by Jody Gehrman
Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright Page
Dedication
Thursday, December 18
Friday, December 19
Saturday, December 20
Sunday, December 21
Monday, December 22
Wednesday, December 24
Thursday, January 1
Monday, January 5
Wednesday, January 7
Friday, January 9
Monday, January 12
Wednesday, January 14
Saturday, January 17
Sunday, January 18
Monday, January 19
Tuesday, January 20
Wednesday, January 21
Thursday, January 22
Friday, January 23
Sunday, January 25
Monday, January 26
Tuesday, January 27
Wednesday, January 28
Thursday, January 29
Friday, January 30
Saturday, January 31
Sunday, February 1
Monday, February 2
Tuesday, February 3
Wednesday, February 4
Thursday, February 5
Friday, February 6
Saturday, February 7
Sunday, February 8
Monday, February 9
Tuesday, February 10
Wednesday, February 11
Thursday, February 12
Friday, February 13
Saturday, February 14
Sunday, February 15
Monday, February 16
Tuesday, February 17
Wednesday, February 18
Friday, February 20
Saturday, February 21
Sunday, February 22
DIAL BOOKS
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Copyright © 2009 by Jody Gehrman
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Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Gehrman, Jody Elizabeth.
Triple Shot Bettys in love / Jody Gehrman.
p. cm.
Summary: Sixteen-year-old Geena spends a winter coping with a gorgeous new girl in town
who is after her boyfriend, Ben, her mother’s return to dating, and her best friend Amber’s
crush on an English teacher, while continuing to serve espressos at Triple Shot Betty.
eISBN : 978-1-101-01490-5
[1. Interpersonal relations—Fiction. 2. Dating (Social customs)—Fiction.
3. Friendship—Fiction. 4. High schools—Fiction. 5.Schools—Fiction.
6. Sonoma County (Calif.)—Fiction.] I. Title.
PZ7.G25937Tri 2009 [Fic]—dc22 2008030972
http://us.penguingroup.com
For my father,
who always believes in me
Thursday, December 18
4:15 P.M.
To: [email protected]
From: [email protected]
Subject: Betty Reunion, Baby!
Hey Hero,
I know you come home for winter break tomorrow, which renders this e-mail kind of unnecessary if not pathetic, but I just have to give you a heads-up on the latest Sonoma Valley High gossip, such as it is.
Did you know there’s this new chick throwing a party tomorrow night? You’re invited, by the way. I haven’t met her yet, but her name’s Sophie De Luca, and everyone’s talking about this bash. She hasn’t even started school here, and already she’s planning social domination. I guess she knows some locals, since she was born in Sonoma, but still. Her family’s been living in New York since she was five, and now they’re moving back here. Ben’s known her since he was little, and their families have stayed friends. Apparently they’re pretty tight.
Which is fine. Who, me, jealous? Ha! Just because I checked out her pictures on Facebook and she’s got scary gorgeous hair and spent last summer interning at Mademoiselle and clearly never had a zit in her life, you think I’m threatened? Pshaw!
Anyway, Cuz, enough about that—the important thing is you’re coming home for two whole weeks and the Bettys will be together again. Connecticut’s loss is our gain. Look out, oh ye seekers of caffeinated beverages. Ye shall taste the triple shot and ye shall be amazed!
Until tomorrow,
Geena
Friday, December 19
11:50 P.M.
The second I got to Sophie De Luca’s Christmas party tonight I felt like a total mutant. We’re talking major social anxiety of the palpitating heart variety.
I’d decided to skate there after work since I got off late. I had on my Triple Shot Betty tank top, jeans, and my favorite fleece hoodie. Usually I feel totally at home in this ensemble, but when I skated up to the house and saw two girls I didn’t recognize out on the porch in little black dresses, I sensed a distinct suckieness creeping into my night. They looked like fashion models taking a break from the runway. Jewelry sparkled at their throats and they were both slender as reeds. When they saw me skate up, they gave each other that look—you know the one—like Who’s this pathetic loser and why is she breathing our air?
I kicked my board up and caught it with one hand, then carried it up the steps. One of the girls let out a little snigger. I ignored them and rang the bell.
A striking girl with alabaster skin swung open the huge door, and suddenly everything about me felt doubly, disastrously wrong. She was more glam and glossy than anyone I’ve ever seen outside of a shampoo commercial. Her dark hair hung below her shoulders in a slick, silky mane. She had on this black sequined cocktail dress that made her legs look about four miles long. Her icy blue eyes assessed me quickly, darting down to my Pumas and back up to my face. I felt like a mangy mutt caught peeing on her doorstep.
“You must be Geena.” Her mouth smiled, but her eyes stayed cold.
“Yeah,” I said. “How’d you guess?”
She glanced at my skateboard. “Benedict said you were skating over.”
Benedict? Is that what she calls Ben? I felt sicker and sicker every second.
“I’m Sophie. So glad you could make it.”
“Thanks for inviting me,” I mumbled, then instantly regretted it. After all, it was Ben who had asked me to come, not Sophie. “Sorry I’m so underdressed. I came from work.”
“Not a problem. Come on in.”
She led me through the elegant stone foyer down a hallway lit with muted sconces. When we reached the sunken living room, I took in the scene. A ma
ssive Christmas tree sparkled in the corner, all white lights and tasteful, bejeweled ornaments. A wall of windows gave the impression that the room hung suspended over Sonoma Valley, with a large, light-festooned deck extending outward like the bow of a great ship. Cream-colored tapers in silver candelabras draped the scene in tawny hues and dramatic shadows.
There were like forty or fifty people there. I only knew about half of them, and the other half looked older, maybe college students. Everyone (no joke, everyone) was dressed up—or at least, dressed up compared to me.
“Drinks are over there.” Sophie pointed to a large, stainless steel bar near the Christmas tree, where Marcy Adams stood pouring martinis. “There’s plenty of appetizers in the other room. Should I take your . . . sweatshirt?”
“Oh. No. I’m fine.” I pulled my hoodie a little tighter around me, feeling about seven. “Thanks.”
“No problem.”
I spotted Amber’s flaming red hair across the room. “I’m going to go say hi.” I made a beeline for my friend, anxious to escape Sophie’s icy, appraising stare.
Amber was talking to PJ. “What’s up?” I said. She spun around at the sound of my voice and wrapped her arms around me, spilling a little of her drink on my sweatshirt in the process. She wore a bright paisley dress with sequins at the neckline. “Geena! You made it!” Then she lowered her voice to an ominous whisper. “Just in time.”
“Yo,” PJ said, touching his backward baseball cap in a sort of salute. Even he was dressed up in a black silk shirt and baggie black chinos. “How’s it going?”
“I’m okay.” I was distracted by Amber, though, who had this weird look on her face. “What do you mean, ‘just in time’?”
Peals of silvery laughter caught our attention from across the room. Sophie. I did a double take when I saw that the source of her hilarity was none other than Ben. She squeezed his arm with one hand and leaned toward him as if knocked off balance by his devastating sense of humor. Her dark, silky hair spilled over her shoulder enticingly.
Amber murmured, “Your boyfriend’s been hijacked by the new girl.”
Her words stirred a torrent of butterflies in my belly, and not just for the obvious reasons. The truth is, “boyfriend” still isn’t a term I’m all that comfortable with. I mean, yeah, I’ve been seeing Ben for about five months, but somehow whenever someone calls him my boyfriend, I still feel this weird little fluttery burst of panic in the pit of my stomach. It’s not that I don’t like him—I totally do—but being a full-on couple comes with all this baggage I’m not sure I’m ready for.
“How does Ben even know her?” PJ asked, staring across the room at Sophie’s sequined ass with a look of unabashed lust.
“She used to live here when she was little,” I told him.
Amber rolled her eyes. “The point is, she’s flirting with Ben big-time. Not good, G. You got to get in there, show her your roundhouse kick to the head.”
PJ laughed. “I’d pay good money to see that. I’m going to go get another drink, then get a good seat!” With that he left us for the bar, but I could see his eyes lingering still on Sophie’s slender, partly exposed back.
“Geebs!” Hero ran over and tackled me with a hug. We jumped up and down, happy to see each other, until we realized everyone was staring at us. She backed off and sipped daintily from her bottle of Perrier, smoothing her slick blond bob. She looked cute in her pink cashmere twinset, though I couldn’t help noticing that even Hero couldn’t compete with Sophie in the vogue department.
Another explosion of laughter came from Sophie’s corner of the room, and I willed myself to stare at my own hands rather than swiveling my head in her direction.
“What’s happening?” I asked through clenched teeth. “I can’t look.”
“Oooh, she’s pulling the old Popsicle trick,” Amber informed me.
“What’s that?” My stomach clenched.
“You know, take a food item—in this case, a couple of olives on a toothpick—then lick and nibble suggestively.”
Hero sucked in her breath. “Oh my God, you’re right!”
I couldn’t help it; I had to look. Sure enough, Sophie was twirling the skewered olives against her bee-stung, glossy lips, a look of rapt pleasure in her eyes. Just as she bit into one, she glanced in my direction. Was it my imagination, or did she actually bare her teeth at me? I swallowed hard and looked away.
“Feliz Navidad!” Suddenly the stofers exploded into the room, trailing clouds of skunky smoke. Stofer is what Amber and I call the stoner-surfers, mostly because it’s a lot easier to say. Dog Berry sauntered forward in the lead, his scruffy, white-blond hair uncombed as usual. Behind him were Virg Pickett and George Sabato, their eyes glazed. All three wore their usual surfer boy pothead attire: sweats, T-shirts, Uggs. Finally, I wasn’t the only one underdressed. They looked like crusty, unwashed stowaways stumbling into the Titanic’s grand ballroom.
This would be interesting.
Everyone watched as Sophie glided across the room, her sparkling martini glass held aloft in one hand. “Greetings,” she said. “Welcome to chez moi. And you are . . . ?”
“Heh, heh, heh,” Dog chuckled. “I’m Dog. This is George, and that’s Virg.”
“I’m Sophie. The drinks are over there,” she told them, waving a hand at the bar. “Mi casa es su casa.”
The room went back to buzzing with conversation. Crisis averted. Instead of relief, I couldn’t help feeling a distinct pang of disappointment. Not only was our hostess rich, thin, chic, and strikingly beautiful—apparently she was also open-minded when it came to bong-a-lots. Even though I like the stofers, it would have been much more reassuring if she’d pulled a snotty New York socialite move and thrown them out on their baked butts.
“Hey, Sloane.” I turned around and found myself looking right into Ben’s shy, smiling face. He was as yummy as usual—maybe even more so. He wore an olive green sweater and black cargo pants. His short brown hair looked like it had just been cut, and his dark eyes sparkled in the candlelight.
“Hi.” I tried to make my voice sound normal, but just standing near him sent a jolt of excitement straight through me.
He reached out a hand and tugged gently on one of my braids. “Didn’t even know you were here yet.”
“Well, here I am,” I answered lamely.
“Here you are.” He leaned over and kissed me on the lips. Really, it was more a tease than a kiss—a brushing of lips, a lingering closeness, yet somehow it made me all goose-pimpled. After a couple of seconds I pulled away, awkward and embarrassed. I just don’t do public displays of affection very well. I noticed Hero and Amber melting off into the crowd.
“Everything okay?” He studied me so intently, I wondered with mild panic what my expression was giving away this time. I have no poker face. Every possible emotion—especially the most embarrassing variety—leaks out through my traitorous pores.
“Yeah, sure. I just feel like a total slob.” I glanced down at my faded jeans and sneakers. “Everyone else is dressed up.”
He put a hand on my waist and pulled me closer. “You look great.”
“Oh, right.”
“You do!” He pressed his face into my hair. “You smell so good.”
I giggled. Ben’s very in touch with his nose. That’s one of the things I’ve had to get used to since we started dating: being sniffed all the time. “What do I smell like?”
“Mmmm . . .” He closed his eyes and considered. “Like nighttime, Christmas, and espresso beans.”
I covered my mouth. “Do I have coffee breath?”
“No! You smell like the coffee section in the grocery store—that really delicious, freshly ground, dark, exotic smell.”
“I guess that’s one perk to being a minimum wage espresso wench—free perfume.”
He laughed. By now he stood behind me, his arms wrapped all the way around me, his mouth right next to my ear. We were definitely in the PDA arena again, but the warmth of his body fe
lt too good to even consider pulling away.
“I missed you, Geena.”
From across the room, I could see Sophie clinking glasses with PJ, laughing that throaty, sophisticated laugh of hers. “You didn’t seem to be missing me a few minutes ago.”
“What do you mean?”
“You and Sophie seemed to be having a great old time.”
He turned me around, grasped my shoulders, and lowered his chin to give me one of his laser-intense stares. “We were in the same playgroup as babies, okay? We’re just old friends.”
“Oh, I know. That’s cool.” The last thing I wanted was to morph into some sort of girlzilla, plaguing him with nagging, suspicious questions. I tried to change the subject, but somehow the words that popped out were, “She’s gorgeous.”
“You think?” He glanced over at her, his expression nonchalant. “I guess she’s pretty.”
“Very glam.” Next to her I feel like a pygmy with a lisp, I thought, but I didn’t want to highlight my own inadequacies.
“She’s always been into clothes. Even when we were little. Her life’s mission is to be editor-in-chief at Vogue.”
“Noble calling.” Snarky, snarky. I couldn’t help it. Her laughter continued to haunt me from across the room, though I refused to turn around. Trying to sound less bitter, I added, “She obviously has great taste. I wish I had half her style.”
“No offense, Sloane, but I never pegged you for a fashion plate.”
“What?” I said defensively. “I like nice clothes.”
“Long as you can skate in them, right?” He was teasing me, but I wasn’t really in the mood. It made me slightly nauseous to know Ben saw me as a tomboy when Sophie De Luca was so fabulously the opposite: a high-maintenance, runway-worthy glamazon.
Before I could think of a reply, I noticed Ben’s gaze had moved from my face to some point over my shoulder. This sounds like I’m being a drama queen, but I seriously felt a chill against my back, as if someone had opened a window and let a gust of cold air in. I turned around and saw Sophie slinking toward us, her glossy lips stretched wide in a smile that showed off her cosmetically perfect teeth.
