by Poppy Dunne
“I’m sorry, Alex. There’s just no way I can make this work.” She sounds regretful. A goat screams somewhere in the background, voicing all my feelings without me having to do anything. I swallow what feels like a really tight, deeply unpleasant lump in my throat. I’m going to name that lump Grace Goodwin, and I’ll wait patiently for the day when it fucking kills me.
“It doesn’t have to be the same day! We can move the schedule around,” I tell her, all but about to reach through the phone, grab her by whatever body part she recently got pierced, and shake her. I am about to start offering her my new sister in law as a sexual and/or Monopoly partner when she cuts in.
“Trust me, if it were just up to me, I’d help you out. But the band’s had the most exhausting tour schedule this last year.” She sounds regretful. “Seventy cities across Europe alone, all in fifty-nine days. Don’t ask how that’s possible. Gunther had to go on sleeping medication, and Lars started taking a stuffed teddy bear with him everywhere he went.” She tsks. “The strain of the road, you know.”
“But this isn’t fifty-nine cities. It’s one city, where they’ll already be.” I need to go back to that Italian restaurant Ben took me to. That’s it. Find the mob boss’s girlfriend, or at least the Joe Pesci bathroom statue, then bring one or both to Grace’s office and intimidate her into bending to my will. It’s my plan, my foolproof plan to becoming the next forgettable Marvel supervillain.
“The band told me specifically, no small gigs. They say yes to one, they gotta say yes to another.”
“How hardass are they about this really?” I ask.
“They turned down playing Gunther’s aunt’s funeral.”
Okay. Wow. Apparently Of Fire and Llamas (who I will now call OFAL, because they’re awful, and fuck everything I at least think that’s funny) are hardcore about their time off.
“Can you offer me something better than a dead aunt?” Grace asks.
“They can raid Nigel’s minibar. I swear, he has beer margaritas that are to die for. Strawberry flavored.”
There’s a pause, and for a moment I let myself believe that everything might actually somehow turn out okay.
“I think we’re done here. Sorry, kid,” Grace says. She sounds, to her credit, like she’s genuinely apologetic. The screaming goat in the background also sounds like it has my back—you go, girl, it seems to say. But in goat. “I’d get you somebody else, but right now everyone’s booked up. It’s just too close to the end of the month.”
Besides, who else could replace OFAL? Dreadlocked Ladies of Amalfi? They’re all still in rehab. Clusterpunk? They split up for the tenth time this year. Jerry Morris and the Shitkicking Cherubim? I’m ninety percent sure I just made that up.
“It’s fine. Say hi to the goat for me,” I mumble. Grace finishes some of her pleasantries, and I get off the phone. It’s okay. Everything’s okay. I just need to lie down on the bed…by that I mean, sink off the bed and onto the floor…okay, maybe lie down for just a second.
I’m lying facedown on the floor now. At least it’s a really nice floor.
Now, when the last possible savior has been wrenched away from me, is the moment I face facts about the severity of this situation.
The club really will go under without a kickass band to revitalize their reputation. And if the club goes under, not only will Nigel and Beth and Carlos and everyone else there be out of a job, it’ll be because of me. I’m the one who insisted there was gold to be struck in New York. I’m the one who maxed out the company credit card flying here, holing up in a hotel, and scouring every corner and city block for first-rate talent. I’m the one who’s going to have us all out on the street by the end of the month. And what do I do then? Head back to Philadelphia to lick my wounds and sit in my old bedroom that still has the pink wallpapered walls and posters of Weezer from my high school dork band phase? Head back to my old house, and let my mother tell me in no uncertain terms how much of a fuck up I’ve allowed myself to become?
Why didn’t I just take the internship at the fine arts studio she suggested? Why didn’t I just use my connections in the art world to try to find a wealthy husband, like she suggested? Why didn’t I let her dictate the rest of my life? Why did I have to get involved in live music? Rock music, for that matter. Who the hell gets a tattoo of 1984 Madonna on their upper thigh?
This wasn’t me, by the way. Mom just thinks that’s what everyone in Hollywood does on the regular.
Okay. Time to breathe. Take stock of your life, kiddo. What’s going on? Pushing thirty? Check. Banging a guy you paid three hundred bucks to, but you haven’t even paid him yet? Check check. Couldn’t find an act for your boss, which means your business closes, you can’t pay your rent, and you have to go back to Philadelphia sans career or boyfriend to suffer under Mom’s debilitating stares while you bum around your old neighborhood and eat string cheese after string cheese while trying to figure out how you got here and ended up in this existential whirl?
I wasn’t even speaking that out loud, and I need to take a breath at the end of that sentence. In fact, I’m starting to hyperventilate now. Everything is causing me to break out in stress hives.
What do we do? Easy. We do what Harringtons have done since they crossed over on the Mayflower—make a pouty face and get someone to pick up our bags for us.
No. I bang my fists into the floor. I’m not going down that path. I’m not going to be the type of person who blames everything on my mother—at least, I’m going to try to stop being that person.
I roll over onto my back, and swipe at the mascara that’s now spilling down my face with my tears. God, I’m going to look like I smeared ink all over my face. Well then, first things first and last things fucking last.
I’m going to get up, shower, and go downstairs to kick ass and take names. I’m going to call those other agencies and management firms again, and I’m not going to stop until I have a premium act booked. I’m going to hire said band, get them to fly out to Los Angeles, and surprise Nigel and everyone else with the fact that I didn’t screw this up for everyone. We’re going to have people packed inside our club to watch musical genius unfurl in front of them, like a rare, punk rock butterfly. The music is going to be sensational. It might be nothing more than the guy who plays spoons and has a donation hat down by the subway stop, but it’s going to be epic, and people are going to pay to see it.
Sometimes you find the hottest names in the music world on the subway steps. It can happen.
I’m so inspired by this pep talk, I nearly get off the floor. I mean, I don’t. But I will. I will soon. I will be strong.
First, though, I have to do the worm on my way to the bathroom. Someone needs a commiserating shower.
13
On the list of things I never thought I’d see, one would be the Cubs winning the World Series. That one’s got to take the top unforgettable spot. Following close behind, however, is Katie Beauman in a pink cupcake dress with sparkly heels. I’m pretty sure I’ve wandered into the darkest timeline when I stroll into the bridal suite and find Katie standing there, looking like she fought the battle against the Stepford Wives and eventually lost.
Then again, I’ve never seen a Stepford Wife with an ‘I will cut you’ look on her face before. Or a back tattoo of a wolf holding a rose in its mouth.
‘Help me’ she mouths at me.
“Oh, that I could,” I mutter, putting my purse down and getting ready to watch a losing battle between a bride and her future mother in law.
“You can’t wear the pearl earrings with those shoes, Katie,” Mom says conversationally as she waltzes in from the other room with two sets of earrings in each hand. Hard to balance those with a probably gin, probably dry martini clenched in her right hand, but hey, Mom’s got many talents. “You need some sparkle and pizzazz.”
If there are words that should not come out of Veronica Harrington’s mouth, pizzazz is one of them. The others are moist and butterscotch, for those at home who are cu
rious.
“I don’t get why I can’t just wear my Metallica tour shirt,” Katie practically growls. There’s also the South Park sweatpants, which involve Cartman showing his own ass. Gertrude Harrington, of the Asheville Harringtons, would especially love to see that. I know it.
Mom cheerfully ignores Katie while she holds up one pair of pink diamonds, and another set of pear-shaped ones. Two Harrington women rules: always carry multiple options for jewelry, and never stay completely sober after four thirty in the afternoon—4 p.m. if it’s an especially bad day.
“Because it’s a rehearsal, and we need you dressed the way you’ll be on the big day,” Mom drawls. I mean, if Katie and Rollie had had their way, this’d all be at City Hall, and they could both wear whatever they want. Still, a quickie wedding was never in the cards, not in this family. Mom chooses the pink diamonds for Katie, and starts fiddling with the poor girl’s twenty-seven ear piercings. Katie winces as her earlobes get tugged. Mom grunts a little as she realizes that some of the piercings are more difficult to unscrew than she anticipated. Katie tries to take them out herself, but apparently that’s not going to fly. Someone else needs to handle it. Right. It’s time for the Katie wrangler to make her entrance.
“Hold up. I think I can help,” I say, tossing my coat, purse, and shredded dignity onto the bed. Katie looks like she wants to jump into my arms and have me carry her away from all the horror and the pink chiffon. And while I would under any other circumstances, I do think it’s kind of bad form to make off with the bride when you’re related to the groom. Call me old fashioned.
I think we could all use a strong Old Fashioned right now for moral support, but it’s also too early to think of drinking. At least for me.
Mom finally flutters away, sipping on her drink as I tug at the studs in Katie’s earlobes, and undo the rings running all the way up her ear cartilage. She flares her nostrils—yep, gonna have to take the nose ring too—and gives me a panicked side eye expression.
“Be honest. How not-me do I look?” she whispers. I try to think of the polite way to answer this.
“Did six-year-old Katie ever have dreams about being a princess?”
“No, she wanted to steal the Millennium Falcon from Han Solo and hightail it to go kick ass somewhere in space.”
God, Katie is too good for this family.
“Well, space princess Katie would really approve. I mean, how else are you going to infiltrate intergalactic meetings with diplomats if you don’t look the part?” I leave one stud in her ear, in addition to the pink diamonds. She notices and gives me grateful punk Bambi eyes. “Looks good,” I say, flashing a thumbs up. Mom looks at my gesture like I might secretly be flipping her off. Harringtons are not ‘thumbs up’ people.
“I’m so glad you’re here, Drina,” Mom says, pounding back the last of her vermouth. Oh crap. Things are getting super bad if she’s calling me Drina instead of Alex. It means her pretension levels are reaching radioactive. Which, in turn, means she’s about to make me feel like shit.
I start moving for the cocktail cart—if she gets too distracted by the bottles, I can try escaping out through the air duct. But no, Mom’s not being tempted by another sweet sip of alcohol when she can start tormenting me even further.
“I want to talk to you about your young man.” Mom purses her lips. Wow. Not even boyfriend.
“At least he’s not my gentleman caller. Or gigolo,” I say, leaning against the wall and crossing my arms. I’m already going nuclear inside my head because of this whole shittastic day, and after that soul-crushing phone call with Grace, I really don’t need more of this.
“Gigolo?” Mom literally clutches her pearls. Good thing she never takes them off, so they’re always on hand to be clutched. She’s probably got backup pearls on her somewhere.
“Is Ben too good looking? Is that the problem now?” No, really, that came up in the past. When I was in fifth grade with my first crush, Jimmy Barnes, Mom had to call us over from playing tag to tell him that, since he was probably going to grow into an eight or nine while I’d be stuck at a six, he could honestly do better than me.
People wonder where my hypertension comes from. Or my night terrors.
“He’s very adequate in that department.” Mom sounds like I’m forcing her to give an extra five dollars in her tip. Adequate means she knows he’s stunning and just can’t bring herself to admit that I’ve had a solid ten’s dick in me. Maybe that’s a little crude, but we all need to speak the truth here. “It’s just that…I do worry about his brain.”
Okay, I’ll give her that. I didn’t see that square coming in Things To Complain About bingo.
“Like in a Frankenstein way, where you worry it won’t fit into your experiment? Or in a Hannibal Lecter way, where it might not taste good? Because I hear with a little butter and breadcrumbs, anything can be a gourmet’s paradise.”
Katie clamps a hand over her mouth and starts wheezing with delight. Mom goes pale under her perfectly applied makeup.
“Both. I mean, neither.” Good, she’s flustered. Always nice to catch her off guard. “You know there hasn’t been a cannibal in the Harrington family since the mid-nineteenth century. No, I’m worried about money, darling.”
“And money makes brains turn on?” Trying to follow the logic, but let’s face it, that’s twistier than a labyrinth designed by M.C. Escher on LSD.
“Everyone knows that poor people brains and rich people brains are different,” Mom tuts, looking seriously concerned as she finally snakes her way over for another dry martini. So yeah, Harringtons aren’t technically racist, but we’ve still got to weed some of that eugenics shit out of our collective background. “This is science, Drina.” Mom shakes a manicured finger while she adds one, two olives to her drink. She wobbles just a tiny bit on her heels, but stays centered. Classy dame.
“You’re getting kind of Brave New World on me, Mom,” I say, quickly poking around Katie’s purse and finding—yep—her black leather wrist cuff with the skull decoration. I pass it to my future sister, and she grabs it, giving me wide, loving eyes. She named it Elmira. Already, she looks calmer as she snaps it on her wrist.
“Sweetheart, if he’s always worried about fishing coins out of the fountain or being a taxi dancer, how’s he going to support you in the style to which you should probably be accustomed by now?” Mom’s very serious as she shakes that drink.
“First, what the hell is a taxi dancer?” It sounds kind of stripper like, but having seen the Magic Mike movies that idea’s just turning me on more than it should. The thought of Ben in a leather thong gyrating to Shook Me All Night Long is shockingly appealing. “Second, maybe I could support him as well, Mom. You ever think of that?”
Granted, I am supporting him. I’m giving him the three hundred. I still don’t know if I should add extra for the sex, or if that makes our not-relationship even more complicated. How much does a person charge per orgasm? Holy shit, I need to stop thinking this way. It’s turning me as crazy as my mother.
“Women shouldn’t settle down with a man unless he can provide for their every need.” Mom punctuates each word with a jab of her finger.
“Isn’t that kind of a shitty message to send to men who aren’t at the top of the corporate ladder? They want families too, you know,” I say, wondering if I could just pour all the vodka over myself and run screaming out the door.
“If the poor didn’t have children, then everyone would be rich. That’s mathematically accurate,” Mom says.
“Rich and, in a couple of generations, inbred. Great idea, Mom,” I say. She’s getting the heat under her temper turned up, I see it happening.
“Women want high earners. That’s all there is to it,” she says. And, to my surprise, Katie finally bites back.
“Actually, when I met Rollie, I didn’t know he had a great job or a totally loaded family. All I knew was that he was ginger, adorable, and looked like he was really well hung. And he was,” she says triumphantly. �
�So thank you for that,” she tells Mom, as if remembering that it’s polite to thank the woman whose genetics gave your husband a particularly nice schlong.
I swear to god, neither Mom nor I wanted this. But here we are, this image burned into our brains. Mom makes some excuse that sounds like she’s going to go set herself on fire, and moves briskly out of the room. Katie wrinkles her nose at me.
“Aw, come on. It was the only way to get her out of the room. Rollie’s not that well endowed.” She whistles. “Though he’s the next best thing.”
“Please don’t make me throw up all over myself, forever and ever,” I mutter, moving behind her to disentangle the multi-layered strands of her diamond necklace. I’m grateful, though. At least it bought us both a moment’s peace. I frown as I work harder at the necklace, which is in an indescribable knot at this point. “Crap, Mom really brought out the big guns for this wedding.”
“Yeah, she said—umm.” Katie stops so short that I know there’s another dig at me in there somewhere. Something Mom probably told her while getting her all dolled up. Someplace nestled between ‘she can’t get a man’ and ‘she wouldn’t know what to do if she caught one.’ I’m like the Joker from the Dark Knight that way, tearing maniacally around the city with badly applied makeup, detonating any relationship I find.
Well, screw it. I quite honestly have bigger things to worry about right now, like my career going up in flames. Like having to move home and get a heaping taste of Mom’s smug condescension every night, along with the roasted trout and slivered almonds. I get the necklace straightened out and pat Katie’s shoulder.
“You look good enough for my brother. That’s a tall order.” We both study her reflection in the full-length mirror. She does look pretty cute, though in a distinctly cupcake-y, un-Katie like way. She turns and kisses my cheek, leaving a red blotch of lipstick. Since she usually wears black lipstick, I like it. More bloody, less bruise-y.
“By the way, I think you and Ben are freaking adorable. Don’t listen to what Lucille Bluth says.” Man, I love Katie’s pet names for my family. My favorite is my Aunt Florence, who got the nickname Charlie Brown’s teacher. Seriously, when she talks it sounds like muffled grunting. “We’ve perfected the self-flushing toilet, so women earning more than the men they’re with is a natural next step.”
