Twisted Sisters

by Jen Lancaster

  The conference room is packed to capacity and the meeting was supposed to start a few minutes ago. We’ve all been summoned here, but it occurs to me that I have no idea who’s actually running the show now that Patty and her team are gone. As we’re burning daylight, it’s hot, and I’m sure we’re violating fire code, I feel like it falls on me to finally ask, “Excuse me, who’s in charge here?” We all crane our heads to see who’s stepping up to run the show, both literally and figuratively.

  And Mr. Outdoorsy Handsome Wrists replies, “That would be me.”

  Shit.

  • • •

  “The key word this season is big. I want big stories about big lives with big results. You follow?” declares Benjamin Kassel, our new executive producer (and free-lunch antagonist). He’s been sent here from LA to run the show, or possibly ruin it; I’m presently undecided.

  I glower from the back of the room. Actually, no, Benjamin Kassel, I don’t follow you. I’m too distracted by the sound of everyone’s rumbling stomachs and your refusal to use our given names.

  Am leaning toward “ruin.”

  He points at Mindy, who’s wearing a black T-shirt embossed with the words “Hail to the Thief” in white lettering. “You! Radiohead! What’s this season going to be?”

  “I don’t know?”

  Oh, come on, kid. This isn’t exactly an SAT question or remembering your date’s name before you take the walk of shame in the morning. She looks around for help and Craig mouths the answer to her. “Is it . . . big?”

  Kassel claps so loud I jump in my chair. “Yes! And what’s going to make it big? Anyone?”

  I mutter to Deva, “His ego, perchance?” (“Wrists” would also be an acceptable answer.)

  Benjamin “call me Kassel” spent the first twenty minutes of this meeting telling us all about his illustrious career, the highlights of which include dropping out of UCLA after his junior year and executive producing a show called Make ’Em Eat a Bug. Color me not impressed.

  He points to me. “Something to share with the group back there, Peace Corps?”

  My hackles are instantly raised. “I beg your pardon?”

  “Seems like you have input. Love to hear it.”

  I sit up straight and level his gaze. “I absolutely have input. First, I believe I speak for the group in saying it’s offensive to not be called by our given names. Dehumanizing, in fact. For example, I am Dr. Bishop, so when you call me ‘Peace Corps’ it diminishes everything I’ve accomplished as a professional.”

  His amusement fades and he puts on a serious face.

  That’s more like it.

  I’ll not have my credentials mocked; I sacrificed too much to earn them.

  “Sorry. From now on, I’ll call you Dr. Peace Corps.” The shit-eating grin returns. Stupid orthodontia. “When you’re finished giving the world a hug, Doctor, how will you contribute to making this show big?”

  Definitely “ruin.”

  With as much control as I can muster, I say, “As I’ve done most successfully for two seasons, I plan to continue using cognitive strategies to help our pushees achieve maximum behavior modification through evidence-based treatment. In my experience—”

  “Boring! I need asses in seats. Anyone else have a bright idea? Anyone?” He begins to point at various staffers. “You, Sideburns?” Our hipster/muttonchopped sound engineer simply shrugs. Then he gestures toward the dark-haired makeup artist who arrived late and is still wearing her backpack. “How ’bout you, Dora the Explorer?”

  Under my breath, I tell Deva, “You want an ass in a seat? Then maybe you should sit down.”

  Deva replies, “For what it’s worth, Reagan Bishop, I’m seeing the murky red now.”

  Kassel begins to pace in front of the whiteboard at the head of the room. “Here’s the deal—everything about this show is wrong.” At that, the audience starts to grumble, except for Mindy, who’s mentally spent from answering such a difficult question and is now surreptitiously sending texts.

  I whisper to Deva, “Why? Are our pushees not eating enough bugs?”

  One of the preppy blond production assistants raises her hand. I’m perpetually intrigued by her vast collection of embroidered belts and gravity-defying collars. She’s as sharp as a tack and ambitious to boot, so naturally Dr. Karen grabs her first whenever she can. “Wendy said we were doing God’s work!”

  “Bup, bup—don’t get your panties in a wad, Muffy.” Ironically, her name is Muffy. “Let me amend my statement. Push is at a five in terms of drama. That’s being generous. We need to turn it up to eleven.”

  “How do you propose we do that?” I say, louder than I intended.

  “First of all, we need better guests.”

  Craig volunteers, “They’re called pushees.”

  “Uh-huh, they were, and now they’re called guests, Horn-Rims. About the guests—boring! Bulimic ballerinas who don’t let us film them bingeing and purging? Boring! Families who can’t communicate their feelings? Boring! A hoarding grandma? Listen, if there’s no flattened cat under that rubble, then she’s wasting all of our time. Hoard big or go home.”

  Everyone’s mouth is hanging open at this point. I can’t be the only person in the room wondering if Wendy’s just punked all of us.

  Backpedaling a bit he says, “Don’t get me wrong—no one wants to see a flat cat. Do you want to see a flat cat, Tank Top?” He points to the second cameraman, who replies, “Nope.”

  “Me, neither, I don’t want to see a flat cat . . . well, at least not until sweeps. Point being if we’re not in cat-flattening territory, then we haven’t gone far enough! That grandmother who was able to hide so much of her disorder? Boring! I want trash up to the windows and spilling out the door. Understand? I want neighbors testifying about the smell in front of city council. I want to see bony ballerinas pirouetting knee-deep in empty Ben and Jerry’s cartons and Doritos bags. I want families tossing chairs, all right? I want crazy on the outside where the audience can see it, am I right, Radiohead?”

  To which Mindy replies, “Big?”

  “See? Radiohead gets it. The rest of you will, too. If we’re going to change everything, we have to change everything. Now, how do you guys normally find guests?”

  “We filter requests from our Web site and viewer mail,” says Ruby, one of the associate producers. Ruby used to run a YouTube channel and gained a bit of a cult following with her webisodes, so Wendy snapped her up, looking past her Goth-girl exterior, saying talent like hers shouldn’t be wasted on the Web. Bar none, she’s our best associate producer.

  “You don’t source them yourselves?” Kassel asks.

  “That hasn’t been necessary,” Ruby replies. “We’ve had a lot of luck with the pool of applicants who contact us.”

  “Well, Nose Ring, your pool is shallow and boring, and that changes today. For the first month while we build an audience, we need to go big, big, big, so I’ve lined up some celebrities. Mostly D-list. Okay, entirely D-list. I’m talking ex–reality show people, aging teen stars, has-beens, basically anyone who’s willing to bare their soul for a chance to be on TV again. And a check, of course.”

  Faye, a senior producer and Wendy Winsberg veteran, interjects, “We never pay our pushees.”

  “Which is why we’ve gotten what we’ve paid for to date. The new strategy is we use those famous enough to garner ratings, but not so famous that they can afford the house makeovers on their own.”

  I don’t even realize my hand is in the air until he calls on me. “Problem, Peace Corps?”

  I’m so rattled that I’m practically sputtering. “Since when do we do home makeovers? This program is about pushing individuals to change their behavior, not . . . product placing refrigerators.”

  I will not have my work upstaged by a guest receiving a free F
ord F-150.

  Kassel snaps his fingers at Carol, the office manager, sitting at the head of the table, who’s done nothing but take minutes since the minute he started talking. “Yo, Note Pad, write that down. We need to approach Sears about a sponsorship. They’re in bed with Extreme Makeover: Home Edition, but maybe their deal isn’t exclusive. Okay, covered that. Who can tell me how you guys divide into teams once you’ve picked your guest?”

  Ruby tells him, “We employ a collaborative approach. As a group, we choose who we’re going to help and we make assignments accordingly. Once we decide on the lead producer, we assign according to everyone’s interest and level of commitment.”

  Kassel nods. “So that’s ridiculous. Antiquated. You looking to form a trust circle or are you trying to make powerful television? Well, we’re done with the old ways and we’re changing everything from the ground up. Radiohead, what do you have to say about that?”

  Mindy glances up from her iPhone. “I’m hungry?”

  Kassel high-fives Mindy. “Yes! That’s right! You’re hungry. We’re all hungry—hungry for change. And the time for change has come. First up, enough with the management by committee. You’ll work in small groups and you’ll like it. We’re going to specialize. There’s no need for everyone to have their hands on every aspect. We’ll divide and conquer! This is going to be great, I promise.”

  Then why doesn’t it feel great?

  I’m beginning to fear Patty was right—maybe you really can’t trust a promise from a network guy.

  CHAPTER SIX

  Party Girl

  I love parties!

  I love parties!

  I love parties!

  Nope, no matter where I place the emphasis, I can’t seem to psych myself up about this thing.

  Under what circumstances might I be able to avoid the whole ordeal? I wish Push was already in production because I could claim to be shooting in a different city. But I opened my fat mouth and mentioned we weren’t starting until next week, so that excuse is officially off the table.

  Hmm . . . I could not go because I was sick. What a relief that would be! Summer colds are the worst, right? Everyone’s at the lake or riding bikes or having drinks outdoors, except for me, who’s at home, alternately freezing and sweating beneath the down comforter that covers my couch-bed. And my coffee table becomes a mini organic pharmacy, with all the bottles of echinacea, goldenseal, honey and ginger tea. Time my illness right and I could catch up on an entire season of the more obscure Real Housewives, like DC or Miami. I never did quite hear the full story of the White House party crasher. And Sebastian could bring me sweet-and-sour cabbage borscht from the Bagel in Lakeview, even though matzo-ball would be better, except I don’t eat chicken broth.

  Actually, that sounds like a fun day.

  I should make a mental note to not wash my hands after riding the El.

  Although . . . eeeew.

  Also, I’m not sure Sebastian would bring me soup.

  Okay, what if I simply pretended to be sick? That might be doable. I could start planting the seeds right now on my Facebook fan page, mentioning that I feel a touch of something coming on. I’d lay the groundwork for skipping the party by describing a new symptom every day, all, “Hey, is anyone else experiencing postnasal drip?”

  Then my coming infirmity would get back to the family because Geri follows my page. I’m aware of her presence because occasionally she’ll “like” one of my comments or photos. Ugh. I wish I could block her from seeing my profile without causing a familial shitstorm, the likes of which would wipe out the entire north side of Chicago.

  But nooooo, I have to endure her faux support. “So cool!” “Nice picture!” “Way to go!” Be a little more insincere, why don’t you? Her running commentary absolutely incenses me because she’s just doing it to be noticed.

  Oh, I’m sorry, Geri—do you not already receive enough 24/7 attention from our parents, who love you so darned much that they believe your living in their basement is the totally normal thing for an adult child to do?

  Or what about Mary Mac, who’s also so deeply enmeshed that she bought a house two doors away? This is not healthy. Most families don’t live in each other’s backyards by design. They need distance. They need separation. They need the chance to miss one another once in a while. My parents even keep Mary Mac’s husband’s woodworking magazines in their bathroom in case Mickey has to make number two while he’s there.

  Go poop in your own house. It’s two doors away.

  What is wrong with you people?

  And yet this is my lot in life. I’m obligated to be a part of their big, obnoxious, happy-family celebration. Now I won’t have time to do the full thirteen-mile training run I’d planned on Sunday, followed by an afternoon of recovery and iced beverages at the ’Bou. And I’ll be hard-pressed to settle into my research and organization for my preproduction meetings with my new team this week. Instead, I’ll be forced to make pleasant conversation with my asshole sisters, and if I’m not polite, Ma will drag me by the ear into the laundry room to yell at me. I’m thirty-three years old and I have a doctorate degree, yet the second I walk in the front door, I’m a child all over again.

  I am a party girl!

  I am a party girl!

  I am a party girl!

  It’s official—I can’t positively affirm myself into not dreading the day.

  • • •

  I wake up feeling like there’s an anvil on my chest. For a second, I wonder if I didn’t accidentally manifest my dreams of bird flu into reality, but then I remember it’s Sunday and I have to attend the stupid birthday party.

  At least I’ll have the confidence of having picked the perfect gift. I spent an hour at the Building Blocks Toy Store on Lincoln trying to find something awesome for little Finley-Cormack-Liam-Patrick-pick-a-name-already. The clerk and I settled on a motorized erector set. He’s already expressed interest in being a builder like his old man, so I’m confident he’ll love it.

  I won’t hold my breath waiting for a thank-you note, though.

  I pull up to my parents’ classic Chicago bungalow, my heart in my throat. Why do I have to do this? I’d rather be anywhere but here. Like, perhaps getting a Pap smear. Possibly from Captain Hook. I’d kill to be draped in nothing but a sheet right now, my gynecologist urging me to scoot a little bit closer to the edge of the table.

  Or maybe I could be taking my SATs again.

  Wait, I enjoyed taking my SATs. Poor example.

  The front door’s open, so I let myself in, walking through the living room, which has barely changed a lick since I lived under this roof, save for my mother finally, finally removing the plastic slipcover from the formal floral sofa. Have you any idea what it feels like to sit on a plastic-covered couch on a sweltering July day? Your skin fuses to it and practically peels off when you finally stand up. Of course, Princess Geri requires central air for her delicate constitution, so my parents upgraded from ineffectual window units only after I left for college.

  This room is a moment frozen in time. Almost every doily, every knickknack, every occasional table has been in the exact same spot for as long as I can remember. The shelves on either side of the fireplace and mantelpiece are still filled with all the old photos and trophies, too. What’s ironic is I’ve given them a dozen photos of Sebastian and me, yet they refuse to replace the antiquated shot of Boyd teaching me to surf on Zuma Beach. (I do rock the bikini, though.)

  The rest of the house is more modern, and Dad’s always upgrading the size of his television, but this particular room is a living Bishop family time capsule. I peer at the shot of Mary Mac clad in her Irish dancing outfit. She looks so young! She’s always weary now, slouching around in yoga pants and a ratty ponytail, so it’s odd to remember her all fresh faced, not being surrounded by half a dozen kids and covered in oatme
al.

  In this photo, her hair’s pushed back with a mini-crown, and she has hundreds and hundreds of perfectly formed copper-colored ringlets. My mother struggled with the curling iron for years before finally saying, “Screw it,” and investing in a wig. Said it was the best decision she ever made.

  I remember how much I admired Mary Mac’s Irish dance solo dress, which you couldn’t just buy. Instead, the right to wear that garment had to be earned through competition and participating in exhibitions. And then it wasn’t a matter of simply picking out whatever the dancer preferred. Instead, all the candidates had to model dozens of options for the dance mistress. Dancers ranked their favorites and then the mistress matched up which girl should be with which dress. Mary Mac briefly joined a sorority in college and said the rush process wasn’t nearly as intense as the dress selection.

  God, I loved her solo dress. It was the most magnificent piece of clothing I’d ever seen. The top was perfectly fitted due to the lattice of silken ribbons running down the back. The deep cobalt blue velvet fabric was embroidered with what looked like peacock feathers cascading in a multicolored waterfall down from the shoulder, forming a handkerchief hemline. The skirt was full and swingy due to layers and layers of petticoats, while the bell sleeves added a dash of worldly elegance and sophistication. The fact that no two solo dresses are the same only added to its mystique.

  While I study the shot, my jaw inadvertently clenches. I remember how I couldn’t go to language camp the year Mary Mac received her dress because it was so expensive. Then, within six months, she stopped competing on the weekends in favor of hanging out with Mickey. Yet was I allowed to borrow her glorious garment for trick-or-treating? Of course not! Mary Mac was all, “Sure, you can wear it—as soon as you earn the right.”

  Do I even need to mention how ten years later, Geri happily Riverdanced all over the neighborhood in the damn thing on Halloween?