Twisted Sisters

by Jen Lancaster

  Geri has Georgette rise from the chair and they head over to the wash sink.

  “No.” Georgette stops in her tracks.

  Geri’s puzzled. “No, you don’t want me to rinse your hair? Hon, I need to remove the dye so your scalp doesn’t stain red.”

  Georgette pulls off the cape and wraps a towel around her shoulders. “You can rinse my hair in a minute. This can’t wait.” Without further ado, she marches out of the makeup room and down the hall to the greenroom, where her sisters are gathered.

  Gary’s hot on her heels with the rest of the crew, but I don’t need to follow to catch what she’s saying. Pretty much everyone in the WeWIN studio can hear her right now.

  Georgette kicks open the door. “We need to talk, bitches.”

  • • •

  “To Geri!” Everyone cheers and raises their glasses.

  If we toast her one more time, I may have an aneurysm.

  Due to today’s events, not only am I not to be featured on the midseason finale, but the entire episode stars Geri, a bottle of dye, and a pusillanimous woman who was suddenly emboldened by a bit of profanity. And here I spent all that time learning the intricacies of the human mind, when I should have simply practiced giving scalp massages.

  Geri’s reveling in all the attention, wolfing back beers as though drinking and not shampooing was suddenly her chosen profession.

  We’re at Haymarket Pub & Brewery on Randolph, having our informal holiday celebration. The event is specifically “informal” because we’re expected to pay for our drinks ourselves, as the no-free-lunch policy extends all the way up the DBS chain of command.

  Although the party was already scheduled for tonight, the event is extra-festive, due to Saint Geri and the Miracle at Losers. Not only did Georgette tell off her sisters; she immediately contacted her old supervisor in Changchun to inquire about open teaching positions. By the time she was rinsed, clipped, and blown dry, she’d arranged a whole new life for herself.

  Yet do any of my coworkers give me a moment’s credit for my efforts with Georgette prior to her sitting in Geri’s chair? Of course not. Much like with a tricky pickle jar, I was the one who loosened the seal before Geri finally pried it open. But you’d never suspect I was even a player considering how everyone else is carrying on.

  Also? Georgette’s color is garish. There. I said it.

  Geri, surrounded by every member of the Push staff, as well as a number of our freelancers, climbs up on her chair and holds her glass aloft. “To the Bisshy Sissies!”

  Even completely sauced, she’s keeping the fiction going that she just loves me sooooo much and any problems I have with her are all in my own head. I wouldn’t believe the way she operates if she hadn’t already been like this her entire life.

  I remember one summer when I was fifteen, I was sitting in my room reading Anne of Green Gables. I’d just gotten to the part where Anne saved Diana’s baby sister when Geri marched by. She looked at me and at my book and then smirked and yelled, “Ma! Reagan says I’m stupid because I don’t like to read!”

  No one believed me when I argued that I’d never said that, because the truth is I didn’t disagree with her assessment. Later, she admitted to me she’d simply been bored and thought it would be hilarious to “get the Goody Two-shoes” in trouble.

  Yes. Ha-ha-ha, I hate you.

  Geri’s fairly wobbly on her stool and Kassel reaches up to steady her, bracing her with his magnificent wrists. “Steady there, rock star,” he says. She laughs, he laughs, everyone laughs, and I want to karate chop the bar in half.

  All the guys fight to help her down, and while they do, Kassel meanders over to me. “Hey, Peace Corps, any idea how Geri got here tonight?”

  “Broomstick?” I offer.

  “She didn’t drive, did she?” I’m touched by his level of concern for Geri’s well-being. Truly.

  I say, “I think she drove to the studio this morning, but she was in the group of us who walked over here.” Or stomped, in my case.

  Kassel keeps stealing glances over my shoulder. “Well, I want to make sure she gets home. I’m going to offer her a ride.”

  “No!” I shout, and then catch myself. “I mean, heh, no need. She’ll be . . . staying with me tonight. I’ll make sure she’s fine. After all”—I give him my brightest smile and toss my hair—“that’s what sisters do.”

  Geri’s now leading the entire bar in a rousing rendition of Journey’s “Don’t Stop Believin’.” “You may want to take her sooner rather than later. Otherwise, she’s going to have a very unpleasant tomorrow.”

  “I’d hate for that to happen,” I reply, biting my tongue so hard I practically taste blood.

  Kassel rubs his hands together, as though in anticipation. “Yeah, we’re having brunch and I wouldn’t want her to miss it.”

  For the second time today, I feel as though I’ve been sucker punched.

  “Don’t stop be-leeee-vin’!”

  “Listen, can you give her this?” He hands me his business card. In addition to his professional information, he’s also written down his cell, his landline, his e-mail address, his home address, his Twitter, Tumblr, and Instagram handles, as well as his Facebook page.

  “Are you not on Pinterest?” I ask.

  Kassel begins to panic. “Will she need that? Happy to provide—”

  “I’m kidding.”

  “Oh. I really want to hear from her, is all. Do me a proper and remind her that we’re on at Original Pancake House tomorrow at noon? The one in Lincoln Park, not the Gold Coast?”

  “Of course,” I reply in my most compliant tone.

  See? I’m nice. I’m helpful. And I’m cute as can be, so why doesn’t he want to take me out for pancakes? (Except that I would never eat them, because gross.) What am I doing wrong? Why isn’t he into me? Is it because I’m rusty on this whole flirting business?

  And how is it that Geri can waltz in, do virtually nothing, be her bullshit self, and then be lauded as the Second Coming? Look at her; right now, men are lined up to talk to her. Literally lined up. How fair is that?

  Kassel gives me a brotherly chuck on the shoulder. “You’re a dream, Peace Corps. A real dream.”

  Really? Then why does everything feel like such a nightmare?

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  It’s Just Brunch

  Immoral. Unethical. Most likely illegal.

  I berate myself as I speed walk down Clark Street. I’d sprint, but that’s not possible for a variety of reasons.

  Queasy. Don’t forget queasy.

  This is literally the worst thing I’ve ever done, as a doctor, as a person, and, to a lesser extent, as a sister.

  Yet I couldn’t stop myself.

  There Geri was, head tipped back on my couch, all bloated and snoring. She wouldn’t move to a proper bed, no matter how hard I tried to persuade her. She kept saying, “Nooo, is too squishy-fantastic!” in reference to the buttery cashmere throw she was drooling all over.

  So anyone who’s priced contemporary sofas lately couldn’t blame me for what happened next.

  Right?

  Technically, this is Trevor and Bryce’s fault anyway.

  “Hey, Dr. B!” Trevor poked his head out into the vestibule after I’d wrestled Geri up the front steps last night. “Kind of late for you. Burnin’ the midnight oil, son! Or were you out with a playa, playa?” Then he spotted Geri under my arm and promptly lost his marbles. “Yo, yo, yo—where my G-spot at?”

  Which prompted Geri to point at herself and crow, “G-spot’s right here, bitches!”

  Then Bryce scrambled out and the three of them pretty much danced up the stairs while spouting gibberish, a bottle of their current libation in tow.

  Cupcake-flavored vodka.

  They were drinking cupca
ke-flavored vodka.

  I’d recently perused a journal article about how kids have been imbibing via a method called “butt chugging” which involves a tampon soaked in liquor and a lack of back door inhibitions. At the time, I couldn’t understand why anyone would ingest alcohol from that end until learning that cupcake-flavored vodka was indeed a thing now. Frankly, the feminine-protection angle seems like the lesser of two evils.

  I felt it behooved me to provide the three of them with drinking glasses, given the alternative. They did their shots and brayed like a pack of jackasses until Geri nodded off.

  “Okay, boys, I need your help putting Geri to bed,” I said.

  “Why can’t she sleep on the couch?” Trevor asked.

  “Because a couch is not a bed,” I replied.

  Trevor seemed confused. “That’s like saying an apple is not a bong. Maybe that’s not its intended purpose, but, y’know, ingenuity and shit.”

  To which I replied, “Trevor, tell me you never vote.”

  He said, “Nah, no one watches American Idol anymore. All about The Voice, playa!”

  I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again—I weep for the youth of this nation.

  “Please help me roll Geri’s ponderous bulk into the guest room.”

  “Totes would, but the thing is? My mom says I’m hypoglycemic, and I can’t lift anything until I have a snack.” He held up his trembling hands. “See? Weak as a kitten. Couldn’t even swat away a fly.”

  I’m not sure what it was about the word “swat,” but it caused something in Bryce to come unhinged. “Swat? You say swat, son?” He burst into song. “You can do the Brooklyn Swat!” and then he began air humping my ficus tree while Trevor slapped at the air in front of him as though to simulate a spanking, ironic because I’m sure this kid never received corporal punishment a single day in his life. Even Geri (who I thought was deeply asleep) managed to shimmy her shoulders against the back of the couch.

  This continued for a solid thirty seconds until it stopped, as inexplicably as it started, right as I was about to dial 911 to report three concurrent seizures.

  Is this some kind of meme?

  Is this what I missed by not attending parties in college and not using the Internet for anything but research?

  Then the guys both made a mad dash for my kitchen. “Time to bust a grub, son!” Bryce exclaimed, throwing open the pantry door. “Yo, jelly beans!” He opened a glass jar of pinto beans and stuffed a handful into his mouth, before promptly spitting them all over the floor. “Yo, not jelly beans.”

  “Where’s all your casseroles?” Trevor asked, his not-currently-chugging butt sticking out of my Sub-Zero.

  “Were the two of you raised by Philistines?” I demanded, grabbing a whisk broom and dustpan.

  “Yeah, Main Line, baby! Gladwyne represent!” Trevor shouted.

  Weep.

  “This is a travesty and shit,” Bryce proclaimed, examining the spare shelves. “Gonna do a Kickstarter because you broke, son. Otherwise, you’d have snacks.”

  “I am definitely not broke, first of all. Plus, see? I have Greek yogurt, almond milk, blueberries, pasture-raised eggs, chickpeas, peppers, and fresh kale.” I despise feeling like I have to defend my healthy choices, especially to two uninvited guests.

  “That’s why you’ve got no junk in your trunk, Dr. B. Time to chow mein! Men like something we can hold on to,” Trevor explained. “In bed, I mean.”

  “So I gathered.”

  “Mo’ booty, mo’ cutie,” Bryce added, nodding sagely.

  I struggle to maintain my composure. “Tell your parents I’m raising your rent at the first of the year.”

  “’S’cool,” Bryce replied. “Obvs you need the dolla dolla bills, y’all, to grocery shop. I’mma introduce you to my friend Joe. He’s a Trader.”

  That’s when I reached critical mass. I grabbed my purse and pulled out a twenty. “Okay, kids, party’s over! But the Wieners Circle’s still open. Char dogs on me!” Then I herded them out the door so quickly and forcefully that I forgot I’d wanted them to carry Geri down the hall.

  Related note? I need to convert this place to a single-family dwelling, like, now.

  Anyway, after I determined that moving Geri under my own steam wasn’t possible, I tried to behave in a sisterly manner, thus proving that I absolutely have more class than she might have demonstrated were our circumstances reversed. I brought her a bottle of water and a couple of ibuprofen and I made her swallow both.

  As she lay there on my couch, cradling a cashmere throw, I felt an odd stab of affection for her and I wondered if maybe, just maybe, I hadn’t been too quick to judge her. After all, until this week, I had no idea she had even a modicum of ambition, nor was I aware that living back at home wasn’t all peaches and cream. Perhaps since every single person in my orbit seems to feel affection for her, it’s possible that I’ve overlooked her better qualities.

  Maybe it wasn’t so easy for Geri to grow up in my shadow. I set a high bar, at least in terms of academics. Although we went to different high schools, she had all my old teachers from kindergarten through eighth grade. If memory serves, I was quite the little apple polisher. I bet the nuns were all, “Reagan’s sister? We expect a lot out of you!” and she couldn’t deliver.

  My parents have always been quick to highlight Geri’s achievements, lowly though they may be, but it’s possible that they do this not because she’s the favorite, but because they’re trying to compensate and protect her self-esteem.

  Maybe Geri’s more of a delicate flower than I assumed.

  I’m not a parent. I’ve never had to balance the needs of three very different daughters. I’m sure my folks did the best they could. I bet when I’m not around, they champion me like they do Geri and Mary Mac.

  What if underneath it all, Geri really loves me and she’s never quite understood how to capture my interest? What if her quest for negative attention is simply an offshoot of her desire for my attention? What if she grabbed Lilly-Lizzie because she wanted me to finally play with her and that was her best shot?

  Then she opened one sleepy green eye and reached for me. She brushed my hair out of my face and said, “It must suck to be you.”

  Yeah.

  That’s when I snapped.

  And that’s why I’m currently walking down Clark Street in a Geri suit.

  I’d planned on running to her/my brunch date because, frankly, she could use the cardio. However, apparently Geri’s not that kind of coordinated. Also, I’m battling a monster hangover for her. While she dreams all snug in my bed, I’m trying desperately not to vomit nachos and cupcake-flavored vodka.

  This feeling?

  Right here?

  Is why I never drink.

  Perhaps by teetotaling, I’ll never lose my inhibitions enough to belt out the best of Steve Perry from an alehouse bar top, but I’ll also never run the risk of tossing my cookies in a public trash can.

  I’m not entirely sure what my next move might be, after I meet up with Kassel. I probably should have come up with some sort of plan before placing the amulets around our necks and taking a Thanwell.

  Yet here I am.

  Fortunately, I was able to cram Geri’s posterior into one of my stretchiest pairs of yoga pants and Sebastian’s old Blackhawks jersey. I threw her hair in a ponytail and didn’t bother with makeup because I’m not giving her a single advantage on this date. I didn’t even shower. Hope Kassel likes his women earthy.

  Kassel spots me as soon as I enter the restaurant. He kisses my/her/our cheek. “I was worried I didn’t specify which Original Pancake and you’d go to the Bellevue location.”

  I’m so rattled by his pure joy in seeing Geri that I can’t help but respond, “I’m not great with following directions because I’m a bit dim, so frankly I
’m as surprised as you are.”

  But instead of being turned off by my statement, he simply laughs and his eyes crinkle up. Damn it, why is stupid Geri’s naked face making his eyes crinkle? “I love your self-deprecation. Rough morning?”

  “Why does anyone drink?” I ask.

  He places his hand on the small of my back as the hostess leads us to our table. “Believe me, been there. You had a lot to celebrate. You were amazing with Georgette. Life changing. By the way, sent the dailies to DBS and they lost their minds. They worship you. Never witnessed such a reaction. Big. So big! Keep it up, and you could find yourself with a spin-off. Someday.”

  The whole room begins to swim and I have to clutch his arm to stay upright until he can help me into my seat. How is this possible? How does Geri have the whole world handed to her based on one ugly haircut?

  Kassel notices my distress and immediately orders us a couple of coffees. “I’d suggest a little hair of the dog, but you may not be able to handle a Bloody Mary.”

  “Oh, God, no,” I agree. A busboy quickly appears with our beverages. “This is just what I need.” I take a bracing sip of the steaming liquid. If I drink fully caffeinated coffee, which is rare, I tend to be a purist. I’m never one for sweetener, and if I add anything, it’s almond milk, but today straight black is borderline nauseating. I need to cut the bitterness, lighten it up. I reach for the little white pitcher and pour in a splash. I can tell from the thickness that this is heavy cream, which would normally turn my stomach. Yet today, it almost seems like a salve, as does the spoonful of sugar. I stir and then sample.

  How can something so wrong feel so right?

  I’ve temporarily gotten my bearings, so I return to the business at hand. “Explain this whole spin-off concept,” I say. “What might that entail?”

  Kassel laughs. “Ambitious, eh? Let the show air first and then we’ll see.” He opens his menu. “What looks good to you?”