Triple Shot Bettys in Love

by Jody Gehrman

  I scooted her out of the way and sat down at the computer. She hovered, which made me nervous.

  “Will you go see if we have anything good to eat?” I gestured toward the kitchen. “I’m starving.”

  “Sure, but don’t send it until I see it, okay?”

  “Roger that.”

  By the time she got back with a bag of Doritos and two sodas, I’d composed the following:

  Dear Rex,

  I had a great time too. My favorite things in life are strong coffee and scintillating conversation. I’ve been thinking more about Kerouac and why, as you said, lots of women readers don’t “get” him. I suspect it has to do with his female characters. They tend to lurk in the background, thinly developed and blurry. What I like about JK is the freedom of his prose; he writes with a breathless sense of wonder, you know? Anyway, we got interrupted, so I didn’t have time to explain my take. I’d love to get together again this week. Let me know what works for you.

  Amber

  “What’s ‘scintillating’?” Amber asked through a mouth full of chips.

  “Interesting. Fascinating.”

  She shrugged. “If you say so. It’s not too . . . ?”

  “Too what?”

  “Too . . . you know . . . pretentious?”

  I read it again. “You want me to change scintillating to fascinating?”

  “No, actually, I think it’s good. Let’s just send it.” Impulsively, she reached over and jabbed the cursor at the SEND button.

  We looked at each other, wide-eyed, both of our faces telegraphing exactly the same thought: Oh, God, what have we done?

  Tuesday, January 27

  5:20 P.M.

  Amber and I loitered by her locker after school today. A couple sophomore girls were hanging a big banner with bloodred, bubbly letters announcing the Valentine’s dance. Great! Another sadistic high school ritual to survive. Amber modeled her new wig for me, a Farrah Fawcett confection she picked up at the Goodwill. I don’t really get how she can stand to wear a rug that’s crawling with lice for all we know, but I didn’t bring it up. She’s already informed me that most wigs cost more than she makes at TSB all month, so snagging one for a buck-fifty’s a coup.

  We cracked ourselves up turning the wig around so she looked like Chewbacca on bleach. When I heard a familiar voice behind me, though, my laughter died in my throat.

  “Geena—hey. You got a minute?”

  I turned around so fast, whiplash threatened to immobilize me. “Mr. Sands. Hi.”

  Amber yanked the wig back around and practically dove inside her locker, choking on a fit of giggles.

  Mr. Sands shot a quizzical glance at her back and said, “Sorry—didn’t mean to interrupt.”

  “No, not at all,” I said. “Dorothy and I were just hanging out. What’s up?”

  He cut his eyes to “Dorothy,” who dug furtively in her locker like a determined mole, then very subtly tilted his head away from her in a “Let’s go over there so we won’t be overheard by this wack-job” look. Oh God, I thought wildly, he knows. He knows I cooked up her profile, that Amber’s in high school and we’re both irrationally obsessed with him. Good-bye Yale, good-bye dignity, hello suspension, restraining order, and stalking charges!

  We walked out of earshot and he studied me carefully. “First, I want to tell you your essay on Moby-Dick blew everyone else’s out of the water.”

  “Really? Wow.” I could feel my face getting hot. “Really?”

  He grinned. “Of course. You surprised?”

  “Well, yeah—I mean—sort of—”

  “I’m surprised you’re surprised. You seem so self-assured on paper. Your work has full-ride-scholarship written all over it.”

  A molten lump of pure joy lodged itself in my chest. I stood there paralyzed, unable to speak. I saw myself at Yale with Mr. Sands beside me, toting books, smiling encouragement. We would be young lovers in our Ivy League Camelot, living on literature, drunk on words.

  Just then I spotted Ben walking toward us. He shot me a curious look, but when he saw my expression his face clouded over with worry and he pivoted slightly to detour around us. God only knows what my traitorous eyes telegraphed this time. I was such a miserable girlfriend! Then I pictured Ben and Sophie throwing snowballs at each other, and I felt a little less guilty. Sure, I thought about Mr. Sands, but he’d actually messed around with Sophie.

  I tuned back in to Mr. Sands just in time to catch his question. “Incidentally, ah, your friend Amber . . . at the coffee place? You know her very well?”

  The smoldering hunk of happiness inside me was snuffed out completely. “Pretty well.”

  “You two probably have a lot to talk about.” He tried hard to sound light and breezy.

  “How do you mean?”

  “Since you’re both such avid readers.”

  “Oh,” I mumbled. “Yeah.”

  It didn’t seem like such a big deal, lying to him on MySpace, but somehow standing here face-to-face I felt a thousand times more culpable.

  “She’s taking a year off from Brown, right?”

  For a crazy, sweaty moment I felt tempted to tell him the truth. Then I saw Amber shoot me a stealthy look from under her mop of ratty blond synthetic locks and I knew I couldn’t do that to her.

  “Yeah. Her mom’s sick.”

  “Right. That’s what she said.” He didn’t sound too concerned. And okay, so we made it all up, but it seemed like he should at least fake an interest in Amber’s life, right? Then he ran a hand through his hair and looked at me in a way that made it impossible to see him as anything but perfect. “Do you happen to know . . . um . . . how old she is?”

  Translation: Is she jailbait?

  “Like twenty-one, I think. She’ll be a senior when she goes back.”

  He nodded in a just wondering, casual way, but he looked so relieved I thought he might break into an involuntary jig. “Great. Well, anyway, keep up the good work. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

  As soon as he’d walked away, Amber was at my side. “What was that about? He knows, huh? Oh, God, does he?”

  “He was just doing a little research. Wanted to know how old you are. He’s definitely hooked.”

  I could see it in her eyes; she was going to scream. I clamped my hand over her mouth while her eyes bulged. When at last the muscles in her face relaxed, I took my hand away.

  “No way!” she gasped.

  “Way,” I said.

  “Oh, God! When is he going to ask me out again?”

  “He already did, more or less.”

  “On a specific date, I mean! A specific time and place!”

  “He will. Don’t worry.” My tone was a little flat, and she eyed me carefully.

  “You’re not happy for me.”

  “No, I am. It’s great.”

  “No, you’re not.”

  I hooked my arm in hers and started walking, so she wouldn’t be able to study my face so closely. “I am, okay? Believe me. I couldn’t be happier.”

  12:40 A.M.

  Amber rang my cell a couple hours ago all hyphy.

  “He messaged me! He messaged me! He messaged me!” Her voice went up an octave each time she said it, until she sounded like a soprano on helium.

  “That’s great.”

  “No, G, you don’t understand. He messaged me! Rex Sands sent me, Amber, a message asking me out to dinner!”

  I kicked listlessly at my bedpost. “That’s cool.”

  “‘That’s cool’? What, are you deaf? It’s amazing!”

  “Uh-huh.”

  She paused. “What’s wrong?”

  “Nothing.” I didn’t want to get into a hugely involved discussion about the doldrums I’d been sinking into all afternoon, so I faked a little enthusiasm and added, “It’s so exciting! Seriously. When do you see him?”

  That was all she needed; she prattled on for a good twenty minutes, reviewing every syllable of his message, dissecting each nuance until my brain ached. Som
etimes I wish I were a guy. At least their laconic, monosyllabic conversations aren’t this exhausting.

  After we hung up, I pulled on a hoodie, grabbed my board, and slipped out the door. There were stars poking through the navy blue sky, piercing its smooth surface like pegs in a Lite-Brite. I skated down the street, past the houses and yards, breathing in the scent of wood smoke. As I got closer to the plaza, restaurant smells perfumed the air. Here and there tourists walked hand in hand or helped each other out of gleaming BMWs, looking sleek and prosperous.

  I did a U-turn away from the plaza and headed south. I wasn’t in any mood for happy little vacation people. I wound back through the neighborhoods, savoring the vibration of the board under my Pumas. The night made me feel invisible. Cool air whooshed around me, pressed against my face; I carved away from the puddles cast by streetlights, melding instead with shadows, letting myself dissolve into the darkness.

  I thought about skating over to Ben’s house, but it was late, and I’d never just stopped by before. His parents might get weirded out. Besides, my mood was too unpredictable. Ever since my conversation with Mr. Sands today there’s been this anvil in my gut that won’t go away. Ben’s no idiot. One look at me and he’d want to know what’s up. What would I tell him? “I’m falling for our English teacher”?

  I didn’t even know where I was going until I’d already arrived. It embarrassed me to be there, but still I got off my board and skulked in the shadows across the street, staring at the glow of the upstairs window. He passed by once, his body just a blur of movement between the curtains. Then he was gone.

  The yellow bungalow looked quaint and cheerful. Just above the balcony, as if placed there for effect, a crescent moon hung suspended in the sky. It looked exactly like a Cheshire cat’s grin, tilted at a rakish angle, taunting me.

  Wednesday, January 28

  6:45 P.M.

  When Jeremy Riggs cruised up to the Triple Shot Betty window this afternoon in a rusty old Mercury, I had to dig his name out of my memory banks. I hadn’t seen him since the Floating World opening. Like most underclassmen, he’s not really on my radar at school. Looking at Jeremy’s big blue eyes, his nervous, uncertain mouth, I felt guilty for having forgotten him.

  I slid open the window. “Hey. How’s it going? Jeremy, right?”

  He nodded. “I’m good. You?”

  “Not bad. Hey, Amber!” I called over my shoulder. “It’s Jeremy.”

  She sat on the counter painting her nails, totally engrossed; she spared us a quick hair-flipping look, a bland “What’s up?” but beyond that she couldn’t be bothered.

  I turned back to him, trying not to notice the disappointment clouding his thin, pale face. “Can I get you something?”

  “Oh. Um. Coffee, I guess.”

  “What size?”

  “Small?”

  I grinned. “You don’t sound too sure about that.”

  “Actually, I just wanted to drop this off.” He slipped me a CD, his tone confidential now. “Can you give this to Amber? She looks sort of busy.”

  “Sure.”

  “We’re playing at the Raven this weekend. Big show.”

  “Oh, right!” I glanced down at the CD. He’d scribbled Music for Amber in little-kid handwriting. Ohhhh! “You guys were really good.”

  His voice got even quieter. “If you could talk her into coming, I’d owe you big-time.”

  “I’ll see what I can do.” I didn’t want to make any promises. Amber’s way too fixated on her date tomorrow night with Mr. Sands to talk about anything else.

  As soon as he’d driven away, I said to her, “Look, I don’t mean to be a drag here, but are you sure this thing with Mr. Sands is a good idea?”

  “What?” She looked up from her nails, her eyes wide. “Are you joking?”

  “It’s just—this guy Jeremy worships you, and he’s so cute, and talented, and he seems really nice. Maybe you should give him a chance. Just think: no more wigs, no more stress, no more trying to be something you’re not.”

  Her jaw dropped. “I can’t believe I’m hearing this.”

  “It’s just an idea . . .”

  “You think I can decide Rex is—what? Too much work?—and just give up on him?” She’s started calling Mr. Sands “Rex.” It really sort of irks me. “Is it like that for you? Like, ‘Ben’s kind of a hassle, I think I’ll find some guy who’s a little easier’?”

  I rolled my eyes. “That’s not what I meant.”

  “You can’t back out on me.” She started pacing like a caged lion in the small space, blowing on her nails impatiently. “This is too important.”

  “What do you mean, ‘back out’?”

  She turned to me, her eyes flashing. “You know what I mean. I can’t pull this off without you.”

  I held up a hand. “Whoa. Hold up. I got the ball rolling, but from here on out I’m only a consultant. I don’t get involved.”

  “You can’t—Wait a minute!” she sputtered. “You’re—like—abandoning me? Now?! When we’re this close?”

  “I’m not abandoning you! But—”

  “But what?”

  “What do you want me to do?” I challenged. “Tag along on every date and feed you lines?”

  “I just want some help.”

  “I can’t be smart for you all the time!” I blurted.

  Her face went from white-hot anger to little-girl-hurt. She crumpled before my eyes. By the time the full impact of what I’d said hit me, she was out the back door, slamming it hard in my face.

  “Trouble, Sloane?”

  I spun around. Ben was there at the window, a sympathetic look on his face. I walked over, slid the glass all the way open. He was wearing cargo shorts and a green T-shirt. He looked cute, and seeing him there on his bike I felt a queasy wash of guilt rinse through me: guilt for subtly avoiding him since Saturday, for thinking so much about Mr. Sands, for turning into a really shitty girlfriend and a generally despicable human being.

  “Hi,” I mumbled.

  “Hey. Rough day?”

  I nodded.

  “What was all that? Something about you being smart for her?”

  I bristled. “Were you eavesdropping?”

  “No, I just got here and—”

  “Couldn’t you cough or something? Let us know you’re there instead of lurking around—”

  “I wasn’t lurking.” He ran his hand through his hair, his sympathy replaced now with indignation. “God, Sloane, what’s up with you? You don’t call, and when I stop by you bite my head off for no reason.”

  I grabbed a straw and started twisting it in my fingers, avoiding his eyes. “Sorry. You just startled me, is all.”

  For a moment, it seemed neither of us had anything to say. It was worse than arguing—that hollow, deafening silence. Finally he said, “I guess I’m going to ride over to PJ’s. You free later?”

  I shrugged. “Yeah. Call me.”

  “Actually,” he said, “why don’t you call me? I’m sick of leaving messages that don’t get returned.”

  As he pedaled off down Napa Street I squinted into the sun, following him with my eyes. I hoped he might spare me a backward glance, but he didn’t; he just disappeared around the corner, his graceful brown legs moving in a rhythm so practiced and assured it made me ache.

  Thursday, January 29

  11:15 P.M.

  I didn’t call Ben last night or tonight, and he didn’t call me. Instead I moped around the house, restless, annoyed, and annoying. I ate like five brownies. By the time I grabbed my third, Mom offered to cancel her date with Mungo for a girls’ night in. I told her she should go out and have fun. Before she left the house, though, I had to swear I wouldn’t OD on chocolate.

  About an hour after Mom left, Amber showed up. We hadn’t exchanged a word since our stupid tiff at TSB—we’d just baristaed side by side in silence, which isn’t easy when your workspace is the size of a broom closet. All day at school today we avoided each other. Since Ben didn�
��t come find me and I wasn’t about to hunt him down, I had nobody to hang out with at lunch. I gobbled my sandwich in about twenty seconds, then spent the rest of the period cowering in a shadowy corner of the library, seeking solace in Wuthering Heights. It sucked. Cowering in the library, I mean, not Wuthering Heights.

  I have to admit I was glad to see Amber. She was supposed to go out to dinner with Mr. Sands tonight. She hadn’t broken our silence to beg for help, which seemed like a step in the right direction—after all, we’d fought because I wanted off the hook, right? Strangely, though, knowing she’d gone out with him totally solo, no texting or anything, made me feel left out. The whole situation’s messed up.

  Her glum face told me things hadn’t gone all that well. She stood on the doorstep staring at her shoes. She wore a thin, clingy sweater, a short denim skirt, and open-toed mules. Her hair hung down around her face and she shivered slightly in the fog.

  “Hey,” I said gently. “How’s it going?”

  In answer, she burst into tears.

  I pulled her inside and got her situated on the couch while she went on crying. It was good we had the house to ourselves. I sliced an emergency-sized brownie, popped it in the microwave so the chocolate chips would soften a little, and poured her a big glass of milk.

  When I returned with her prescription, her eyes lit up and the tears ebbed a bit. She took a large, medicinal bite.

  “What happened?” I asked.

  She knocked back some milk. A faint, ghostly mustache graced her upper lip as she answered. “I choked.”

  “You did not. You’re too hard on yourself.”

  She grimaced. “No, seriously, I totally crashed and burned.”

  “I’ll be the judge of that. Tell me what happened.”

  “It was awful.” She put the brownie down and pushed it away. “I had like no idea what to wear, first of all. Everything I owned seemed cheap and stupid. Even the stuff Hero gave me just—eugh.” She waved a hand.