How to Be Bad

by Lauren Myracle

  “I bring you a message from the Lord!” Jonah proclaims, and the peas gasp in fear. Jonah cocks his head toward the heavens, quivering with excitement at the prospect of informing the peas that they’re going to be smited, and then his face falls.

  “Oh,” he says, all glum. “It’s a message of encouragement. Sounds like a standard turn-and-repent to me.”

  Now that’s good humor. Instead of getting to damn the peas to hell, he has to be all nice and help them do better, and it kills him. And the peas—and the fish-slapping—it’s awesome, that’s all. Even Vicks would like it, I just know it. She’d poke fun at how the veggies have to hop about, since they have no feet, but she’d be amused despite herself.

  Eventually Jonah gets a little humbler, of course. He figures out he isn’t quite as perfect as he thinks he is, and guess what? God just keeps loving him. He just keeps on loving him.

  Well. If an asparagus can let go of his self-righteousness, then surely I can too. I pull out Vicks’s phone and scroll through to “incoming calls.” I select the most recent number, and I avert my eyes from the familiar PetSmart number above it.

  “Hey, Marco,” I say. “It’s Jesse.”

  He stammers, expecting me to go off on him again, but that’s not what’s going on here. Mel’s a good girl, that’s all. She deserves some mercy.

  20

  VICKS

  AS SOON AS Jesse’s out of the room, I talk. “I know you said don’t talk to you, but you didn’t let me explain,” I say to Mel. She starts to put her hand up like she wants me to be quiet, but I barrel on: “You just heard Jesse say something on the phone, and then I said I did something dumb, and then you jumped out of the car in the pouring rain without even letting me tell you how I broke up with my boyfriend last night.”

  “What?”

  “I broke up with Brady.”

  “No.”

  “Late last night. Jesse was so huffy over us being drunk and then she got her stick up her butt about virginity, I couldn’t even start to tell her.”

  “But you sounded so happy about him when you talked to Ms. Fix.”

  “I’m a good liar.”

  “Did he call you, or what?”

  My eyes are starting to fill. “I knew I shouldn’t go on this trip. He never wants to see me again and he’s running off with some cheerleader probably.”

  “Did he say he never wanted to see you again?” Mel asks.

  “He didn’t have to.”

  She looks at me straight on. “How long has he been your boyfriend?”

  “It woulda been a year September sixteenth.” I start to sniffle because I know Mel is so mad at me right now that she almost left me in the rain and here she is, dropping all her feelings and being sympathetic and I can barely stand her being nice to me when I’m such a wench.

  I throw myself facedown on the bed for a minute and press my nose into the blanket, breathing its smell and trying not to weep.

  Mel is silent.

  “Would you mind—” I choke out.

  “Oh, sorry.” She stands up as if to go.

  “No, would you mind buying me a steak?” I ask her. I’m shaking from too much sugar and caffeine on top of a hangover. “I could use something real to eat.”

  “Um. Sure. Let me get my wallet. We can go downstairs.”

  “You can still be mad at me,” I say jokingly, as I head into the enormous bathroom to splash some cold water on my face. “I just need you to feed me.”

  “It’s fine. I shouldn’t be mad. I have no right to be mad.” Mel grabs her bag and the room card. “I’m not mad.”

  “You are mad. You jumped out of the car. You practically got a room without me. You wouldn’t let me talk to you.”

  “Wait,” says Mel. “I want to leave a note for Jesse.” She grabs a pen and writes on hotel stationery.

  “You are mad,” I say again.

  Mel doesn’t react.

  “Can I explain something?” I say.

  “Let’s not talk about it.”

  We leave the room and walk down a long hallway to an elevator.

  I can’t not talk about it. “Nothing happened with me and Marco.”

  “Oh. Okay.” Her voice is flat.

  “I couldn’t explain with Jesse in the room.” The elevator comes and we ride down to the lobby. “It’s like, ten minutes before Marco called she was all grateful to me for getting her mom to back down, but then she turned on me. And once Jesse turns on you there’s no way she’s going to listen to anything you’ve got to say until she’s good and ready. You saw how pissy she got about me not being a virgin. It’s so fucked up. We should all be worrying about hurricanes and money and world hunger for God’s sake if we’ve got to spend our time freaking out. Not other people’s virginity when there isn’t anything you can even do about it anyway.”

  While I’m talking, Mel and I walk through the hotel lobby, following signs that say JOLLY ROGER, FINE DINING. We step through a pair of double doors and enter an enormous atrium, slightly steamy, and a large indoor lagoon. Floating on the water is a sizable pirate ship, complete with a skull-and-crossbones flag and large trunks overflowing with fake booty. I can hear crickets, and look down to see a small black speaker, hidden in a bush.

  It’s beautiful. We can hear the storm, beating hard on the roof of the atrium, but in here it’s 70 degrees and the lagoon is sweet and calm. We walk in silence across a small wooden footbridge and a hostess with a hook instead of a left hand gives us a seat right on the deck of the boat. I can look over the edge at the water.

  I’m still waiting for Mel to actually seem interested in my explanation.

  For her to yell at me or ask a question.

  How can she not be interested?

  How can she not be mad?

  “Nothing happened with me and Marco,” I say again.

  She nods. But she’s looking at her menu like the choice of appetizers is very engrossing.

  “After you went to bed, I talked to Brady and we broke up—” I rush over that part, it’s so hard to even say. “Then I did make a play for Marco. I tried to kiss him.”

  “Oh.” Mel sets her menu down. “I thought you said nothing happened.”

  “It didn’t. I was so mad at Brady. I mean, it wasn’t about Marco. It wasn’t about you, either. It was—I was trying to get back at Brady. Or prove to myself that all guys are skanky, or something. And I was so, so drunk, you know how much beer and wine coolers we had. And we didn’t have anything to eat since those hot dogs. Anyway, I was talking to Marco about how you went on safari and—”

  The waiter shows up. He is like ninety-five years old and wearing a green-and-yellow-striped vest, a black pirate hat, and an eye patch. His name tag reads ELI WEINBERGER, HOSPITALITY. He talks to us about a lunch special and promises to bring us bread. Mel orders Pellegrino for the table, instead of tap water.

  Then Eli leaves, and I just stare at her.

  When the bread arrives, Mel takes a piece but doesn’t eat it. “What happened after the safari?” she finally asks.

  “I did make a play for him, I did, which is so bad. Because I knew you liked him, but I never planned to go after him, I would never plan something like that, like moving on the guy my friend likes. I wanted us to go to the party ’cause I could see he liked you too. But then I don’t know what came over me.”

  “Oh.”

  “He pushed me off. We didn’t even kiss, Mel. I swear, we didn’t. It was just a stupid drunk move I made and it didn’t lead to anything. I am really so, so sorry.” I look at my hand and I have scrunched a bread roll into a tiny, tight ball. “I’m not usually such a horrible friend, I just got so drunk and I was so unhappy…”

  Eli Weinberger returns and we order. I get a New York Strip steak with a baked potato and a side of garlic spinach. Mel gets a house salad and a diet soda.

  “I don’t think I’m ever having beer again as long as I live,” I say. “Not even wine. Not even light beer.”

  “I
t’s okay,” Mel says.

  “It’s not okay. I feel terrible.”

  “I can’t be mad at you for doing what I did myself.”

  “What?”

  “Going after him. He was cute. I mean, he is cute. Girls must go after him every day.”

  Mel is being way too nice. I mean, I feel like a bad friend and a slut for doing what I did, even though there were reasons, and I don’t expect her to just lie down and take what I did like it’s the normal course of things. Not one of my brothers would do that. If one of Jay’s friends hit on a girl he liked, he’d storm around and throw things at the wall. Steve or Joe Jr. would yell in the guy’s face. Penn would look daggers and give him the silent treatment. And Tully would haul off and hit the guy across the jaw.

  “I knew you liked him,” I tell Mel. “It was a shitty thing to do. And I know you’re upset about it, because you jumped out of the car.”

  She shrugs and looks down at her bread plate, and I know she’s telling me it’s okay—but if I believe her, we’re not going to be friends after this. She’s going to quit the job at the Waffle and that’ll be the end of it.

  “Hit me,” I say—surprising myself.

  “What?”

  “Hit me. Come on, right now.”

  “Vicks, you’re crazy.”

  “No, I’m not. If you were a guy, you’d hit me. For messing with the girl you like. The guy. Whatever. If you were a guy, you’d sock me on the jaw. Wouldn’t you?”

  She wrinkles her forehead. “If I were a cowboy, maybe.”

  “Not a cowboy. Just an angry guy.”

  “If I were a pirate, maybe. Not a regular guy.”

  “Okay, so be a pirate-cowboy. You just said you were angry.”

  “I did not.”

  “Yes, you did. You said you’d hit me if you were a pirate-cowboy. So you should hit me.”

  “I said, maybe. I’m not mad at you, Vicks. I’m just…mad at myself.”

  “For what?”

  Mel sighs. “For thinking you were my friend. For trusting you.”

  “Don’t give me that,” I snap. “That’s the most backhanded bullshit insult I ever heard.”

  “No, I—”

  “You’re telling me I’m untrustworthy. Fine, I probably deserve it. But don’t tell me I’m not your friend anymore and at the same time pretend you’re not mad at me, because that’s just stupid.” I take a deep breath. “I just fucked up, Mel. Seriously. But that doesn’t mean I’m not your friend. God, will you just hit me and stop with this fake ‘mad at myself’ shit?” I get up, and walk over to her side of the table. “Come on,” I say. “Stand up.”

  “Vicks.”

  “You’re not going to get over this unless you hit me. I can tell.”

  “I’m not hitting you,” she says.

  “Come on, pirate-cowboy. I’m twice your size. You’re not going to do any serious damage.”

  “We’re in a restaurant. Will you sit down?”

  “No. Hit me.”

  “Stop it!”

  “I’m not going to stop it. You need to do something about this bad thing that happened.” People are looking at us. “Come on,” I say. “Old Joe would hit me. Old Joe would want you to hit me.”

  “Sit down!” Her face is turning red.

  “No!” People are now actually pointing at us, but I don’t care.

  “Vicks!”

  I’m yelling now. “I’m not sitting down! Stand up for yourself!”

  And just when I don’t expect it, Mel stands up and hits me. She’s little, so it’s more like she punches up at my jaw from underneath, and my teeth bang together and my head jerks back and the sound of the punch rings through my head. I stumble backward, and bump into the empty table behind me, scattering silverware.

  I look over at Mel and she’s looking back at me with wide eyes. She covers her mouth and I think maybe she’s going to cry—but then I see she’s laughing, and I start to laugh too.

  Eli Weinberger toddles over, trailing a pimple-faced young woman with a bandanna tied around her forehead and a fake parrot on her shoulder. Her name tag reads ASHLEY HARRISON, MANAGER. “I’m going to have to ask you to leave now,” Ashley says. “We have a no-violence policy in the Jolly Roger.”

  My mouth tastes like blood. Am I bleeding?

  We’re being thrown out of a restaurant.

  That is so badass.

  True, we’re being tossed by a great-grandpa and a girl with a fake parrot on her shoulder, both wearing striped vests.

  But still.

  “Okay,” I say. “Mel, we gotta go.”

  She nods, wiping tears of laughter from her face.

  “We’re going,” I tell Ashley Harrison. “Just let her get her purse.”

  Mel wipes her eyes, digs her bag from under the table, then stands tall. “Don’t cancel the order,” she says to Eli Weinberger. “Would you mind just sending it up to the room?”

  “Certainly,” he says.

  “Actually,” says Mel, “would you change it to three New York Strips, medium rare, and add an order of potato skins? With sour cream.”

  “Yes indeed,” says Eli.

  “Thanks. We’re in Suite 3012.” Then she lifts her little chin in the air, and walks out of the restaurant.

  I follow, holding my jaw.

  As soon as we’re out, we run across the lobby and collapse against the double door of the elevators, laughing in semihysteria. “I can’t believe I hit you!” Mel says finally. “I’m sorry.”

  “Don’t be sorry,” I say.

  “Okay, good…because I’m really not that sorry.”

  “I didn’t think you were.” I shake my head.

  “You’re okay, though?”

  I rub my jaw. “I’ll live. It’s not like I’ve got a boyfriend to impress anymore, anyhow. No one’s gonna care if my face swells up.”

  “I can’t believe she actually said, ‘We have a no-violence policy in the Jolly Roger.’” Mel giggles as we get into the elevator.

  “We got thrown off a pirate ship!”

  “I know!”

  “Jack Sparrow, you are my kin!” I cry.

  “We are so badass,” says Mel, wiggling.

  I sigh. “Poor Eli Weinberger.”

  “Yes, poor Eli,” Mel repeats. “But I left him a tip on the table.”

  “You look pretty with the eyeshadow,” I tell her. “I was only snarky about it earlier because I knew it had to be Jesse’s handiwork.”

  “You guys have to make up. You’re lucky to have each other,” she says, her voice wistful. “You should just get over your sex-God fight already.”

  “If we’re fighting about who’s a bigger sex god,” I joke, “I don’t think it’s any kind of contest.”

  “Oh, shut up.”

  “Anyway,” I say, “I prefer the term goddess.”

  “Not stylin’ pirate/sex goddess?”

  “Or that.”

  Mel’s lips twitch. “With a heavenly booty?”

  I laugh. “With an extremely heavenly booty. Thank you so much for noticing.”

  21

  MEL

  I CAN’T BELIEVE I hit her. I mean really. I hit her. Vicks. In the face. Pow! It was like I was in a comic book. Pow to the jaw! Stars flying!

  Okay, fine, there were no flying stars.

  But it felt good. Both getting the anger out—and knowing how much my forgiveness mattered. How much I mattered.

  Anyway, it’s hard to be angry at her for hitting on Marco when I know how upset she was about breaking up with Brady. It’s hard to see people as bad when you understand their reasons, I guess.

  And maybe friends, even real friends, make mistakes.

  Vicks and I are lying on our stomachs on the king-size bed watching HBO on volume ten to drown out the hum of the pounding rain, when there are three loud knocks on the door of the suite.

  “Excellent,” Vicks says, hitting mute on the remote control. “Hope they sent up steak sauce.”

 
I slip off the bed, pad over to the door, and ask, “Who is it?” I look through the peephole, expecting our waiter, Eli. Or if not Eli, someone dressed like a pirate.

  It’s not Eli. It’s Jesse. And her face is red, her eyes are slit, and she is scowling.

  Uh-oh. I quickly open the door.

  She pushes past me with three soft drinks between her hands and a bag of chips balanced on top of them. “Thanks a lot,” she mutters and then dumps the food on the coffee table in the living room.

  “For what?” I ask.

  “For what?” she mimics. She drops into one of the red velvet chairs. “For taking off! What happened to you guys? Where did you go? I went to get snacks and I come back and you’re gone!”

  Vicks turns off the bedroom TV and relocates to where the food is. She claims the couch and rips open the bag of chips. “We left you a note,” she says and then pops one in her mouth. “Why did you get barbecue? Didn’t they have salt and vinegar?”

  “Didn’t you see the note?” I squeak. I point to the side table where it’s sitting in the exact same place I left it.

  Jesse’s arms are now crossed in front of her chest. “How could I have seen it from outside the door?”

  “Why didn’t you come inside?” I ask.

  “Because I don’t have a room key!”

  Oh.

  “I was standing out there knocking, like an idiot,” she says, her voice getting higher and higher with every sentence, “and no one was answering. So then I thought you couldn’t hear me so I knocked louder and then I thought maybe you went out for a few minutes. So I sat by the door. And waited. And then I went downstairs to ask for an extra key, but they wouldn’t give me one. So I called upstairs and left you a message—”

  I spot the flashing red light on the phone.

  “—where I told you I would be waiting in the gift shop so come and get me. Which you didn’t. Thanks. Thanks a lot. Thanks for ditching me.”

  “We’re so, so sorry,” I say quickly, walking to her side. “We didn’t mean to ditch you. Vicks wanted a steak—”

  “You went for food? When I was getting food?”

  “We’re sorry, we’re sorry, can you just relax?” Vicks asks.