Confessions of a Triple Shot Betty

by Jody Gehrman

  I nodded, rolling my board with one foot.

  “He’s so into her. The dude’s obsessed. Either we hook them up, or I’m going to kill him, because he’s driving me nuts.”

  “I think the feeling’s pretty mutual.”

  He flashed his crooked grin and turned his music back up. “Cool. I’ll tell him to go for it.”

  I added, “Except her dad’s got this rule: No dating until college.”

  “Oh, yeah?” He backed down the volume again.

  “She can only go out with Claudio”—I kicked my board vertical and rested it on one shoe—“if I go too.”

  “No, really?” He laughed. “That’s pretty funny. What are you, the virgin patrol or something?”

  I cringed. “Shut up.”

  “Well, it wouldn’t be so bad if you got something out of it, right? Just take her out with someone you’re into—like a double date.” I think he could tell from my expression there weren’t big lightbulbs flashing in my brain. He gave me a playful shove. “I’d ask you out, but my girlfriend wouldn’t like it.” Then he got a mischievous sparkle in his eye. “My homie Ben’s single, you know.”

  “Don’t even think about it,” I warned. “I’ll date Ben Bettaglia when hell freezes over.”

  He laughed. “Okay, okay. I’ll tell Claudio the deal. Good news and bad news, I guess.” Then he winked at me, cranked the music back up, and revved his engine. “You never know, Skater Chick. Hell might freeze over soon.”

  “Ha, ha,” I said.

  He drove away, and I ignored the uneasy feeling his last comment left in the pit of my stomach.

  11:00 P.M.

  Hero and I got to work at the same time. We took over for Lizzie and Sarah (aka the Sandalwood Sisters—they both have straw-colored dreads down past their shoulders, pierced tongues, and they reek of sandalwood. Thank God I never have to work with them or I would choke on that stench. Though I bet they’re really nice people, once you get past the odor issues).

  “So,” I said to Hero when they were gone. “I ran into PJ on my way here.”

  “Yeah?”

  “He says Claudio really likes you.”

  She turned to me, suddenly excited. “He did? What exactly did he say? Tell me everything!”

  Just then Amber burst in. She was wearing a bikini top with a mesh tank thrown over it, Daisy Dukes, and huge red sunglasses. “Oh my God, I am so bored,” she announced. “I could scream.”

  I was surprised to see her. “You don’t work today, do you?”

  “No. My stupid mom was supposed to lend me the car, but then her boy toy called and bam—she was out of there. Not having your own ride totally sucks.” She flung her sunglasses and sketchbook onto the counter.

  Hero turned her attention back to me pointedly. “Anyway, Geebs, tell me—come on!”

  Amber looked a little miffed at Hero’s lack of interest in her car deprivation, but she started making herself an iced vanilla latte without lashing out. The place was so small we could barely move with the three of us in there.

  “I believe the exact phrase he used was ‘the dude’s obsessed.’ ”

  I don’t know what swept over us—it was like Hero and I were momentarily possessed by the ghosts of crazed Beatle groupies. We found ourselves jumping up and down, squealing at the top of our lungs.

  Of course, right then our boss drove up in his Mini Cooper, wearing a serious sourpuss frown. “Girls, girls, girls,” he scolded. “What is this, cheerleading practice?” Then he softened a bit. Lane likes to act tough, but he’s a sucker for my cappies. “Geena, make me a double cappuccino, will you?” He handed me his high-tech to-go mug that matched the green of his Mini perfectly.

  “Sure thing,” I said.

  Hero glowed with joy while I made Lane his cappuccino. I whispered that she should clean something, since Lane likes us to look busy at all times. She stood there beaming into the sink, swishing a sponge around in slow motion like she was doing Tai Chi.

  As soon as Lane drove off with his cappy, she dropped the sponge and said, “Oh my God. I can’t believe PJ used the word obsessed!” She stood on her tiptoes and let out a high-pitched squeal.

  Amber broke the spell. “Yeah, cool. Geena said you wanted to get it on with that guy. That’s awesome.”

  I glared at Amber. “I didn’t—I—Amber!”

  The beatific smile slid right off Hero’s face. She turned to me with accusing eyes. “You said I wanted to ‘get it on with him’?”

  I looked back and forth between the two of them. “I might have mentioned that you think he’s cute, but I never said ‘get it on with him.’ ”

  “My bad,” Amber said. “Wrong choice of words. Obviously you’re hot for him, though.”

  Hero’s nostrils flared. “Whatever’s developing between Claudio and me is really none of your business.”

  “Oh, well, excuse me, but wasn’t it you who was shattering my eardrum two seconds ago? If you don’t want people to know, don’t run around screaming at the top of your lungs.”

  I was so not in the mood for this. “Amber, be cool, okay?”

  “Me? Why do you always side with her?”

  I put a hand over my eyes. “I don’t.”

  “I’m out of here.” Amber grabbed her sunglasses and sketchbook from the counter and slammed out the door.

  After she left, Hero stood there glaring at me.

  “What? You never said it was a secret.”

  “I’m taking my break,” she said, and for the second time in five minutes, I had a door slammed in my face.

  Hero was gone for what seemed like an hour. In the meantime, Ben Bettaglia drove up in his ancient Volvo station wagon with Claudio riding shotgun. Claudio ordered a large iced coffee and Ben ordered a milkshake. I couldn’t believe it. Hero was totally missing out by pouting. Probably she’d blame me for this too.

  “So, uh, doesn’t your cousin work here?” Ben asked.

  I nodded, hating everyone for putting me in the middle of things and making me look like the beeatch. “Yeah, she’s on break right now. What’s it to you?”

  “Having a bad day?” he asked.

  I put a hand on my hip and yelled over the blender, “Why do you say that?”

  “You just seem kind of . . . grumpy.”

  “What, like I’m supposed to smile all the time?” I glanced at Claudio in the passenger seat. He was grinning broadly and nodding, but I could see it was more from a lack of fluency than any comment on my moodiness, so I ignored him and turned my attention back to Ben. “Do you know, by the way, that espresso milkshakes are the biggest pain in the butt to make out of everything on our menu?”

  He eyed the large wooden sign that listed our offerings. “Harder than the double chocolate cheesecake?”

  “Yeah, duh, all we have to do is slice that.”

  “Harder than the tropical island smoothie with bee pollen?”

  “Yes! I have to scoop the ice cream, which is hard as a rock, and brew the espresso, then hope it doesn’t melt the ice cream too quickly. It’s a total drag.”

  Ben appeared to consider this. He turned to Claudio. “Did you realize there was such a strong sentiment against milkshake lovers?”

  Claudio looked from him to me and back again, still beaming and nodding.

  Ben shrugged. “I guess Claudio knew about this too. It’s a conspiracy.” He leaned toward me as if to share a secret. “Ever get that lubricant, Sloane?”

  I fixed my gaze on Claudio and ignored the cretin beside him. “Claudio, don’t you find it tragic the way some guys fixate on childish double entendres and repeat them ad nauseam like toddlers who have just discovered the thrill of farting noises?”

  Claudio just blinked at me.

  Seeing that I had the advantage, I pressed my point. “Personally, I think it’s a pathetic attempt to connect with members of the opposite sex. In lieu of any actual social skills or maturity, boys often resort to infantile tactics in a desperate plea for attention.”r />
  Just then, Hero stormed back in, and froze when she saw Claudio.

  “It is Hero!” he called to her as I was handing them their drinks. “Hello! Bon giorno!” His smile was so huge, I thought his face might crack in half.

  While Ben handed me a ten and I got change, Hero stood at the window, speaking in halting Italian with Claudio. I could tell she was nervous, but after a few phrases she warmed up, and then they were off, bantering in that musical tongue, laughing like children.

  Ben said to me, “Look, I’m sorry, but I like milkshakes. What can I say?”

  “You like milkshakes, I like lubricant,” I told him. “There’s someone behind you. Better go.”

  He handed me a dollar. “For your trouble,” he said. “Thanks,” I said flatly.

  I waited on the customers who had lined up behind Ben, then turned to face my cousin. She tried the silent treatment for about ten seconds, but she was so happy after talking to Claudio, it was no use. “Okay, look. You messed up. Fine. I’ll forgive you.”

  “You’re so generous,” I said.

  She grinned. “As well as brilliant. I have a really stellar idea.”

  Uh-oh. I had a feeling I knew what was coming. “What?” “How would it be if you, me, Claudio, and Ben all went out sometime?”

  “Not.”

  “Come on, you guys have been flirting since we were in preschool. Plus he’s totally hit it off with Claudio. They go everywhere together.”

  I stared at her, aghast. “I’ve never flirted with Ben Bettaglia in my life.”

  “What do you call ten years of practical jokes, playfighting, and in-class debates where you always take opposite sides? You two are like the classic couple-who-won’t-admit-you’re-a-couple.”

  My mouth hung open. “That’s insane. Ben and I are . . . barely even friends. In fact, we’re archenemies.” I squinted at her. “You’re trying to con me into liking Ben so you can get with Claudio.”

  “Not at all. I just want you to have a little summer fun, is all.”

  “Uh-huh,” I said. “You, me, Ben, and Loverboy.”

  “Exactly!” She slapped my arm. “Now you’re getting it.”

  “Look, I’m not going to pretend I like some guy just so you can have your precious fling.” She looked hurt, so I softened my tone. “I was really hoping to spend time with you and Amber this summer. You know, girl time.”

  “Girl time with Amber?” she sneered. “Joy. Like getting your nails done with Cruella DeVille.”

  “She’s cool when you get to know her.”

  She went back to her I’ve got a really good idea face. “Okay, listen, how’s this? If I make an effort with Amber, will you make an effort with Ben?”

  “It’s different. I’m not suggesting you date Amber!” I protested.

  “Just be friendly. That’s all I’m asking.”

  I shrugged. “I’m always friendly.”

  She made a sarcastic sound.

  “What?”

  “Nothing,” she said.

  Saturday, June 28

  2:40 P.M.

  When I went to Moon Mountain today, I found Hero in her room. She was glued to the window, gripping a pair of binoculars. I said her name and she jumped halfway to the ceiling. “Don’t do that,” she scolded.

  “Hero, you’re stalking the poor guy.”

  She looked indignant. “I am not! It’s only stalking if the person wants you to stop, right?”

  “I guess . . .”

  She held out the binoculars, eyes shining. “Look!”

  I took them from her and trained them on the tiny figure standing amidst the rows and rows of grapes. He was holding a piece of ragged cardboard with the words Hero is Beutiful scrawled in dark ink.

  “Cute,” I said. “Too bad he couldn’t spell-check that.”

  “Ha, ha,” she said.

  Friday, July 4

  (i.e., time to celebrate our freedoms as Americans by eating hormone-laden farm animals and blowing shit up)

  6:00 P.M.

  Today my dad showed up with his girlfriend, Jen. I know it’s a cliché to hate your dad’s girlfriend, and for that reason alone I’d like to give her a chance, but let’s face it: Bimbohontas doesn’t give me much to work with. Bronwyn told me once that the reason I hate her so much is because of this weird thing Freud was all into called the Electra Complex, which basically means I’m attracted to my dad and therefore view his girlfriend as a rival. Usually, I respect what Bronwyn says, but that time I had to just cover my ears and go “La-la-la” because really, how disgusting can you get?

  Originally, I was supposed to go camping with Dad this weekend in Santa Cruz, but that got changed because he had a huge project at work. As I waited for him and Bimbotissima to drive up, I tried not to be mad that our long weekend in Santa Cruz had been downgraded to an afternoon barbeque among geriatrics. This is the third time he’s changed plans at the last minute since he moved to L.A., and it’s getting on my nerves. They were a couple minutes late and Mom kept looking at her watch, trying to be all casual about it, but driving me batty anyway. She was picking lint off the couch and wiping crumbs that weren’t there and generally being a really super-annoying mom-on-the-verge-of-a-nervous-breakdown type. I’ve already learned from experience not to snap at her in this situation, though, because it’ll escalate instantly into a fight, and we won’t be able to stop even when Dad gets here, which will inspire Count Bimbula to stand there with a smug Aren’t you glad you’ve escaped all this? expression on her face, and I’ll want to slap her.

  As I was waiting, I saw Ben Bettaglia ride by on his bike. Ben’s a serious cyclist, so usually when I see him out riding he’s all bent over, drenched with sweat, scowling at the road, his legs pumping so fast they’re just a blur. Today, though, he wasn’t even touching the handlebars, he was just gliding along at a snail’s pace, looking around like, “La-di-dah, just out for a little spin, don’t mind me.”

  I decided it was time to go outside and look for our dog. Tragically, our dog is nonexistent, since my mother is extremely doggist and refuses to give in, saying I can have a fish if I promise to take care of it, but obviously I don’t want a fish (otherwise why would I beg for a dog? Hello!). Fortunately, Ben couldn’t possibly know any of this, so searching for our nonexistent dog struck me as the ideal ploy to find out what he was doing cruising past our house.

  After checking for nose-shine in the mirror, I ventured outside, casually calling, “Auggie! Auggie!” at the top of my lungs. I decided long ago that if I ever do get a dog I’ll name him Auggie (short for Augustus) so that, in moments of particularly affectionate bonding between said canine and myself, I can cry, “Auggie doggie!”

  After a few minutes of this, Ben slowed to a stop at the edge of our lawn. “Hey, Sloane,” he said. “You lose someone?”

  I shielded my eyes against the sun and feigned surprise at the sight of him (Academy Awards, here I come). “Ben! Didn’t see you there. You didn’t notice a dog out here, did you?”

  He looked around. “Nope. What kind?”

  “Oh, you know, just a . . . dog. Kind of . . . golden . . . with spots.”

  “Is he a golden retriever?”

  I didn’t want to describe a dog that looked even remotely like any in our neighborhood—that might lead to an embarrassing misunderstanding. “No, he’s part Australian shepard, part Great Dane, part poodle. He’s got a reddish head with white paws and a black tail.”

  “I thought you said he was golden with spots?”

  “Right,” I said, thinking fast. “His body’s golden with spots, but the rest of him is . . . multicolored.”

  He smirked. “Where’d you get this thing, a genetic lab?”

  I stiffened. Ben Bettaglia had no right to insult Auggie doggie, even if he didn’t exist. “He’s a great dog.”

  “I’m sure he is,” he said, holding up a hand in the No offense, back off gesture. For some reason that made me mad.

  “Why, what do you have? A
purebred something-or-other?”

  He shrugged. “A Chihuahua.”

  A high-pitched trumpet of laughter escaped from me before I could cover my mouth with one hand.

  “What?” he demanded. “Mr. Peabody’s the coolest—”

  “Mr. Peabody? Does he wear little glasses?”

  “Very funny. What’s your dog’s name?” When I told him, he started looking around the yard calling, “Auggie! Come here, Augster!” very loudly.

  Of course, Dad and Madame Bimbette chose this particular moment to drive up. Ben kept calling for Auggie as Dad got out of the car. I wanted to run into Dad’s arms for a big, crushing bear hug, but I thought that would look pretty childish to Ben, so I just waved. The bimbocile extended her incredibly long legs from Dad’s Porsche, and I saw Ben do a double take.

  Dad walked over and wrapped one arm around me in a kind of half hug, which seemed like a decent compromise. “Who’s Auggie?” he asked. No hi, no anything, just honing right in on my lie-in-progress.

  “Um . . .” I offered.

  Ben nodded to my father in a manly, businesslike way and said, “Hello, Mr. Sloane. I was just helping Geena look for her dog.”

  Dad’s eyebrows jerked in surprise. “Her dog? Did you get a dog, Geena?”

  Lightbulb-style brain wave: Dad doesn’t live here, how does he know if I have a dog or not? Later I can just say it got run over, or—I don’t know, get one, maybe. “Yeah. He’s, um, lost, though. Can’t find him.”

  Dad looked skeptical. “Mom gave in?”

  I gave him my Screen Actors Guild-worthy Innocent Look, infused with slight undertones of Not Now, Dad. “Yeah. Anyway, I’m sure he’s around here somewhere.” I turned to Ben. “Thanks for your help.”

  “Everything okay, babe?” Dad called toward the car. I looked over to see Bimborama’s butt sticking straight up in the air as she dug around for something in the Porsche. There was no reply.

  “We have to go to some stupid barbeque,” I mumbled to Ben. “I guess I’ll see you later.”