by Gini Koch
Felt relief wash over me. “Go team.”
The relief was, of course, short-lived because—the Secret Service having confirmed that the First Lady was the roll shooter—everyone was back on their feet. Charmaine’s white dress was covered in red and blue punch, and Kramer’s tux was drenched with white. Tried to feel bad. Failed.
As the music changed to “The Girl in the Dirty Shirt” by Oasis—which was Algar forcing me to control the Inner Hyena—Charmaine turned on me, of course. “You lunatic! What was that all about? Do you just feel the need to have a food fight wherever you go?”
“No. Someone spiked the punch with alcohol. Be happy it wasn’t your children, because I’d have them arrested and charged with anything and everything the D.C.P.D. could come up with.”
She sniffed. “My children would never do something like that.”
“Yeah? Not from lack of desire, since they had over a cup each the moment they knew there was vodka in it. Which isn’t awesome, but it’s worse since we’re not sure that what was poured in isn’t poison in a vodka bottle.”
“If anything happens to my children . . .” She sniffed again, this time clearly insinuating that she was going to sniff me to death. As if.
“It’ll be your fault, yes.”
She stared at me. “What?”
“Your fault. You’re delaying me, right now, from getting medical to them to verify that they’re not poisoned. So, you know, you do you and all that.” Turned to Jeff. “Are you okay?”
He nodded, but Charmaine shoved in between us. “Listen, you,” she snarled. “You and your horrible brats don’t belong in this school, and everything you’ve done shows that. You’ve ruined my dress!”
“Yeah. Um, did I mention that we know there’s vodka in the punch and it could be poison? And that your children drank it? Because, if it were me, I’d be freaked out about them, not about a tacky dress you got at a department store aimed at teenagers.”
Charmaine wasn’t used to someone else being the Mean Girl. Her eyes widened. “How dare you? This is a designer original!”
“The hell it is.” I didn’t really care about what I was wearing all that much, but I’d always had an interest in designers and what they were offering. And with Reader as my BFF and Pierre, Vance, and Akiko around, I knew what was what. “That’s from Forever Twenty-One.”
She blanched. There was a lot of that going on. And she sniffed because, hey, it was Charmaine and that was her thing. “How dare you insinuate—”
“No insinuation. Flat-out saying. You got that at a clothing chain store aimed at your daughter. Her dress is nicer than yours, by the way.”
“How dare you speak to Charmaine that way?” Kramer said, inserting himself into our argument. He put his arm around Charmaine in a similar way to how Reader had with me and Marcia. “You’re the most classless First Lady this country has ever had.”
The music changed to “Tempted” by Squeeze. The chorus of which was “tempted by the fruit of another” which I presume was a big clue. Well, one easy way to find out. “Yeah? I care about your opinion like I care about who you’re sleeping with. Which is not at all.”
He jerked. “What are you insinuating? I’m not having an affair with anyone!” He yanked his arm away from Charmaine.
Marcia stepped up. “I think it’s really interesting that you’re defending an accusation Kitty didn’t make. And that the first thing you did was take your arm away from Charmaine.” She looked back and forth between the two of them. “So, that’s it.” She sounded angry and sad. “Your other wives told me this day would come. I didn’t believe them. I should have.”
“You don’t know what you’re talking about,” Kramer said.
Clinton joined us. “Missus Martini,” he said quietly, “Lizzie wanted me to let you know that the bottle and punch have been taken into Secret Service custody. And Seth and Shelby seem fine. We found Doctor Hernandez and he said they show no signs of poison, but do have a blood alcohol of zero-point-four.”
“So it was vodka, not poison. Well, thank God for that.” And thank Algar for everything else. Because that was a lot of alcohol in their systems from just a cup and a half of punch. Well, it had been a big bottle.
“When were you going to dump me?” Marcia asked her husband. “Before or after Charmaine made me do another fundraiser?”
“I’m not dumping you,” Kramer protested. “Charmaine is a good friend, you know that.”
“She’s not my friend,” Marcia said. “Maybe you didn’t want me to meet that doctor friend you two have in common because he thinks Charmaine is your wife.”
Not a bad theory. Mine, however, now included Charmaine in the Cyborg Lifestyle. The music changed to Fall Out Boy’s “American Beauty/American Psycho,” which made me wonder who was counting as the beauty and the psycho in this particular scenario. The song just fit so many people I knew and situations I was in so often that it wasn’t a clue so much as something that could work as our theme song.
“What are you talking about?” Clinton asked. He was standing between me and Marcia.
“Your stepmother’s being crazy again,” Kramer said.
Clinton stepped nearer to Marcia. “She’s not crazy that I’ve ever seen, Dad.”
“You don’t know her like I do, son.”
“I know you.” Clinton put his arm around Marcia’s shoulders. “It’ll be okay.”
She shook her head. “No, it won’t.” She was trying not to cry. “So, this is how it ends. I wish Kitty had dumped a whole bowl of punch over both of you. For starters.”
“Don’t push it, Marcia,” Kramer said. “You don’t want to test me.”
She laughed bitterly. “Oh, you mean our prenup that you insisted I sign? I’m aware that we’re just under ten years, and that the prenup says nothing about your infidelity, only mine.”
“And are you aware that you’ll get nothing?”
She nodded. “I am. Very aware.”
“Then you’ll apologize right now, to me and to Charmaine, for these baseless accusations.”
There was no microphone onstage that I’d seen, but due to what I’d done we had the room’s full attention, and most of said room had moved to be close to the stage. So, as near as I could tell, most were hearing this, because no one up here on the stage was actually speaking all that quietly.
“Or what?” Marcia asked.
“Or you get out of the house I own, leaving the car I own, and all the other things I own in my house. That I own, that you do not own. And you do it tonight.”
And the room waited to hear what Marcia was going to say.
CHAPTER 70
SOMETIMES PEOPLE disappoint you. And sometimes they surprise you.
“I will not.”
Marcia pulled herself up to her full height as DJ Algar spun Helen Reddy’s “I Am Woman” making my Inner Hyena of Hilarity fight with my Proud Peacock of Feminist Solidarity. Maybe I was the psycho right now.
“It’s clear that it’s true that you’re having an affair with Charmaine,” Marcia went on. “You wouldn’t be tossing the threat of the prenup around if you didn’t fully intend to use it. You’re willing to throw me and our children into the street because you’re guilty. If you weren’t, you wouldn’t have spent all evening with her. You’d have been with me, helping, supporting. Not with your mistress.”
Kramer shrugged. “So be it.” He turned to the audience. “You heard her, folks. She’s made her decision based on a crazy idea.”
The room didn’t seem to be on Kramer’s side, which said a lot for the room. Or for the fact that “I Am Woman” really remained the feminist anthem. Hopefully both.
He turned back to Marcia. “You’re not taking the children, however.”
Marcia didn’t reply. Clinton did. “The hell she’s not.” He stepped away from Marcia and nearer t
o Kramer. His fists were balled and he was shaking he was so angry. “You did this to my mother. I watched you make her stay, make her suffer, while you cheated on her. She put up with it to protect me, because she felt I was too young to be forced into the poverty you’re trying to shove Marcia and my little brothers into. Well, they’re not staying with you. And neither am I.”
“You want to stay at this school?” Kramer asked. “You want to go to a good college like all your brothers and sisters? You want a good career? Then you’ll shut your mouth and behave.”
Clinton stepped in front of Marcia. “The hell with that. My mother told me to take care of Marcia, because she knew what you’d do to her somewhere down the road. And she asked me to do that because Marcia’s been the best stepmother anyone could have asked for. She never treated any of us as anything less than hers, she was always kind to my mother and your first wife, and we all know she loves us. Which is more than I can say for you, Dad. And I’m not deserting her just because you’re still the same asshole you’ve always been.”
“Then enjoy living in the streets,” Kramer snapped.
The room was silent. I mean, good theater like this was hard to come by in a live setting. Normally one had to go to New York and catch a Broadway play for this level of family drama and intensity.
A throat cleared. Heads turned to look at said clearer, who turned out to be Wasim. Who, for the first time, truly looked royal. He was standing ramrod straight, eyes flashing, and he looked imperious, as if he’d been ruling a country all his life. Algar clearly agreed—we were now hearing Adam Ant’s “Prince Charming.”
“That will not be happening.” He sounded imperious, too. “Missus Kramer, we own an apartment that we don’t feel we will be using in the near term, thanks to the generosity of the King and Queen Regent. There is room in that apartment for all of you. You and your family are more than welcome to reside at the Cairo, courtesy of the Bahraini Royal Family. We will send a car and driver as well as others to assist you in gathering your things and your children in safety and without being rushed.”
“Th-thank you, Your Highness,” Marcia managed to stammer out. Tears were running down her face, but she wasn’t sobbing, which was her totally holding it in, I was sure. “We’re grateful to you for your kind generosity.”
“It is what decent people do.” Wasim now looked at Kramer. “You, sir, are a disgrace. To act as you have toward your wife and your children is disgusting. We will be telling our grandfather, the King of Bahrain, about your actions. He will not be impressed.”
“And yet he’s impressed by her?” Kramer pointed at me. “The woman who throws food to make a point?”
“The woman who preserved her husband’s grace with his God,” Wasim countered angrily. “It is forbidden in our religions to drink alcohol, knowingly or unknowingly. That you see nothing wrong with that shows how weak your character truly is. We will speak no more to you, as you are beneath us.” With that, Wasim turned on his heel and stalked off to where Naveed was standing, which happened to be with Mona and the rest of the Middle Eastern Contingent, though Gadhavi wasn’t with them. Hadn’t realized they’d arrived, but then, I’d been a little busy.
Mona bowed her head to Wasim. Saw her speak to him and was pretty sure she was telling him how proud his grandfather would be. Wasn’t sure if Wasim had had a Royals class similar to the Washington Wife, but if he had, he’d channeled it at totally the right time.
Noted that Cologne and all the Good Day USA! folks had come to join the party. Sadly, could not blame them. They were getting at least a month’s worth of great footage from hanging out with me for the equivalent of two days. Wondered when they’d send a contract over for exclusive rights to follow me daily. Had a horrible feeling that contract would show up tomorrow, if not later tonight.
“Let’s go,” Clinton said gently to Marcia, as he put his arm around her shoulders again.
“You’re throwing away your life,” Kramer told him.
“No, Dad,” Clinton said sadly. “I’m throwing away yours.” He helped Marcia offstage, where the Middle Eastern Contingent was now waiting for her. Caught Mona’s eye and she nodded to me. Good, they’d be the ones covering, so I didn’t have to worry.
Jeff signaled to someone. Vance, as it turned out, who zipped up onto the stage. “We’ll cover the tuition,” Jeff said softly. “They stay in the school, Clinton and the two youngsters. Go help Marcia—we’ll be fine here and she needs someone she can cry in front of. Take some Field teams with you, as well, for help and protection.”
“And remind her that anything bought for her is a gift,” I added. “That includes clothing, jewelry, shoes, and, very possibly, her car, if it’s in her name or if her name is included on the title. Artwork, if it was gifted to her from him. And anything given to her by someone else is also hers. All the children’s things are unlikely to be considered under a prenup, so take all their stuff, clothes and bedding and toys and anything else that you think is theirs. We also need to ensure that we have witnesses that can share that Marcia was forced out of the house under duress, because we’ll want a divorce attorney to take a careful look at their prenup and how it affects them in D.C.”
Vance nodded. “On it.” He joined up with the others and went to Marcia’s other side.
“Who did you help get divorced?” Jeff asked me.
“I believe you’ve met my Aunt Carla? The several-times-divorced attorney? She was big on drilling what to do ‘when the inevitable’ happens. Though, in her defense, she’s not wrong.” And the Aunt Carla I’d met in Bizarro World had been pretty great. So the one I had in this world had good qualities, too.
Jeff grunted. “Say no more, baby.”
“I hope you’re pleased with yourself,” Charmaine said, as I turned back her way.
“Really? You’re the one who just home-wrecked two families.”
“Two?” She honestly didn’t seem to have done the math.
“Um, you’re telling me your husband’s okay with you cheating on him with Zachary Kramer? I haven’t met the man, but I’m just going to go out on a limb and bet that he isn’t.”
She sniffed. “Bob has nothing to do with this.”
“Really? What does Bob say about that?”
“I don’t know.” Another sniff. She was on a sniffing roll. Maybe that meant that if there was a fire she’d smell it first and sound a warning. Though, from the little I knew of her, the warning part was unlikely. “He isn’t here right now.”
“Right, because you sent him off to help Marcia instead of doing it yourself, or having her husband help. Because that way the two of you could have some canoodling time.”
“We don’t canoodle!” The music was now “Dirty Work” by Steely Dan, so Algar begged to differ.
“You call it banging? Macking? Doing the dirty deed? The romance that is one for the ages that will never die?” Heard some titters in the audience. So we were definitely being heard.
“We don’t call it anything, you horrible woman!”
“Oh, so it’s just business as usual. Got it.”
Charmaine looked around. “Well, this is certainly business as usual for you.”
“And that is?”
“Another event ruined.”
“If you call it that. Me, personally, I call it another last-minute event you forced someone to have that, all things considered, is somehow managing to still be going well.”
“This isn’t ‘well.’ The donations haven’t begun and half the party is leaving. Another fundraiser not raising the needed funds. Because of you.”
This was true. Apparently Marcia’s departure had signaled that it was time to go. This was likely more of a result of those leaving having realized that they could escape without donating if they left now, rather than any real negative effect from what had just gone on. Frankly, I was shocked we weren’t holding on
to more of the audience—if it were me, I’d wait around to see what else was going to happen.
“Well, if you didn’t shove people into things without even asking them if they had time or ability to handle them, your events might go better.”
“We haven’t had any issues until you showed up.”
“Ha. I doubt it. I think you’re great at telling everyone how hard you’re working while at the same time belittling everyone else’s achievements. You set me and Marcia both up to fail. You get to look aggrieved that we just ‘can’t handle it’ and somehow will take all the credit for any funds raised.”
“That is not true! I’ve spent years determining which fundraisers work and why! And how much each one should raise.”
“So you can go on the all-expenses paid trips but not let the parent who actually ran the fundraisers go? Unless they’re one of your cronies, that is.”
She sniffed. “The parents who chaperone have proven themselves capable of handling more than just their own children and navigating tricky situations.”
“Sure they have. And they’re all the people who kiss your butt, too.”
“As if you could do this job!”
“As if I want to? I’m all for helping the school, but you went out of your way to make things difficult. Who asks anyone to plan and host either a bake sale or a swanky party the day before the event? No one other than you. You had weeks to let me know about the bake sale, but you waited until less than twenty-four hours prior to let me know about it, let alone that I was running it, and you ordered me around without taking any of my concerns or schedule conflicts into account. You did the same to Marcia. We offered to switch who did what, and you refused to allow it. In the business world that’s called a planned failure. In the real person world, it’s called a setup.”
“Everyone else who’s run these has done so without having food fights.”
“I’m sure they have. Because they weren’t the freaking First Lady who has to have a tonnage of security around her. Security that reacts immediately and asks questions later.”