Twisted Sisters

by Jen Lancaster

  Deva swallows hard and replies, “About the same,” and yet I’m not sure I believe her.

  “Anything you want to discuss?” I ask. She seems like she’s hiding something.

  Breezily, she replies, “Perhaps another day, Reagan Bishop. But I’m curious as to why you chose the profession you did.”

  “Promise not to laugh?” I ask.

  “Indeed.”

  “Frasier.”

  She cocks her head. “As in the fir?”

  “No, as in the psychiatrist from Cheers and then from Frasier. I was just hitting my teens when the spin-off show came on, and it was the one program on which the whole family could agree. Of course, my folks loved it because they thought the retired-cop dad was so great, but I identified with Kelsey Grammer’s character. He breathed life into what I felt every day—like he was a lotus who grew out of the mud.”

  “I thought your parents had a pool in their yard.”

  I reply, “Nice mud, solid middle-class mud, but still. Mud. Outside of Mary Mac’s feckless year at Northern, no one’s educated, no one’s white-collar. Financially, my parents have made a number of sound decisions, but try explaining that to the snotty little shits at Taylor Park. I knew I was out of my league socially when I got there, so I threw myself into academics to avoid potentially being ostracized.”

  A flash of something darkens Deva’s features for a moment, but she blinks hard a couple of times and it quickly passes. “The best thing about high school is that you never have to go back,” she says lightly. “But at least you love what you do now.”

  Deva’s statement almost comes across as a question, so I confidently reply, “Indeed.”

  Of course I love what I do.

  I mean, I feel like I love what I do.

  I definitely love the benefits that come from being on Push. I love feeling like I’m changing lives in front of an audience. I love the travel and how it’s never the same show twice. Plus, I love meeting fans in the grocery store. I really loved having access to Wendy Winsberg.

  Back when I was in private practice, I truly enjoyed assisting others in finding resolutions, even though sometimes I could get a bit distracted. I’m not always as patient as I should be in certain situations, either. And yes, sometimes it’s frustrating that I can’t just take the damn reins already and force my patients into the right direction. But overall, therapy is the best job I’ve ever had, and it’s only been made better by being on camera.

  I think.

  I did adore the work-study I held in the U of C writing lab, but that was a million years ago.

  Of course, I never considered whether I’d rather hold another job, because this is what I’ve been training for my entire adult life, and I have another ten years’ worth of student loans to prove it.

  I’m doing what I should be doing.

  Of course, Boyd would disagree, but he no longer has a say.

  My point here is I got ninety-nine problems but the job ain’t one.

  At least, that’s what I tell myself.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Adventures in Awesome

  “Here are half a dozen Twitpics of her modeling a thong. Wow, that mesh front doesn’t leave a lot to the imagination, does it? Clamshell-city.”

  Ruby’s scrolling through her iPhone and narrating the most alarming status updates from Ashlee Austin, our show’s first official guest, while the rest of us listen. I wasn’t terribly familiar with Ashlee’s body of work, but according to Faye, she was a huge teen star on some kids’ network years ago. Ever since her TV show Ashlee’s Adventures in Awesome ended, she’s made a series of questionable decisions, which have recently escalated in severity.

  Ruby winces as she thumbs past entries. Despite all outward appearances—piercings, dyed black hair, dominatrix boots, et cetera—she possesses the moral compass of your garden-variety Mennonite. “Good God, Ashlee. Please tell me you didn’t do this.”

  “What now?” I ask. After hearing dozens of disturbing tweets, I shouldn’t be surprised by this one.

  Ruby reads, “‘LAPD r bulshet’—I think she means bullshit—‘and I waznt drinkin much. Am just supr skinnie from juice cleanz and low toleratin.’”

  “Her DUI is a matter of public record, as are all her hit-and-run accidents,” Faye says, not looking up from her almost constant knitting. She quit smoking last year and now she channels her nervous energy into her needles. She made me a gray cashmere pashmina recently—it’s gorgeous! “That’s why she’s agreed to appear on the show. The judge said she could come to Push or go to jail.”

  Ruby replies, “Yeah, but the arrest itself isn’t the most cringe-worthy part. I’m referring to the fifteen subsequent tweets to the Speaker of the House demanding he grant her diplomatic immunity. She keeps calling him ‘Congressman Boner.’ I feel secondhand shame for her. Is this about the drinking? Is she an alcoholic?”

  “Possibly, possibly not,” I reply. “I won’t have a clear picture until we begin therapy. Diagnoses aren’t always so cut-and-dried. Her binge drinking may be an offshoot of something else, say, an accommodation for a social anxiety disorder, rather than a true addiction.”

  “Ashlee seems like she’d be superfun,” volunteers Mindy.

  Ruby, Faye, and I exchange weary glances. None of us are thrilled to be saddled with Mindy. I suspect she was assigned to our team because each of us took umbrage with Kassel at the initial production meeting. We’ve tried to limit her participation in today’s strategy session, but we’ve already sent her out for hot beverages three times in the past two hours. I don’t know which is worse, the prospect of Mindy catching on to our collective contempt or my bladder exploding from consuming so much green tea.

  Mindy adds, “TMZ reports she’s been stalking Ol’ Rat Nasty. Wonder if that’s true. I guess I can ask her later, right?”

  “I’m sorry—who?” I ask. I’m missing the better part of a decade of pop culture familiarity from when I was busy with grad school and my internship. At the time, I had no idea shows like Gilmore Girls, Veronica Mars, and Battlestar Galactica even existed.

  “Ol’ Rat Nasty! Don’t let the name fool you, he fiiiiiine,” Mindy gushes.

  Faye explains, “He was a child star, too. His given name is Clarence Floyd and he was on that sitcom where the alien family crash-lands in South Philly. Marz ’N the Hood? Sound familiar?”

  I shake my head. “That was real? I assumed it was a Saturday Night Live parody.” At the time, I vaguely recall Boyd used to quote something like, “Martians? In Philly? I won’t hear of it!” which now makes more sense.

  “Huge hit,” Faye assures me, inspecting the length of stockinette-stitched baby blue alpaca yarn. Satisfied with her work, she continues. “Really massive. Was syndicated in something like eighty-three countries. Clarence was positioned to make the leap to film and become the next Will Smith. Then he dropped out of the public eye in his late teens.”

  “Did he snap?” I ask. Sadly, they almost always snap. One day, they’re cashing a residual check, the next they’re robbing a dry cleaner.

  “Far from it! He went to Cornell and then enrolled in USC’s business school. Got his MBA at Marshall and he’s since reinvented himself as the rapper Ol’ Rat Nasty. He owns a record label now, too.”

  “And a line of energy drinks,” Ruby adds. “I just read in Forbes that NastyWater grossed a hundred fifty million last year.”

  Mindy exclaims, “NastyWater’s sick!” I’d inquire if “sick” were a positive or a negative, except I don’t care. “Anyway, I’m pretty sure Ashlee wants to get her Nasty on.”

  Ruby nods. “Ah, hence the following tweet. Brace yourselves—‘I wish Ol’ Rat Nasty would slay my panty hamster.’”

  My skin crawls.

  I hear a commotion in the hallway, immediately followed by a firm kno
ck. “Hello, hello! Your star is here!” Kassel materializes at the door of our conference room, followed by the other staffers on our team, including a hairdresser, a makeup artist, an interior designer, a fitness guru, a wardrobe stylist, Kassel’s assistant, a couple of interns, and Deva. The last person in the room is a very pretty girl with a very bald head.

  “Everyone, meet Ashlee.” I notice Kassel has no problem calling her by her given name. Typical.

  I’m not sure what to make of Ashlee’s naked pate. She doesn’t appear to be ill and there’s a healthy amount of stubble, leading me to believe she’s not undergoing chemotherapy. That’s when I notice Mindy’s gawping, complete with an open mouth, and I realize that this ’do is both new and unexpected.

  After a round of introductions and greetings, Kassel whips out his iPad and begins to rattle off the schedule. The hair on his wrists is particularly sun-bleached and downy.

  Not that I care about that kind of thing. I equally admire Sebastian’s slender wrists. (That is, when they bother to operate his hands and dial me back.)

  Everyone takes notes except for Ashlee, who stares forlornly out the window, occasionally running a hand over the barren landscape that is her skull.

  “You.” Kassel points to Marcy, the interior designer. She’s all done up in Pat Benatar eye makeup, shoulder pads, and fluorescents. She looks like the physical embodiment of a Nagel print. Are the eighties back again? I can never keep up with this stuff. “You’re heading to Brentwood to work on Ashlee’s condo. Your sketches have been approved and supplies are ordered. The contractors are on-site already and they’ve started the demo. You’re set, get out of here.”

  Marcy scoops up her portfolio and fabric-sample binders and exits in a cloud of Christian Dior Poison.

  “The rest of us will stay here in Chicago. So here’s how the next week shapes up.” Kassel’s assistant then hands out hard copies of the schedule and tells us she’s also sent each of us electronic copies. “Starting Monday, Ashlee’s working out with Jimbo every morning from nine a.m. to twelve p.m. She’ll break for lunch until two p.m., and then she’s doing a hair consult Monday afternoon—you have a wigmaker lined up, yes?”

  Marco the Roman hairdresser offers us the thumbs-up. “Sì!”

  I’m so glad we’re covering the most important elements first.

  “Excellent. Makeup on Tuesday, wardrobe Wednesday, therapy Thursday, and Friday you do your voodoo. Heh.” He gestures toward Deva, who places her palms together and gives him a slight bow.

  “Sound like a plan? Everyone understand their role?”

  I glance down at the single sheet. “Where’s the rest of our schedule? Or will our time with Ashlee vary from week to week?”

  Kassel frowns at me. “What week to week? This is it.”

  “But that can’t be.”

  “I assure you, Peace Corps, it can and will.”

  I’m gobsmacked. “I’m sorry, what? Is your expectation that I have an afternoon to help this girl? That’s it? A few hours on a Thursday? Are you kidding? How do you expect me to miracle any sort of results in an afternoon? The whole point of I Need a Push is having the time and resources to instill real change. I can’t do that in an afternoon.” Venom (and panic) practically drips off my every word.

  And, not to split hairs, but what of my screen time? I pretty much was the entire show, and now I’m going to be what? A segment between picking out paint and shopping for sneakers? Unfair!

  Kassel nods and begins to scroll through his schedule. “I hear what you’re saying and I wouldn’t expect you to solve everything in an afternoon.”

  That’s more like it. The idea of trying to—

  He continues, “Feel free to work through dinner.”

  “I have no idea what Ashlee’s problems are and I certainly can’t treat them in half a day!” My blood pressure has shot through the roof and I can feel my heart almost pounding out of my chest as hopes for my spin-off slip away.

  Deva whispers to me, “So murky red, Reagan Bishop.”

  Kassel shrugs. “All I’m saying is Dr. Phil can do it in an hour. With commercial breaks.”

  I leap out of my seat. “Then maybe you should hire Dr. Phil.”

  “Like we could afford him!” Kassel cracks himself up over this line. “Besides, Dr. Karen said the timeline was no problem.”

  “Because I’m sure she’ll medicate the pushees—”

  “Guests.”

  It’s all I can do not to slap the bejesus out of this man. “Then she’ll medicate the guests into oblivion. They’ll be too drugged up for recidivism!”

  Kassel leans forward and rests his arms on the table. “I’m failing to see the problem here. We get our aha-moment footage, the pharmaceuticals help guests curb whatever behavior brought them to us in the first place, and the audience thrills in the big reveal at the end of the show. If they need it, we’ll pay for therapy afterward. This formula has Emmy written all over it. Trust me, I’ve won six.”

  “This is utter and complete . . . six, did you say? You’ve won six Emmys? For eating bugs?” His news completely stops me in my tracks.

  Not that recognition of this sort would change my treatment plan, but six Emmys is more than a little impressive. What would it be like if I were part of the team who won six Emmys? What would my family say? Maybe they’d finally have something to talk about other than Mary Mac grinding her own sausage for the birthday party. Mary Mac—these have so much flavor! And they’re so tender! You’re so talented! Oh, that fennel! Really? A homemade encased-meat product garners that kind of praise? Correct me if I’m wrong, but the process of stuffing your own sausage isn’t much more complicated than putting on a condom.

  Then again, Mary Mac has, like, a dozen kids. Perhaps anything related to using contraception should be cause for celebration.

  When I graduated from Pepperdine, everyone said, This doesn’t give you license to psychoanalyze us, Reagan. No Great job! or What a stunning achievement! Where were my sausage-stuffed kudos? Why does the bar have to be set so much higher for me? How is that fair? I’m killing myself here and Mary Mac gets a parade for having made lunch.

  Kassel’s continued to talk while I’ve been lost in thought, but I manage to catch the end of it. “. . . then why don’t we ask Ashlee? Ashlee, are you able to extend your treatment more than a week?”

  Ashlee curls her delicate lip. “No way. That’d cut into my time filming The Bitches of Brentwood.”

  “I can’t wait to watch!” Mindy enthuses. Then she explains, “It’s a reality show, kind of like the Housewives, only trashier.” According to Us Weekly, which I might read at the gym on occasion, it’s supposed to be Keeping Up with the Kardashians meets Mean Girls.

  Who’d want to watch that?

  (I mean, if they weren’t home sick with a summer cold and all the rules were temporarily suspended.)

  Ashlee smiles for the first time. Personally, I’m concerned that she doesn’t consider “trashy” an insult. I mentally place “self-worth issues” at the top of my list.

  “Ashlee,” I reason, “I’m fighting for you right now. Help me help you.”

  “You really want to help me?” she queries.

  “In any way that I can,” I reply.

  She rises from her seat and starts to walk away. “Then come with me.”

  Before I can even ask where we’re going, Kassel uses his wrists (and palms) to shove me out the door behind her.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  And Then That Happened

  As we exit the studio parking lot, I find myself in the back of a stretch limo with Ashlee and Gary. To this point, I’ve known Gary as “the second cameraman,” as I see him only on the rare occasions when we’re shooting on location.

  We haven’t officially started taping yet, so none of the crew are availa
ble in the studio for this mission, save for Gary, who, up until three minutes ago, was napping on the same couch where a pint-sized action star once jumped up and down, declaring his unquestionably heterosexual love for a well-compensated ingenue (like you do). And then, two minutes ago, Kassel loaded him and his camera in the car with us with the instructions to “Film everything!”

  “Why were you sleeping in the studio?” I ask.

  He rubs a bit of crud out of his eye and says, “I was tired,” like this is a perfectly reasonable explanation.

  “What’s wrong with your house?” I ask.

  “It’s hot.”

  “Turn on your air conditioner.”

  “I’m not sure I have one.”

  What does that mean? “You’re not sure? Have you checked your thermostat to see if you have the AC setting?”

  “No. But someone must have checked or I’d have known, right?”

  “Do you have roommates?”

  “No.”

  “Then who would have looked at the thermostat and told you anything one way or the other?”

  “I don’t know.” He scratches his chin. “That is indeed a puzzler.”

  “Maybe until you determine the status of your whole-house HVAC, you could purchase an air conditioner for your bedroom so you don’t have to sleep on the couch where we film the show?”

  He peers at me as though I’ve just revealed all the secrets of the universe. “Huh. I guess I never thought of that.” As he looks around the back of the limo, he focuses on Ashlee’s head. “Have you always been bald?”

  She simply scowls in response.

  I can’t blame you there, sister.

  The driver lowers the privacy screen and asks where we’re going. Ashlee rattles off an address in the vicinity of the Mag Mile and our ship of fools sets sail.

  Minutes later, we’re idling in front of the Peninsula Hotel, apparently waiting for Ol’ Rat Nasty to make an appearance. Ashlee tells us he has a show at the Allstate Arena tonight, and, like many visiting celebrities and dignitaries, he makes the Peninsula his hotel of choice when in town.