winking and snorting up beer and not at all minding the hand that was tracing figure eights over her lumpy thighs. A boyfriend? Myrtle? “Since when?”
“Oh, you know, off and on since tenth grade. He’s one of Dad’s dissertation students, so we keep our liaisons under wraps, to avoid any unseemly domestic disturbances.”
“She’s kind of pretty,” Viv whispered my way. I pretended not to hear.
“A dissertation student?” Pia, fascinated, removed her hand from Myrtle’s thigh and looked at my houseguest with new interest. “Wow, how old does that make him?”
“Twenty-five,” Myrtle said blandly.
“Twenty-five, really?” Viv looked impressed. “That’s even older than Francesco isn’t it, Pia?”
“I love older men,” Pia said, unable to suppress a sigh. “They are so . . . knowledgeable, you know?”
“But of course.” Myrtle nodded. “And may I particularly recommend physicists to your consideration? Of all the graduate students I’ve known and loved, they best understand how a woman’s body’s put together. Straight A’s across the board.”
Everyone tittered, and I began to wish sudden death on myself.
“I like this place,” Myrtle went on. “Interesting decor, and quite a promising clientele to boot.”
“Oh, really?” Pia smiled again, remembering her role. “So you’re also into women, are you?”
Myrtle screwed up her face to consider the question. “Well, to tell the truth, there’s not much I’m not into,” she said. “Human sexuality’s an astonishingly rich enigma, don’t you find? But my AC/DC experimentation has been limited, because, like I said, there are very few women in the sciences. But that’s one of the reasons I’m looking into biochemical engineering programs in the Big Apple—the singles scene is far more educational up here!” In conclusion Myrtle snorted and blew a bubble of ale through her nose.
Did I ever need refuge. I scanned the room for a woman to dance with, but neither of the passably attractive ones at the bar even acknowledged me. Right then, a large gray-haired woman who had been slumped over the bar, nursing a Guinness, stood up and made straight for our table.
“Excuse me, girls,” she said, “but I don’t believe we’ve been properly introduced.” She extended a very strong arm. “I’m Bea.”
Only Myrtle reached out to shake Bea’s hand. “Charmed, I’m sure,” she said, just as a Village People remix came over the speakers.
“Anyone else feel the heat?” Myrtle asked, rising from her seat and wiggling her hips.
“You know what I’m talking ’bout, lady!” Bea whooped. “Let’s hit it!”
“Wow,” Vivian said as Myrtle and Bea pounded toward the empty dance floor. “I hate to say it, Mimi, but that girl’s pretty cool.”
“No lie,” Lily agreed. “She wasn’t what I expected at all. I can tell she’s going to grow up to be a hot woman. Great bones.”
“Maybe one day” was all I could muster.
“She’s hilarious!” Pia exclaimed. “I haven’t met anyone I liked so much all year,” she added. “I like her tons.”
“You’re only saying that because you have so many common interests,” I told Pia.
“Like what—older men?”
“No, duh,” Vivian said. “Quantum physics or higher mathematics or whatever it is she was talking about—I wasn’t following.”
“Whatever,” Pia tossed back her shoulders. “No, I like her because she’s bad-ass.”
“Yeah, right. You’re just happy because you found someone to go with you to science fairs,” I said meanly, humiliated that Myrtle had made such a splash. It made me seem dishonest somehow. From Sam, I knew that Pia regarded her right-brain skills as something of an embarrassment, but Viv was the one who brought it up, not me.
“What do you know about anything, Mimi?” Pia said sharply. “Why don’t you go get us all some beers—I’m sure Bea has a tab.”
“Get your own beers,” I snapped. “I’m not your servant, Pia, all right?”
“Oooh, sorry!” Pia narrowed her eyes at me. “What’s gotten into you this afternoon, Mimi? What is it—are you jealous because your new relative gets more play than you do?” She pointed toward the bar, where Myrtle was ripping it up with Bea. “Inferiority complex?”
“Jealous of Myrtle? Ew, of course not! That’s just so not possible. Besides, I get plenty of play, thank you very much!”
“Oh, really? Like when? At summer camp?” Pia drummed the table with her fingers. She looked languidly around the room. “Ahem, we’re waiting.”
“Pia, stop,” Lily pleaded.
“I . . . I have a confession to make,” I said suddenly. “You know how you all asked me about men and I was really quiet? Well, that’s because . . .”
I had everyone’s full attention. Even Pia let the cherry stem she was expertly tying with her tongue drop onto the table. “It’s Quinn,” I said. “My father’s darkroom assistant? Well, I have a huge thing for him. And, well, I sort of think the feeling might be mutual. I mean—I know it is.”
“Quinn?” Pia was hooting with laughter. “You mean that guy who’s always at your house? The one who helps you mix and match vintage outfits?”
“Yeah, what’s wrong with that? He’s cute!”
“And he’s also as gay as the Easter Parade, obviously!”
“Pia!” Lily gasped. “Get it under control!”
My mouth dropped. Even after the many unwelcome revelations of that afternoon, I wasn’t prepared for Pia to mock me so ruthlessly. It was one thing to test Myrtle but quite another to mock my great passion. “Gay? Quinn? Are you insane? That’s so not true—he’s a walking Ken doll!”
“Yeah,” Pia sniggered. “I’ll bet he has a high old time shopping for Barbie!”
“Pia, leave her alone,” Lily commanded. “That’s the most ridiculous thing you’ve said all day.”
“And Mimi’s right—Quinn is cute,” Vivian contributed. “Really cute!”
My cheeks were burning with rage. Call it a pet peeve, but I hated when people referred to me in the third person when I was right there. “That shows how much you know!” I spat out. “What I was going to say before you so rudely interrupted me was that last night, while we were watching E!, Quinn and I. . .”
“You did what while you were watching E!?” Pia continued to cackle. “Curled each other’s eyelashes? Lip-synched Cabaret?”
“No, we hooked up, actually.” I said it with such self-righteous satisfaction that I almost convinced myself.
“You what?” Pia’s eyebrows hit the ceiling. “Yeah, right!”
“Well, I mean, nothing major, just a little kissing,” I said. Then, as Pia’s lips curled into an I-told-you-so half-smile, I couldn’t help adding, “OK, er, I—it was, I mean, a lot of kissing. A lot of definitely heterosexual kissing! And, like, the only reason we stopped is because Quinn’s so totally respectful and old-fashioned that he insists on taking it slow, you know? Also, my dad practically walked in on us with this pizza he—”
I don’t know how much longer I would’ve talked if “I Will Survive” hadn’t cranked up right then. The whole bar broke into cheers.
“Oh. My. God.” Vivian said. “Look over there!”
Pia and Lily gasped in unison, and I whipped around to see nerdus maximus Myrtle, pelvis locked with Bea’s, getting way into the beat. Several construction-worker women had assembled in a ring around them, clapping their hands and cheering them on.
There might just be worse almost-stepsisters out there after all.
October 25, Sunday
&nbs
p; 7:46 p.m.
So I actually had a good time with Myrtle. After her interview, she came downtown and met up with me at the Gray’s Papaya on Sixth Avenue. We stood at the window counter and pigged out on hot dogs and gossiped about the Grossest Couple in America. Turns out Mom and Maurice have new nicknames for each other now. Bunny-Butt and Dr. Snack. Can you guess who’s who? My other favorite detail is that Dr. Snack (OK, it’s Maurice) bought a superexpensive tent and they set it up in the living room. Once a week they lug sleeping bags in there and have “camping night,” which, Maurice is convinced, is fabulous for his achy back.
What else? Viv is becoming a little less opaque. After Myrtle went to the airport today, I was supposed to go shopping with Pia, but she flaked out on me at the last minute. Instead I ended up going over to Viv’s. The plan was to brainstorm a project for World Civ, but we just ended up hanging out. And after like two seconds of coaxing, Viv told me all about Pia’s dark dirty secret—her record-breakingly high IQ. I knew Pia was smart, but who knew she attended college classes and tutored underprivileged mathematicians on the sly?
Viv’s bedroom was the coolest—one of her walls is painted bright Indian pink and there are framed photographs of rock stars all over it. They look nothing like the normal rock posters you get at regular stores. Viv explained she also collects pictures of buildings in foreign countries, and every time a birthday or holiday rolls around, her parents get her a few. So, yes, she’s spoiled, but, I mean, her mother grew up in a tiny hut on some island in the South Pacific and wants to give her daughters everything she never had. If only Viv’s parents could buy her a better report card!
The Rise and Fall of a 10th Grade Social Climber Page 15