The Best of Enemies

by Jen Lancaster

  Jack stamps her foot. “Wrong. I am not your Barbie styling head and this is not Queen for a Day at the Omega Moo house. Makeovers? Not happening. We need to interrogate the roommates, for Sars, so let’s hustle.”

  “Jack, I’m not fighting you. Let me explain in terms you understand,” I tell her, with as much patience as possible. If I can’t convince her why I’m right, we’re destined to fail. “Would you, say, minesweep in board shorts and a tank top? Of course not!”

  “Are you referring to minesweeping, which is the act of mine detection, or mine-clearing, which is an entirely separate entity and entails the physical removal process?”

  “Either-flipping-or,” I reply tersely and then I stop myself.

  Calm blue ocean. Calm blue ocean.

  Okay. Better.

  I say, “My point is, the minesweepers and the mine-clearers wouldn’t dare head into danger without their gloves and helmets, right? Running pell-mell into a field of potential landmines could be a death sentence, yes? I’m trying to prevent our accidentally getting exploded. Metaphorically.”

  Grudgingly, Jack admits, “Well, protective equipment is a key component to survival, should the process go awry. I’ve written about soldiers experiencing great success using the Guartel Inflatable Mine Shoes, which allow them to—”

  “Super!” I crow. “You grasp the concept. Perfect. Then consider this—you and I are heading into a different kind of battle tonight. If we show up to the Monaco in yoga pants or mom jeans or a Junior Leaguer shift, we’re done before we begin. We can’t get in without having properly groomed, having dressed for success. We want to blend and we need the right kind of camouflage.”

  “So you’re saying we participate in a makeover, which, I’ve already established, is a no.”

  “How do you not get this? I am not advocating for a makeover. Makeovers, wonderful though they may be, are not appropriate here. Makeovers are for nineties movie montages. Makeovers turn you into someone more elegant, beaucoup sophisticated, trés refined. To go ‘clubbing,’ we’re striving for less elegant, less sophisticated, and less refined. Even if our mission is to go in all CIA, we need to look DTF.”

  “DTF?”

  “Down to—never mind. We need a skank-over. Remember at the end of the movie Grease where Sandy got all tarted up in the shiny cigarette pants and poufy hair? That’s the game plan. We need to be made under. And I have just the person to call for help.”

  • • •

  “Awesomesauce!” Ashley coos, sweeping the final coat of body glitter across my collarbone. “Ohmigod, if the PTO could see you now! You should put your new look on your blog. Everyone would pin the crap out of this!”

  “For sure!” I reply, knowing my posting this outfit is as likely as me sharing my secret Snickerdoodle ingredient with Brooke Birchbaum. (Homemade pumpkin pie spice with grated, crystallized ginger.) “But in case I forget, you’re still a total lifesaver, thank you so much! I owe you a massive favor. And a favor from Kitty Carricoe? Is money in the bank. Fact.”

  Upon the news of our last-minute club-themed costume party (the easiest explanation), Ashley came rushing over with cases of cosmetics, scores of fake hairpieces, and stacks of dresses. I chose the only garment that would accommodate both a strapless bra and a pair of Spanx. The downside is the halter holding up my bodice is made of chain link, which is freezing cold against my skin. But at least I’m not Jack, stuck in a hot pink pleather one-shoulder sheath with a gigantic, daisy-shaped cutout up the side and Pretty Woman–style, thigh-high platform boots.

  “Where’d you learn to do all of this? Are you a makeup artist or film costumer? If not, you should be,” Jack says. I can see why she’d be incredulous, with Ashley all radiant and summer-chic in a blousy Tory Burch tunic, Jack Rogers wedges, and skinny white Bermudas, hair simply secured in a low, messy bun.

  “Eh, I helped on some music videos, nothing real serious, though. This was my daily style before Kitty taught me to be all classy,” Ashley replies. “I’m taken way more serious now, totes legitamittens!”

  “Then well-done. I’m a completely different person in this outfit. I feel like Mata Hari,” Jack says, turning back and forth in front of the mirror, far less distressed than I’d expect. Ashley’s given Jack straight-up Kardashian-inspired hair, slicked back from her face and pulled high and tight, with a fake ponytail that hangs all the way to her waist. To make the extension seamless, Ashley’s braided the ends of Jack’s real hair and wrapped the piece around the clip of the fall, in a woven crown. Her makeup is fairly minimal, save for the J.Lo–style false mink lashes, so long and full they graze her cheekbones when she blinks. “The shoes will probably end me, but otherwise, I’m all ready for the costume party.”

  “How do you like your look, Kitty? Bet you wish Dr. K were here to see you!”

  Actually, that’s not untrue. I’m a sleazy kind of hot, too. Whereas Jack’s all smooth and sleek, I’m leonine with my flowing, clip-in golden mane and air-brushed bronzer. I’m less Snack Mom and more MILF right now.

  “It’s fab! I should borrow all this hair again so Kassie can trick-or-treat as Rapunzel. Where did you get all the clip-ins? I thought you never wore extensions,” I say.

  “Barry and I are into cosplay.”

  So I probably won’t borrow the hair again.

  Ashley circles around me, not completely satisfied. “Something’s missing . . . oh, I know.” She reaches into one of her tubs and pulls out what looks like a set of chicken cutlets. Without a second’s hesitation, she’s suddenly rooting around inside my bodice.

  “Buy a girl a drink first!” I cry. Yet when she’s done, I do appear . . . perkier. Like those three full years of breastfeeding never actually happened.

  “Better, right?”

  I have to agree. Can I purchase these from her?

  Jack says, “Ashley, you are a girl to the nth degree . . . much to our collective advantage. Thank you.”

  “No probs! So, who’s having the party tonight?” Ashley asks, packing up all her lotions and unguents.

  “Some of the hygienists from the office,” I reply.

  “Cool! Gotta run. You both look to die, so have fun! Kisses!”

  We depart soon afterward, but not before Nana Baba nearly wets herself laughing at us. Even though she understands what we’re doing and why the costuming is necessary, we can hear her choke and snort all the way down the drive.

  We climb into the back of the cab and give the driver our destination in the Gold Coast downtown. “You ladies workin’ tonight?” he asks with a leer.

  “That depends. Are you planning on collecting a tip tonight?” Jack replies. After that, he stays quiet.

  “So we’re ready,” she says to me. “Ashley’s makeunder is kind of genius.”

  “Right,” I reply, “but we still need some help. Do you know anyone who has recent experience attracting women in their twenties?”

  Jack places a quick call to Bobby and relays his advice. “He says we need to get a table with bottle service and offer the girls free drinks.”

  I feel an irrational twinge of something—jealousy?—but I can’t even imagine why. I’m a married mom of three and he’s a man-child.

  Even if he is a decent listener.

  “Bobby says that’s the second fastest way to win them over.”

  I shake thoughts of him out of my head and refocus on what’s important. “What’s the first fastest way?” I ask.

  “Free drugs.”

  “Bottle service it is.”

  • • •

  Without Ashley’s careful ministrations and her “chicken cutlets,” we’d have never been granted entry to the Monaco. We’d have never mixed so seamlessly with the rest of the clubgoers. Ashley’s makeunder has delivered us halfway to the finish line, but we still have to find answers.

  We reel in Ingrid’
s roommates, all of whom I recognize from their Instagram accounts, with a story of a breakup and “grrrrl power” and a boyfriend’s stolen credit card. Tonight we’re calling ourselves Patsy and Edina in honor of Absolutely Fabulous, a show Jack and I used to watch together. To “prove” our story, Jack even flashes her platinum AMEX (really?) with her shortened first name on the front.

  Now that we’ve convinced the girls to join us at our table, I assume Jack will take over from here. After all, she’s the trained journalist.

  Ha!

  Five minutes into her White House Press Corps, impeachment-grade, rapid-fire questioning, I have to drag her into the black-walled, smoked-glass, unisex restroom by her ponytail.

  “You are blowing it!” I hiss.

  “I’m not blowing it!” she hisses back.

  I cross my arms over my chicken cutlets. So buoyant! “You’re blowing it and you know it. I thought you were a journalist! I thought you knew how to finagle information out of people! I thought you understood how to infiltrate a community by posing as a member of the community.”

  She begins to twist a strand on the long tail. “I’m used to straightforward fact-gathering. Pitching hardballs. I’m less comfortable with the clandestine, undercover business of investigative reporting. Despite my respect for writers like Barbara Ehrenreich and Pam Zekman, I guess I’m no Nelly Bly.”

  “No kidding.”

  As we glower at each other, men and women filter into the dark restroom, a few to use the facilities for their intended purpose, but most to either couple in the stalls or sniff cocaine off of house keys they’re dipping into small vials. Every time the door opens, we’re hit with a blast of electronic dance music.

  “This is fascinating!” Jack says in a low voice, attention diverted by a mesh-shirted, muscled man partaking of the booger sugar. “I always assumed one needed a white suit and a mirrored table to snort lines Scarface-style, but that’s not true. While I’ve toured the poppy fields where Afghans harvest the raw opium from inside the seedpods, which is the first step in making heroin, I’ve never seen—”

  I clap my palm over her mouth, which she instinctively bites.

  After the screaming and subsequent wrestling, I rinse the now tender flesh under the faucet. I tell her, “Stop. Talking. You’re killing our game here with the earnest Lois Lane thing. Fact. If we didn’t spring for three flavors of Cîroc—you’re paying for those, by the way—they’d have already bolted because you’re coming on like Demented Diane Sawyer. Or Crazy Katie Couric.”

  She protests, “But—”

  I dry my hands on a paper towel before generously slathering the bite with sanitizing gel. “Nope. No. Don’t want to hear it, Batcrap Barbara Walters. The new plan is, I’m in charge. You will sit there quietly and drink premium flavored vodka when you’re not busy dancing. No, do not give me that face. Yes, you will dance—this is a nightclub. People dance. You are people. But mostly, you will drink and be quiet. If you are addressed, you may offer one of the following responses: ‘OMG,’ ‘WTF,’ or ‘STBY.’ Do not share opinions. Do not mention semiotics. And for crying out loud, say nothing about Malaysia. I am not negotiating; this is how we’re rolling. You had your chance to lead and you failed. Kitty’s in charge now. Not Jack. Get it? Got it? Good. Let’s head back now before they realize something’s up.”

  She follows me out the bathroom door into the pulsing music of the club, where the bass is so profound I can feel it vibrate clean through me.

  She asks, “What’s STBY?”

  “Sucks to Be You, which is what the code means, not a personal opinion. You, zip it. Not kidding.” When we approach our table, I grin at Hallee, Shay, and Blake, Ingrid’s roommates. I have to raise my voice for them to hear me. “’S’up, bitches! Edina needed a little breakfast cereal to turn it up. Don’t worry, she’s legitamittens now. Totes sorry we didn’t bring enough to share with the rest of the class! Tear!”

  Blake, Shay, and Hallee nod while Jack gawps at me openmouthed, which earns her a solid stomp on her instep under the table. She kicks me back. I pinch her and she elbows me in the chicken cutlet. I grab ahold of her ponytail and that immobilizes her. By way of explanation, I say, “She always gets a little violent before she starts to roll. Ignore her. If she convulses, we’ll shove a spoon in her mouth so she doesn’t choke on her tongue.”

  Jack removes my hand from her hair, offering us a terse, “OMG,” in response.

  What’s interesting to note is that I’m the Mata Hari here, not Jack, because it’s me who turns the conversation to the information we solicit.

  “Have you guys ever had, like, a bad roomie? I had one in college a couple of years ago. She was the woooooooorst. Mean it,” I say during a quieter part of the music, while avoiding Jack’s poisonous glare. “Total she-male, but that didn’t stop her from banging my boyfriend.”

  “Like, I don’t even have time for more bad roommates,” Hallee says. “So we share a place with this basic bitch named Ingrid, right?”

  Jack relaxes a little bit when she sees that my line of questioning is headed somewhere.

  Hallee continues. “So last week, she’s all boohoo, but then on Tuesday morning? Hashtag gone girl while we were all at work.”

  “You have jobs?” Jack asks and I pinch her. “OMG!”

  “Um, yeah? I’m a receptionist, Shay does graphic design, and Blake teaches spin classes, hashtag SoulCycle. Anyway, Ingrid took none of her good shit, either. Left her jewelry, her major electronics, and her shearling coat, hashtag mine now.”

  “Are you worried?” I ask, ignoring how Jack’s pinching me back.

  “Hells, naw! Bitch Bogarted all my sluttiest La Perla thongs,” Hallee huffs, one eye on us, one scanning the crowd for attractive potential bathroom partners. “She’d best stay gone girl, far as I’m concerned.”

  “Right?” Shay added, giving her leopard-print tube top a judicious yank. “I don’t like to throw shade, but I haven’t even worn the new gingham Juicy Couture bikini she took. And she, like, tore off the tags and left them on my bed for me to clean up. I can’t even. I’ve been texting and texting, but all afternoon, it’s been all Message Error, Message Error. She’s oh-tee-gee.”

  “Is it your opinion that she seemed to have left in a hurry, and if so, what precipitated this act?” Jack asks. I deliver another ninja table kick and she clears her throat and says, “I mean, WTF, STBY!”

  “For reals,” Blake agrees, sweeping a curtain of straight, tawny hair over one shoulder. “What I don’t get is why go off the grid with my duffel bags? I’m not here for it, you know? I have a bunch of them for the gym and for dance practice and work and stuff and she snatched ’em all. I mean, yassss for her not stealing my Kate Spade suitcases, but they were right next to each other in my closet. Why grab the ones with stank on them? Like, I get she was upset over her boss buying the farm and all, but to take off two days later, with our premium shit? I’m all, ‘Cuntasaurus Rex much?’”

  When the girls go dance, Jack pounces on me. “So Ingrid went from mourning Trip to stealing new bikinis and skimpy underwear in a matter of less than a week? Why? And where did she travel that’s out of text range? Cell phones work all over the world, but outside of the US only with an international plan, which tells me (a) she’s likely away from the continental United States as of this afternoon and (b) her trip wasn’t premeditated.”

  “What does it all mean?” I ask.

  Jack’s words come out in a rush, as she tries to finish her thought before the Beyoncé remix ends. “I’m trying to connect the dots. Why would Ingrid leave valuable possessions, but take multiple heavy canvas bags? Did she grab said bags on Trip’s instructions, perhaps to ferry large amounts of cash? That’s my best guess. But where might he have stashed the cash? Through the Foreign Accounts Compliance Act, the IRS has cracked down on US citizens hiding money in offshore accounts over the past few year
s. Even places like the Caymans and Switzerland are beginning to comply, so money deposited in a bank seems somewhat unlikely—”

  “We need more information. We have to get into the apartment. We’ve got to see what’s on her computer,” I say.

  “Affirmative,” Jack says. “Breaking and entering? On it. But I’ll probably need to change shoes first and put on underwear.”

  “You’re not wearing underwear?”

  “I’m exposed from hip to thigh. Where would I put them?”

  I shudder. “Thank goodness my lessons about sitting like a lady finally sank in. Also? Eww.”

  She twists a bit of her fake hair. “Yeah, tell me about it. Once on assignment I went a month without a shower. This feels worse. Far worse.”

  “Well, sorry to hear it. Mean it. Anyway, I have an idea. How much cash do you have, Jack?” A cocktail waitress comes by to police up our empties. She points at the empty Cîroc Coconut bottle and I gesture for one more. On Jack’s tab, naturally.

  “About three hundred bucks? Plus a debit card and other assorted plastic. Why?”

  I look over both my shoulders to make sure the waitress is gone. “Go buy us some drugs. We need bait.”

  “What? Are you crazy? How about (a) no, and (b) how would I even go about purchasing illegal substances?”

  I grab the back of her ponytail so she has no choice but to look at me. “Let me get this straight—breaking and entering is fine, but buying three grams of ecstasy from a guy in the bathroom is out of the question? Do you want to help Betsy or not? I got us this far, Jordan. Do your part. Bring this home.”

  Jack stomps off to the bathroom, ponytail swinging, and returns five minutes later.

  “I’m both pleased and disheartened at how easy it is to buy drugs here,” she says, gesturing toward what looks like a bag full of Skittles in the top part of her thigh-high boot.

  “What the actual hell, Jordan? There’s like sixty pills there!”