Um, nothing?
This whole menu is revolting.
I see no indication that they use farm-to-table, local, or organic products, and from the description, everything’s either basted in butter, comprised of white flour, or full of pork products. The Three Little Pigs in Blankets are the worst possible offenders. Our special links wrapped in light buttermilk pancakes and lightly dusted with powdered sugar. Served with whipped butter and hot tropical syrup.
Disgusting.
So . . . why is my mouth watering?
Kassel says, “There’s nothing like a greasy breakfast to cure what ails you. Although in college I was all about McDonald’s after a wild night. Fountain Coke? My frat brothers and I were convinced it had healing powers.” He peruses the offerings. “Anyway, I’m having corned beef hash, plus a side of chocolate chip pancakes.”
The waitress approaches and I have Kassel order first because I’m undecided. And by “undecided” I mean “deeply appalled.”
“Do you have any muesli?” I ask.
“I’m not sure what that is,” she replies, chewing on the edge of her pen. Her name is Brandi. There’s a little flower drawn over the “i.”
Bless her heart.
“Nothing with flaxseed, then?”
Brandi shifts and begins to nervously eye the other tables. “’Fraid not.”
“What kind of fruit do you serve?”
“Um . . . we have banana and peach pancakes.”
I squint at the laminated menu. “Ugh. No. Is there any chance your eggs are pasture raised? I’ll take free-range in a pinch, although some farms do engage in beak cutting, which is certainly regrettable. Also, talk to me about your orange juice—is it freshly squeezed or from concentrate? And it’s not artificially colored, right? Because that’s patently unacceptable.”
Kassel begins to laugh and lightly bats me on the knee. “Your Reagan impersonation is uncanny. I assume you’re having your usual, yes? You said that’s why you wanted to come here.” He tells Brandi, “Give her the Three Little Pigs in Blankets. Thanks!” Brandi ambles off and he turns his attention to me. “So . . . are we having fun yet?”
No, not right this minute, not until the room stops spinning and not until I figure out how to elegantly avoid placing Blanketed Pigs anywhere near the vicinity of this mouth. But it occurs to me Geri’s always superannoyingly (possibly artificially) upbeat, so I reply, “I imagine so, yes. This is a social situation and that’s my kind of thing.”
Kassel nods and I’m struck again by the cut of his jawline. I have to ball my fists in order to keep from running my fingers across his face. I appreciate how even though this is a lazy weekend brunch date, he still took the time to shave. He missed a tiny spot up by his ear, which is oddly charming. And how is this man still tan in December? Is that the end result of having lived in California for so long?
Plus, he must have walked here, too, as his cheeks are flushed. I appreciate a man who’s not afraid to hoof it. Even though Sebastian biked and played volleyball, he still used to drive to my place and he was three blocks away. Made me crazy. Lazy is the opposite of sexy. I breathe in and I can smell the fabric softener coming from his chambray shirt. I lean in closer and note he’s wearing cologne with undertones of cardamom and black pepper.
This?
This is what I’d like for breakfast.
His dark eyes twinkle as he says, “Speaking of kinds of things, ‘I thought I’d go for the “helpful gay pirate” kind of thing.’”
“I beg your pardon?”
“Helpful gay pirate?”
This is sincerely puzzling. I understand each word as an individual concept, but strung together? Not so much.
I ask, “Are you at all familiar with the term glossolalia? Because it means fluid vocalizations of—” Wait, Geri would never have any cognizance of the concept of speaking in tongues. But there’s weirdness afoot here; that much is evident.
As the waitress approaches with a fresh pot of coffee, Kassel grabs my hand and says, “‘Can you look me in the eye and can you promise me that it all means something and that my whole bullshit life is just a bad start to a really incredible Cinderella story?’”
I can feel my heart beating almost out of my chest, and for a minute, I forget that I’m not exactly who I appear to be. In this one moment, it’s just me and Kassel and his strong wrists and intoxicating fragrance. He and I should be together and we could have it all—we’d have witty banter and tanned, toned children and a mantel full of Emmys. This could really be my Cinderella story, because if you consider it, she dealt with some awful sisters, too, and—
“Best. Show. Ever!” Brandi exclaims, slopping coffee into my cup.
And just like that, the spell is broken.
She prattles on, “Every day I scan the trades to see if there’s anything happening with the Party Down movie. Rob Thomas promises there’s a script in the works, but no word on an actual movie yet. Hope springs eternal, though!”
Wait, so he’s just been quoting some stupid television show at me?
“Up on the trades? Must be an actress,” Kassel notes. He doesn’t seem to be flirty so much as friendly, but the distinction doesn’t offer much solace.
“Trying to be,” Brandi replies. “‘I think maybe I’m going to quit.’”
“‘Nobody ever accomplished anything by quitting. What if Ronald Reagan quit?’”
“‘Quit acting? He did.’”
“‘Yeah, that’s actually where I got the idea.’”
Then they laugh and fist-bump and the people at the table next to us join in because apparently they’re fans, too, and I’m left sitting here like an asshole who’s not only incapable of expressing my interest in a man, but also has never seen some esoteric television show because I was busy trying to establish a career.
Story of my life.
Kassel finally returns his focus to me. “Sorry about that. Could have sworn we’d discussed our mutual love of Party Down, but I must have imagined it.”
I really did not consider all the ramifications of this whole body swap/date crash before I slid into Geri’s body like a pair of old jeans. Granted, I grew up with Geri, so I’m aware of our shared history, but I haven’t exactly been paying attention to the rest of her life. I’ve no clue what she likes or how she spends her free time. (Although I would place money on much couch surfing.) I can’t impersonate her because I don’t know her.
Kassel smiles at me and sighs like he’s so enamored he can’t even find words. Realizing it’s Geri giving him this reaction and not me makes my heart feel like it’s ripping in two.
Okay, that might be a trifle dramatic.
But it’s true that his interest in Geri hurts both my feelings and my ego. What’s the draw? And it’s not just Kassel; everyone falls all over themselves for her. It’s . . . almost unnatural and makes no sense. What’s it like to live in Geri’s world? (I suspect there’s a low stress/high snack element.)
How does she hold everyone in such thrall? What sort of black magic does she practice? How is she always so damn happy?
For all intents and purposes, I should be the one on top of the world.
I’m the one who put in the effort. I’m the one who made the huge sacrifices to get ahead. Why is no one sighing deeply over my unwashed butt at breakfast?
Well, if Deva’s to be believed—and I believe she’s proved herself credible—nothing happens by accident. There’s no such thing as happenstance. So here I am on hiatus, with a couple of weeks to kill before Christmas and the means to step inside Geri’s world to conduct a proper investigation.
This can’t be a coincidence. Deva couldn’t have given me these tools without a quiet understanding that I’d use them. This is like on those cop shows where someone really needs info and the detective can’t
officially share it, so he leaves the file on his desk to grab coffee while the sassy private investigator is alone in his office with her mini spy camera.
What’s so all-fired great about Geri?
Even if it’s immoral, unethical, and most likely illegal, I intend to find out.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
Geri1234
“Jesus, Mary, and Joseph, it’s a Christmas miracle!” Ma hugs me to her, which is disconcerting because Ma is not a hugger.
At all.
Also, it’s odd being able to look my mother in the eye. I’ve towered over her since the seventh grade, but in Geri’s world, we’re on the same level.
Calculating I had at least six hours left until Geri/my body woke up, I figured I should check in with our parents. I don’t have confirmation that she’s in almost constant contact with them, but I have my suspicions.
I figure the next week or so will be a lot easier if I have some basic Geri intel, so I’ve come back to our parents’ house to gather supplies. I just told them that I’m going to bunk at Reagan’s because of our filming schedule, and Ma is happier than I’ve ever seen her.
“I told your dad that if we gave you enough time, you two’d come together! Here we are, almost twenty-eight years later, and you’re on your way to becoming friends! This is all I ever wanted for you both.”
Huh. It never occurred to me that our not peacefully coexisting was that big of a deal. Sisters fight. Happens all the time.
“I look at how close I am with your aunties Mary and Kathleen and it tears me up that you girls don’t have that. But maybe now you will.”
I’m very uncomfortable with this display of emotion. Stop it! Bring back Iron Maggie, please. Show me the woman who helped close Meigs Field without a second thought.
Ma sits on the bed while I grab items that look useful. I’ve already stashed Geri’s laptop, her printed work schedule for the salon, and the Post-it from her bulletin board, which I assume relates to her passwords as it’s labeled “passwords.” She frequently uses “geri1234” for her login, but there are a couple of sites where its “1234geri.” That’s a pretty foolproof system you’ve got there, sis. IBM’s definitely calling you to learn more about all your security protocols.
Ma says, “Now, you gotta promise me that you’ll be nice to Reagan.”
This should be interesting. “Why’s that, Ma?”
“That’s what you do when you’re a guest.”
“Oh.” I was expecting more of an insight than just a page from Emily Post.
Ma glances up at the ceiling as though she’s collecting her thoughts. “Reagan is a good girl, but she’s lost, you know?”
I’d been throwing shirts in a duffel bag, but I stop in my tracks. No, I do not know; please enlighten me. I nod, as though to agree.
“She doesn’t allow herself to enjoy anything and she only seems happy when she’s out of joint about something. Even her hobbies are miserable. Who runs twenty-six miles for fun? People who want to punish themselves, that’s who.”
I would argue here, except I’m (literally) not myself at the moment. But this is definitely unfair. I’m a runner because I want to challenge myself, to push myself to achieve everything of which I’m capable. How is that not a selling point? And does Ma really see me as someone who’s unhappy?
I offer, “Mary Mac says she has an eating disorder.”
Ma waves away the thought. “That’s a bunch of crap. She’s just picky, always has been. And a little pretentious. She gets that from your father’s side of the family. Dad’s father was an alderman. He never let us hear the end of it. ‘As an alderman, I’d have to disagree.’ ‘The other aldermen and I believe that New York–style pizza is overrated.’ ‘Alderman Bishop would like more potatoes.’ However, Reagan’s right—the rest of us could eat better.”
Ha-ha-ha! In your face, Geri! (Except about the pretentious part.)
“Of all you girls, I worry about her the most.”
I beg your pardon? Me? The doctor? And not the octo-mom or the freeloader? I’m your point of concern? Since when do you gossip? Damn it, why are you so willing to share these stories with Geri and not me? I knew she was the favorite!
Ma continues, “Remember how different she was when she was with Boyd? She was fun, she was relaxed, it’s like the stick finally disappeared from her ass. She finally stopped looking at herself as a victim. Then she dumped him and for what? Where’d it get her?”
Um, on DBS every Thursday night?
Of course, Geri’s there now, too. Damn it!
“I gotta go soon, Ma,” I say, anxious to change the subject. Even if Ma is speaking a tiny portion of the truth, I’m not in the right mind-set to hear it. “Hey, where do I keep my clean underwear?” With someone as disorganized as Geri, this is a legitimate question.
“I did a load for you this morning.” She exits and quickly returns with a basketful of NastyGirlz-worthy underthings. Then the phone rings and she leaves me to gab with Auntie Kathleen.
I feel like I’m in some bizarre alternate universe right now—how is it that I’m the one who’s lost, yet she’s the one whose mommy still washes her underpants? I don’t get it, I truly don’t.
I grab Geri’s duffel bags and I say a quick good-bye to my parents.
This should be an interesting week.
• • •
According to Geri’s schedule, she has today off because the salon is closed.
Well, that’s just dumb.
Don’t people need haircuts on Monday? Sure, I understand that stylists are busier on the weekends, but perhaps everyone’s schedule could be staggered so that all shifts could be covered without losing an entire day’s revenue. I’ll definitely mention this to Miranda, Geri’s boss and bestie (at least until Geri screws her over with her nonexistent work ethic and thus loses this job, too).
Not having to go to her job gives me an entire day to familiarize myself with her world. I’ve double-dosed the Thanwell, so that buys me sixteen hours inside Geri. While she rests in my body, I’ll live her life. Then, when the Thanwell wears off, Geri will be back inside her own body and she’ll sleep on her own and I can take care of the business of being Reagan.
Every time I feel a twinge of guilt, I remind myself of her perpetually swooping in to take what’s mine, whether it’s my Push spotlight or Lilly-Lizzie, and my guilt magically melts away.
For the most part.
When Geri finally woke up last night, I immediately removed my amulet and we switched back into our bodies. Of course she noticed the necklace, so I explained it as an early Christmas present and she seemed satisfied by the explanation. Then I went into detail about how she had this new kind of neurological flu that was ravaging Asia and under no circumstances should she leave the couch, let alone my apartment.
Pfft, like I had to tell her twice.
With my remote control in one hand and her phone in the other, she acted like she owned the place. Ironically, this was beneficial for me, because I was able to really listen to her speech patterns as well as take notes on her plans.
But now she’s snug in my body/bed, so I can begin my research. I open Facebook and I begin to scroll through her wall. After five minutes, I’m pretty sure I have boredom cancer. Why on earth would anyone care what you had for lunch or how your feet look in the sand on your vacation? Oh, hey, here’s a shot of a cat in a hat! Hilarious. Not.
What a time suck this is. I use Facebook to advance myself professionally, and not to exchange worthless commentary on why my political platform is better than yours or whether or not Starbucks should be boycotted because they won’t stock almond milk. (Although, really, why don’t they carry it?)
As I inspect Geri’s photos, I see that she is the master of the selfie. How does she have time to get to her day job if she’s perpetuall
y taking all these photos of herself?
I make sure to “like” everyone’s entries and I spout her usual banalities of “badass!” and “OMG, u r the best!” and now I feel dirty.
As I tab through, I notice that Geri has a lot of friends. How does she have so many friends? She has more friends than I have likes on my fan page, and as of yet, she’s not even been on TV.
Her buddy list bears further investigation. I know she’s friends with Sebastian, but who else might I recognize? I begin to scan the list and I recognize tons of people from the neighborhood, as well as a bunch of my cousins. And . . . is that my dad? My father has a Facebook page? His only entry says, “I don’t know how to work this thing. Hello?”
Affirmative, that is my dad.
Why didn’t he friend me?
I’m about to click off this section when I see a shot of Boyd. I guess I knew he’d finally joined Facebook, but I never searched for his profile. What would be the point?
I open his page and I’m taken aback to see he’s only gotten better with age. I feel bittersweet about seeing him. As nice as it is to run across his photo, it’s also painful, and I didn’t realize exactly how much until this moment. In this picture, his hair is shorter than it was and he has a few tiny laugh lines, but otherwise, he looks exactly like he did the day he drove me to the airport when I left Malibu for good.
I quickly return to Geri’s home page. As much as I hope Boyd’s happy, I’m not sure I want to delve deeper into his profile to see shots of whatever (or whoever) currently occupies his time or where it is he currently bartends. I made my choice and I live in the now.
I close Facebook and open her e-mail. She doesn’t have much in there, save for sale notices at a couple of clothing retailers. I think her generation is too lazy to actually pen an entire note, so e-mail isn’t cool anymore. Typical. But she has scores of new texts. If Geri’s awake, she’s clutching her phone, so if I don’t answer them, her friends will assume she’s been abducted.
Twisted Sisters Page 22
