Confessions of a Triple Shot Betty

by Jody Gehrman

  “No kidding. Come on, let’s go.” I turned to Ben. “You think we could catch a ride?”

  He nodded. “Sure, no problem.”

  As Hero, Claudio, Ben, and I headed into the house, I hazarded one last glance back at John. He and Corky were sitting at the edge of the pool, watching our every move. This time, though, John wasn’t staring at Hero with his usual lust. The look I saw in his eyes now sent cold shivers all the way up my spine.

  We found Amber sitting on the front steps, smoking a cigarette. “We’re going to go,” I said. “You ready?”

  She shrugged. “Naw. I’ll find my own ride.”

  “Where’ve you been?” I asked.

  “Nowhere. Who cares? Nobody missed me.”

  “Amber”—I made her look me in the eye—“that’s not true. And I’ve already got one bad attitude on my hands, okay, so be a pal.”

  She stood, wobbling slightly, and spit into the Jamiesons’ lush garden. I think she was a little tipsy, though she could definitely handle her liquor better than Hero. “Who puked?”

  I nodded at Hero. She was leaning against Claudio, rattling off a monologue in Italian that sounded maudlin and self-pitying. Claudio kept nodding and mumbling to her in reassuring tones. Her boots were completely splattered with vomit, and every time she took a step they secreted water with a squishing sound. Amber snickered, and I ignored her.

  “We should really get those boots off before she gets in the Volvo.” I looked at Ben. “Unless you don’t mind your car reeking of vomit.”

  “That would be fetid,” Ben said, smirking. “But won’t her dad be suspicious if she comes home barefoot?”

  I considered this. “It’s better than trailing puddles through the house and smelling like puke.”

  It took all four of us to unlace them and yank them off while Hero giggled hysterically on the lawn, but eventually we left the incriminating hoochie-boots behind. When Hero realized they weren’t coming with her, she protested.

  “My Barbarella boots,” she whined. “I need them.”

  “Here,” I said. “Look, I’ll stash them in the bushes. If you still want them tomorrow, we can come back and get them.”

  “Someone will steal them. Amber, take care of my Barbarboots!”

  Amber answered with a noncommittal, “Yeah, okay.”

  “Good night,” Claudio said, looking sadly at his drunk angel as she blew kisses from the backseat.

  Just before we drove off, I rolled down the window and called to Amber, “You sure you don’t want a ride?”

  “I’m fine.” She was standing in the shadow of a bougainvillea vine, her face dappled with delicate shapes, and somehow the sight of her there in her leopard-print bell bottoms and sequined tube top made me sad. A cool breeze kicked up; she hugged herself, shivering slightly. She didn’t wave as we pulled away from the curb and off into the night.

  When we got to Monte Luna, Ben actually got out and opened my door for me. I didn’t want to leave the cozy, suntan-oil-and-damp-dog smell of his Volvo, but I knew it wouldn’t do to linger in the drive, since Hero might toss her cookies again any second.

  “Thanks for the ride.” I rested my hand against his chest for a moment, just to feel the warmth of his skin beneath his T-shirt.

  "Thank you.”

  I smiled. “For what?”

  “For wearing that God-awful top—or whatever. It looks great on you, by the way.”

  “Get a good look,” I said, “because I’ll have to remove a rib if I want to wear it again.”

  “Va-va-va-voom-dee-ay,” Hero sang as she clambered out of the backseat, “they took my boots away, I said I do not care, they took my underwear!”

  “Shhh!” I glanced nervously at the living room window, where a light was still burning brightly. Getting Hero into the house, up the stairs, beyond the inquisitive eyes of Uncle Leo had to happen fast or we’d be busted.

  “Duty calls.” I quickly rose up onto my toes and planted a good-night kiss on Ben’s smiling mouth. It felt so good to be alive right then, I wanted to scream.

  As Ben drove away, I turned to my wasted cousin. “Whatever happens, keep walking. Don’t actually talk to your dad, okay?”

  "I can talk! I’m a good talker. Je parle français. Parlo italiano. Iway eakspay igpay atinlay!” She cracked up.

  I addressed her in a dead-serious voice. “Hero, do you want to go to your birthday party tomorrow?”

  "Yeah!”

  “Then you’re going to do whatever I tell you, and nothing else. Do you understand?”

  She kicked at the gravel, a petulant child. “Okay. Jeez, you’re mean.”

  I took her elbow and we started toward the house. As we neared the front door, I got a last-minute idea. “I know—if he tries to talk to you, act like you’re really upset.”

  “Why?”

  “You know how Leo is about tears; he won’t want to deal.”

  She was distracted by a couple moths flitting around the porch light. “Ooh—butterflies,” she cooed.

  “Hero, are you listening?”

  “Mm-hm.”

  “What did I just say?”

  She looked at me, her face blank.

  “Focus: If he tries to engage you in conversation, just act like you’re crying. That’s all you have to remember.”

  She started moaning histrionically; she sounded like a heifer in heat.

  “Okay, let’s take that down a notch,” I coached. “Actually, take it down about seven notches.”

  Hero obeyed, whimpering softly.

  “Good,” I said. “But only do it when I say, all right? Otherwise, don’t make a peep.”

  “You’re not the boss of me,” Hero whined.

  I said, “Fine, you want your party canceled, go right ahead.”

  Now she was whimpering for real.

  “Just follow orders.” I took a deep breath and opened the door. “Let’s do this.”

  We slipped through the foyer without incident. Unfortunately, we had to go through the living room to reach the marble staircase that led to Hero’s room. As we tiptoed over the thick wool rugs into the dreaded light, we spotted Leo fast asleep on the couch, the latest issue of Imbibe open on his chest, a half-empty goblet of wine and his spectacles beside him on the coffee table.

  We were a mere ten feet from the staircase when Hero somehow managed to knock a fern from its plant stand. It landed with a resounding crash on the hardwood floor, spilling dirt and shards of pottery. Leo jerked awake. We walked faster, but it was no use.

  “What was that?” Leo demanded.

  “Sorry,” I said. “I knocked a plant over. I’ll clean it up in the morning, ’kay?”

  “Oh—right.” He sounded groggy. “Esperanza will get it. You girls have a good time?”

  “Yeah,” I said over my shoulder, still headed for the stairs. “We had a blast.”

  “I thought you’d call for a ride.”

  “Sorry about that.” I turned slightly toward him. “Ben drove us. He doesn’t drink—he’s in training.”

  “Good. Fine. Did people like your . . . costumes?”

  “Yeah. We were quite a hit.”

  Hero looked like she was about to comment; I steered her toward the stairs again and said, “We’re so tired.” I threw in a huge, theatrical yawn. “We just want to hit the hay. ’Night, Leo.”

  “Oh, okay. Well, good night.”

  I thought we were finally home free as we started up the stairs, but then Leo called out, “Hero, honey, what happened to your shoes?”

  Oh, God. That was it. Hero started to giggle.

  “Hero?” Leo repeated. “Did you hear me?”

  “Cry!” I commanded under my breath.

  Hero’s giggles became fairly convincing if slightly-over-the-top sobs.

  “What is it, sweetheart? You okay?”

  The strained confusion in my uncle’s voice almost made me confess all. Instead, I left Hero there, leaning against the banister, and went to him. “Sh
e’s okay. She’s just—you know—it’s been a long night.”

  “Did something happen?”

  I leaned toward him, lowering my voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “It’s just that time of the month. You know how we get.”

  His expression immediately went from alarmed to embarrassed. “I see. Well, do what you can.”

  Presto! Note for future use: “That time of the month” is every girl’s get-out-of-jail-free card.

  12:10 P.M.

  Went home briefly to get my halter dress for Hero’s party, and Mom was waiting for me at the kitchen table. Either she’s psychic, or she totally reads my journal, because I haven’t said a word about Ben, but somehow she knows something’s up.

  She was sitting there with a tray of peanut butter crackers, milk, and about twenty pamphlets on STDs she got from her friend Connie, a nurse at Kaiser. When she started showing me pictures of genital warts, I put down my cracker and said, “Mom, is this really necessary?”

  She said, “Honey, I just want you to understand the risks.”

  “Yeah, thanks. Now I’m so traumatized I won’t have sex until I’m a senior citizen.”

  She smiled. “Great. I guess I’ve done my job then. Do you want a sandwich?”

  No wonder everyone thinks I’m a guy-basher. My mother’s conditioned me to believe they’re hideous vectors out to infect me with life-threatening diseases.

  2:30 P.M.

  Hero’s face is still vaguely chartreuse, and her mood is black as coffee. The girl’s a mess. She looks like something out of Creature from the Black Lagoon (namely, the creature). I’d feel sorry for her, if it weren’t sort of funny. Whenever I turn on the stereo she covers her face with a pillow and moans theatrically.

  Having overdone it on vino himself a time or two, Uncle Leo will definitely recognize the signs of a hangover, so we’re keeping Hero sequestered in her room until she looks a little less creature-like. Elodie’s been cool enough to bring us aspirin, snacks, cold washcloths, and cucumbers for Hero’s puffy eyes. I think by early evening she should be ready to emerge from her faux menstrual hut.

  7:10 P.M.

  Hero’s party starts in less than an hour, and we still haven’t heard from Amber. It’s making me nervous. Why would she just disappear? She was supposed to be here by six at the latest so we could get ready together. I’ve called her cell like twenty times, but all I get is voice mail.

  On the semi-bright side, Uncle Leo’s been so involved with the party planner, he hasn’t noticed that his daughter is still Bride-of-Frankenstein pale. I think there might be something going on there, but I’m not going to speculate. The horrors of middle-aged sex are too nasty to consider. When they start to flirt, I go outside and skate around the fountain until the urge to upchuck passes.

  The house and yard look amazing, albeit rather pink. The party planner managed to take Hero’s sugar-spun fantasy and turn it into a palatable party scene. There are fairy lights strung around the garden that twinkle brightly amidst the foliage. A gauzy, pale tent filled with appetizer-laden tables takes up one corner of the yard. Huge bundles of pink roses and white lilies adorn every surface, and masses of cream-colored candles sparkle from inside delicate glass lanterns. The upper deck has been transformed into a dance floor, and the huge disco ball suspended from invisible wires looks like it’s just floating there magically. The hot tub’s frothy with mounds of pale pink suds, and a couple machines placed strategically out of sight are filling the air with thousands of tiny bubbles. The overall effect is sort of Tinker Bell gets her groove on, which is pretty appropriate for Hero.

  Uncle Leo hired PJ to do the music. I’m stoked about that. And since my outfit is about four thousand times more comfortable than last night’s ho ensemble, I should be way more prepared to dance, though I think I’ll avoid tables this time. I’ve got on this totally hot olive green halter dress with a bright red hem and matching red sandals (no ankle-breakers, tonight, thank God). It’s pretty unusual for me to splash out on two super-femme outfits in a row, but what the hell.

  More later...

  Sunday, August 3

  5:50 A.M.

  The party got out of hand all at once. One minute there was just a handful of guests milling around awkwardly, most of them sporting pocket protectors and fanny packs. The next thing I knew there were two hundred kids swarming Hero’s yard, many of whom I’d never seen in my life. In fact, some of them looked more like twenty- and even thirtysomethings with full-on facial hair, body-piercings, and tattoos. Uncle Leo was ready to have a seizure.

  The appetizers were instantly demolished. The hot tub was so full, it looked like cannibal stew. I suspect most of the people in there were in the skinny, but luckily the pink bubbles camouflaged whatever lurked in the depths.

  Hero was obviously confused, but she tried to keep up appearances. She floated around in her sparkly pink dress, attempting to greet everyone, forever the polite hostess. Meanwhile, a mosh pit formed under the disco ball. Since PJ was MIA, a guy with purple hair and a pierced septum commandeered Uncle Leo’s stereo system, playing music that honestly sounded like airplane engines amplified to ear-splitting volume with occasional shrieking vocals thrown in. I mean, I like a little distortion, but this was just obnoxious.

  Uncle Leo and the EUWW stopped asking for invitations and started drinking Petite Syrah straight from the bottle.

  Still there was no sign of Ben, Amber, or Claudio. I wandered around in search of them, feeling nervous and abandoned. Ben finally showed up around ten with PJ, Claudio, John, and Corky. He apologized when he found me.

  “What took you so long?” I was hurt, but trying not to make a big deal about it. The last thing I needed was to morph into the clingy girlfriend.

  He shook his head like it was a long story. “My Volvo blew a gasket, so I had to get a ride with PJ. Those guys took forever, and when they finally showed, they were all . . .” He trailed off.

  “All what? Drunk?”

  “They’d been drinking some, but it was more than that.”

  “What?” I was mystified by the whole situation.

  He hesitated. “You haven’t seen it yet, have you?”

  “Seen what?”

  "The MySpace thing. You haven’t heard about it?”

  "No. What MySpace thing?” All at once I felt sweaty and clammy. I took off my sweater, revealing my completely un-Geena dress. He did a slight double take, as if seeing me for the first time.

  “Wow. Geena. You look . . .”

  “What? I look what?” I couldn’t keep the irritation out of my voice.

  “Hot.” He ran a hand through his hair. “Incredibly hot.”

  “Um . . . thanks,” I mumbled. “So do you.”

  He seriously did. There was nothing particularly original about his outfit—khakis, a white tank top, white button-down shirt over that, untucked and hanging open—but the end result was making my pulse race dangerously.

  “Anyway,” I said, shaking my head a little. “What’s up with MySpace?”

  Ben licked his lips. “I really don’t want to get involved. It’s so stupid.”

  “What’s stupid?”

  He took a step closer and, placing one finger under my chin, tilted my face toward his. “Whatever happens, I just want you to know I had nothing to do with it.”

  Despite the butterflies in my stomach, I found myself closing my eyes, absorbed in the delicious little landmarks of kissing: warm hand on small of back, full length of body coming closer, making contact, lips hovering, honing in . . .

  Just as the eagle was about to land, my damn cell phone rang.

  “Hold on,” I said. “I have to get this.” It was Amber’s special ring tone, so I retrieved it from my bag. “What’s up? Where are you?”

  “I have to talk to you.” I could tell right away she was crying.

  “What’s happening? Why aren’t you here?”

  “I couldn’t come.”

  “Yeah, but why? Where are you?”
>
  More tears on her end. “I can’t tell you on the phone. I’ll explain tomorrow. I just wanted to make sure you were at the party.”

  “Of course I am. Hero’s only been planning this since we were ten. We miss you, though.” I surveyed the scene: screams from the hot tub as a fat guy in his underwear did a cannonball; Uncle Leo trying to dissuade a scantily clad couple from having sex on the lawn; Hero politely shaking the hand of a tall biker dude in leather chaps. It would be nice if Amber were here. She’d know how to handle this.

  “Just watch Hero’s back, okay?” Her voice was choked with emotion.

  “Why? What do you mean?”

  But she was gone. I stashed my cell back in my bag and looked at Ben. “Something’s weird,” I told him. “I don’t know what exactly, but something’s not right.”

  “I know. That’s what I’m trying to tell you.”

  Just then an ear-splitting screech of feedback pierced the air. Oh God, I thought, someone’s found the mike. The party planner thought it would be cute to have one for toasts, like at weddings. Everyone could tell funny stories about Hero growing up, that sort of thing. I thought it sounded stupid, but Hero went along with it. I think she secretly thought of this party as a dress rehearsal for her wedding, only this time she wouldn’t have to share the attention with the groom.

  “Yo, PJ’s in the house. What’s up y’all?”

  Ben and I looked at each other. We were on the upper deck, and we hurried now to the railing to watch the scene below. PJ was standing there with the mike in the middle of the crowd, Claudio at his side. Somebody in the hot tub screamed, “Turn that shit off, man!” PJ turned to Purple Hair Guy and slid a finger across his throat. That put an end to the airplane jets coming through the speakers.

  “Hey everyone, I’m the dude that’s supposed to be spinning tonight. Unfortunately, I couldn’t get here in time to set up on account of my homie Claudio needed a friend, like we all do sometimes.” He paused. PJ was amazing with a mike. It wasn’t what he said so much as how he said it—so comfortable and smooth, like he owned everyone there. “Anyway, I’m told this mike is for toasts, so I’d like to make one.” He raised a plastic cup, and others (there had to be 250 people there now) raised theirs with him. Ben grabbed my fingers and held them.