“How’s your dad?” she asks, changing the subject.
“Pale. Weak.” Dying.
“I’m sorry. How are you?”
I hate that question, always have. It’s too personal; no one wants to answer it, at least not truthfully. And if you can’t answer a question truthfully, what is the point of it ever being asked? There is none. It’s pointless, like my papa’s sickness, my mama’s death, Jeff’s idiocy, and so much more.
Meagan doesn’t press, instead saying, “We should go out tonight. You deserve it after today.”
I sigh. We’re planning on moving out of the apartment and into a little townhome this month and there are boxes everywhere. I let my gaze drift to the still unpacked kitchen appliances, but Meg is having none of that excuse.
“Come on, Nat. Who’s my leetlllleee подрýга? Whooo is she? Who? PAADRROOOGAA! PADROOOOOOOGAH!”
The baby voice, combined with her wacky face, has me laughing despite my current mood. Meagan’s blue eyes are comically wide, her lips pursed in the once Facebook popular duck face, and her short blonde hair swings back and forth with her head movements.
“You could’ve been a professional clown,” I say.
“I already am. Now, we are going out. And don’t say no. You can wear that new, slinky dress you got at that little boutique. Remember the one?”
Yes, I do remember the dress, because I had planned on wearing it to a celebratory dinner with Jeff after I got the promotion. I guess I was a little too sure of my place in the company when I bought it. I’ve never thought of myself as arrogant, but that dress, with the tag still attached may prove differently.
“Yes, I remember.”
“It looks great on you, and didn’t you get a pair of heels to match?”
Yep, as well as an adorable little beaded bag, new sheer tights, some fake lashlets, and a bottle of perfume so impressive that even a nun would describe the scent as sinful.
“Yep,” I answer, trying to remain noncommittal.
“Don’t make me pull the scorecard.”
“Meagan…”
“Don’t make me do it! I will! I’ll do it in a heartbeat!”
The scorecard, as Meagan has deemed it, is a literal, handwritten, meticulously kept, scorecard. It’s a list of the various things we’ve done for the other when we didn’t want to do them. We may be best friends, but we still keep a tally. It’s a good motivator to remember to help a girl out.
The last time Meagan pulled out the scorecard, I was two tally marks behind, and she wanted me to wear a Christmas sweater that lit up and played a high pitched, tinny version of Jingle Bells for a contest at the hair shop. The prize was a year’s supply of Meg’s favorite heat protection spray, two free colorings, and her name listed first on the featured hairstylist list at the front.
We teased our hair until it cried out for mercy. Meagan wore a red scrunchie; I wore a green one. They were bedazzled. We wound Christmas light necklaces through our ponytails—the ones that actually light up—and we wore red and green, checkered leggings with pointed elf shoes. It was ridiculous.
We won, but the pictures that somehow wound up on Instagram and Facebook ensured that we also lost, at least in public opinion. I’m lucky I already had my job, because with the new practice of checking a potential employee’s social media profile before hiring them, it would have lodged definite marks against me.
Despite all that humiliation—and I’ll admit: fun—it only counted as one tally. Meagan keeps the rules of the scorecard, and apparently it doesn’t matter how awful a favor is, one favor is worth one tally. So, with that dreadful Christmas outfit behind us, I’m still one tally behind.
A tally that Meagan seems intent on cashing in for a night out.
“Go ahead. Get it out,” I groan.
I know she will anyway, and I might as well get the tally taken care of if I’m going to have to go out, tonight of all nights.
“Man! I was hoping you wouldn’t call me on it. I was saving that tally for when that blue ombré hair kit comes in and I need a model.”
“Oh, no! Not only are we marking this as a favor, you have to promise not to call in any favors for a change of hair color.”
My hair color is precious to me. It sounds shallow, but the sun kissed, super light blonde is the most naturally gorgeous color I’ve ever seen. My brothers love to ruffle it and tease me about my vanity. I keep it long, trailing mid back in loose curls.
“Oh, and while we’re on the subject, there will be no cutting of the hair, either. Even if it is part of another sadistic contest put on by Great Lengths.”
Great Lengths was Meagan’s manager’s one clever addition to the old salon she renovated with a friend. The salon used to be a barbershop, frequented by the grandfather types here in Astoria, Oregon. When Jalycia and Prism (whose real name we’ll likely never know) bought the barbershop, called simply The Shop at the time, they renamed it Great Lengths. That way, whenever someone asks a customer where they get their hair cut, the customer could say, “I go to Great Lengths,” or even better, “I go to Great Lengths to get my hair cut.”
I think it’s hilarious, but Meagan grew tired of the pun within the first week of working there.
“Fine. Let me get it out,” she says, rooting through her designer satchel for the infamous scorecard.
She pulls a worn, mini composition notebook from her bag. I move to the kitchen counter and pull out my matching notebook from my own purse. In the time we’ve been friends, we’ve perfected favor scoring. We even tweaked a printable scorecard we found online so that we can properly document everything. We’ve stapled multiple copies of it in matching composition notebooks. The only difference in the notebooks is appearance. Mine is green and Meagan’s is blue. As a project, we each decorated the other’s book. So mine features stickers of stethoscopes, lab coats, syringes, hair shears, and wigs. Meagan’s has glitter glue tribal designs, the logo for the Pittsburgh Steelers (because Oregon does not boast an NFL team), and fuzzy monster stickers.
Truthfully, a friendship that’s lasted over a decade, like ours has, can’t be based on legalistic favor tracking. Whenever Meagan needs me, I’ll be there, regardless of our tally marks. The same goes for her, I know. When Mama died, she was there, without question, without hesitation. The same when Papa was diagnosed. But I’ve found that the note taking serves a special purpose. With every favor, we write notes in the margins about it. It’s become a scrapbook of sorts, for our friendship. Every now and then we even take it out to reminisce and laugh about all the crazy things we’ve done together.
Meagan finishes writing the outline in her notebook. After tonight, we’ll meet up one afternoon for coffee (and a smoothie for Meagan, who is a noncoffee drinker, God bless her soul), and fill in our versions of what happened.
“What bar we talking?” I ask.
The gleam in Meagan’s eyes does nothing for my peace of mind. She smiles as she shuts her notebook, entirely too happy about this.
“What’s my favorite decade?” she asks in return.
I huff out a sigh, before I answer her leading question, “The forties.”
“Ain’t it just the cat’s meow?”
That confirms that we’ll be going to Flip Your Wig, the weird bar on Juniper Street, where people dress up in fashion from the ’20s, ’50s, ’70s, and other popular decades to drink and dance to a variety of oldies.
“Aww, Meagan!”
“Too late! It’s been documented in the books! Besides, I have that adorable halter dress and Mary Jane heels. Oh! And that new hairspray, with some extensions and curls! I’ll be a pinup girl!”
“That was a costume! For Halloween—what, like four years ago?”
“Two years ago. Two years. It’s called being economical. I bet you don’t even remember what you were for Halloween last year.”
She’s right; I don’t. That’s sad.
“You didn’t go last year,” she says, her voice suddenly soft, gentle.
> Oh, that’s right; I didn’t. I haven’t done much at all in the last few years, and especially this past year. Papa had just been diagnosed with chronic lymphocytic leukemia, just as we thought we were starting to get a handle on his AIHA. It was a hard pill to swallow. It’s hard enough for him to live without Mama, but since she’s died, it’s been one blow after another.
“I’m sorry. I didn’t think,” she says, once again patting my hand.
I give her a quick side hug.
“Meagan, I know. Don’t worry about it. We’re going to go and party like it’s 1946.”
“The year bikinis first appeared in Paris! It was a raging party!”
There’s only one thing Meagan knows as well as she knows biology, and it isn’t hair styling, or hair color chemistry, but strangely enough, the entire historic timeline of the decade that was the 1940s. Insane, I know.
“A rager for sure. You know I kill at the jitterbug.”
Meagan offers to drive since she’s the one calling in the favor. Her new Mazda 3 is a nice ride. I much prefer it to my aging Honda, not to mention the hilarious conversation that always ensues every time we get in the thing.
“Isn’t the ride smooth?” Meagan asks, stroking her hand along the steering wheel.
“Yes, Meagan,” I say for the third time.
“And the sound on the speakers, isn’t it so clear?”
She turns the volume up a notch and adjusts the fade.
“Crystal.”
The car is only a month old, and we have the same conversation every time we ride in it together. The moon roof will be next.
“Do you think we should use the moon roof?”
“Definitely.” At this point, I’m trying to hold in laughter.
She reaches up and appears shocked that it opens so easily, even though we use the moon roof every drive. September in Oregon is beautiful.
Only one touch! It’s so convenient…
“Only one touch! It’s so convenient.”
Like clockwork. And the grand finale…
“You know, you should trade in that Honda and get a Mazda 3! But you should get the red hatchback version. Then we’d be like twins, but fraternal. You know, like your brothers!”
“That’s an awesome idea, Meagan. I don’t know why it never occurred to me before.”
She nods her head sagely, one blonde curl escaping her complicated half chignon. Luckily, it also escapes her notice. She must have missed a spot during the hairspray application earlier, though I don’t see how, considering the fumes that were coming from our shared bathroom during her hair process.
We whip into a parking spot right up front, which is a godsend, because these four inch heels seem less and less like a good idea. I just want to get in, sit at the bar, and order drinks until the debacle that was today fades from memory.
Flip Your Wig is hopping, surprisingly. I’m always surprised by the subgroup of decade enthusiasts, but I don’t know why I am. I room with one.
We get a few head turns when we enter the bar. True to her word, Meagan styled her hair with extensions and pinup worthy curls. I have to admit, she does look adorable. The dress is a floral fabric, featuring magenta and white flowers on navy cotton. It’s a halter style, with a belt sitting right at the natural waist. The skirt edges form a soft “V” shape just at the knees. Even her makeup fits the era, with pink lipstick, false eyelashes, and a classically thin line of black eyeliner. Finally, she accessorized with a small clutch on a chain link strap. The Mary Jane heels, combined with the hair and dress, make for a perfect ’40s chick. Sweet and innocent, but flirty, too.
My own outfit is a bit more risqué, and I’d say it doesn’t fit the decades theme. A month ago, Jeff told me I was a shoe in for the promotion. The next day, filled with bright hope and excitement, I dragged Meagan on the half hour road trip to Long Beach, Washington, and the classy boutiques. I came out with a to die for, sleeveless, deep red dress. The shoulders are black lace, leading to the back with a triangular cutout in the middle. The skirt only reaches mid-thigh. After I bought the dress, we shopped for another two hours. I found a black, beaded clutch with a satin strap, black suede pumps, and Succulent Peach perfume. While Meagan’s makeup is flirty and fresh, my makeup is more of a vamped look. Smoky eyes, smudged kohl liner, and raspberry red lips.
We make our way around the dancing crowd and move to the bar. I let Meagan order, because the menu, and all of the crazy drinks offered on it, are beyond me. She orders a monkey’s uncle for me and a flipside for her.
Her drink is a gradient of blues, purples, and pinks. Mine is bright pink, with light, yellow-colored sugar crystals along the rim. The talk is loud in the bar, but it doesn’t bother me. I’ve said all I have a mind to say today. Meagan waves down a group of mutual friends, and they come to join us at the bar.
I order another drink despite Meagan’s disapproving look. Most of our group wants to dance or go hold down a table while they slowly sip from their drinks. I don’t want to be that far away from the bar and a steady supply of alcohol. If you’re at a bar, under duress from your bestie, after the day I’ve had, and in my current emotional state—you’re here to drink. And I am here to drink.
I yell out to the bartender for a third. Meagan shakes her head at me and orders a groovy burger with extra fries. Why she is trying to counteract my night’s efforts, I have no idea. Just because she wants to continue to nurse the remaining third of her first beverage does not mean I have the same desire.
I do, however, eat the burger when it’s placed in front of me. I’m not sure what’s so groovy about it, but Flip Your Wig’s signature sauce is delicious, so much so that I request more for the fries. The entire group notices the food and begins to snatch fries from the edge of my plate. Josh even goes so far as to take a bite of my burger, causing his eyes to widen in exaggerated delight. I’ll excuse his behavior as long as he doesn’t attempt to sip from my drink. Meanwhile, Meagan sips the last of her cocktail and orders a fruity beer.
“I guess we should talk before you’re too slushed to communicate,” Meagan says, a distinctly chiding tone entering her voice.
I lean against the bar, one hand propping up my head. I notice one of my ruby red nails has a chip in the polish. I should peel the same corner off the left hand index finger so that both hands match.
“Natalie!”
“What? Oh, yeah—communication. Remember, this outing was your idea.”
“Yeah, yeah. So, you’ll never guess what I saw on Facebook the other day.”
“Probably not,” I agree.
“Nat-a-leeee. Ugh. Anyway, Kathryn got married.”
“Really?”
I’m trying to sound interested, but I did happen to notice pictures and statuses on my newsfeed about rings, bouquets, catering, and the intricacies of arranging seating charts to avoid wedding catastrophe. This isn’t news to me.
“We weren’t invited! Can you believe that?”
Meagan doesn’t look offended. Her attention drifts away from me every now and then to Josh’s friend. She twirls the little umbrella from her first drink between her fingers.
“I didn’t want to be invited. Her first boyfriend was in a cult, the second was abusive, and then there was the cheater, now this guy. Maybe he’s a criminal or a killer? I don’t care if he’s all that and a bag of chips! I still didn’t want to go to the wedding,” I say.
“That’s hilarious. The way you said it makes it sound like he’s an abusive, cheating, bag of chips with a criminal record.”
“Even if he were that, I wouldn’t have wanted to go!” I insist.
“Hmphh, I wanted to go. All right, moving on.”
She ticks things off her fingers while mouthing something, as if counting through the list of discussion points she planned for tonight. I didn’t notice earlier, but she’s wearing some cute midi rings. She pauses on her ring finger and an aha expression comes over her face.
“Gwen’s pregnant,” she crows.
“We like Gwen!”
Josh looks up from his position against the other side of the bar.
“We do? Oh, right. Sorry.”
I grimace and give a little half wave in Josh’s direction. Gwen is Josh’s older sister.
“Look Grinch, you need to lighten up. No one’s gonna buy us drinks if you’ve got that surly, ‘I hate everyone, their weddings, and their mother, especially if they’re having a baby’ face on. And I just ordered that Coach bag I told you about, so free drinks are imperative. And you’ve been downing yours so fast that no one has even had a chance to offer to cover your tab.”
“Really, that’s a look? You can identify that particular message on my face?”
“Nat! Coach. C-O-A-C-H. Coach. Pay attention.”
“Right. I bow down to the greatness that is designer handbag and promise to play nice.”
“Good. That means you’ll go halfsies on the baby shower gift, right? Cause the purse needs a wallet…”
“Yeah, yeah.”
“Don’t be so glum, chum! If the purchase racks up a promotional gift or credit, guess who the frontrunner to get it is?”
“I am,” I mutter.
“Darn tooting! Now, let’s rastle up some moneyed cowboys.”
Considering we’re at a decades bar, I’m not sure we’ll find any cowboys, but I can be obliging. The swivel barstools are the perfect tool to help me scan the bar for potential sugar daddies. Meagan takes my cue and does the same. Though I’m not worried about her bill. Josh is here, and he and my brother Alexei are good friends. Once Alex shows up, he’ll cover her tab. He’s had a crush on her for years, and if I’m not mistaken, Meagan has a thing for him too.
I’m not sure how I feel about it. I want the both of them to be happy, and Meagan is already like a sister anyway, but if they get married, I’ll be out a roommate. I remember when Nicolai got married nearly a year ago. Alex took it hard, because the twins have always been somewhat joined at the hip, but eventually Nic found a balance that gave him the right amount of time with his twin and his new wife, Macy. I guess if Alex and Meagan do end up together, the two of them will work out a similar balance so that I don’t feel the loss of their time so keenly.
Die By Night Page 3