Triple Shot Bettys in Love

by Jody Gehrman

  She laughed a little. “Yeah.”

  “Yeah! And maybe you’re not in AP classes, but who cares? You’ve got so much going for you. If he can’t see that, then he’s not right for you.”

  She looked at me. “So I did screw it up, huh?”

  “Um . . . well.”

  “Just be honest.”

  I took a deep breath. “Here’s the thing: Mr. Sands asked me about you today at school. He thinks there’s an Amber-imposter.”

  Her face scrunched up in confusion.

  “His theory is that the Amber we created to make him like you is the real Amber, and the girl sending him messages lately is . . . not really you.”

  “Wow.” She shook her head. “That’s so twisted.”

  “I know, isn’t it? But wait, it gets worse. This was probably the wrong thing to do, but I sort of panicked. See, there’s this poster in his room for The Three Faces of Eve, and it gave me this idea—”

  “The Three Faces of Eve?”

  Obviously I was losing her, so I cut to the chase. “I told him you have multiple personality disorder.”

  “Like I’m schizophrenic?”

  “Technically, I think that’s the wrong term—”

  “You told him I’m schizo?!” She looked horrified. “And this helps because . . . ?”

  “I needed to explain why your new messages are so different. What else could I do, tell him the truth?”

  She just sat there, her face going through complex cal culations for a long moment. Finally her eyes settled on a look of firm resolve. “You know what? I’m sick of pretending.”

  “Really?”

  “I’m going to tell him the truth.”

  “The truth?” This was amazing. I couldn’t keep the shock out of my voice.

  “Yeah.”

  “Are you serious?”

  “Look, I started writing him without you because I realized I was being selfish. I mean, I know you crush on Rex, and that was part of why you helped me—”

  I opened my mouth to protest, but she went on.

  “Which was okay with me, really! But then it started messing with you and Ben. It was like you were with Ben, but you were also with Rex in this weird way. As much as I needed your help, I finally got that you were right. You couldn’t be smart for me all the time; I have to do it on my own. Otherwise I’ll screw everything up.”

  I thought about it. “So, you’re going to tell him it was me writing messages for you, and you’re not a college student—the whole thing?”

  “I can just tell him ‘a friend’ wrote those messages; I don’t have to say it was you. But, yeah, I’ll explain that I’m not at Brown and I’ve never read Brontë and I love tattoos and I’m working on a graphic novel. Come as you are. No disguises.”

  “What about you being in high school?”

  She shrugged. “I guess I’ll admit that too. Or maybe not. I don’t know. If it comes up. Shit, I might have to.”

  I thought about it. Whatever shot she had at getting close to him would be obliterated, of course, but was that really a bad thing? They were the most mismatched human beings on the planet. At least this way he could reject her openly and she could move on. Also, I wouldn’t have to keep getting tangled in their web of deceit.

  “No more wigs, at least,” I said.

  She picked up the blond Farrah Fawcett one and made a face. “I might have to burn this one.”

  “Good. I’m scared it might be home to a colony of fleas.”

  She laughed. Her smile faded almost immediately, though. “You think he’ll run screaming from the real me?”

  “Well, the real you could get him arrested.”

  She hugged herself. “This sucks.”

  “But I think it’s the right thing to do.” I felt relief flooding through me already.

  “I’m going to tell him Saturday. At the poetry reading. You’re still coming with me, right?”

  I squeezed her arm. “Of course. I’ve got your back, chica.”

  “Thanks.” She looked like she might cry again, but instead she forced a brave smile. “I’m going to need it.”

  Friday, February 20

  6:45 P.M.

  Today in history Ben sat near Sophie again, which made me want to retch, as usual. Several times I caught him sneaking glances at me, though—quick furtive looks that stirred little whirlpools of giddiness inside my stomach. Once, while Ms. Boyle was going on about JFK and the grassy knoll, he looked and I looked at exactly the same moment. I swear to God it was like an invisible force field crackled between us.

  When class was over and everyone started the AP march toward English I stayed at my desk a little longer, taking my time as I put my pen into the front pocket of my bag, then carefully zipped my books and binder into the main compartment. A shadow inched its way onto my desk. When I looked up, there he was, staring down at me with his dark, liquid eyes. It occurred to me then that since we’d broken up he’d become more heartbreakingly familiar and also surprisingly foreign, the way your room does when you’ve been away from it for a few weeks.

  “Hey, Sloane. How’s it going?”

  He was as gorgeous as usual, except I noticed that there were subtle, bruise-colored half moons under his eyes, like he hadn’t been sleeping much.

  “I’m good. You?”

  “Yeah,” he said. “You know. All right.” He didn’t sound all right, though. It was like all the air had been siphoned from his lungs, leaving him with flat, airless words.

  Suddenly I wanted to back up and erase my fake-perky tone, admit to him that since he dumped me every day has been a different shade of gray. I couldn’t do that, though. Things were humiliating enough already.

  “How’s, um . . . ?” Oh God, I couldn’t think of what to ask him. I needed my brain to spit out a simple, innocuous, polite sort of question, one that wouldn’t make him feel sorry for me or freak him out—just normal small talk. Everyone knows guys hate “talking through feelings” after they’ve given some girl the boot. I couldn’t stand it if he thought I was about to corner him into one of those conversations. “How’s Mr. Peabody?”

  The corners of his mouth twitched as he fought a full-on smile. “He’s good. He asked about you the other day.”

  My heart expanded, in spite of my efforts to stay calm. “Really?”

  “Yeah, he was all, ‘Ruff-ruff, arr-ruff ruff!’”

  “Wow! He’s so expressive.”

  “Not really.” He looked at his shoes, then back up at me. “Actually, he’s pretty bad at saying what he needs to say.”

  “You coming, or what?”

  I turned to see Sophie in the doorway. She had on red patent-leather boots and a saucy black dress with trim that matched her shoes perfectly. Her dark hair was pulled into a messy French twist, just the right amount of fringe left dangling about her face for a vaguely tousled effect. She looked disgustingly perfect. I wanted to throw something at her.

  Ben opened his mouth to speak, but the late bell rang, cutting him off. I felt like grabbing his hand and running out the door, down the hall, and out to the parking lot so we could drive off in his Volvo, go find a quiet place to park like we did that day in the rain, just talk and kiss and never hurt each other again.

  Instead, I said, “We’ll get a tardy in English.”

  “Yeah.” He shot me one last burning look. “We’d better go.”

  Saturday, February 21

  4:20 P.M.

  Amber and I had just downed three shots of espresso each to wake ourselves up this morning when suddenly there was an onslaught of customers—way more than usual. We churned out lattes, cappies, chais, and mochas like a human vending machine. When it finally slowed down around nine we were exhausted and jacked at the same time, running on a potent mix of adrenaline, caffeine, and sleep deprivation. We cranked up the James Brown and danced like fiends, cracking each other up with our increasingly bizarre renditions of the funky chicken.

  After we’d laughed so hard we cou
ldn’t possibly laugh any more, Amber sat on the stool and her face got unexpectedly serious. “I talked to my mom yesterday. She kicked Danny out. I guess I’m moving back home.”

  For a giddy moment, all I could see was me in my room all alone with everything just the way I liked it: my books lined up neatly on their shelves, my clothes and shoes all returned to their rightful places in the closet. But then I thought of Amber back in her house, and I felt a little less thrilled.

  “Are you sure? Is he definitely out of the picture?”

  “Yeah. He got a job in Miami. There’ll be an entire country between us, thank God.”

  “How’s your mom doing?” Translation: Are you sure you want to go back to that boozy hag? Not to be mean, but Amber’s mom isn’t winning any prizes in the parental category this month.

  She considered. “Pretty good, actually. I don’t know what your mother told her that night when she came over, but whatever it was, seems like it sank in. She’s all into being a better mom now.” Her smile was cynical, but I could see little glimmers of hope in there too. “We’ll see how long that lasts.”

  “Good. I’m glad she’s making an effort.”

  Amber turned around and started making herself a latte. I couldn’t imagine ingesting another drop of caffeine—I felt like the Energizer bunny already. “Are you seriously having more?”

  She looked at the cup in her hand, which trembled slightly. “Maybe I should make it decaf.”

  I heard a car behind me and turned to see Jeremy Riggs cruising up to the window. His rusty old Mercury idled there, wheezing translucent blue clouds of exhaust. A shy, mischievous smile bloomed on his lips as I leaned out the window toward him.

  “Jeremy! Whattup?” I was happy to see him.

  “Hey, Geena. How’s it going?” He dropped his voice to a near-whisper and tried to see around me. “Is Amber back there?”

  “Sure. Why?”

  “You ever seen the movie Say Anything?”

  “Yeah! Cameron Crowe, right? I love that cheeseball eighties stuff.”

  “Well, I’m about to put its cheeseball powers to the test.”

  I had no idea what he meant, but I didn’t have time to ask. Amber came over to say hello then. She’d just barely opened her mouth when Jeremy flew into action. He hoisted an old paint-splattered boom box out the window and pushed PLAY. Peter Gabriel’s “In Your Eyes” blared from the speakers so loudly, we both took half a step back, startled. He sat there, wordlessly gazing at Amber, his pale, skinny arms straining under the weight of the CD player.

  Before the song was over, another car drove up behind him. I tore my eyes away from Jeremy long enough to check out who it was. Oh, sacrebleu, it was Lane, our boss! He sat in his green MINI Cooper with his arms folded, a distinctly unhappy expression brewing behind his enormous Wayfarers.

  “What is this?” he shouted. “Serenade Saturday?! Give him his coffee and say buh-bye, girls!”

  Jeremy hastily stashed his boom box on the seat beside him and tore out of the parking lot. Amber and I just stood there, our mouths hanging open. When Lane pulled up and saw us like that he just about blew a fuse.

  “Do I pay you girls to flirt? Do I? Can we run a business on romance?”

  “No, Lane.” I shook off my surprise and focused on his disgruntled face. “Sorry. What can I get you?”

  “You know perfectly well what you can get me! A double cappuccino, wet.” Lane’s bark is worse than his bite. He knows I’m the only Triple Shot Betty who can make his cappies just the way he likes them. As long as that’s true, I’ve got long-term job security.

  While I made his drink, he calmed down enough to ask, “Which one of you girls was that little twerp serenading, anyway?”

  “Her,” I said, pointing at Amber.

  “Well, don’t let that one go,” he advised her. “He may not look like much now, but it’s always the nerdy ones who end up making bank after high school. The quarterback will be bald, paunchy, and working for his dad’s construction companies in ten years—trust me.”

  “He’s great, isn’t he?” I enthused.

  “Seems very romantic. What more could you want?”

  I elbowed Amber. “Thank you! That’s what I keep telling her.”

  “Yeah, yeah, yeah,” Amber grumbled. “If you both love him so much, why don’t you go out with him?”

  Lane smirked. “I’d be arrested, honey.”

  “Besides,” I said, leaning out to hand Lane his drink. “He doesn’t want us. He wants you.”

  Sunday, February 22

  12:30 A.M.

  At what point did I realize with absolute certainty that God hates me? Oh, gee, let me think about that . . . I’d say the moment I walked into La Plaza Cafe and saw Ben Bettaglia sharing a table with Sophie De Luca.

  Yep, that’d be the moment.

  Who knew an open mike would draw such a crowd? Everyone was there: the stofers, PJ, Marcy Adams, Jeremy and all of his band mates, plus scores of terminally hip twentysomethings, some of whom I recognized from Floating World. Ben and Sophie were sitting at a table with PJ and Marcy, so they might not be on what could be called an actual date, but the second Sophie saw me she tossed her hair in a très annoying fashion and leaned over to whisper something into Benedict’s ear.

  I had to hold myself back, I’m telling you.

  “Okay,” Amber coached me, leading me by the elbow to a table on the opposite side of the room. “This looks bad, I see that, but stay cool. If Ben’s doing her, he’s not half as perfect for you as I thought.”

  I kept my expression as blank as possible, in spite of the overwhelming urge to retch.

  “Are you all right?” Amber handed me a napkin. “Looks like you’re sweating a little.”

  “I’m fine,” I lied, dabbing at my forehead. It was bad enough seeing Sophie trying to steal Ben back when we were together. Now, though, knowing I had no claim on him and she had every right to move in for the kill, I found the sight almost unbearable.

  Amber scanned the room. “Rex isn’t here yet.”

  “Maybe we should just go,” I croaked.

  “Let’s give him ten minutes.” Her tone was imploring and uncharacteristically sympathetic. “I know it’s hard. Do you mind? I won’t make you if you can’t handle it.”

  I willed myself not to look at their table, but found myself sneaking a quick peek anyway. They weren’t touching; that was promising, right? Just then, as if reading my thoughts, Sophie cupped a hand around Ben’s ear and whispered something. I wanted to strangle her. Never in my life had violence seemed like such a logical solution.

  “I can handle it,” I said, barely getting the syllables out.

  “You sure?”

  I nodded. “If I suddenly leap across the room and try to claw her eyes out, promise you’ll restrain me.”

  “Yeah, okay. She’s got it coming, though. Look at how smug she is.”

  “Amber? You’re not helping.”

  “You’re right,” she said. “Give peace a chance.”

  Right then Mr. Sands walked in. He had on faded jeans and a camel-colored suede shirt open at the collar. His hair was slicked back—a look I’d never seen on him. He walked with a beat poet cool, assessing the room with a sly, knowing squint.

  I thought I heard Amber suck in her breath. Then again, it could have been a collective gasp coming from every female in that room, and probably a few of the guys too. He sure knew how to make an entrance.

  A little woman in a knit poncho and leopard print glasses stepped up to the mike, holding a coffee mug. I thought I recognized her as a cashier from Body and Soul Natural Foods. She wore her long gray hair coiled into Princess Lea buns. To be honest, though, her face looked a lot more like Yoda, all squat and jowly and slightly yellow, with grooves in her forehead so deep, they reminded me of an accordion.

  “Hellooooo everyone,” she purred into the mike. “Glad to see such a fabulous turnout. This is our first monthly Saturday Night Sonoman Poetry Series
. It’s open mike, anyone can sign up, and the list is over there with my son Ronnie.”

  She nodded at a tall, skinny guy by the door. He sported bleached, randomly hacked hair, as if he’d done it himself with a bottle of Clorox and a pair of child’s scissors.

  “We ask that all poets keep their readings to five minutes or less,” Ms. Yoda went on. “Other than that, it’s up to you. Just try to speak into the mike and enunciate. Ronnie, who do we have up first?”

  Ronnie consulted his list. “DJ-PJ?”

  Ms. Yoda scanned the room, with her mouth puckered slightly as if she’d discovered a fly in her coffee. “Is DJ-PJ here?”

  PJ swaggered up to the mike and cradled it like a pro. “I’m requesting a little backup on this number. Dog? You guys down?”

  All three stofers popped up from their table and sauntered over to PJ in a pack, looking stoned as usual. They arranged themselves behind him like a trio of backup singers for some Motown headliner. Responding to a wordless cue from PJ, they simultaneously cupped their hands around their mouths and started in on a steady beat, bobbing their scruffy heads in unison. PJ leaned into the mike, his body moving instinctively to the rhythm.

  “I ain’t no Shakespeare

  I know the stakes here

  I gotta rhyme if I want a place here,

  I’m not your Kipling,

  That’s not a bad thing,

  I got the grooves of a mother-f-ing rap king.”

  The crowd cheered wildly at that. I glanced over at Ms. Yoda in time to see the wrinkles between her brows furrow even deeper. PJ had tactfully implied the curse without actually saying it, but apparently she didn’t know how lucky she was.

  “I know the score,

  I see the door,

  But I won’t go there if you want more.”

  Again, the audience burst into an explosion of rowdy cheers. Unable to stop myself, I glanced over at Ben; his dark eyes met mine, and for a second I felt light-headed.