Wicked Jealous: A Love Story

by Palmer, Robin

  Hillary shrugged. “But think of how nice and sunkissed she’d look before the burn set in.”

  As Max and I exchanged a look, my father cleared his throat. “Kids, Hillary and I have an announcement—” he said nervously.

  “Oh, honey, don’t worry about bothering with all that.” She flashed a smile. “I already told Simone.”

  My dad paled. “Hillary, we said that—”

  “Told Simone what?” Max asked.

  “They’re getting married,” I said. “Can’t you tell from the fake engagement ring on her finger?”

  My father turned to me. “Sweetie, I know this seems sudden, but if you let me explain—”

  I shrugged. “Fine. Explain.” I braced myself for some poetic from-the-moment-I-set-eyes-on-Hillary-my-world-was-forever-changed speech. Or even a very unpoetic what-can-I-say?-Hillary’s-hot-and-a-lot-younger-than-me-and-and-a-”30-Under-30.”

  “Well, in talking to my accountant and business manager, with the extra money I’ll be making this year, based on the projections for how they think the Ruh-Roh video game is going to sell over Christmas, getting married in this calendar year will save me a lot in taxes.”

  Taxes? That I was not prepared for. Maybe because it was the least romantic thing I had ever heard in my life.

  “So you’re marrying her because it’s going to save you money?” I cried.

  My dad turned red. “Well, obviously, that’s not the only reason—” he sputtered.

  “We’re also getting married because we love each other a great deal!” Hillary said indignantly. She turned to him. “Right?”

  “Of course,” he agreed. A little tentatively, if you asked me.

  Even though I could have moved back home now, I was going to stay in Venice as long as possible. Hillary on a good day was hard to take, but as a Bridezilla? Forget it.

  Max shook his head. “This is ridiculous,” he muttered. “All I’m gonna say is that if I end up over forty and still single, it’ll be completely understandable, given the role model I have.”

  Obviously, being a grown-up wasn’t all that much different than being in high school. Even at my dad’s age, people still dated people who they thought they should date, for a lot of reasons other than the fact that they really wanted to be with them. Could it be any more unromantic? Personally, I found the whole two-people-from-different-worlds-meet-and-despite-the-odds-end-up-together-because-they’re-meant-to-be fairy tale–like thing pretty sappy and unrealistic, but it was a lot more interesting than getting together for tax purposes.

  Hillary smiled. “So. Check your in-boxes for updates as to the wedding. And now that that’s out of the way, let’s move on to something else.” She turned to my father. “Like the fact that your daughter has her first real date. With a boy who’s popular popular rather than Mathlete popular!”

  “You have a date?” Dad asked nervously. “I don’t know if I’m ready for this. Who is he? What do his parents do?”

  Why didn’t he just come out and ask how much money they made? That was the real question. “I actually know his mom,” I replied. “From Zumba. She’s really nice.”

  “And his dad’s a big-time director,” Max added. “The guy’s been nominated for six Academy Awards and won five of them.”

  Hillary looked up from her texting. “An Academy Award–winning director?! You didn’t mention that part. Who is it?”

  “Stan Frank,” I replied.

  Hillary gasped. “He’s not just an Academy Award–winning director. He’s . . . God. Do you know how many movies I’ve offered him that he’s turned down?!”

  “Really? He wasn’t interested in directing a movie about a talking fish?” Max asked.

  “Oh no. I wouldn’t offer him that stuff,” she scoffed. “I only went to him with my A-list movies. Like the animated musical version of Cleopatra.” She turned to me and shook her head. “I can’t believe you’re going out with the son of someone so important. That’s like dating . . . a prince or something. Like someone in the royal family.”

  As Hillary yammered on about how, if I didn’t screw things up and Jason actually ended up as my boyfriend, then the Franks could come to the wedding, I reached for a piece of bread and slathered it in butter. Out of the corner of my eye I saw Max’s eyebrows raise.

  “It’s just one piece,” I murmured. I knew that one piece wasn’t so bad, if I stopped at one. And I had to have something to soften the blow that my father was definitely not acting like a prince of a guy.

  “I can’t believe she actually got him to make it official,” Max said as we walked home. Dad hadn’t even asked if I wanted to come home now that they were back from Italy. And I didn’t suggest it, either. The less time I spent with bride-to-be Hillary, the better.

  “Yeah, well, it sounds like he didn’t exactly fight her too hard on it,” I replied, feeling nauseous from all the bread I ended up having. I hadn’t stopped at one slice. After three slices, I decided to stop counting.

  “And what about when she found out who Jason’s dad was? She got so jacked up I thought one of her fake boobs was going to deflate.” Wow. It seemed that Max’s glass had gone from half full to nearly empty in terms of the Hillary thing. I had to admit—I kind of liked this side of my brother.

  “Maybe they won’t end up going through with it. Maybe she’ll have a pitch meeting with a writer who’s even more successful than Dad, and she’ll dump him and move into that guy’s house and redo his daughter’s room,” I said hopefully. Who was the one with the glass half full now?

  He shook his head. “Could she be any more jealous of you?”

  I looked away from the group of skaters who were staring at me as we walked by. I still found this being-noticed thing very uncomfortable.

  “You know, the women at Zumba say the same thing, but to be honest, I have no idea why she would be,” I replied. “I may have lost some weight, and, yes, I’m dressing better, and now that I’m used to it, I agree that my hair may have been a little too long and rat’s nest-y before, but I’m still the same on the inside.” I sighed. “Complete with being totally clueless as to what I’m supposed to do on this date thing.” If I thought any more about the wedding, I was going to get seriously depressed. I had to move on to a subject that, while still depressing, was not soul crushing.

  “What do you mean you don’t know what to do,” he said. “You just go and act normal. You know, be yourself.” His eyes narrowed. “And you keep all your clothes on and his hands off you.”

  I rolled my eyes. “What’s up with you guys and this just-be-normal thing? You make it sound like it’s so easy or something.” I sighed. “I wish there were some sort of class I could take. Or maybe they have a Dating for Idiots book.” I always did score high in the reading-comprehension part of standardized tests. “I know—I’ll just watch MTV all afternoon. I should be able to get some tips off there, don’t you think?”

  His eyes bugged out. “From the network that brings you Teen Mom and Jersey Shore?!” he cried. He shook his head. “No way. If you want to learn about this stuff, better you learn from some real experts.”

  eight

  Other than the one time I had gotten to the locker room late and had to change in front of everyone else for gym class instead of in the bathroom stall because Monica Betrucci was in there disposing of her lunch via her throat, I couldn’t really think of anything more embarrassing than pretending to be on a date with a guy who kept yawning while six other guys watched my every move. Except, say, if the date was being filmed with a flip camera by my best friend, because, according to her, it would be helpful for me to study it later on. Like they do in football. Even though I knew that was a total lie and that the truth was she could study it later on, in preparation for a date at some point in the future with my brother.

  “Okay, let’s try t
his again,” Doc announced as Narc and I sat across from each other the next day at the card-slash-dining room table, which Noob had recently found on the street, pretending to have a pretend meal on our pretend date. According to Doc, if his parents hadn’t pushed him into being pre-med, he would’ve been a film major, which is why he was the most qualified in the group to direct this whole thing. “But Simone, this time, try not to pull your hair across your face every time you say something. It makes it very hard to hear you.”

  I let go of my hair and nodded. “No hair pulling. Got it.”

  “But maybe the way she fidgets with her hair and uses it as a shield against connecting with other human beings is just part of who she is,” Thor said. “I understand that we’re trying to help her here, but that doesn’t mean molding her into someone whom she’s not. See, that’s exactly what’s wrong with this city—it’s like there’s no room to be an individual. They just—”

  “We got it, Thor. L.A. sucks. Duly noted,” Max interrupted.

  “Omigod! I feel the same way about L.A.!” Nicola gasped. Was it my imagination, or did her pupils get ginormous whenever she was around him? “I can’t believe we haven’t discussed this. You know, I actually wrote this blog entry with a list of one hundred and one things about the city I don’t like. If you go back to last February—”

  “Let’s just get back to this and get it over with,” I interrupted in an attempt to save my brother. I turned to Nicola. “You ready?”

  “For what?” she asked, all hazylike, as if she had taken one too many of Wheezer’s Benadryls.

  I pointed to the camera. “With that.”

  She turned red. “Oh. Yeah,” she mumbled as she turned it on. “Simone’s Fake Date, take thirteen!” she yelled—from the way he cringed—right into Max’s ear.

  Narc looked at me and smiled. “Hey,” he said.

  “Hey,” I murmured as I sat on my hand to stop myself from hiding behind my hair. I glanced over at Blush, who was sitting on the stairs watching the whole thing with a small smile. Like the kind that people watching monkeys at the zoo have on their face, especially when the monkey does something particularly stupid. Not a word, I mouthed to him.

  He smiled wider. It was too bad his shyness stopped him from doing that too often because it was a really great smile. I’m not saying anything, he mouthed back. It was kind of cool when you reached a point in a friendship when you could understand what someone was mouthing across a room. Nicola was pretty much the only person I had been able to do that with. Except when she was chewing gum—then it got all complicated and made it look like she was speaking Chinese.

  “You might want to speak up,” Noob yelled. “Like I’m doing right now. You know, protect your voice.”

  “I think you mean ‘project,’” Wheezer wheezed.

  “Okay, okay,” I said. I turned to Narc. “Can we start over?”

  “Sure. Let me just get into character again.” He cracked his neck a few times and fluttered his lips. “All set.”

  “And we’re rolling!” Nicola yelled. “Wait—scratch that. We never actually stopped rolling.”

  “Hey,” Narc said.

  “Hey!” It came out so loud it sounded like I was talking to someone who was very hard of hearing. I turned to Doc. “I hate to do this. But we can start over just one more time? I think I’d like to try it with ‘hi’ instead of ‘hey,’ I swear it’ll be the last time.”

  “Take fifteen!” Nicola yelled.

  “Actually, it’s take fourteen,” Wheezer corrected.

  I glanced over at Max, who had his head in his hands.

  “This was your idea, you know,” I said defensively.

  “I know it was,” he sighed. “Just start again.”

  “Hey,” Narc said.

  “Hi,” I replied.

  “That was great!” Wheezer wheezed. “Good volume. And just the right amount of flirt without being all skeezy and easy. Kind of says, ‘If you play it right, then—’”

  “Okay, dude? I do not want to hear this,” Max said, covering his ears.

  “You can tell all that just from ‘hi’?” I asked, amazed.

  Wheezer shrugged. “Well, yeah, sure.” He looked at the group. “Right?”

  They nodded.

  Huh. Maybe I had underestimated them and they weren’t as clueless as I thought.

  “And it also says ‘I’m going to have the burger, medium well,” Noob said.

  Well, some of them weren’t.

  “Okay, we’re still rolling, so keep going,” Doc ordered.

  “So . . . how are you doing?” Narc said.

  I shrugged. “Fine. I mean, you know, a little nervous because it’s weird having to be on a pretend date in front of a bunch of people, but other than that, I’m good.”

  “I think he was asking you that in character,” Max said. “As part of the date conversation.”

  I looked at Narc. “Were you?”

  He yawned as he nodded.

  “Are you yawning because of the narcolepsy thing or because I’m boring you?” I asked.

  “The narcolepsy thing,” he replied as he yawned again. “At least I think.”

  Seeing that I still didn’t know where the date was going to take place, we jumped ahead to the saying-good-night portion of the evening (“Tell him that kissing before marriage is against your religion,” Max said) when the front door opened and Hillary’s perfectly unfrizzed head could be seen. I never thought the day would come where I’d actually be happy to see Hillary, but if it got me out of my fake date, I’d take it.

  “Hello, hello!” she cried. “Is everyone decent?” she asked, without waiting for an answer before she click-clacked in holding a garment bag. She looked at the guys and smiled. “Max, you didn’t mention how handsome your friends were.”

  My brother and I looked at each other and cringed. Hillary clearly had no problem with the age difference between her and the guys. My father was lucky that none of these guys had made a Mark Zuckerberg–like fortune by inventing some sort of social networking site. Luckily, they all looked pretty freaked out by the cougar-esque look on her face. Except for Noob. He just looked confused.

  Hillary took in the messy living room. “Well, this is certainly—”

  “I hope you’re not planning on saying ‘messy,’” said Thor. “Because although it might appear that way to the average person, what we’re going for here is actually a well-thought-out artistic decision to mirror the chaos that currently surrounds us on both a national and international scale. Not to mention what we, as young men on the threshold of adulthood, must struggle with—”

  “Anyways,” Hillary interrupted, “I just swung by because I bought Simone a little something for her date,” she said as she held up the garment bag. “It just felt like a sweet soon-to-be-stepmother thing to do.” She held up her still-ponytail-holdered hand. “I’m not sure if Simone and Max mentioned it, but I’m now engaged to their father.”

  Who didn’t know? Not only did all of Hillary’s 756 Facebook friends know, but she had also tweeted about it and started a blog called “Countdown to Bliss—How You, Too, Can Lasso the Man of Your Dreams.”

  “Wow. I’ve never seen an engagement ring made out of marbles. That’s really cool. A lot cooler than diamonds,” said Noob.

  I stood up. “That’s so nice of you. Let’s go up to my room.” I grabbed Nicola’s arm. “You, too.”

  “Well, look at this,” Hillary said after we got to the attic. “This is equally charming.” She pointed to the wall. “There’s not asbestos in there, I hope,” she said.

  Nicola and I looked at each other. Was it my imagination, or did she actually sound a little hopeful?

  “I have no idea.”

  “Well, I guess we’ll find out soon enough.” She sh
rugged. She held out the garment bag. “Here you go.”

  I unzipped the bag and gasped. Inside was a stunning emerald-green silk 1960-ish sailor’s dress.

  Hillary smiled sweetly. “I know if your mom was alive, she’d make a big deal about the fact that you’re going out on your first date.”

  “Omigosh—it’s beautiful,” I gasped.

  “Wow. It is,” said Nicola. “It’s so . . . Mad Men.”

  “It is, isn’t it?” agreed Hillary. “You know, I think it’s wonderful that there’s a show on TV that features full- figured women like that.” She walked over to the mirror and turned around to get a glimpse of her butt. “Unlike, you know, thin women like me. I got it at Decades. Bedbug-free, I promise.”

  Decades was a very upscale resale store over on Melrose, which meant it was expensive. I’d probably be too nervous to wear it. As I looked at the label on the neck, I realized I wouldn’t have to worry about that. “Hillary, this is incredibly nice of you . . . but it’s a size six.”

  She looked at it. “Oh, is it?”

  “Yeah.”

  “And the problem with that would be . . . ?”

  “I’m a ten.”

  “Maybe in regular clothes you are, but it’s different with vintage couture things. They run bigger.”

  “Really? I thought the expensive stuff ran smaller.” Especially vintage.

  She held the dress out to me. “Just try it.”

  With Nicola standing guard, soon enough I was in the bathroom with the broken lock (a complete nightmare when you were a girl living in a household full of guys) stepping into the softest, silkiest dress I had ever felt. At first it zipped up without a problem. But then . . . not so much. I stepped up onto the ledge of the tub so I could get a glimpse of myself. From my knees to just above my waist I looked just great. But from there on up I looked like a sausage that was about to squeeze out of its casing. I sighed. It was as if in one second, I was reminded that no matter how much weight I lost, how different my hair was, whether I got asked out on a date or not, I could only go so far before I was reminded of my place.