Wicked Jealous: A Love Story

by Palmer, Robin

  Finally, I grasped onto the cushions as if they were life preservers. “So you should try the chips,” I said. Leave it to me to talk about food. “And the salsa. They’re really good.”

  He nodded but didn’t reach for them. Now what? Usually, the idea of having Nicola around made me nervous because of the no-filter thing, but at least she never ran out of things to talk about. Unfortunately, Mallomars now in hand, she had her back to me as she yakked Blush’s ear off. He, however, saw me, and mouthed, What’s wrong?

  While Jason leaned over the chips, I motioned to my mouth as if trying to pull something out of it and shrugged. To most people, it probably would’ve looked like I was saying I was going to throw up, but Blush somehow understood me and pointed to the iPod that was docked in some speakers.

  I nodded and turned to Jason. “So, uh, do you like iPods?”

  He looked at me, confused.

  Shoot. I had already screwed it up. “What I meant to say was do you like music.” I cringed. Uh-oh. We had already covered this subject in 7-Eleven. And the outcome was not good.

  “Oh yeah.” He started bobbing his head. “Like her,” he said as Adele sang “Rolling in the Deep.” “I love her.”

  “You like Adele?” I asked.

  He nodded, starting to sway back and forth a little bit. I looked around to see if anyone was watching. Thankfully, they weren’t. “Don’t you?”

  “Well, yeah, but—”

  “But what?”

  But Adele was so . . . not varsity-team high school boyish. Teenage girl, yes. Gay man, totally. But Testosterone Twit? I think not. Luckily, the song ended and morphed into Jay-Z’s “Empire State of Mind.” “—but unfortunately it’s over,” I continued. “But hey, now it’s Jay-Z. This is a good song. Don’t you like this song?”

  He stopped swaying. “Not really. I’m not really into 50 Cent.”

  Had he really pronounced it “fifty” instead of “fiddy”? Even Cookie had gotten that right a few weeks ago. “Um, this is Jay-Z,” I replied.

  “Oh. I’m not into him, either,” he replied, without the slightest bit of embarrassment.

  It wasn’t like I had actually spent any of my hard-earned money downloading Jay-Z and 50 Cent songs, or even downloading them for free on Spotify, but even I knew the difference between the two. That being said, something told me that he probably knew all the words to more than a few Beyonce and Rihanna songs. Before we could discover we had even less in common, Noob walked over. “Hey, Simone. You having fun?”

  “Oh yeah,” I said. “A blast.”

  “You know what I was just thinking?” he asked.

  This was going to be good. “No, Noob. What were you thinking?”

  “I was thinking that that movie Son-in-Law with Pauly Shore that they play all the time on that cable channel CMT? It doesn’t get nearly as many props as it deserves. ‘Cause it’s really good. We’re talking classic.”

  I turned to Jason, who, like most people the first time they encountered Noob, had a confused look on his face. “He does that sometimes,” I explained. “Just goes off on weird tangents like that.”

  “Hey, did I ever tell you the story about why I had to get the tip of my finger amputated?” Noob asked.

  “He’s also big on lack of segues,” I said. I turned to Noob. “Nope. Don’t think you did.” This was good. This could possibly eat up approximately ten minutes, during which I wouldn’t have to worry about making conversation.

  “Okay, so this is the deal,” he said as he settled in on the arm of the couch and went on to tell some long story about how, when he was seven, he got his arm caught in the window of the backseat of his mom’s car (obviously, he had been shoving his limbs into small spaces from a very early age). But because the radio was on so loud, she didn’t hear him yelling and she wasn’t a great driver, which was why, when she parked, she brushed against a rosebush, and a few of the thorns cut his pointer finger really deep, and that’s why they had to amputate the very tip of it. What was great was that every time he screwed up one of the facts (which, because Noob was Noob, happened a lot) he’d start the entire story over from the beginning. By the time he was done, the party was breaking up, and all I wanted was for everyone to leave so I could change into sweats, roast myself some sweet potatoes, and analyze my entire conversation with Jason word by word with Nicola.

  “Well, I guess I’m gonna go,” Jason said as everyone began to shuffle out and Nicola stood behind him pretending to be very, very interested in the leftover guacamole when what she was really doing was eavesdropping.

  “Simone will walk you out,” Nicola said, pushing me toward him.

  I gave her a look.

  “You’re the hostess. And you know how confusing it can be to find the front door in this place.”

  I led him to the door, and we stood on the front porch. I examined a crumpled red plastic cup as if I were on an archeological dig in Egypt. “So I was wondering . . . do you want to hang out?” he asked suddenly.

  “Now?” I thought I saw something in my peripheral vision, and suddenly I jumped. Because when I turned my head, I saw that Nicola and the guys were all standing in the shadows behind the door watching us.

  “No. Sometime next week.”

  “Okay,” I shrugged.

  I could see Nicola shake her head back and forth in frustration.

  “Hey, Nicola, are you okay?” I heard Noob ask with concern. “You look like you have water in your ear.”

  I needed to get Jason out of here before all eight of them ended up seriously embarrassing me. “That would be nice,” I said, quickly pushing him toward the stairs so fast he almost went flying. “See you!” I called over my shoulder as I turned and ran toward the door.

  When I got inside they were all staring at me.

  “What?” I asked, nonchalantly.

  “What do you mean, ‘what’?” Nicola cried. “You’ve got a date! With Jason Frank.”

  I found myself glancing over in Blush’s direction, but he was busy picking up empty soda and Red Bull cans from the floor. “It’s not a date. It’s . . . a hangout session,” I said uncomfortably. “It’s a whole different thing.”

  “It is? How so?” Noob asked.

  “I don’t know. It just is,” I replied.

  Regardless, the idea of either of them made my stomach hurt.

  “You’re judging again,” Nicola warned the next day as we helped Brad set up for his Fifty Percent Off Just Because Sale. (He had originally wanted to call it Fifty Percent Off So I Can Surprise Luca with a Cruise to Mexico in an Attempt to Save Our Relationship, but we had talked him out of it because it felt a little TMIish.)

  “Oh please. Adele?” I demanded.

  Brad looked up from his computer, where he was checking out the cruise ship instead of helping us unpack. “Ooh, I love Adele.”

  I looked at Nicola. “I rest my case.” But she was right. I was judging him. So he had horrible taste in music, or at the least, atypical taste in music. I could live with that. (Could I? Really? I wasn’t sure.) The truth was I was just scared. Maybe “scared” wasn’t the right word. It was more like . . . terrified. Not so much about the date part of the date, where you talked (even though from our time together on the couch, that was going to be tough, especially without Blush across the room to give me cues that I then misunderstood and screwed up). But what about at the end of the date? If he tried to kiss me?

  It was embarrassing to admit, but at almost seventeen years old, the closest I had come to kissing a guy was when, in the privacy of my room with the lights out and the door locked, I would take out the dog-eared copy of People magazine that I kept shoved under my mattress and open it up to page 72, to the “in-depth, exclusive look of one of Hollywood’s rising stars,” and hold it up to my face while I practiced. But unlike most gi
rls in my school who, if they did this, would have chosen someone like Robert Pattison or Justin Timberlake, my kissing partner was Jesse Eisenberg, the star of The Social Network. Because all my practicing had gotten the page somewhat wet, the picture was pretty smeared (with a hole where one of his eyes should have been because it had ripped), so it was hard to see the cuteness that made me pick him, but it was there.

  Like Michael Cera (who could have played his younger brother in a movie), Jesse was more nerd cute than cute cute. Unlike Jason, who was definitely cute cute. And had probably kissed tons of girls and would therefore immediately realize I had not. Kissed guys. Or girls. Or anyone.

  “Would it be really wrong if I told Jason that there’s a slight chance I have mono?” I asked them.

  Before they could answer, the bell on the door jingled and Hillary came floating in, looking as unwrinkled as ever but with a tan. “Hello, hello!” she cried, giving me air kisses on two cheeks. “Your brother said you’d probably be here.”

  “Hillary. What are you doing here?” I asked. “You guys weren’t supposed to be back for another two weeks. Is everything all right? Is my dad okay?” I panicked. What if something had happened to him?

  “Oh, he’s fine,” she said. “A few pounds heavier because of all the pasta, but I already booked some appointments for him with my trainer. Can’t have him looking flabby at the wedding.” She flashed a smile at Nicola. “Oh, Nicole. How are you? I didn’t recognize you under all that eyeliner. How retro of you.” She looked around the store and cringed. “Which I guess makes sense in a place like this.”

  “You weren’t kidding,” Brad said under his breath.

  “What wedding?” I asked.

  She smiled. “My wedding! I mean, mine and your father’s.” She held out her left ring finger, which had one of those ponytail holders with a marble wrapped around it. “We’re engaged!”

  Little dots of light started to flash in front of my eyes, like the time I fell on the balance beam. I couldn’t believe my father had asked Hillary to marry him without discussing it with Max and me first. The lights flashed faster. Actually, who was I kidding? I actually could believe that he had done that—which hurt more than the news itself. I rubbed my eyes. “My father gave you a ponytail holder as an engagement ring?” I asked, confused.

  “It’s a placeholder,” she explained, “until I get him to Cartier. But now that it’s official, I wanted to get used to the heft. Anyway, we came back early to tell you kids in person. Actually, we came back so I could get started on the planning, because in this town everything books up so far in advance, but we figured since we’re back, we’d take you guys to lunch to tell you so you don’t read about it on my Facebook page.” She whipped out her iPhone. “But hold on—now that you do know, I’m just going to type this in.”

  “You really weren’t kidding,” murmured Brad.

  “Okay. All done,” she said. “Come on. Your dad and Max are down the street at Lilly’s. We should get going.” She looked me up and down. “Did you lose even more weight?”

  I shrugged. “I don’t know. I don’t weigh myself.”

  “What are you talking about? Who doesn’t weigh herself?”

  Nicola raised her hand. “I don’t.”

  “I don’t either,” offered Brad. “’Cause once, there was this doctor on Oprah—I can’t remember who it was, but it wasn’t one of the famous ones—and he was saying that—”

  “Fascinating. Anyway,” Hillary interrupted, “when we get to lunch, you can have a nice big hamburger and fries to get some meat back on your bones.” She smiled. “Maybe even a nice slice of apple pie.”

  Nicola’s eyebrow went up. “Interesting,” she said as she began to quietly hum the Law & Order theme music.

  “I’m allergic to apples, remember?” I said.

  “Oh yes. That’s right. I always forget that.” She squinted. “And your arms. They’re so . . . defined.” She sighed. “Oh, Simone. I don’t even know what to say about that.” She sounded like she had caught me doing something wrong. Like smoking. Or drinking. Or listening to Justin Bieber. She walked over to the full-length mirror and began to check herself out. “Although it is kind of sweet that if you keep up those Mumbai classes—”

  “Zumba,” I corrected.

  “—then soon we’ll have matching triceps,” she went on. “Well, maybe not matching, because mine have been so sculpted for so long.” She turned around and checked out her butt in the mirror. “Huh. Here I was all worried that I had gained a few pounds, but I think I may have lost some.”

  I didn’t tell her that the mirror was known to kind- of-sort-of make you look a little bit thinner than you actually were. (“It’s not to mislead people and make them buy things,” Brad said when I asked him. “It’s more about helping their self-esteem.”)

  “Simone, come over here,” she ordered.

  I made my way over and stood next to her. We couldn’t be more different. She was tall and blonde and unwrinkled, with perfect pink nails, and I was brunette and pale, with an almost-threadbare New Order T-shirt and a chipped magenta manicure. Plus, she smelled like coconut body lotion, whereas I still had the smell of burned sausage in my hair from when Max had attempted to cook breakfast this morning.

  “Wow. That’s really amazing,” Brad said as he and Nicola gazed at us.

  “What? The fact that Simone and I could be sisters?” Hillary asked. “Because I look so young?”

  “No,” he replied. “How much Simone has changed over the last few months. You’re like a completely different person. If they ever did a biopic about Winona Ryder’s life—you know, before she got all crazy and started shoplifting—you’d be perfect casting.”

  “I love Winona Ryder,” Nicola said. “I think she’s super hot. She even looked good in her mug shot.”

  Hillary’s smile disappeared. “Come on. We’re late,” she said, as she yanked me toward the exit.

  “I’ll keep looking for something for you to wear on Thursday night,” Nicola called after us.

  “What’s Thursday night?” Hillary asked.

  If she was giving me this much grief about my weight, I could only imagine what she’d have to say about the fact that I had a date. Which was why I wasn’t going to tell her. “Nothing.”

  “She’s got a date,” Nicola blurted out.

  So much for that plan. I shot Nicola a look.

  “Look at you—so grown up and . . . girl-like!” Hillary exclaimed. “Who’s it with? Someone’s cousin? I did that once for this girl I knew in high school who wore a brace for scoliosis—fixed her up with my cousin. I felt so good for doing such a good deed. Especially since, because he had horrible acne, it was this double good deed—”

  “Actually, it’s with a totally hot guy who’s super popular.” Nicola smirked.

  “Popular?” Hillary asked, surprised. “As in regular popular or captain of the Mathletes popular?”

  “Oh, definitely regular popular,” Nicola said. “Like hot regular popular.”

  “Actually, you met him,” I said. “It’s the guy we ran into in the parking lot of Kmart.”

  “Really? Wow. He is hot.”

  I tried not to throw up the yogurt I had eaten, now that my soon-to-be stepmother had just said that a high school boy was hot.

  “Paging Mrs. Robinson,” Brad murmured as he pointed at the poster of the movie The Graduate, which was hanging on the wall behind him. In the movie, Anne Bancroft (whose scarf was part of Brad’s very-special-and-not-really-for-sale-but-might-be-if-you-offered-enough-money collection in the glass case behind the counter) played this older woman who started sleeping with her daughter’s boyfriend.

  “I think it’s great that you’ve found a boy who judges people on their personality rather than their looks,” Hillary said. “That’s a very noble quality
to have.” She dragged me toward the door. “You can tell me all about him on the walk to lunch.”

  Except I couldn’t, because as soon as we stepped outside she got a text from her friend, Claire, saying that she had heard from her assistant Melissa, who had heard from another assistant at a different studio, that Mandi Morrison, another D-girl at a rival studio who was also a “30 Under 30” and constantly trying to outbid Hillary on scripts, had gotten engaged that past weekend as well. I tended to avoid that Bridezilla program because I had no interest in weddings. I had already decided that if I ever got married, I was going to elope. But I’d seen enough snippets of the show while channel surfing to know that the way Hillary began to freak out about this news made those Bridezillas look like the Buddhist nuns Thor and I had watched in a YouTube video a few days earlier. (Thor’s shrink had suggested he check out Buddhism to help him deal with his anger issues, but after he stomped out of the room after getting frustrated that the video kept freezing up, it didn’t look like that was going to work.)

  By the time we had made our way to Lilly’s on Abbot Kinney, Hillary had called the top florist, caterer, and band (the fact that they were already on speed dial on her cell was a little weird) and booked them before Mandi could.

  As we walked into the restaurant and my dad saw me, his face lit up. “Simone, the beach air must agree with you, because you look just beautiful,” he said after he hugged me. “But you’ve being wearing sun block, right?” he asked anxiously. “Because your skin is just a petri dish for melanoma.”

  I cringed. He made it sound so gross. “Yes. I’m wearing SPF eighty-five.”

  “Don’t you think that’s overdoing it a little?” Hillary asked. “I bet you could get away with four. Or, if you wanted to really be careful, eight.”

  “She’d burn to a crisp if she wore four,” Max said. Hillary glared at him.

  Okay, I was almost used to Hillary’s comments about me. But this was getting to be too much. Could the Zumba-ites and Nicola be right—Hillary had it in for me?