Twisted Sisters

by Jen Lancaster

  She hangs her head. “I never looked at it that way, but yeah. I kinda did.”

  “Do you deserve better?” I ask.

  “I do. My friend Scott is always saying so. He doesn’t understand why I’d be with someone like Kirk in the first place.”

  “Then you need to drop him like a bad habit. Go home and change your locks if he has a key—does he have a key?” She nods and I continue, “Then you tell him it’s over and if he bothers you again, you’ll be filing a police report.”

  “But what will happen if I’m there by myself and Kirk shows up?”

  “Can someone stay with you?”

  “I’m sure Scott would. He’s like a brother to me. He’s always been there for me and he’s a constant source of support. He’s such a good guy—I don’t know why he can’t find a nice girl already.”

  “Then it’s settled.”

  As I begin her blow-dry, conversation becomes impossible, but we communicate by smiling at each other in the mirror and I find myself gently swaying to the beats the DJ lays down.

  When we finish, I realize three things: Geri’s job actually requires skill and has value, Scott’s about to exit the Friend Zone, and I really would look better with a few layers around my face.

  • • •

  I never see Geri without her platform stilettos, so that’s what I wore to the salon today. They were fine for the first hour, but after that, I felt like my feet were caught in two separate bear traps. They went from aching to throbbing to screaming to their current state of numb. I give her credit for wearing these with the frequency that she does.

  Couple the aching feet with the stamina it takes to work on that many clients, plus the emotional toll of connecting with each person, and I suddenly feel like I have to revise my previous opinion of Geri being lazy. No lazy person would ever hold a job like this.

  This profession is draining and grueling and utterly, entirely soul satisfying. Who knew? People come in unhappy and they leave happy. Does a haircut solve deeply ingrained behavior problems? Of course not. Yet the world seems a tiny bit more fresh and hopeful when looking out from under a new fringe of bangs. I feel terrible for having discounted what Geri does for so long. She performs a valuable service and I realize that now.

  Plus, I hardly have anyone’s hair in my underwear.

  (I did learn rather quickly to put a lid on my drink, though.)

  All I want to do is go home, slip into a hot bath, and then put my own damn feet back on, but Miranda and company have other ideas. Namely, Brando’s Speakeasy for karaoke.

  I try to get out of the festivities. “I can’t, I’m too tired.”

  “You say that every week,” Ali argues. “Get your shapely behind moving, because we’re leaving.”

  A group of us pile in a cab, even though the bar’s less than six blocks away. Normally, I’d walk, but at the moment, I’d pay someone to carry me fireman-style, so the taxi is a welcome compromise.

  We arrive at Brando’s and I’m pleased to note that it’s in a gorgeous old Chicago landmark building and not some hole-in-the-wall Bridgeport pub covered in neon beer signs. The walls are beautiful dark wood paneling with lots of vintage advertising art. There are velvet curtains and flattering lighting, too. If I went to bars, I suspect this is one I might frequent.

  We settle in at what’s apparently our usual table and the waitress rushes us over a round of peach martinis. Miranda, who’s next to me, asks, “Are you surviving up there?”

  “At Reagan’s?” I ask. The way everyone’s been questioning me/Geri about her accommodations, you’d think she was sent to a gulag and not a gorgeous graystone. I take a sip of my peach martini and I can feel the liquor stripping off a layer of flesh inside my mouth. Yikes. “’S’okay. Why?”

  Miranda slicks on some sticky gloss and smacks her lips together. “It’s just a surprise, is all. You’re so nice to her and she’s always such a bitch back. I don’t even know why you try.” Newsflash? I’m pretty sure that’s a lie. “I was curious if she’s any less intense when she’s on her own turf.”

  “I’m gaining a whole new understanding,” I admit.

  Catelyn chimes in, “Remember when your client brought you that amazing shirt back from France and you posted it on Facebook and Reagan was all, ‘Stripes? No.’ Damn, I wish there were an ‘Unlike’ button for those kind of comments. Who does that?”

  “Y’know, I actually watched one of her old episodes on WeWIN—she was with some girl named Dina? From New Jersey? The whole time they were talking, I was like, ‘She’s so not listening to that girl. She’s smiling and nodding, but she’s not processing anything this poor kid’s saying.’ It’s like she was mentally composing her grocery list or something.”

  I’d argue, but she’s not wrong.

  Miranda brushes a stray fuchsia-colored feather out of her face. (Did you know there are feather-based hair extensions now? I sort of don’t hate them.) “Then, when they’re walking down the beach, I saw your sister’s backside. I don’t care how skinny that bitch is, she has cellulite.”

  Noo! That wasn’t mine! That was from sitting on the slatted bench! Cellulite isn’t striped, for crying out loud!

  Before I can answer her, Ali yanks me out of my seat. “They have your song cued up! Everyone’s waiting!”

  “For what?” I ask.

  She hands me a microphone. “For this.” Then she shoves me onstage and I stare out at the crowd, who are watching me expectantly.

  Um . . . help?

  What do I do here?

  And why is this so scary? I’ve given plenty of speeches and lectures in my day, but that’s always been talk based and scripted. I don’t sing. I’ve never sung. I have a terrible voice! I don’t even hum in the shower!

  The song begins and my hands begin to sweat. I’m so anxious that I’m actually manifesting Geri’s physical responses. Words begin to scroll by on the screen and the audience begins to grow restless when I blow the entire first verse.

  I feel like not singing is the only fate worse than singing, so . . . here goes nothing.

  The voice that comes out of me is rich and melodic and full of soul and the crowd immediately responds.

  I’ll be damned.

  When Geri’s not shit-housed and not screaming Journey songs from the top of a bar, she actually possesses a decent set of pipes.

  The crowd goes wild and I’m completely bolstered by their response and possibly also the peach martini. I add a few dance moves and strut across the stage. I flip my hair and the crowd totally loses it.

  “Here I go again!”

  As I proceed, I channel Tawny Kitaen (before all the unpleasantness) and my performance quickly becomes that of legend.

  When the song ends, the audience gives me a standing ovation and her friends are shouting their heads off and collectively it’s about the best feeling I’ve ever had.

  And that’s when it occurs to me that there may be more to Geri than I ever realized.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  Point Break

  A small admission, if I may?

  I may have screwed Geri over in regard to her relationship with Kassel.

  While he and I were at that brunch, the more we spoke, the more I was struck by how little common ground he and I shared. My intention was to Cyrano de Bergerac him—let him know the real me while I was in my Geri suit, assuming he’d be more about the personality than the package, eventually revealing that it was me he really loved.

  Not so much.

  As our date dragged on, he insisted on quoting all these stupid movies I never heard of (who is Pauly Shore?) and then we had a stultifying conversation about some ex–Notre Dame football player with an imaginary dead girlfriend who turned out to be a live dude.

  What does that even mean?


  The lack of commonality wasn’t the worst part. Handsome is the great equalizer. Give me broad shoulders and a square jaw and I can overlook terrible taste in entertainment.

  Because I’m apparently a masochist, I brought up the subject of my sister Reagan. I dropped a trial balloon on how I thought they might have chemistry.

  And do you know what that SOB said?

  He told me, “Your sister’s way too tightly wound. Too intense. I can’t deal with perfectionists. Not my jam.”

  “What about how you two banter?” I asked. Surely that was significant? I mean, Boyd and I could have based a lifetime on our bantering alone.

  He made a face as though he’d smelled something sour. “That whole angry-banter thing? Only works for Spencer Tracy. In real life, it’s just bickering and it gets old fast. Exhausting, actually. Give me laid-back any day. See, I’ve been down the high-maintenance-woman route before and it didn’t end well.”

  Then he had the nerve to shudder.

  The notion of dating me merited a full-body shudder?

  I was so angry, thinking how number one, I’m not high maintenance and number two, I’m not tightly wound and number three, and then I couldn’t think of a number three because I was still seething about numbers one and two.

  So after pushing my blanketed piggies around the plate for a while, I told him I was feeling ill and I must take my leave.

  Okay, that’s a lie.

  I told him I was afraid I might shart myself and I needed to get home, and thought, There, is that laid-back enough for you, Kassel?

  I suspect he was so turned off by the whole date that any nascent feelings he might have had for Geri are gone. Again, in the moment I was all, Well, too bad, Geri. You lose the game that you should have never played in the first place. Then I may or may not have called him an “effing creeper” when he kept texting afterward. And this time I didn’t use “effing.” I was furious with her, and, by extension, him. But now that I’ve literally walked a mile in her shoes, I can’t say I feel the same way.

  Now? I’m kind of a fan of Geri.

  I sort of get why everyone’s so into her.

  I’ll be honest. I’m having a lot more fun being Geri than I ever had as Reagan. Her friends are immensely entertaining and I love how nice they are to me. How great is it to walk into a room and have people excited to see me? I appreciate how her job makes everyone happy. Clients come in, all split-ended and unstyled, and bam! Forty-five minutes later, they’re goddesses. Plus, singing in front of the audience at Brando’s was a rush I’ll always remember. Who knew she was talented?

  (Okay, probably everyone but me.)

  The best part is I’m connecting with Mary Mac and her kids in a way I never realized was possible . . . largely because I upped Geri’s dosage.

  I know, I know. This is so wrong.

  And yet I feel like I’m onto something here and I’m not quite ready to inhabit my own life again. I’ve worked out the specifics in such a way that I’m able to feed/exercise/maintain my own body and life while Geri’s physical self is asleep, so, really, I’m not doing anything unhealthy, per se, save for a possible tiny Thanwell addiction Plus, since we’re on hiatus, Reagan’s not exactly missed anywhere.

  “Geri” is supposed to be “staying at Reagan’s” out of convenience, but I keep being drawn back to the south side to hang out with Mary Mac’s family. Yes, her kids are a little loud and a bit pushy, but they’re also freaking hysterical. Teagan does an impersonation of me that had me rolling. (I think it was the day she kept calling herself “Doctor.”)

  When I’m not there, Mary Mac and I chat multiple times a day, while she ferries her brood to their practices and activities. I’m a little in awe of how organized she is. I found out her Christmas shopping was completed in October. October. That still blows my mind. Maybe her house is messy, but she’s so on the ball in regard to all other aspects of her life, from her children to her volunteering to her marriage, that it doesn’t matter. Sure, she always seems exhausted, but it’s only because she puts in such effort.

  I remember the amount of posturing and social climbing it took for me to rub shoulders with Wendy Winsberg’s crowd. At no point had it occurred to me that some of the best people I’d ever meet are in my own family.

  However, I hadn’t yet realized any of the above when I was making my way up Clark after the Kassel brunch. The day had become decidedly cold since I’d headed to the restaurant, and I wasn’t wearing enough layers. I must have been walking hunched over for warmth, so I didn’t realize I’d body-slammed anyone until he helped me up.

  And when I realized the kindly stranger was Sebastian, I truly did almost shart myself.

  He looked great and he was so happy to see me that I couldn’t help but reconsider the idea of us maybe, possibly reconnecting. That is, until he called me Geri and I realized I wasn’t who he thought I was.

  Long story short, that’s how I found myself agreeing to dinner tonight at Frances’ Deli.

  Sebastian’s already seated at a table by the window, wearing pressed gray flannel slacks and a shirt with French cuffs, which seems a bit formal for a relaxed deli-type meal. In fact, Frances’ is so casual that it’s one of the few places on the north side that’s acceptable to my parents. On the rare occasions they’ve been in my neighborhood at lunch, this is where they insist on going. Dad’s a fan of the Douglas Boulevard sandwich, which includes corned beef and chopped liver, whereas I’m normally a fan of ordering hot tea and swapping the Lipton’s for a bag of the organic stuff I brought from home. Everything about this place is old school, from the pressed tin ceiling to the vintage wood paneling to the original marble-topped bar. To me, the space is dark and depressing, but there must be some appeal as they’ve been operating successfully since the 1930s.

  “Glad you could come!” Sebastian says. He rises to kiss my/our cheek. Did he used to stand when I walked in the room? Can’t recall.

  Last week when Sebastian requested that we get together sometime to talk, I was a little curious about what he had to say to Geri, but not so much that I thought the conversation merited a meal.

  Since then, though, I’ve made peace with all things Geri. I see now that any unpalatable behavior she exhibited stemmed directly from my actions. (Pretty sure I’d tell someone to go eff themselves, too, if they had a single thing to say about my weight.)

  I’m learning that Geri’s perpetually there for people, ready to listen, willing to help, all without a judgmental internal monologue. Maybe she’s not a saint, but she’s not the sinner I’d previously suspected, either.

  Over the past few days, I’ve been trying to help her. I figure my inhabiting her is kind of like sending her to a day spa. I bought her some new, tasteful clothing, and I’m feeding her healthy foods and taking her on long walks. (I need to help compensate for the mass amounts of Mary Mac’s cooking I’ve been eating, which, OMFG, that woman does unspeakable things with spareribs.)

  I’ve also been working on a business plan for her potential salon. I found notes in her laptop, and Geri’s ideas are perfectly solid, but she needs to present them in a professional prospectus if she wants to turn this into a viable venture. I’m in the process of doing that for her.

  The thing is, I’m not entirely sure that getting over my incessant sibling rivalry is going to fix what’s wrong with me. Having experienced being laid-back, friendly, and fun, not to mention relaxed about dietary constraints, I learned that I am uptight, I am dour, and I am kind of a pain in the ass about my diet. I’m also narrow-minded and my positive affirmations are nothing less than straight-up, overcompensating narcissism.

  I’m neither victim nor martyr, so it’s time I stopped acting like I am. No wonder I alienate others. No wonder I have virtually no friends. I’ve been allowing my anger and various proclivities to keep others at arm’s length. I don’t
have close connections in my life, and at the end of the day, my job doesn’t kiss me good night.

  Speaking of employment, in all my time practicing and with all my training, I never closed out the day feeling exhilarated about what I do for a living. Sure, I’ve always reveled in the various benefits, like being recognized at Whole Foods and having George Stephanopoulos flirt with me, but the actual act of patiently listening to others’ problems? Not really into it, if I’m being honest with myself.

  I’m certainly not going to chuck it all for cosmetology school, but I do need to figure out what’s next for me, and I suspect it’s neither being a psychologist on television nor being a television psychologist.

  Where does that leave me? I’m not yet sure.

  But before I can figure out what’s next in my life, I need some measure of closure, so last night I Facebooked Sebastian and suggested we meet after all. And here we are.

  Sebastian grins at me. “You’re radiant this evening.”

  I say, “No, I’m just windburned.” I’ve been running by the lake this week and I’ve already shaved two minutes off of Geri’s newfound ability to jog a mile. I’m very proud of her/us!

  He scoots his chair closer to mine. “Don’t sell yourself short, kid. Reagan didn’t get all the looks in your family.”

  Oh, God, did he just wink?

  I try to steer away from the subject of Geri. “Perhaps we should order.”

  “Nothing on the menu will be as delicious as you.” He abruptly juts his chin in an effort to toss his hair out of his eyes. For some reason, he wears the front of his hair long, like he’s starring in some 1990s Keanu Reeves surfing flick. Sir, I know surfers. Surfers have been friends of mine. You, sir, are no surfer.

  The hair flip is his prelude-to-seduction move and it’s only now occurring to me that it’s comical. What’s with the full-court-flirting press, anyway? Was Sebastian always smarmy? I feel like I’d have noticed if he was smarmy. I realize that Geri and I were never the best of friends, but we’re sisters. Surely there’s some code of ethics that prevents guys from hitting on their ex’s sisters?