“Bingo,” Heath said excitedly. “He's on, like, his third wife, who's, like, Swedish….”
“If only my father could get to his third wife already, then I wouldn't mind going home.” Brandon leaned back against his headboard and stared at Heath's Scarface poster, wondering if anyone had ever told Al Pacino that he was “too gay.” Doubtful.
Heath ignored him. “And now they've got these two gorgeous teenage twin daughters. They go to Le Rosey in Switzerland, some girls' finishing school. Spend the whole year yodeling and learning how to tie corsets, or some shit like that.” Heath's voice gained momentum as he continued his description. “Anyway, they come back every Thanksgiving, and the rumor is, Teague Williams hooked up with both over Thanksgiving last year—at the same time.”
Brandon shook his head. “Only you would believe something like that.”
“I believe it to be true,” Heath said solemnly, crossing himself. “And if you won't stick around and help me find out, well, that's on you.”
Brandon sighed. Heath had momentarily taken his mind off Sage, whose heartless timing had threatened to consign Thanksgiving to an uninterrupted stream of self-pity, punctuated by a bland turkey dinner prepared by his stepmother and her even-more-hellish mother, who, along with his worshipping father, would sit and stare in awe as the twins mashed squash into their hair and stuffed broccoli up their noses.
“C'mon, dude,” Heath begged, “Swiss Misses. When will you ever be presented with this opportunity again?”
“Next Thanksgiving, apparently,” Brandon scoffed. “And I thought you said they were Swedish.”
“Swedish, Swiss, same thing,” Heath said. “It all spells H-O-R-N-Y. Guaranteed.”
Brandon looked at his packed bag. Even if he didn't exactly believe everything Heath was saying, the alternative was much, much worse. “Okay, I'll stay.”
“That's what I'm talking about!” Heath yelled. He held his hand out and Brandon slapped it, his skin stinging as he unpacked his bag. “Look, bro, it's about time you just relaxed and let me take care of things. I know exactly what I'm doing.”
Coming from someone who wore his boxer shorts three times before washing them but still managed to hook up with girls, Brandon wondered if maybe he did.
7
A GOOD WAVERLY OWL IS NEVER ASHAMED OF HER FATHER.
Jenny Humphrey stalked down the hallway of her Upper West Side apartment building, grateful to be inside familiar walls and out of the freezing-cold November night. It had taken the three girls half an hour to catch a cab outside Grand Central station—everyone in the world, apparently, was arriving in New York for the holiday. She was too happy to be home to be self-conscious about the yellowed molding and the smell of Mrs. Ullstrup's two schnauzers next door. One of the hall lights was out, casting a dim shadow in front of apartment 9D. “This is it,” Jenny exhaled, dropping her heavy bag at her feet. “I knew a girl who lived in this building.” Tinsley peeked out the hall window at the traffic jam on West End Avenue.
Jenny waited for the cutting punch line—And she was a skank. Or, And she always dressed like she was going to the circus—but thankfully none came. Her nerves were on edge since she'd invited both Tinsley and Callie to spend Thanksgiving with her, though she ultimately hoped the holiday would bring the three of them closer together. As cool as it was that the three of them had been hanging out, she kept holding her breath, waiting for the next incident or guy-fight that would make the other two turn on her. She slipped the key in the lock and turned, but the lock held. “What the—” She jiggled the knob.
“Old man changed the locks on you?” Tinsley giggled. “Maybe he has a girlfriend and he wanted some privacy.”
“Ew.” Callie sighed, staring up at a cobweb over the door.
Jenny turned the key again and again the lock wouldn't give. The locks began to click from the inside and Jenny pulled away. The door opened a crack and the pungent odor of patchouli wafted out of the apartment.
“Hello?” Jenny asked tentatively. “Dad?”
The door swung open and a bald woman in a resplendent orange robe opened her arms. “Welcome to our feast.”
Jenny felt her jaw completely drop. “Um, where's my dad?” Could he really have a new girlfriend? Rufus had weird taste, but this was beyond weird. Had he somehow been evicted and neglected to tell her?
“Oh, child, you must be Jennifer,” the woman said, clasping her hands together as if in prayer. “And these must be your sisters.”
“We're not related, actually.” Tinsley smiled sweetly, rubbing her gloved palms together. She was clearly enjoying the scene.
Callie stared in disbelief and Jenny felt all the blood rush to her head. From inside the apartment, they heard voices quietly chanting: “Hare Krishna Hare Krishna Krishna Hare Hare…”
Jenny peered around the woman and saw that her old, familiar apartment, where she'd grown up, taken her first steps, watched Saturday morning cartoons, was filled with other bald men and women, all dressed in the flaming orange robes. Everywhere—sitting on her couch, in her dad's patched leather recliner, on the blue velvet armchair by the window where she liked to read. What the hell was going on?
Finally, Rufus Humphrey pushed his way through the bald dancing freaks from the back of the room. He was dressed in his familiar moth-eaten yellow pullover with an old pair of Dan's black sweatpants that were about six sizes too small. His wiry gray hair was tied back with a garbage tie. “Honey-pie! You're here.”
“Hi, Dad.” Jenny's father scooped her up in a bear hug while the woman in the doorway sauntered back to the packed front room.
“What…what is this?” Jenny hissed. “Who are these people?”
“And you brought friends!” Rufus exclaimed in delight, holding his arms open to welcome Tinsley and Callie, who were cowering in the hallway. They each gave Rufus a perfunctory hug and then retreated. “They're even more stunning than you described them.”
“Dad,” Jenny said sternly, standing between him and her friends before he could start telling Callie her hair was pre-Raphaelite and that Tinsley's eyes looked like grape gumdrops. “What is all this?”
“I told you about this, Smoochie,” Rufus answered playfully, putting his large paw on Jenny's shoulder and squeezing.
“Dad.” Jenny often got annoyed with her father, but now she was just furious. “I would remember if you told me that twenty chanting bald people would be in our apartment when I got home.” She lowered her voice on the word bald, in case any of them were listening.
“That's strange.” Rufus rubbed his chin, his salt-and-pepper beard much fuller since the last time she'd seen him. “I was sure I'd told you.”
“Well, you didn't,” she repeated sternly. A large animal darted out of the dining room and into the kitchen. It zigzagged on the tile, circling the kitchen table. Jenny realized in horror that it was a live turkey.
“You're not going to…kill a turkey, are you?” Tinsley spoke up, eyeing the feathered animal that was now circling the couch. The baldies in robes laughed as it ran by them.
“Oh, heavens no. These are people from my ashram. I invited them over for the Festival of Thanks,” Rufus announced grandly. “We're all cleansing ourselves during this great festival. And we honor the turkey. I'm glad you're here—you can help share in our vegan feast.”
Jenny stepped reluctantly into the apartment and took in the scene. Every bald head in the front room turned and said, “Welcome.” She could feel Tinsley and Callie behind her, flabbergasted. She had to get them to her room, where they could regroup.
“We'll be in my room,” Jenny announced.
“Oh.” Rufus frowned. “Your room is actually occupied. I gave up my room, too. But we can all bunk out on the couches. It'll be like camping.” Rufus smiled as if he'd just solved a particularly thorny dilemma.
The turkey ran up to Callie and head-butted her Louis Vuitton bag, the wattle on its neck jiggling furiously. “Oh my God,” Callie whispered, her eyes bu
gging out. She shrank back in the hallway.
“We have to go, uh, make a phone call.” Tinsley hiked her bag over her shoulder, and she and Callie practically ran for the elevator. Jenny froze, unsure of her next move. Would she stay in her apartment out of loyalty to her dad, or did her loyalties lie elsewhere now?
“Look, Dad, I'm glad you've got your, uh, friends here. But it looks like a full house, so I'm going to find somewhere else to stay. Maybe at Tinsley's,” she lied, hoisting her bag on her shoulder.
“Petunia Bottom!” Rufus cried. “But we're eating at eight.”
“It's not a big deal.” Jenny put her hand on her dad's arm. “You guys can, uh, enjoy my room. I'll give you a call tomorrow.” After a little more hushed insisting that she'd be fine, Jenny hurried down the hall and stepped in the elevator after her two friends.
“Let's not speak of this again, ever.” Jenny punched the button for the lobby.
“It never happened,” Tinsley agreed, laughing. “But man, I thought my family was fucked up.”
“I think I have turkey snot on my bag from when that creature ran into it.” Callie examined her bag.
By the time the elevator hit the bottom floor, Jenny knew she'd survive the embarrassment. “There's a coffee shop around the corner.” She tightened her yellow cashmere Banana Republic scarf, bracing herself for the icy evening. “I need some caffeine.”
“I need a drink,” Tinsley said wryly.
At Melnyczuk's, the Ukrainian coffee shop with a nearly unpronounceable name, the girls grabbed a booth by the window and ordered three cups of coffee from the beleaguered waitress, who didn't look too happy to be working on the day before Thanksgiving.
“We need a hotel room,” Callie said, determined to state the obvious. “And fast.”
She looked up hotels on her iPhone, reading off the numbers to Tinsley and Jenny, who quickly dialed them with growing anxiety. A flurry of calls to the Four Seasons, the Soho Grand, the Plaza, the New York Palace, the Peninsula, the Ritz in Central Park, the St. Regis, and Trump Tower confirmed what Jenny had suspected: All the hotels were full for Thanksgiving.
“This is awful.” Callie shook her head, her voice verging on whiny. Her pretty face was scrunched up into a scowl, and she looked as if she were about to burst into tears. “Now what?”
Tinsley threw her phone down on the table, slopping the recently refilled coffees onto their tiny china saucers. “What do you have to fucking do to get a hotel room in this town?” she asked angrily.
“Do you think the fumes from the floors in your apartment are really as toxic as your mom said?” Callie asked nervously.
Jenny remembered what Tinsley had told her on the train. Tinsley's accusation about Jenny taking everything—from boys to life in general—too seriously had stung, more so because Jenny couldn't disprove it. Well, here was her chance.
“Look, maybe we're overthinking this,” Jenny offered. “We're three girls on our own in Manhattan,” she went on, dabbing at a coffee stain with her napkin. “No rules. We can do whatever we want.”
“Except get a hotel room, apparently,” Tinsley pointed out, her cool violet eyes staring straight at Jenny challengingly.
Jenny squared her shoulders and met Tinsley's eyes, eager for the chance to show the other girl what she could do. “Let's just see about that,” she replied, motioning for the check.
8
A WELL-BRED OWL IS ALWAYS POLITE TO STRANGERS.
Brett dropped her suitcase on the Italian marble floor of her foyer. Her body was tired from the long ride in the cramped front seat of the Mustang, her brain exhausted from fending off Sebastian's relentless questions. She'd successfully convinced him that she wasn't, in fact, the hot dog girl from summers ago. Or maybe he was just humoring her. The whole ride had been intense, trying to fight all of Sebastian's efforts at some kind of shared life experiences just because they were from the same state. She'd been incredibly relieved to finally pull up in front of her parents' house.
Sebastian had whistled as he pulled into the circular driveway—and even Brett had been away so long, she'd forgotten how huge (and showy) their mansion was. The exterior was designed to look like the Palace of Versailles, complete with a fountain out front where a reclining Poseidon cuddled a nearly naked cherub. “Cool digs,” he'd said, without a trace of irony, before she bid him a terse goodbye.
Now, all she wanted to do was take a long, hot shower in her private bathroom, slip on her raggedy fuzzy pink pig slippers, and catch up with Bree. It was hard to really talk to her sister through e-mails and intermittent phone calls, and Brett looked forward to some Cherry Garcia and girl talk. She slipped out of her Manolo ankle boots and tossed her coat into the giant hall closet.
“Hello?” she called out, her voice echoing through the foyer. She was a little surprised not to have been greeted by her mother's teacup Chihuahuas, who usually came scampering across the marble floor at the slightest hint of movement near the front door.
“We're in the parlor, sweetie,” she heard her mom call. She followed her mother's voice past their giant sunken living room—her mother had finally given in to her complaining and gotten those terrible zebra-print armchairs reupholstered? Weird—and into the formal parlor at the back of the house that they hadn't used in like…Well, they never used it. Maybe once, after her Uncle Chuck's funeral, and once for her prospective interview with a Waverly rep, but that was it. It was a high-ceilinged room that looked through a wall of French doors out onto their backyard, with its beautiful view of the bay. But it was filled with stiff Louis XIV furniture that her mother had bought at an estate sale, hoping to lend their brand-new McMansion an air of respectability.
Her mother and sister were all perched around the circular table with three strangers, who Brett guessed had to be the Coopers. When Bree had said they were coming for Thanksgiving, Brett had thought she meant Thanksgiving dinner, not, like, Thanksgiving weekend.
“Oh.” Brett smiled weakly at the strangers. “Hi, everyone.” Awkward. Mr. Cooper held himself erect in the uncomfortable wooden chairs, studying a hand of cards he held under his nose. His hair was colorless and thinning, but he had a ruddy, just-went-golfing in Palm Beach kind of glow to him, making him look thin and distinguished in a button-down shirt and crew-neck sweater.
Mrs. Cooper sat next to him, looking up as Brett entered. Her pale blond hair showed wisps of gray too, and was cut into a sophisticated bob that framed her chin. She looked exactly like Gwyneth Paltrow's mom. A pair of small pearl studs—heirlooms, Brett guessed—sparkled subtly from her ears as she put her cards facedown on the table. “Put your cards down,” she said to Willy, and he did as his mother instructed.
“We wondered what happened to you.” Brett's mother, Becki Messerschmidt, laid her cards down, too. “We were expecting you over an hour ago.” Her words were slow and calm, which creeped Brett out. Had she doubled her dose of Zoloft or something? Normally her mother would bound into the foyer and wrap her up in an Obsession by Calvin Klein-scented hug, her giant pink diamond rings flashing, and pepper her with a million questions about Waverly, her friends, boys. Instead, her mother walked toward her like a zombie—in a pair of tapered-leg khaki pants and a navy blue Polo turtleneck, and not a single pink rock on her fingers. She'd never seen her mother, who favored loud prints, preferably animal, and daring necklines, look so soccer mom.
“I told you.” Brett gave her mom a quick hug and peck on the cheek. Her mom's normally wild Julia-Roberts-in-Pretty-Woman curls had been straightened into limp, loose waves. “I got a ride home with a friend.” Her mom didn't even smell like her mom. Brett took a step backward, almost toppling over the end table. This was totally creepy. Normally, Brett would have demanded to know what the hell was up, but with the Coopers looming over them, she fell quiet instead.
“A boyfriend?” Bree finally spoke up from her spot at the table, raising her eyebrows. Her shoulder-length reddish-brown hair was pulled back into two tortoiseshell barrettes
. And as she held her arms out for a hug, Brett noticed she was dressed a little tamely, too. Or boringly. Brett was used to Brianna, an editorial assistant at Elle magazine, looking a little more cutting-edge than she did in her knee-length navy skirt and a white boatneck. She looked like she was attending a tea party at a yacht club. “I'm glad you're here. I want you to meet the Coopers.”
“We're going to have to redeal,” Mr. Cooper said under his breath to Mrs. Cooper, throwing his cards into the middle of the table. “The rules say you have to redeal if someone gets up from the table, for any reason.” Mrs. Cooper ignored her husband, though Brett detected a slight nod of agreement.
“This is William Cooper the third.” Bree walked over and put her hands on Willy's shoulders, giving them a tender squeeze.
Willy—could she really call him that? It made her think of Free Willy, that Disney movie about the fish that gets caught in the plumbing. He was cute—with light brown hair and deep hazel eyes—but in a total WASPy, Brooks Brothers sort of way, his crisp white button-down tucked neatly into a pair of navy chinos. Was everyone in the room wearing navy blue?
“Willy, please.” Willy stood up and shook Brett's hand formally. “That's the only William in our house.” He laughed, nodding at his father.
“It's nice to meet you all,” Brett said automatically, wondering what everyone was playing. Her parents never played cards, except Uno. Brett glanced at her mother, whose dark red hair was pulled back in clips similar to Bree's. Had she just stepped into The Stepford Wives? “Where are the teacups?” As much as she rolled her eyes at the collection of purse-size pups her mother had amassed over the years, they were pretty sweet.
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