Jenny Sparrow Knows the Future

by Melissa Pimentel

  ‘Don’t you want something more substantial to read?’ I asked.

  She looked at me like I was crazy. ‘Back home, I spend every second of my free time reading medical journals.’ She waggled her issue of Us Weekly at me. ‘This is all the substance I can handle right now.’

  Isla was not the most obvious candidate for a neurosurgeon, but it was the Number 1 thing on her life list: Be a doctor. Number 2 was: Be psycho hot. There wasn’t a Number 3. But writing down her dream of being a doctor seemed to do something to her – she hadn’t been a very strong student before, but after the list, she buckled down and was soon acing every test. She started telling people that that’s what she wanted to do, and the more she said it, the more people took her seriously. Her dad even took her to the Body World exhibition when it came through New Haven. (I tagged along and had to run out to be sick when we got to the case with all the brains.)

  Still, she’d refused to settle into the medical mould. She went pre-med at Tufts and graduated from Johns Hopkins with honors, but it hadn’t stopped her from dancing on top of bars, flashing random strangers, and popping pills like they were Tic Tacs. Even now, at the ripe old age of thirty-one, she regularly told stories about her sex life that made me feel as if I needed an advanced anatomy class to understand them.

  We pushed open the door to the pool area and stood stunned in the entrance, the sun temporarily blinding us. When the spots finally cleared from our vision, we found ourselves at the edge of a wide patio encircling an enormous azure-blue swimming pool. It was still early, but most of the loungers were already taken up by bronzed sun-worshippers, oiled and glistening like Christmas turkeys. The Eiffel Tower loomed above.

  ‘This place is insane,’ I whispered.

  Isla nodded and lowered her shades onto her nose. ‘Come on, I see a couple of free ones over there.’

  She picked her way through the sea of bodies until we arrived in front of two empty sun loungers sandwiched between a pair of elderly women in sunhats and a middle-aged businessman with the Financial Times tented across his face, paunch pointed towards the sky. ‘Not exactly what I had in mind,’ Isla muttered as she pulled her cropped T-shirt over her head and slid her cut-offs down to her ankles. She was left wearing a small tangle of string.

  ‘What are you wearing?’ I hissed.

  ‘Uh, a bathing suit? What do you think this is?’

  ‘A cobweb?’ I said. ‘A skein of yarn you stole from a kitten?’ I tugged at the neckline of my one-piece. Despite my best efforts, I’d never managed to cross Number 4 off my list: grow breasts. Isla seemed to inherit my share of the world’s cleavage, with change to spare. Just looking at her pneumatic chest, covered by two minuscule triangles of material and calling Newton’s law of universal gravitation into serious doubt, made my own pair of anthills ache with envy.

  ‘Relax! We’re in Las Vegas, for God’s sake! There are strippers and people dressed like Elvis everywhere! This is not the time to be a prude.’

  ‘I am not a prude!’

  ‘Are too. Remember when you wouldn’t French kiss Kevin McMann?’

  ‘That was in eighth grade!’

  ‘A leopard doesn’t change its spots.’ She shrugged. For a second, I worried that something might get jarred loose.

  ‘I Frenched Chip Trumble underneath the bleachers that time.’

  ‘We were sophomores by then. It was different!’

  ‘AND I let him feel me up!’

  The middle-aged man lifted the paper an inch off his face and peered at us with a rheumy eye.

  Isla burst out laughing. ‘Okay, okay. You win. You’re basically Belladonna.’

  ‘Who’s that?’

  She shook her head and sighed. ‘Never mind.’

  The two of us stretched out on our loungers. I slathered myself in sunscreen, lay back, and closed my eyes. I could hear the honk and rumble of cars roaring up the Strip, and the rowdy shouts of bachelor parties getting a start on their day’s drinking, and the gentle but firm enquiries of the cabana boys as they upsold liquor. The air smelled of chlorine and gasoline and coconut and rum.

  I thought of the phone lying silent at the bottom of my bag and flipped over onto my stomach. I could feel the backs of my thighs start to sizzle as soon as the sun hit them, but I couldn’t bring myself to apply more sunscreen. What did it matter, anyway? I might as well let myself burn.

  ‘Holy shit,’ Isla said, inspecting my blistered back.

  ‘Does it look really bad?’

  ‘I mean, it doesn’t look great, but it’ll be fine in a couple of days.’

  ‘A couple of days!’ I wailed. ‘I’ll be back in London by then!’

  ‘Well, you should have asked me to put sunscreen on your back. Who were you kidding, anyway? You know you burn like goddamn Snow White.’

  ‘Can you not right now?’

  ‘Okay, hold still.’

  I inhaled sharply as she pressed a cold pack against my skin. ‘Jesus Christ—’

  ‘I know, but it will help. Trust me, I’m a doctor.’ She shot me a cheesy grin in the mirror and I rolled my eyes at her. ‘You should probably take some Advil, too. And I don’t think we should venture too far from the hotel tonight, just in case you start showing signs of sunstroke.’

  ‘Sunstroke! I was only out there for a couple of hours! And it’s March!’

  ‘In case you hadn’t noticed, we’re in the middle of the desert.’

  I considered this for a minute. ‘Still.’ I peered around my shoulder and tried to catch a glimpse of my back. All I could see was a sea of angry red. ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘Sorry for what?’

  ‘I’m being totally lame. You fly me all the way out here, and all I’ve done is mope around and then get burned to a crisp. I suck.’

  ‘You don’t suck.’

  ‘I do! I totally suck!’

  ‘Look, I’d be lying if I said I hadn’t hoped that being in Vegas would make you want to cut loose and go crazy, but only because I thought it might good for you. But if you’re not feeling it, that’s totally fine with me. The dudes here are all spray-tanned bros or middle-aged pervs, anyway. I came here to hang out with you, which is what I’m doing. There is zero need to apologize.’

  ‘I still feel lame.’

  ‘Well, you’ve always been a little lame. It’s a quality I’ve come to love about you.’

  ‘Thanks for that.’

  ‘Tell you what, you go take a cold shower. I’m going to go downstairs and see if they have any aftersun in the gift shop, and then maybe we can go down to the hotel casino and roll a few dice or whatever. You never know, maybe red’s your lucky color …’

  I showered and dressed in a billowy linen dress I found at the bottom of my suitcase. It made me look like a middle-school art teacher (the weird kind, not the sexy kind), but it was the only thing I could bear to let touch my skin. My hair was still damp – the idea of blowing hot air anywhere near me anathema at this particular moment – and the smell of the hotel shampoo (lemon and mint, surprisingly nice) clung to it. I looked, in short, like a hot mess, and my resolutely silent phone wasn’t boosting my mood. Still, I forced myself to slap a smile on my face as we headed down to the casino – despite Isla’s protests, it was her vacation, too, and I didn’t want to ruin it completely.

  The doorman’s eyes lit up when he saw us coming. Well, saw Isla coming. I don’t think his eyes actually made it to me. Why would they, really, with Isla looking like Isla? She was wearing a deep purple mini-dress and sky-high silver heels that made her legs look about eight feet long. Her mascaraed eyelashes framed her huge blue eyes, and she’d painted her lips a deep berry pink. The day in the sun had left her a golden tan – how did she not burn? How? She was three-quarters Irish, for Christ’s sake! – and she’d liberally coated herself in some kind of shimmery oil so her skin glistened like that of a post-race thoroughbred. In short, she looked like sex on legs.

  That was the thing with Isla: she always looked like sex on
legs. She was, without a doubt, the sexiest woman I had ever met. You could almost see the pheromones pumping out of her pores. She was the type of woman other women immediately tried to find fault with. You could see them, methodically scanning her for flaws. Is that a tiny ripple of cellulite? Are her hips a little thick? Is the skin underneath her chin sagging a touch? Is that a nose hair peeking out from her nostril? And then, every time, you saw the disappointment in their eyes as they discounted each one. Nope, they would realize, she really was perfect, and then she’d open her mouth and they would fall in love with her despite themselves.

  Everyone did. Men – I mean, Jesus. When we were teenagers, she’d gone from awkward pre-teen to supermodel practically overnight. Guys would follow her through the halls like she was the Pied Piper of John F. Kennedy High. One guy bought her a car – an actual goddamn car! – because he’d overheard her saying she was tired of bumming rides off people. God knows where he got the money from – he was only seventeen. Isla didn’t even have her driver’s license.

  As my mom once memorably said to me, ‘You must have really high self-esteem to be friends with someone that beautiful.’ I’m not sure I could attest to that, but the truth was it had never really bothered me. Isla had the beauty and the body and the brains, but I had something, too. Something only she and I knew about. I had a plan.

  The doorman opened the door with a flourish and we walked through into the casino. A man in a shiny dark suit swooped on us immediately. ‘Would you ladies like a glass of champagne? It’s on the house,’ he added, and we both nodded enthusiastically.

  ‘Make sure you bring this one a water, too,’ Isla said, jabbing a thumb towards me.

  ‘Thanks, Mom,’ I said, flushing even more red than I already was.

  She shrugged. ‘Gotta keep you hydrated. So, where to first? Le craps table or le slot machines?’

  I looked around and laughed. The place was done out like a Disney-fied French boulevard, complete with quaint little road signs pointing the way en français. ‘When they commit to a theme, they really commit.’

  ‘This is Vegas,’ she said, hooking her arm through mine. ‘They don’t do anything by halves.’

  A cocktail waitress in an extremely short skirt and extremely high heels appeared with a tray full of champagne flutes. ‘Here you go, girls,’ she said, handing us one each.

  ‘What about the water?’ Isla asked. I nudged her in the ribs.

  The waitress twisted her lips. ‘We don’t serve water here, but I think there’s a water cooler by the ladies’ room.’

  She turned on her heel and stalked off towards le poker table. I worried briefly for the state of her feet – imagine working all night in those shoes! She’ll have trouble when she’s older, poor woman. Bunions and everything.

  We bought a handful of chips each and made our way to the blackjack table, glasses balanced delicately in hands. ‘Fifty dollars on black!’ Isla shouted as soon as we sat down.

  The croupier raised an eyebrow, but then the full force of Isla’s beauty took hold and he smiled indulgently at her. ‘Would mademoiselle like to place a bet?’ he asked in an overblown French accent.

  ‘Oui, monsieur!’ she cried, pushing a pile of chips his way.

  ‘Very good,’ he said, hooking them with his special little hook and pulling them into the middle of the table.

  ‘Do you even know how to play twenty-one?’ I whispered.

  She shrugged. ‘I can count, can’t I?’ She nodded to the dealer. He slapped two cards face up in front of her and then dealt himself a pair, one up one down. I had a look at her cards. A three of clubs and a six of diamonds. Not good. The dealer had an ace showing.

  ‘Hit me!’ she cried

  A four of spades went down on the table.

  ‘Again!’

  A five of diamonds. She was at eighteen now.

  ‘Maybe you should stop now,’ I whispered.

  She shook her head. ‘Again!’

  A three of hearts. Twenty-one. I couldn’t believe it. And from the look on the dealer’s face, neither could he. He flicked over the face-down card in front of him. An eight of spades. Eighteen. He shook his head and pushed a pile of chips towards Isla, who scooped them up and hugged them to her chest. ‘Let’s hit le roulette table,’ she said. She scooted off her chair, necked the dregs of her champagne, and gave the dealer a wink. I saw the blush spread just above his collar.

  ‘Your turn!’ she announced when we arrived at the roulette table. There was a crowd of men packed around it, and we had to wiggle our way through to place the bet. I placed a single five-dollar chip on the green felt table. Lucky number thirteen.

  ‘Whoa, look out for the high roller!’

  I looked up to see a tall man grinning at me from across the table. He was wearing a zip-up fleece and those cargo pants with too many pockets (what are these people doing that necessitates so much portable storage?), and his hair was a mess of artfully mussed blond curls. He arched an eyebrow at me and nodded at my chip. Isla dug an elbow into my ribcage. ‘He’s cute,’ she whispered. I rolled my eyes and ignored them both.

  The dealer spun the wheel. As soon as the ball was in motion, I understood the thrill of gambling. There was so much hope as it bounced from slot to slot. Everyone at the table collectively held their breath. The wheel slowed, and we all craned forward, eager to see where it landed. There was camaraderie in that moment. For a second, we were all bound together in anticipation. And then the ball landed on twenty-four, and the dealer placed a marker on the winning number and swept all of the losing bets towards him. A stack of chips was pushed towards the blond man, who rubbed his hands together with glee. The atmosphere deflated.

  ‘Let’s go,’ I said to Isla. Gambling was definitely not my forte. Too much uncertainty. Why risk something you already have in the hope of getting more? Particularly when the odds were stacked against you.

  ‘Give it another try.’ It was the blond man again, hand tucked jauntily into one of his many pockets. ‘You always need a little time to warm up.’

  Isla jabbed me in the ribcage with an oiled elbow. I hesitated before plucking out another five-dollar chip and placing it gingerly on the table. This was it – if I lost this time, I was done for sure. Lucky thirteen again – at least I hoped this time it would be lucky. The wheel spun and the ball bounced as we waited with bated breath.

  ‘Number six!’ the dealer cried, and I watched as he pushed a stack of chips towards the blond man.

  ‘Again?’ I said. ‘Seriously?’

  The blond man shrugged. ‘Looks like I’m on a hot streak.’

  ‘Jesus Christ,’ I muttered. ‘Come on,’ I said to Isla, ‘Let’s get a drink.’

  ‘Don’t go!’ the blonde man shouted as we edged away from the table. ‘You’re my lucky charm!’

  ‘What a jackass,’ I said to Isla as we made our way towards the bar.

  ‘I thought he was sexy,’ she said with a shrug.

  ‘Please. Did you see what he was wearing?’

  ‘It’s America, Jenny. All men dress like that.’

  ‘That doesn’t mean it’s a good thing. And his hair! It was so – so – pouffy! Yeuch. I can’t believe you thought he was cute.’

  She leveled an appraising eye towards me. ‘Sounds like you’re protesting a little too much.’

  ‘Am not.’

  ‘Come on – a cute guy was trying to flirt with you! You don’t have to act like he was trying to infect you with herpes.’

  ‘Whatever. Let’s just get a drink.’ We sat down at the bar and ordered a couple of vodka tonics. The chill that had followed me into the casino was stronger now, and I hugged my arms across my chest for warmth. ‘They’re not kidding with the AC in this place,’ I said. ‘Aren’t you freezing in that dress?’

  Isla shot me a worried look. ‘I was actually thinking it was pretty warm in here. Are you feeling okay?’

  ‘Fine!’ I said. I locked my jaw to stop my teeth from chattering. ‘Just a little
chilly.’

  ‘Jenny, your lips are blue. I’m pretty sure you have sunstroke. Come on, we should get you back up to the room.’

  ‘No!’ I cried. ‘I’m fine, honestly!’ My teeth were now banging into each other so hard I was worried I’d shake loose a filling. ‘I’ve ruined enough of your vacation. Let’s stay out! Let’s have another drink! Mai Tais this time!’

  She shook her head. ‘There is no way I’m going to sit here and drink a goddamn Mai Tai while you shiver your ass off. Come on, let’s go.’

  She hauled me to my feet and we started making our way out. ‘I’m sorry,’ I whispered. She threw an arm around my waist and pulled me towards her, and, to my horror, I started to cry. Not just a little, either. Huge, plopping tears, shuddering breaths, snotty nose – the works.

  Isla took my face in her hands. ‘Sweetie, talk to me. Are you okay?’

  ‘It’s fucked,’ I cried. ‘Everything’s fucked!’

  A security guard moved towards us, and Isla put up a hand to stop him. ‘It’s okay,’ she said. ‘We’re on our way out now.’

  I could feel everyone’s eyes on us as we walked through the casino. Men in suits exchanged glances, women whispered in hushed tones. They probably think I’m drunk, I thought to myself. They probably think I’m crazy. They definitely thought I was a mess.

  ‘Do you need any help with her?’ Through the film of tears, I could vaguely see the outline of a man blocking our way.

  ‘We’re good, thanks,’ I heard Isla say.

  ‘Is your hotel close by? I could give you a ride, or call a cab?’ The man’s solicitude only made me cry harder.

  ‘We’re staying here,’ she said. ‘Honestly, we’re fine. Thanks, though.’

  Out of the casino and into the lobby and up in the elevator and through the door to our suite, Isla holding onto me the whole time. When we got inside, I went straight to my room and lay down on the bed and commenced soaking the pillowcase with my tears. I was like a spigot whose valve was broken – I didn’t know how to stop.