Confessions of a Triple Shot Betty

by Jody Gehrman

  God, they looked good.

  The trio of boyness standing on those steps was a perfect Abercrombie & Fitch tableau. Talk about three flavors of yum! There was PJ leaning against the house in his black wraparound shades, his short, dark hair styled with just enough gel to look groomed but not frozen. He had on baggy cargo pants and a black T-shirt that stretched across his pecs rather nicely. Next to him was Claudio, looking Euro-chic in pressed chinos and a pale cotton sweater. He’d cut his hair so it was out of his eyes, but still looked slightly shaggy in that tousled, Italian way.

  And then there was Ben.

  If I think too much about him I’m Never going to sleep.

  Working from the bottom up: suede wingtips, faded jeans, olive green button-down shirt, tortoiseshell sunglasses, perfect black hair worn au natural as usual. In a word, totally edible. (Okay, that’s two words, but if you saw him, you’d agree.)

  “Bella!” Claudio took a step forward and drank in the sight of Hero. “You’re here.”

  She gazed at him coyly from under mascaraed lashes. “I wouldn’t leave without saying good-bye.”

  He wrapped his arms around her tiny waist and lifted her into the air, laughing as ecstatic Italian poured from his lips. Then they kissed—not the European nice-to-meet-you cheek-kisses, but the full-on French variety. Of course, Uncle Leo chose that moment to come out and see how things were going.

  “I—oh—” he said, stopping.

  They didn’t even come up for air. Amber and I jerked our heads in the direction of the limo; PJ and Ben took the hint and started corralling the lovebirds toward the car. It was no easy feat getting them to move, since they were still sucking face like a couple of bottom-feeders. I was sure one of them would dislocate their jaw if they kept at it like that.

  “Uncle Leo,” I said, squeezing his hands and trying to block his view. “Thank you so much for everything.”

  “Two fifteen,” was all he said.

  As we drove off, I stuck my head out the sunroof and blew my uncle a kiss.

  Dinner was delicious. We ate at Ysabel’s, the restaurant PJ’s dad named after his mother. Since we were family, the waiters let us split a bottle of their best champagne. The bubbles were so golden in the glass, so fizzy in my throat, I thought for sure I’d float away from the table and end up pressed against the ceiling like a helium balloon.

  Though the tapas we ordered were totally delish, it was hard to eat much with the swarm of butterflies fluttering madly in my stomach. At least 80 percent of my nerves were about Operation BAM. It had to go well—it just had to, or I would be the next girl on John Jamieson’s hit list. The other 20 percent of my anxiety was about Ben Bettaglia, who hardly took his eyes off me the whole evening.

  “What?” I said finally, turning to him with a bashful smile.

  He looked away and studied his flute of champagne. “Nothing.”

  “You can’t say nothing.” I tried to rearrange my hair so it covered my zit.

  Our eyes caught and held. “You look amazing, is all.” “Oh yeah?”

  “Yeah. You got a problem with that?”

  I took a sip of my water. “Not at all.”

  “You know, I just want to tell you, when we’re seniors, and I’m finally the undisputed valedictorian, I’ll still talk to you.”

  I turned to him, my face incredulous. “I can’t believe you’re bringing this up.”

  He pressed on. “Although, given your record in algebra, I sometimes wonder if you’ll even be number two.”

  I smirked. “Does that fetal pig haunt you much, Ben?”

  Instead of answering, he put his hand on my knee and I felt shivers spreading to places I didn’t even know could get the shivers. “You’re great, Sloane. You know that?”

  I laughed nervously. “The funny thing is, we wouldn’t even be here right now if we weren’t tricked.”

  “I wasn’t tricked,” he said.

  I opened my mouth in shock. “Oh come on, you were too!”

  “Well, okay, sort of.”

  “See! You didn’t even like me before.”

  He shook his head. “The trick wasn’t making me like you.” His hand moved slowly up my leg. “It was getting me to admit what I felt all along.”

  When we got to the plaza, the place was mobbed. The line to get into the Sebastiani Theater wrapped clear around the block. We stepped out of the limo and everyone turned to gape at us like we were famous or something. It was a little embarrassing, and I noticed that Hero sort of bent her head so her hair hid her face, but Amber swaggered in the limelight, smiling like she owned the world. It occurred to me that very soon we’d be the center of attention in a much bigger way, and I gave an involuntary shudder. The lights of the marquee pulsed in time with the butterflies in my stomach.

  We finally got inside a few minutes before midnight. Normally I’d be losing a little steam by then, but my body was so charged with adrenaline, it was hard to imagine I’d sleep again for as long as I lived. Walking through the carpeted halls, glancing up at the beautiful art deco ceilings, I remembered that I was supposed to be there tonight with Dad. He loved that place; 1930s architecture was his favorite.

  “You doing okay?” Ben squeezed my hand.

  “Yeah.” I smiled at him. “I’m great.”

  We hadn’t told the guys about our big plans for the evening. We were a little afraid they’d try to talk us out of it, and we were already jittery enough without the voice of reason complicating things. Now, holding Ben’s hand, worrying that he could feel mine growing clammier by the second, I wondered what he’d think of me in half an hour.

  The BAM committee had saved us seats. Nikki’s brother ran concessions at the theater, and her cousin was a projectionist. They’d worked it so that Virg could set up his digital projector for our homegrown preview. They knew they might get in trouble—might even lose their jobs. They also knew that John had a reputation for exacting wicked revenge. But they hated what John had done to Nikki, and they wanted to see him discredited almost as badly as we did. Thank God John had accrued enough enemies to make his downfall possible.

  John showed up with Natalie Coleman hanging on his arm. She was nearly as tall as he was, and you could tell she’d spent a long time making sure her hair was glossy, her makeup perfect. Her face glowed with pride and adoration every time she turned to gaze at her date.

  “Think she’ll still be wearing that smile later tonight?” Amber said into my ear.

  “I doubt it. Check out John.”

  He didn’t look too good. His face had a mug shot weariness I’d never seen on him before. Amazing what one night of sleepless terror can do to even the physically elite. His eyes were puffy, his skin looked sallow, and his shoulders were hunched over in a defensive slouch. When he saw us all sitting together, he looked away quickly. We made it a point to stare him down.

  “You can run,” Amber whispered, “but you can’t hide.”

  I stifled a cackle.

  “What are you guys whispering about?” Ben leaned his elbows onto his knees and studied us intently. “I sense a plot hatching.”

  Hero’s head whipped around abruptly. “Plot? There’s no plot. Why do you say plot?”

  Ben squinted at all three of us, then let his eyes roam to the other BAMs, who were all giggling, whispering, and looking every bit as guilty as we must have. We’d never make it as a secret society, I’m afraid.

  “If you say so.” Ben was obviously not convinced, but he let it drop.

  When the lights went out, the entire theater cheered. I breathed in the comforting scent of popcorn and willed myself not to have a nervous breakdown. After wiping the sweat from my palms, I linked my fingers with Ben’s hand on one side and Amber’s on the other. I turned my head just in time to see Amber grab Hero’s hand. At last we were one long, unbreakable chain, and that made me smile. I couldn’t remember any time in my life when I’d had so many real friends. Even the other BAMs were turning out to be pretty cool. Forty-eigh
t hours ago I wouldn’t have said hello to them in the grocery store, but what we’d gone through last night forged an unusual bond. I guess Amber was right; it really does help having a common enemy.

  “I think I’m going to throw up, I’m so nervous,” Amber said into my ear.

  “I know,” I said. “I just want it to be over.”

  Then the projector fired up and the screen flickered to life.

  Though I’d spent the last twenty-four hours obsessing over this moment, I still wasn’t prepared for the sight of us on the big screen. My God, we were huge! I was instantly mesmerized as I watched us move solemnly in the foggy forest, draped in our Grim Reaper robes. My heart felt like a bird flapping madly in its cage. It was so surreal. You could hear us perfectly, and the image quality was a hundred times more professional than I’d expected—Virg had done an astounding job capturing it all. We sounded sincerely spooky chanting in Latin. There was John, blindfolded, handcuffed, looking even more helpless and pathetic than I’d remembered. The crowd stirred in confusion; some people gasped in surprise. I heard a girl call out “Oh my God!” from somewhere at the back of the theater.

  Ben turned to look at me. “You’ve got to be kidding.”

  I just shrugged, and he turned back to the screen, transfixed.

  I glanced at Amber; she was wide-eyed and motionless. I could feel my pulse throbbing in my throat.

  When John called me a bitch, Virg zoomed in for a close-up. I saw the expression on his face, now two stories high, and my stomach curled into an angry knot. I don’t think anyone sitting in that theater could fail to see what I saw. His eyes were slits and his lips took on an incredulous expression that held the shape of a grin, but was so filled with hatred and disdain you could never call it a smile. All of his charisma, his wit, his charm, his Beemer, and his borrowed yachts were stripped away right then and he was naked. We’d all been given front-row seats to his soul. And his soul was ugly.

  Suddenly John stood up, and everyone turned in his direction. He was smack in the center of the theater, imprisoned by his fellow moviegoers on all sides. We could see his silhouette pivoting this way and that in a panic. He yelled in a spoiled, petulant voice, “Stop it! Turn it off!”

  The movie continued to play.

  John started scrambling for the exit, pushing people out of the way. No one was watching the screen now; all eyes were fixed on his dark shape as he tried to make his escape.

  Then, to my utter shock and amazement, Hero stood up and said smoothly, “What’s the matter, John? Can’t take it?”

  He’d made it to the aisle by now, and he spun around, pointing a finger at her. “Fuck off, bitch!”

  “Don’t talk to my cousin like that!” I was on my feet and yelling before I could even think about it.

  Amber stood beside me. “Humiliation sucks, huh, buddy?”

  John turned to the crowd imploringly. Virg must have cut the sound, because the theater went silent. “If you believe this shit you’re crazy. It was just—I was just—acting! I’m an actor, remember?” Behind him, on the screen, he was inching down the tree, balancing carefully on his knees, then leaning forward, his face inches from the dirt, trying to pick up the paper cup between his teeth. The packed theater exploded with laughter.

  John whirled around, saw himself on his knees in the dirt, and attempted a booming laugh of his own. To me it sounded utterly fake and hollow; though, come to think of it, his laugh always sounded that way.

  “Not bad, huh?” John cried in a jovial tone.

  The screen went black then. When the credits came up they were simple and to the point: This message brought to you by Bettys Against the Man.

  For a horrifying moment, I actually wondered if he could pull it off. True, the odds were against him, but maybe John Jamieson had the power to defy the odds, to reverse the laws of nature. We were so used to buying his shit. He’d just flash that Aquafresh smile and get away with murder. I could feel the audience half wanting to believe him, in spite of the evidence. It’s hard to see your god go down in flames.

  The lights came on, and nobody seemed to know what to do. An awkward hush fell over the crowd.

  Corky stood up and called out, “Way to go, man!” He started clapping and cheering. A few other John Jamieson wannabes called out encouragement. John smiled and nodded, the old confidence slowly ebbing back into his limbs. There was a smattering of applause from other parts of the theater, and it seemed to be spreading.

  But then I heard a girl’s voice from somewhere in the back of the theater. “Bullshit!”

  The applause stopped and everyone turned, craning their necks to see who had spoken. She stood up; it was a tiny freshman girl with blue hair. I couldn’t remember her name, if I’d ever learned it. She stood there, wide-eyed and trembling as she looked John straight in the eye. “He’s a liar.”

  A look passed over John’s face, an odd mixture of surprise and dread, but then he got his old bravado back. “You going to believe this freak? Please!”

  Before he could even finish his sentence, another girl jumped to her feet; I was surprised to see it was Jana Clark. “He’s also a disaster in bed.”

  People laughed, especially the BAMs. John’s face turned tomato red.

  "And he treats all girls like putas.” It was Reina Garcia; I had no idea that John’s enemies came from such a diverse range of social cliques. Apparently, he was an equal-opportunity man-slut.

  Dog Berry stood, and in his usual baked drawl cried out, “I never slept with the dude, but I never liked him either.” This prompted fresh peals of laughter.

  Natalie Coleman stood up, and the laughter died down. I figured she was going to defend him; she was his date, after all. Then I noticed that her face was streaked with tears, with mascara running in rivulets down her cheeks. “He . . . he . . .” she faltered.

  “Speak up!” someone called from the back.

  “He dated me in secret for three years, and tonight’s the first time he’d be seen with me in public.” As she fixed him with her stare, her voice went from trembling to pissed. “I guess I’m the only girl in Sonoma still stupid enough to go out with him.”

  John’s eyes were wide with horror. Anyone could see he was a condemned man. “I—wait,” he stammered. “You don’t . . .” But his voice trailed off, and he bit his lip like he might cry.

  I glanced around at the crowd and saw my own disgust reflected in the faces around me. It was like we all knew in our hearts he was a snake—had known it all along. Now, for the first time, we had permission to say it aloud.

  “Down with the Man!” I chanted. “Down with the Man!”

  The BAMs picked up my battle cry immediately. “Down with the Man!”

  Others joined in, yelling at the top of their lungs, until the whole theater pulsed with it.

  John’s face drained of color. He backed toward the exit, looking like a cornered animal. Then he turned away from us and ran full-tilt, disappearing out the door.

  That was it. The crowd went wild. People were cheering and whistling, stomping their feet. It took us a minute to realize that everyone was turning in our direction.

  Amber said, “I think they’re clapping for us.”

  We stood up, all seven of us, and the applause got even louder—thunderous—until it was throbbing in my ears.

  We held each other’s hands and took a bow.

  Friday, August 22

  3:33 P.M.

  Whew! What a whirlwind. Who would have guessed that exposing a high school prick would earn us instant underground celebrity status? I guess there just weren’t enough YouTube videos to keep viewers entertained this week, because as soon as Virg posted his little opus there, people started e-mailing it to each other like crazy. When I got off work last Sunday and checked my e-mail, there were twenty messages from girls I’d never even met before telling me they’d heard about what the BAMs did, and they’d seen the film, and they knew John was a miserable blank all along because of blankety-bl
ank-blank. I even got an e-mail from some girl in Petaluma telling me they had a sociopath at their school just like John, and could I give her advice about how to bring him down? Marcy Adams started a BAM Web site, and in three days it’s had 13,000 hits.

  But, despite all the excitement, summer refuses to last forever. Hero went back to Connecticut this morning. Amber and I headed over to Moon Mountain to see her off. We brought her a Triple Shot Betty travel mug filled with her favorite drink: an iced soy chai. She was dressed in a corduroy skirt and a sparkly halter top—part of her new look, I guess. She stood there with her lime green luggage set, trying to be brave, but it was no use; we were all tearing up by the time Uncle Leo started the car.

  Amber hugged her first. “Take care of yourself,” she said. “Don’t let those prep school boys get away with anything.”

  Hero rolled her eyes. "After they see me on YouTube, they’ll be too scared to even talk to me.”

  “They’ll be all over you,” Amber said. “Just don’t do anything I wouldn’t do.”

  “I guess that means the sky’s the limit!” Hero said, and they both laughed. “Although, actually, I could never cheat on Claudio.”

  “Oh, come on,” Amber chided. “You won’t even be on the same continent.”

  Hero grinned shyly. “Thank God for technology. We’re going to IM every night.”

  “Well, what do I know? The hopeless romantic thing works for you, I guess.”

  It was my turn. I stepped forward and folded her slender, birdlike body into my arms. “I love you, Cuz.”

  “I love you too.” She pulled back and looked into my eyes. “Thanks for letting me into your world again.”

  I swiped at a tear. “Anytime.”

  “Hey, girls!” Uncle Leo yelled. “You want to wrap this up sometime today? I’m wasting good gas here, waiting for you Chatty Cathys to put a sock in it.”

  Touching scene of girly good-byes officially over.

  Surprise surprise—the summer didn’t turn out exactly like I’d planned. 1. Operation Girlfriend became Operation Virgin/Whore— at least for a while.