The Best of Enemies

by Jen Lancaster

  Kitty’s the one who sentenced me to hobbling around for the entire night of rush, which led to my demise.

  Even though I was the injured party, I still wanted to talk to Kitty because I never intended to screw anything up for her. I wasn’t being malicious, but maybe after my harsh words in the mall, she didn’t believe me. When I told her she reinforced every dumb blonde stereotype, she reacted as though I’d slapped her. Later, I tried to apologize but she just looked right through me, like I didn’t exist.

  Seriously, I would rather take a punch. At least then the hurt would come with an expiration date.

  I’ve been hiding out in the Student Union lately because my room is too tense with Kitty coming in and out. Sars said I could hang in her room because her roommate isn’t coming back this semester. (Supposedly, it’s mono, but what kind of mono takes six more months to cure? The kind that requires diapers, I suspect.) Sars and Kitty both pledged Tri Tau, so it doesn’t make sense for her to take sides. Am I a terrible person for wishing she would anyway?

  I’m sitting down here in the oak-paneled Rathskeller with a coffee and a tin of Djarum clove cigarettes. I’m surrounded by girls proudly displaying shiny new badges shaped like arrows and kites. I blow smoke in their direction when they get too loud.

  I’m lost in thought when someone yanks my ponytail. I turn around to find John-John. He lives on the other side of campus and the computer science classes are far from liberal arts, so we rarely run into each other. Which is fine. However, I must be in a state because I’m actually glad to see him.

  (When I tell Bobby about our encounter later, he says, “John-John, the last refuge of a scoundrel.”)

  “Whazzup, spaz?” He folds himself into the café chair across from me. Without an invitation, he grabs my paper cup of coffee and takes a deep swig. “Blech. Not enough sugar, too much cream.”

  “I’m sorry.” Great, now I’ve even gotten coffee wrong.

  He leans over the table to poke me. “Sorry? Sorry? Who shit in your cornflakes, kid? ’S’matter with you? Why so emo?”

  I sink into my seat. “I don’t even know where to start, John. Maybe I’m down because in wanting everything, I’ve inadvertently wound up with nothing.”

  He smirks and pats his intricately gelled coif. “Um, okay, Sylvia Plath. Make sure you get the oven real hot before you stick your head in.”

  “Will do.”

  “Shall I fetch you a bell jar, milady?”

  “I’m good, thanks.”

  “You’re no fun. Why aren’t you fun? Have the pseudo-intellectual j-school drama queens done a number on you? Shall we discuss Important Things? Wait, what the fuck are these, Jack?” He picks up the red tin and opens it to find the cigarettes. “Whoa, are you smoking? No way! Ooh, I’m gonna tell Dad!”

  I look him squarely in the eye. “Do that.”

  He cocks his head and peers at me like an entomologist examining a never-before-seen species of beetle. “Why aren’t you fighting back? You’re like a pod person all of a sudden. And where’s your pledge pin?”

  In sotto voce, I share my shame. “I didn’t get in.”

  “But I just saw Sars upstairs wearing her pin. Wait, hold on—you mean the human calculator scored a bid and you didn’t? The hell? Thought you were Tri Tau all the way. Do they not want to win the soccer intramurals?”

  He was home during Christmas break, too, so he already heard Teddy’s side of the story—that he wasn’t into Kitty, and broke it off. I brief him on everything that’s gone on since then.

  “Duuuuuude,” he says, drawing out the word. “Your roommate is a thundercunt. No joke. What kind of person takes a painful childhood incident and then uses it against you? That’s fucked-up. Who does that?”

  I glance up at him. “Aside from you? You’ve been doing just that for years.”

  He shrugs. “I’m allowed to; I’m family.”

  John assumes a more aggressive posture as he begins to formulate a plan. He looks as though he’s Patton about to deliver that famous speech to the Third Army. “Are you gonna take it from this bitch? No. Nuh-uh. Jordans don’t go down that way. Jordans don’t quit. Remember when Teddy played an entire quarter against New Trier after he broke his collarbone? Why’d he do it? Because Jordans don’t lose. You need revenge. You require justice. Remember how it went down with my roommate Paul? I have experience with this. She took something from you, so now you’re gonna take something from her. Time to buzz a tower.”

  I’m more of a turn-the-other cheek kind of person, but where has that gotten me? To an uncomfortable living situation and shared custody of my best friend. Perhaps John’s words have merit. He can’t always be wrong, if for no reason other than the law of averages.

  “. . . kill or be killed, that’s the way of the jungle.”

  I glance over both of my shoulders. “Not going to kill her. I want to be real clear about that.”

  “Metaphorically kill her. You’ve got to strike first or she’s going to beat you with a sock full of shit while you’re asleep.”

  “Metaphorically again?”

  “Yeah, you hope. So kick her where she hurts.”

  “Which is where?” I ask, genuinely puzzled. “Actual kick or metaphorical kick?”

  He pats his fancy do. “Kick her in her crowning glory.”

  • • •

  When John drove me to the Kmart off campus for supplies, this seemed like a capital idea, but now that I’m in the middle of executing his plan, I’m less sure.

  I watch as the glistening trail of shampoo circles the drain; then I rinse away the evidence, squirting some pinecone air freshener to mask the telltale smell of Paul Mitchell’s awapuhi fragrance.

  Will her hair come out all at once, or will she shed small chunks over a period of time? I wonder. And should I even be attempting this, or am I blowing any chance to reconcile? I vacillate as I stand here clutching both bottles.

  I catch a glimpse of myself in the medicine cabinet and realize I look absolutely unhinged. There’s some crazy in my eyes.

  No. No.

  A rational person doesn’t behave like this. I should stop.

  I’m stopping.

  I’ve stopped.

  Not happening. Teddy always says I should pay attention to John’s advice in order to do the opposite. So I shove the bottle of Nair behind a box of maxi-pads in the cabinet under the sink and I place the depleted shampoo bottle back into Kitty’s shower caddy.

  Resolved to be the bigger person, I’m exiting the bathroom when Kitty and Sars come bursting into the room.

  “Hey, Jack! A bunch of us are going sledding on Squires Hill! Come with! It’s gonna be awesome!” Sars calls. She’s bundled up in a down jacket and a scarf knit in sorority colors, which is wrapped around her neck about fifteen times. Between the big coat and all the layers, she looks exactly like she did when we’d toboggan back in sixth grade. She’s the same degree of excited, too. She hasn’t forgotten her need for speed.

  I’ve been dying to sled on Squires Hill ever since Teddy went for the first time five years ago. Given the angle of the hill and the span of the run, it’s supposed to be the most incredible rush. I even stole a tray from the cafeteria last fall in anticipation of the first snowfall. Unfortunately, Simon and the rest of my j-school buddies think all the Whitney traditions are super-lame, on par with dressing in matching outfits to watch the Cotton Ginners play football or swimming in the fountain during the annual Mini Daytona go-kart race weekend, so I had no takers when I suggested sledding earlier. I could go alone—or call John—but both options seem equally sad.

  Kitty, who’s still yet to acknowledge me two weeks after the fact, tells her, “Sars, this event is for sorority sisters only. GDIs and losers not allowed.” She reaches into her closet for a pair of gloves. “Kitten’s got her mittens, so away we go!” And like that, they’
re out the door.

  I can actually feel my blood pressure rise. Before I can talk myself out of it again, I dump the hair remover into her shampoo bottle and mix vigorously.

  Revenge is indeed mine.

  But . . . shouldn’t it feel more sweet?

  • • •

  After NairGate, I could have lived with her “spilling” that India ink all over my prissy comforter. Never cared for all the flowers in the first place. I’m happy to use Simon’s extra Mexican blanket. More my style.

  When she whacked three inches off the end of my ponytail in the dead of night after I had all those pizzas delivered to her sorority house? No problem. I simply chopped off the rest to just below my ears. No fuss, no muss. “The Rachel” cut is already played out anyway.

  I could even live with her swiping and selling back my Biology book, using the proceeds to stock her fridge with pink liquor. Kind of wish I’d thought of that first. I could use a couple of extra bucks—smoking imported cigarettes is expensive.

  But coming home from class to find she’s shredded my Top Gun poster into a million pieces? My prized possession? My favorite item in the world? The one thing that I could look at to feel better all those years ago?

  You do not mess with Maverick.

  If studying Pearl Harbor in my History of Conflict Reporting class is teaching me anything, it’s that aggression will not stand. Force will be met by force. Channeling FDR, I revise his famous speech and pledge to myself the following:

  No matter how long it may take me to overcome this premeditated invasion, I will win through to absolute victory. I will defend myself to the utmost and I’ll make it damn certain that this form of treachery will never again endanger me or Tom Cruise. Hostiles exist within this room and there’s no blinking at the fact that my territory and my interests are in grave danger. With confidence in myself and an unbounding determination, I will gain inevitable triumph, so help me God.

  Kitty shouldn’t fear fear itself; she should fear me.

  I grab the address book from Kitty’s tidy desk, pens neatly gathered in a pink Tri Tau mug, pencils in a green one, paper clips lined up one by one, equidistant apart. I open to the S page. I find exactly what I’m looking for, because I’d have laid money on this stupid cow alphabetizing by first name.

  I channel my fury into confidence. I pick up the phone and dial, doing my best to imitate Kitty’s flirty sorority-girl tone. “Hey, is Sean in? Um, Sean, hi, it’s Jackie . . . Yeah, Kitty’s roommate . . . Ohmigod, right? Listen, are you busy? See, I have, like, a whole fridge full of liquor and no one to drink it with . . . I know, that is a dilemma . . . Nope, she’s gone for the weekend . . . I agree, that really would chap her bony white behind . . . Okay, Sean. See you in ten.”

  I hang up the phone with a trembling hand and open a wine cooler to steel my nerves. I tilt the bottle back and chug until there’s nothing left but a fine scrim of pink bubbles. I taste Skittles when the carbonation causes me to burp. Then I grab a second bottle and repeat the process. I have ten minutes to down enough liquid courage for what’s about to happen next.

  Not my ideal first-time scenario, but one does what one must.

  War is hell.

  CHAPTER NINE

  North Shore, Illinois

  Tuesday

  “You’re still going? You’re actually leaving?”

  I wince at how shrill my voice sounds. I’m already devastated and now I’m stunned to find out my husband won’t be by my side when I need him most. How am I supposed to get through tomorrow without him?

  “Babe, the weatherman says if I don’t leave before the torrential rains coming down from the west hit, I won’t get out at all. Haven’t you seen the flooding on the news? In Minneapolis, people lost their homes,” Dr. K replies, managing to somehow make me feel guilty for being too distracted to pay attention to precipitation in cities where I don’t live.

  Dr. K opens a couple of dresser drawers, scouting for anything he might have missed. Pulling out the pair of lace-up board shorts that effectively conceal his love handles, he tosses the brightly patterned swimsuit into his overflowing Tumi suitcase. He gives the bag’s contents a final once-over before mashing it down and zipping it shut, satisfied to have not forgotten anything. Yanking the heavy bag off the bed, he drops it onto the floor. The thump reverberates throughout the long, empty upstairs hallway.

  Calm as can be, Dr. K reasons, “Let’s be logical here. I miss the conference, I’m behind the curve on advancements in crown lengthening and provisional bridges. I’m behind on advancements, I’m doing the practice a disservice. I’m doing the practice a disservice, then everyone who counts on me for the most up-to-date dentistry techniques will take their business elsewhere. Bottom line? My patients need me in South Beach.”

  I guess I understand the learning component, but do those patients really need him lounging poolside in flattering board shorts? I say, “From a business perspective, okay, but right now I need—”

  He cuts me right off. “Plus, I already paid for everything. I stay home, we’re out the four grand anyway. You have four grand to throw away like it’s nothing? I sure don’t.”

  After writing checks for all three of our mortgages on top of all of (most of) (okay, some of) our regular recurring monthly nut, I’m not sure we have forty dollars left in the joint account. Too bad North Shore Savings and Trust doesn’t accept Keurig K-Cups as currency. I’m K-Cup-rich after featuring their 2.0 brewer on SecretSquash. I’d assumed the marketing firm I partnered with would send a check, not four gratis cases of Jamaican Me Crazy pods. Seems like all my sponsors are starting to pay in goods and services, not money.

  My stomach churns at our current skate on the financial edge. How’d we cut it so close again? I’ve been economizing all over the place, even making my own cleaning rags out of the kids’ outgrown pajamas instead of purchasing paper towels. While everyone on Facebook praises my green initiatives, they have no clue it’s not by choice.

  We’re not facing a massive, “come up with twenty thousand now or the nuns will lose the school” kind of monetary imperative. (And I’m so fortunate that if the unthinkable did happen, my family would help.) Instead, the issue is that our expenses are unrelenting. There’s no single, devastating tidal wave of debt; rather our financial boat is perpetually adrift on choppy water. I can juggle. I can negotiate. I can keep us afloat from month to month, but the idea of living this way indefinitely makes me seasick.

  Dr. K believes I should go back to work, but who’d hire me with two years of professional experience followed by a fifteen-year gap? What are the marketable skills I’ve honed since then, mastering cloth-diapering? Throwing elegant but affordable parties? Do I go back to public relations? Would I have to start out as an intern again? And if I were to take a job, who’d run my families’ lives? Who’d be there to bring the Littles home from school? Who’d make sure everyone ate well and did their homework? Dr. K says we can hire a nanny to handle day-to-day duties like ferrying the kids to practice, but the commute is our best time together. The boys have come to view the car as a safe place, where they can confide in me about topics they’re not comfortable discussing around the dinner table. I want to hear that Kord had the fortitude to say no when offered alcohol for the first time and that Konnor was worried about being perceived as a bully. I can’t help my kids with their issues if I’m not there.

  For a long while, SecretSquash neatly filled the financial gaps. Even though I generate a ton of clicks, pins, likes, favorites, and retweets, the way in which and how much I’m being paid has changed diametrically since last year. Something will have to give soon, but what?

  I wish Dr. K had consulted with me before committing to the Miami conference. When he makes decisions alone that impact all of us, I feel as though I’m not part of his team. Couldn’t he have earned those continuing medical credits online, no swimsuit required? That fo
ur grand would cover what we still owe the landscapers. Thank goodness I was able to maintain our lawn service by bartering a free root canal for Hector or else I’d be out there with the hedge clippers myself. Oh, the field day the HOA would have if our grass grew higher than the maximum three-point-five inches! (I know exactly what they’d say, having once been the one wielding a pitchfork and lighted torch in better days.) (P.S. I may owe Cecily next door an apology.)

  I realize I’m obsessing over our finances and I feel like the worst person in the universe for losing sight of the big picture. How petty I am to worry about a few measly bills, a time like this. The accident proves that the rich are just as fallible, just as mortal as every other poor schmuck.

  Regardless of our now nonexistent savings account, it’s imperative for me to put on a brave face. I must be that paragon of strength, even if it means I show up for the funeral tomorrow alone.

  Still, I can’t fathom standing there in a black dress without my support system, my rock, the light of—

  “See ya in a week, babe!” he says, pecking me on the cheek before trotting down the back stairs, suitcase in tow.

  “Whoa, wait, am I not even taking you to O’Hare?” I say, shutting the drawers behind him before following him to the kitchen. I assumed we’d at least spend some time together on the way to the airport. I need to process my heartache and he’s barely been around for the past few days.

  “Cookie figured your hands would be full with everything, so she’s driving me. Plus I arranged for my mom to come help with the kids for the week. You’re welcome. Hey, we got any Smartwater for the road?” He opens the Sub-Zero PRO 48 with the glass-fronted door and begins to root around. This peek-a-boo refrigerator was once my dream, but that dream is over. I had no idea how taxing it would be to keep my chilled items on display every single day. As pin-worthy as my veggie cornucopia may be, sometimes I just want to fling a pizza box in there and not have to worry about anyone judging me for how neatly I merchandise my kale, carrots, and banana peppers.