Teddy shrugs. “Used to it. High school chicks dig college guys.” To Bobby, he says, “One more semester at USC and even you’ll get laid, loser. Then you can finally give Rosie Palm and her five sisters a break.” He turns back toward me. “I don’t date high school chicks, but I’m flattered. See, I’m into women. Right before break, I hooked up with this Kappa at Henry’s Ale House who used her tongue to—”
I tell him, “Please don’t finish that sentence. Impressionable youth here. I mean, I’m happy for you, but the whole notion is super-grody.”
I’m creeped out to no end imagining my brothers having drunken mash sessions. Although, I bet the idea of me kissing a guy likely creeps them out as well, or at least it would until they began to beat the dog shit out of the poor guy. Fortunately, or not, that’s yet to happen.
Teddy replies, “None taken.”
Hey . . . hold up, here. Let’s not be so quick to dismiss this whole notion of Sars dating someone in the family. The idea may hold some merit. What if she did indeed eventually hook up with Ted? Like, when we’re all grown-ups?
I begin to consider the possibilities of a Sars/Teddy potential merger. Not the worst idea in the world. The worst idea in the world happened when John bleached his hair and rocked a Caesar cut last summer. Even poker-faced-Dad-the-litigator had to excuse himself from the room when John came in that day.
If Sars and Ted were to couple up, we’d always be invited to her family’s Thanksgiving dinners and if you’d ever tasted her mom’s apple-cranberry-sausage stuffing, you’d know that’s worth the price of admission right there.
“Would you date Sars? Not now, but in the distant, distant future?”
“Hypothetically?” Teddy asks. “If we were both single adults, living downtown or something?”
“Yes,” I say.
“I dunno. She has potential, but I’ll probably always think of her as a little girl in big glasses.”
“But you’d be open to the possibility? There’s a chance?”
Teddy peers intently at me. “What’s with the line of questioning, kid?”
“I’m just saying, if you married her, she’d always be family. Then we could spend every holiday together,” I explain.
“I might eventually hit it if you need me to,” Bobby offers. I realize he’s joking, but he may be a decent alternative if Teddy doesn’t pan out. (We can all agree that John-John’s not in the running.)
Teddy chucks me on the cheek. “Kiddo, I think it may be time to branch out.”
“Meaning?”
Teddy does a weird stretch and his spine crackles like popping Bubble Wrap. I’m glad he’s not playing ball competitively anymore. Sports did such a number on his body. You should hear his knees when he walks up the stairs—they’re like castanets and he’s only twenty-two! “Sars is pretty clingy and I’m afraid she might get too possessive over you. Who turns down Stanford to stay with her friend at Whitney? Stanford calls Whitney ‘Shitney.’ You need to make some other friends.”
Before I can protest that I have other friends, he says, “Girl friends. If you don’t get some chicks in your life, you’re going to become an adult thinking it’s okay to live like wolves.”
“We don’t live like wolves,” I argue.
“Um, yeah we do,” Bobby counters, gesturing to the disarray all around him. Dad keeps hiring cleaning ladies and they all quit on us without notice. The last housekeeper lasted thirty minutes and stormed out in a huff, muttering something about trying to slap a Band-Aid on a sucking chest wound.
Teddy says, “Do me a proper and don’t room with Sars at school. You need a little space away from her. You gotta trust your big bro here. Everyone who lives with their high school best friend in college ends up hating them by the end of first semester. Familiarity breeds contempt. Remember how John-John roomed with Paul diGregorio? We never saw him again after their first semester together. John-John said he didn’t meet any cool people until Paul moved out.”
“Of course it was hard for him to make new friends,” I argue. “He’s an asswipe.”
Bobby looks away from the television to raise a finger in the air, all parliamentary procedure–style. “Cosigned!”
“No one’s arguing he’s not a pill,” Teddy admits. “But for you, college will be all about spreading your—”
“Legs?” Bobby offers.
In one fluid motion, Teddy nails him with the nearest projectile, which happens to be my American History textbook. It’s an advanced placement edition and it’s a solid three inches thick. The book impacts with a resounding thud. Ouch. That had to hurt.
“Wings, dickweed. I was gonna say wings.”
Bobby rubs his shoulder where the book connected. “Oh. Sorry. Hey, the arm’s still lightning-fast though, bro.”
“Good,” Teddy replies. He flexes both biceps and nods to himself. To me, he says, “Point is, it’s time to open yourself to new experiences, Jack-o.”
I consider what I’m hearing. I love Sars like a sister, but we’ve been so self-contained as a friend-unit that I wonder if I haven’t missed something by not knowing more girls. Maybe it would be better for me to branch out? College is the place to experiment, and how great would it be to have two best friends? My God, that would be an embarrassment of riches! They could teach me some of the feminine stuff I’ve never learned, like applying makeup, or putting together cute outfits. A group of girlfriends could help me figure out how to let Derek from my coed soccer league know I want him to consider me as more than just a highly skilled defensive midfielder.
Also?
I really don’t want to live like a wolf. With more female influence, it’s possible I won’t have to.
“You may be onto something,” I admit. “I probably shouldn’t be, like, so singular with the one girl friend, you know? The guys I hang out with are fun, but I can’t talk to them like I do with Sars.”
Teddy musses my hair. “You don’t think you can fly with another partner, but I promise, you can. Remember the end of Top Gun?”
“Obviously.” Forgetting is a virtual impossibility as many times as we’ve watched.
“Could Maverick have destroyed those four MiGs if he hadn’t allowed himself to trust Merlin?” Teddy answers his own question. “No.”
For me, this was the most important aspect of the movie, not the superfluous romance with Kelly McGillis. (Yet I did appreciate Meg Ryan’s moxie in telling her man to take her to bed or lose her forever. Could I do the same, substituting “prom” for “bed?” I bet other girls would know this stuff. I’d ask Sars, but she has even less game than me.)
In terms of what Ted’s saying, though, Tom Cruise’s character had to learn to lean on others to help him get over the loss of Goose. I feel like there’s a parallel here and I should finally try the same thing.
“You’re absolutely right. I’m . . . going to do it.” The minute I say it out loud, I feel it’s the truth. “I won’t bunk with Sars. But I’ll tell her why and she’ll be cool with it. I’m sure she doesn’t want to lose me, either.”
“Smart girl! And don’t worry. I’m sure Sars won’t let you out of her grip.” Teddy claps me on the back. He seems very pleased with himself and then I finally realize exactly who I’ve been talking to. Teddy’s an awesome brother, but he’s never one to overlook a prime opportunity.
“Wait, is this because you hope I’m paired with a cute girl and I can introduce you?”
Teddy shrugs. “I said I didn’t date high school chicks. I live for hot frosh.”
Bobby comes over and sets his mixing bowl and spoon on a plateau of Mt. Filthy in the sink. “You’re gonna leave the whole thing to chance? Just gonna live with whoever’s assigned to your room?”
“Yeah,” I reply. “I will. After all, how bad could it be?”
CHAPTER FIVE
To: [email protected], D
[email protected], [email protected], [email protected], [email protected], [email protected]
From: [email protected]
Subject: Pack your mittens, kittens, because we’re going to Las Vegas!
Hi, everyone!
We’re SO looking forward to gathering this weekend in Las Vegas to celebrate Betsy’s impending nuptials! Devon, sounds like you’ve put together quite the shindig and we are so flipping excited!!
Please let me know if you might prefer a spa afternoon or cruising the Forum shops instead of three straight days drinking by the pool. This mama ain’t in college anymore! Also, if anyone wants to see Cirque du Soleil in lieu of Thunder from Down Under, give me a jingle and I’ll purchase the tickets.
This is going to be epic! But tasteful.
Besos!
Kitty
P.S. Apologies to anyone I may have missed with this e-mail.
Hotel Wintercourt, Las Vegas, Nevada
May 2006
“You’re going to be nice to her, right?” Betsy asks.
I look up from my copy of OK! Magazine, where I’ve been totally absorbed in the cover story about Jennifer Aniston’s “baby heartbreak.” Jen, sweet girl, I feel for you! But I’m sure Angelina’s pregnancy is just a one-off. Like Brad and Angelina could possibly last! I guarantee they won’t have any more kids after this one because they are simply not parental. Trust me, no one will ever look to her as the paragon of motherhood. You’ll come back stronger than ever, Jen, I promise. You’re going to find someone better soon, marry him, have tons of beautiful babies, and then win a bunch of Academy Awards if Along Came Polly is any indication.
As for those two cheaters? America never forgives adulterers and they’re going to fade into the ether, just you wait.
I close my magazine and reply, “Of course I plan to be nice to her. I’m never not nice. What kind of mommy would I be if I didn’t set a good example?”
Maybe that’s a fib on my part. Sometimes I’m not so nice when it comes to Jack Jordan, but it is truly never me who starts it.
I am an adult.
I don’t take potshots at people.
I’ve never dumped a glass of Bordeaux on another person’s head when they disagreed with me at a graduation party; nor have I ever thrown a platter of (the apparently notoriously difficult to clean) room service huevos rancheros in a pique of impotent rage. Never have I bodychecked another person—a young mom, no less!—into the ice sculpture of a second-tier rapper. I am a paragon of maturity. After all, am I not the one who suggested we forgo the male strip review during this trip?
“Let’s have this event not be another Rumble in the Jungle,” Betsy pleads. She adjusts the brim of her wide straw hat, cautious about too much UVA exposure because she doesn’t want to be all sun-spotty at her wedding in a few weeks. That’s hard to manage here on the Las Vegas strip. It’s already ninety degrees out here and it’s barely noon!
We could have avoided the whole three-days-baking-on-an-artificial-beach business if I’d been permitted to organize the bachelorette party. My plan would have entailed a long weekend at the Sonoma Mission Inn and Spa. We could have toured the vineyards in the morning and then relaxed in their artisan mineral whirlpools in the afternoon, enjoying world-class cuisine with phenomenal wine pairings in the evenings, but no. Poor Betsy was so torn trying to decide who to make maid of honor—me, her BFF since college or Jack, the egg-plate-tossing psychopath she grew up with—that she asked Trip’s tacky sibling to stand up next to her by default.
Congratulations. Everybody loses.
“I’m under so much stress right now with the wedding and with helping Trip launch his company that I literally cannot deal with any more conflict. Please. Work with me here.”
“Bets,” I assure her, “this is your weekend. We’re going to make it flipping perfect.” This is why you can’t blame me for chucking the penis-shaped drinking straws, necklaces, and the Pin the Dong on the Dude game in the lobby trash can when Devon was busy hooking up with the random club promoter she met two nights ago.
I regret nothing.
The cute pool waiter with the muscular calves trots over with a tray of our drinks, and I have to remind myself it’s not appropriate to stuff a dollar bill in his waistband.
(Thunder from Down Under, you have ruined me!)
(In retrospect, perhaps I mildly regret tossing out the Pin the Dong on the Dude game.)
He delivers our Virgin Marys without incident, which are the ideal libation at this moment. They’re low in carbs, high in vitamin C, and look enough like cocktails that no one will harass us for not boozing it up before lunch. Take note, ladies—you’ll enjoy Vegas a lot more if you pace yourself!
“You can’t blame me for worrying, Kit,” Betsy says. “You two have a history together. A messy, explosive, expensive history. How’d we get here? Can’t you just agree to be polite? For my sake? Why does it always have to devolve into the food fight scene from Animal House?”
I want to list the reasons we’re here, which would read:
Because she’s insufferable
Because she’s smug
Because she’s SO MUCH SMARTER than anyone else
Because she belittles everything about me and my life
Because she can’t accessorize
Because she brings it on herself
Because she’s not to be trusted
But I don’t.
“We’ll barely see her. We won’t have time to fight,” I reason. “Where’s she even coming from? Iran . . . istan?”
So I don’t quite remember my geography since becoming a mom, but I can recite every line from Toy Story, whip up a luscious kale-based lasagna, and get two Littles out the door in less than five minutes. If there was a parenting Olympics, I would medal. Fact.
Betsy stirs her drink thoughtfully, nibbling on a piece of salami from the elaborate garnish setup. Between the meat, cheese, olives, tomatoes, pepperoncini, celery, and tomato, this is our lunch because we’re still so stuffed from breakfast. “No, she’s been working out of the Baghdad bureau in Iraq, but she’s coming by way of Germany, then London, then New York, then Chicago, then here. Poor thing will have been traveling something like three days just to celebrate with me for a few hours. I’m really touched by the effort she’s made.”
Yeah, Jack’s a true saint, because sitting on an airplane is way harder than leaving a three-year-old and a six-year-old across the country with an overbearing mother-in-law. Barbara, aka Nana Baba, has been at our town house in Rogers Park for two days and Ken tells me she’s already tossed all my celebrity magazines, dug up my pansies because she thinks they’re “too pink,” taken down our family pictures so the place will “show better” once we put it on the market (not even happening until early spring of 2007) and read every single one of my e-mails. How do I know this last tidbit? Apparently she’s been providing a running commentary on them.
Not only does she disapprove of my overuse of the exclamation point, but she, too, finds my relationship with Jack Jordan troublesome.
I wish Ken would put a leash on her, yet when I complain to him about her lack of boundaries, he tells me other people would love to have an MIL who’s so committed and helpful. Really? Lemme me know their numbers ’cause I’m happy to give them the Nana Baba hookup.
Betsy unties her bikini straps in order to rub sunscreen on her chest, shoulders, and sculpted upper arms. Sadly, my two-piece days ended after my C-section with Konnor. Sigh. Dr. Patel was supposed to be the best, but I swear it’s like he sliced me open with the jagged end of a broken beer bottle. I’m talking full-on Frankenstein. Couple this with those last seven vanity pounds I’ve been trying to shake and it’s skirted-swimsuit-city for me. Betsy’s so lucky! She’s still as toned and taut as when we d
iscovered the Burdine, Whitney’s massive fitness center, second semester of our freshman year. She practically lived there for the next four years!
I dated this guy once who said that Betsy was a “butterface.” When I asked him what he meant, he said her body was hot, but-her-face? Not so much. That’s when I dumped him. What a flipping butthole that guy was! Such an unfair assessment of a woman I consider gorgeous inside and out. Does Betsy conform to traditional standards of beauty? Depends. She’s quite slim and her frame is tiny, even though she’s average height. Her nose tilts up and her eyes seem closer together than they actually are because they’re such a watercolor shade of blue. She reminds me of that TV actress Christine Baranski. Her features aren’t necessarily faultless, but with her fine posture and quiet competence (and with the nerd glasses but a distant memory, you’re welcome), the sum of the parts is striking. She’s, like, a handsome woman. And seriously elegant. Personally, I believe Trip was attracted to Betsy’s face as much as he was her figure and her brain.
“Where’s she staying again?” I ask, taking the sunscreen from her. I try to avoid saying her actual name whenever possible, as it tastes like poison on my tongue. I worry if I invoke the word Jack too many times, she’ll manifest herself Beetlejuice-style and no one wants that.
Betsy reties her top and replies, “She says she found a room at the Super 8 for seventeen dollars.”
Of course she did. God forbid G. I. Jane opt to room with the rest of us. Listen, if she’s too humble/unfettered/noble to deign to sleep in the ultra-luxurious, super-mod, two-story, four-bedroom Crystal Palace suite with a full glass-countered kitchen, glass bar, glass dining room, and living area with a glass piano, all built around a 10,000-gallon aquarium, then that’s just more shark-gazing time for the rest of us.
“Were there no campgrounds or underpasses available?” I can’t help but ask.
“You’re starting,” Betsy singsongs, wagging her garnish stick at me.
“I’m not starting! All I’m saying is her flagrant lack of materialism is simply another affectation.” She’s no different now than when she began hanging out with the pretentious journalism students at college. While all the fraternity boys and sorority girls were donning matching T-shirts to hit the basketball game at Ryan Stadium, she was skulking around, smoking clove cigarettes, and touting nihilism, whatever that is. (Something to do with Nine Inch Nails, yes?)
The Best of Enemies Page 7
