My Favorite Mistake

by Beth Kendrick

  “Hospital procedure.” The nurse scribbled on a clipboard with her pen. “It’s just a precaution. Sign here.”

  “Well,” I said halfway through the long, silent ride home. “Do you want to talk about it?”

  “About what?” Skye curled up in her seat, planting her bare feet on the dashboard. “The fact that they charged me five hundred dollars for a tampon?”

  “No, about, you know. The baby. Not having it anymore.”

  She looked out the window at the lush green fields. “It never existed so, it’s like, how can I care? I can’t miss something that never existed, right?” Her laugh, though light, was brittle.

  I didn’t say anything.

  “It’s just sad, you know? Because I thought that we’d really love each other, me and the baby. We’d always have someone to talk to. And Bob would come back and be a father.” She sighed. “But he’s not coming back. And anyway, I couldn’t be somebody’s mother. I can’t even remember to water my plants.”

  This was what had happened to her in the wake of everybody running off, first my father, then my mother and me. She’d lost all hope of ever being part of a happy family.

  I could relate.

  “You have me,” I said. “To love.”

  “I know.” She reached over to my hand on the steering wheel. She didn’t squeeze it, just covered it with her palm. “Let’s not talk about this anymore.”

  I groped for a topic that would make her feel better. Something light and fluffy. Something that would help her regain a sense of control. I swallowed my pride and broached the topic I’d wanted to discuss at the beauty salon. “I need some advice from you.”

  After the initial shock passed, she seemed delighted. “Okay! What?”

  “All right, here’s the deal.” I tried not to blush. “Remember when I left for L.A.?”

  She nodded.

  I pulled into the Roof Rat parking lot and turned off the ignition. “Well, as you know, Flynn and I had sort of a big fight. And I think he’s still kind of miffed. Men. You know.”

  “What’s he mad about? Oh, because of that bass player guy? What was his name?”

  “Hank,” I muttered. “No, he’s mad for many reasons, most of which we don’t have to get into right now.”

  She gave me a stern look. “I can’t help you if I don’t know the facts.”

  My dignity was long gone anyway. “Fine. If you must know, he’s mad because I sort of skipped bail on our relationship. He got all bent out of shape because he wanted to get married and I said no, which is why he broke up with me. Which is why I ran off with the bass player. So really, he has only himself to—”

  “He asked you to marry him?” Her mouth opened so wide I could see the fillings glinting in her molars. “You said no?”

  “I was barely eighteen!”

  “But you guys were so in love! Didn’t he used to call you his little sparkplug?”

  My cheeks were flaming under the sunburn I had already accrued. “Forget I said anything.”

  “No, no! I can help, I really can! You know business, but I know men. What do you need?”

  “Well. I need to work with him at the bar,” I said slowly. “And he won’t cooperate with anything I want to do.”

  “So you need to win him over.”

  “Yes. I need…” I started to laugh. “I need to exploit my feminine wiles. But first I need to get some feminine wiles.”

  “Okay! This’ll be so great.” She clapped her hands. “All you’ve gotta do is charm the pants off him.”

  She painted an appealing picture. Wait, no, no—that road would only lead to disaster.

  “He can keep his pants on,” I said quickly. “I just want to establish a comfortable working relationship so we can help get the bar back on track.”

  “No problem. Feminine wiles are so easy. I am going to give you the foolproof way to win over any man alive.” The mischievous spark returned to her eyes. “I don’t care what you’ve done, he’ll be yours to command.”

  “This doesn’t involve bargaining with Satan, does it?”

  Skye just smiled wickedly and rubbed her palms together. “Who needs the devil when you’ve got a subscription to Cosmopolitan?”

  “Here.” She handed me a twisted piece of blackened metal studded with rhinestones.

  “What the hell is this?” I stood directly in front of the living room air conditioner and examined the tarnished loop of scrap metal. Short of melting this down and refashioning it into shackles, which I would then use to handcuff Flynn to the wall until he’d listen to reason, I couldn’t see how it would transform my life.

  She rolled her eyes. “Duh. It’s my crown from junior year.”

  “Your prom queen crown?” I dangled the tiara between my thumb and index finger as if it were the tail of a wriggling sewer rat.

  “No, my homecoming crown.”

  I glanced at my watch. “Look, time is money, babe, and there’s a big pile of your account books with my name on them. What does this have to do with my future feminine wiles?”

  “You’re going to clean it off and wear it.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “You’ll see.” She steered me toward the hall. “Go get a toothbrush and some soap or something.”

  “You’ll forgive me my skepticism.” But I padded off to the bathroom, where I rustled up a moldy blue toothbrush I surmised had been Bob’s and a bar of Ivory soap. “Here you go.”

  “Great.” She seemed unfazed by the origins of the toothbrush. “Okay, the first thing we have to do is scrub all the black stuff off so it’s nice and sparkly.”

  She looked so earnest and avid and not preoccupied with her “miscarriage” that I decided to humor her. “Fine. But if you think for one second I’m wearing this thing, you are sadly mistaken.”

  “Faithie! You have to wear it. Otherwise it won’t work.” She lowered her voice and glanced around conspiratorially. “The thing is, if you want people to treat you like the homecoming queen, you have to think like the homecoming queen. The crown will help you. Trust me, boys love the homecoming queen. And they never grow out of it. Remember Mr. Jersen?”

  I nodded. Pre-algebra teacher, mustached and polyestered.

  “He asked me out at the bar last week.” She shuddered. “It was really gross. But it just goes to show.”

  “It just goes to show what? Am I supposed to be encouraged by that?”

  “Yes. If you want to start bossing Flynn around, you have to start being more charming. You know. Nice.” She paused and nibbled her bottom lip, as if we might be hitting a snag here. “You say hi to everybody. You smile a lot. You pretend like everybody’s interesting. If you want Flynn to listen to you, then I promise this’ll help.”

  I rolled my eyes. “Will I be needing a glass slipper next?”

  But we cleaned that crown until the fake jewels danced in the afternoon sunlight.

  She beamed. “Get ready for the new you. Try it on.”

  In the name of sisterly harmony, I allowed her to place the aluminum circlet on my head.

  I widened my eyes and waited.

  “I hate to break it to you, but this is not working.”

  She winked at me. “Go look in the mirror.”

  I did, and in the bathroom, I witnessed a miracle. Adorned in this glorified piece of Reynolds Wrap, surrounded by a floral shower curtain and rumpled towels, I suddenly looked like the kind of girl who has been chosen for the final round of a beauty pageant. The kind of girl who refuses to accept a Saturday-night date after Wednesday. Who has a phone installed next to her deep marble bathtub. Who is, in short, the love child of Paris Hilton and Beau Brummell.

  “See?” My sister popped into the doorway, carrying an armload of clothes and grinning. “Doesn’t it feel good?”

  “Kind of,” I hedged. But this was a lie. It felt like a shot of tequila to the spirit. I was drunk with social power.

  “Okay. I want you to remember this feeling and take it with you where
ver you go. I’m going to put the crown in your car, and I want you to wear it when you’re driving around.” I opened my mouth but she held up her palm. “Just do it, okay? Okay. We covered the social stuff—smile a lot and always talk about the guy, not yourself, because guys think they’re very interesting.”

  She wrinkled her pert little nose. “But now we need to do something about your wardrobe.”

  I raised my eyebrows. “What about my wardrobe?”

  “You look too citified.” she declared. “You’re intimidating. You don’t fit in here.”

  I took this as a compliment.

  “You’re in Minnesota now. You need to wear more colors and soften it up. Think cute and nonthreatening. Here.” She handed me a plum tank top and lavender capri pants. “And also, we need to talk about your underwear.”

  “We do?”

  “Yes. When you’re dealing with men like Flynn, you have to be confident. And what makes you confident?”

  I mulled this over. “A Harvard degree and a modeling contract?”

  “No, your panties, you silly goose!”

  And thus the eternal difference between the Geary sisters.

  “If you want to be fun and sexy, you just have to start with your underwear and work your way out. I went on a total shopping binge at the Mall of America the day you picked me up, and I bought a bunch of cute new stuff that I haven’t worn yet.” She disappeared into the bedroom.

  I yelled after her, “How do you know I don’t already have something scandalous on?”

  “Oh, Faithie, be serious.” She returned clutching a pink bag filled with white tissue and black lace. She fished out a scrap of lavender silk. “Put this on, and put the purple outfit on over it, and then I’ll do your makeup and you can go. Flynn will be much easier to handle today, I promise.”

  “I don’t want to ‘handle’ him, I just want to have a civil, working relationship.”

  She shook her head. “That’s what you say now, but I know how you two are. You’re like yin and yang. Smith and Wesson. Nick and Jessica.”

  “That is so not—”

  “Stop thinking with your head so much. Make sure you pay attention to your body next time he’s around. What do you feel like? What is your body telling you?”

  “My body never tells me anything,” I objected. “Except, ‘more M&M’s, please.’ ”

  “I’m just saying. You think too much and it gets you into trouble. You’re always in your head. Pay attention to what your body says for a change. Now put on the purple.”

  “But I just wore jeans in high school and he liked me fine then.”

  “He’ll like this better. Trust me.”

  My sister could be terrifyingly convincing when she wanted to be. And she did know a few things when it came to men…

  “Listen,” I said slowly. “I’ll cut you a deal. I’ll stop thinking with my head and listen to my body if you promise to stop thinking with your body and listen to your head.”

  She cocked her head. “What do you mean?”

  “I mean, you said you’d stop conspiring with Flynn and commit to helping me save this bar. Which means we can’t sell it. Which means we need to start making a lot more money, tout de suite. So we need—you need—to dream up ways to get customers in the door and keep them in all night. Think of yourself as the social coordinator.”

  “I’ll be good at that!” Her face lit up. “Ooh, I have a great idea! For tonight! Leave everything to me.”

  “For tonight? But we open in four hours. What’s the plan?”

  “Trust me, you’ll love it.” She yelled this over her shoulder as she headed for the front door. “I’ve always wanted to do this, but Bob would never let me. I have to start getting everything ready. Show up at six-thirty and prepare to be amazed.”

  “Good evening, and welcome to ‘Free Beer Till Somebody Pees’,” Skye bellowed as she stood atop the bar, clad in painted-on jeans and a pink bustier, à la Coyote Ugly.

  The bar was absolutely packed with customers—beer-bellied factory workers, twenty-two-year-old deer-hunting enthusiasts, wide-eyed young single gals and chain-smoking, rusty-voiced middle aged women. When my sister wanted to get the word out about something, she was better than Reuters. Now if only she could use her powers for good…

  “Here are the rules: everyone who wants to compete has to get their hand stamped. Faith will do the stamping,” she announced, tossing a star stamp and ink pad my way. “Once your hand is stamped, the bathrooms are off-limits to you. We’ve posted guards at both bathrooms and the front door.” She beamed and waved to Lars and his henchmen, who gruffly nodded back. “Everyone who gets their hand stamped will drink for free.”

  The crowd erupted with a deafening roar of approval.

  “But once somebody pees, we start charging for beer again. Okay, also, everybody here has to pony up five bucks. No, ten bucks! And the last person to pee will win a prize of”—she looked at me and shrugged—“a hundred dollars!”

  “What about betting?” came a yell from the back.

  She tossed her hair back and smiled. “Betting is totally permitted and encouraged. And if I were you, I’d bet on my big sister Faith, ’cause she’s the stubbornest person I know!”

  “Hey!” I cried. “I’m just the stamper! I’m not having any part of this.”

  She jumped down from the bar. “Of course you are. Somebody has to get the ball rolling.”

  “Well, why can’t Flynn get the ball rolling?” The perfect opening to ask the question that had been preying on my mind all evening. “Where is he, anyway?”

  “I told him not to bother coming in till ten-thirty.” She giggled. “He’d go ballistic if he knew about this. Fire codes and blah, blah, blah. He’ll be happier not knowing. Which reminds me, he called and asked how the buyer appointment went. I told him to talk to you. That man is your problem.”

  And according to Skye, I should now be able to handle him with no problem. I had spent the afternoon enduring a head-to-toe makeover, and was now decked out in the purple capris and delicate strappy sandals that strangled my toes but looked fabulous. My sister had pronounced me feminine-wile ready, but the proof would be in the Pig’s Eye.

  She turned back to the crowd. “All right, you guys. It is now six forty-five. You have fifteen minutes to settle up with Faith and get your last-minute peeing in!”

  As the electrified mob rushed toward me, I resigned myself to the fact that Skye’s taste in social events was always going to be more Animal House than Buckingham Palace. But I had asked her to help, and she was helping.

  “All right, people, form a line,” I commanded. “Single file. No pushing, no biting, no spilling beer on the bartenders.”

  I tossed ten-dollar bills into a plastic pitcher and stamped away without really looking up at faces. The hands I anointed with pink stars were workers’ hands. Callused from manual labor, with fingernails tinged with traces of dirt that no amount of scrubbing could erase. These were hands like my father’s, the kind of hands you just don’t see in the clubs and boutiques of L.A.

  But then, at the end of the line, I encountered five lily-white fingers, French-manicured and moisturized to the point of supersaturation. Bejeweled with a large and gaudy pink class ring.

  The hand of Sally Hutchins.

  I glanced up in surprise and stamped her flesh perhaps a bit harder than I’d intended.

  “Ow!” She snatched back her hand and flung a ten-dollar bill in the general direction of the pitcher.

  “Gosh, Sally, I’m ever so sorry.” I gave her my best fake Hollywood simper.

  “No, you’re not.” She clutched her hand to her chest and scowled. “Isn’t it enough that you ruined my whole day? My father had a conniption after I lost that sale with Mr. Warton.”

  I felt an inexplicable twinge of pity for her, standing there all dour and ill-tressed.

  “I’m surprised to see you here tonight,” I said. “ ‘Free beer till somebody pees’ doesn’t seem like you
r scene.”

  “There’s nowhere else to go in this dinky little village,” she sniffed. “Besides, I could use the hundred dollars. Dayton Hudson is having a sale on Monday, and my dad won’t give me any money after what happened this morning.” She curled her lip at me. “I really need some new espadrilles. And I can win this. I can hold it forever.”

  “Really.” I raised one eyebrow.

  “Why? You think you can hold out longer?” she demanded.

  I’d be damned if I folded to the woman who had made an art form of aiming the volleyball at my head in gym class. “We’ll see.”

  She narrowed her eyes and flicked her long crimson bangs off her forehead. “Fine, then.”

  I put my hand on my hip. “Fine.”

  Let the games begin.

  Flynn showed up at eight, by which time the festivities were in full swing. I was draped over the bar, tapping my pen and advising my mother’s friend Mrs. Dupree to bet against Sally Hutchins, when I heard Flynn’s voice behind me, quiet but unmistakably furious.

  “Geary. Back room. Now.”

  “Hang on one second,” I said to Mrs. Dupree and turned to greet my business partner.

  You could set your watch by this guy’s wardrobe—today was jeans and a gray T-shirt, one sleeve of which was halfway turned up around the hem. I fought the sudden urge to straighten out the folded fabric, but my little laundry reverie came screeching to a halt when I checked out the hockey player behind the Hanes.

  Although his face was a mask of control, the muscles in his jaw twitched madly.

  I decided to look on the bright side. What better opportunity to practice my new prom queen maneuvers? I gave him a smile straight out of the Rose Parade. “As I live and breathe, it’s Patrick Flynn. How are you?”

  This took him off guard. He straightened his shoulders and regarded me with deep suspicion.

  “Get back there, now,” he ordered.

  “I’m right in the middle of a consultation with a client here,” I cooed. “But I’ll be done in two shakes of a lamb’s tail, and then I’ll be happy to talk with you.” I turned back to Mrs. Dupree, who had lit her second cigarette on the smoldering remains of her first.