License to Spill

by Lisi Harrison

  “It’s a peanut M&M,” I whispered to Blake.

  “Shhh,” Blake hissed. Then he stood. “Vanessa?”

  Uh-oh.

  She lifted her ski goggles, “Did you really think I wouldn’t find out?”

  Blake hurried to her. “I’m so sorry. I wasn’t trying to—”

  Vanessa pushed past him. “Not you,” she snapped. “Her!”

  “Me?”

  “Stop the innocent act, Lily.”

  “What did I do?”

  We were standing in a triangle, the literary significance of which was not lost on me. But when snow is squalling and accusations are flying, it’s best to keep these observations to oneself.

  “I found the note. So go ahead, turn me in for upgrading. I’ll turn you in for extortion.”

  “Extortion?” Blake snickered. “Lily?”

  “Vanessa, do you even know what extortion means? Because if you did you wouldn’t accuse me of—”

  “Ugh!” Vanessa stomped her ski. “You two are so pretentious. You think you’re better than everyone because you were homeschooled.”

  “Ha!”

  “Better than everyone?” Blake added. “Um, no.”

  “Well, some of us have to study to get A’s. Some of us have to try. And some of us are stupid enough to think you really liked me.”

  “Is this about me or Blake?”

  That’s when she showed us the note.

  The question isn’t if all will be revealed. It’s when…

  “You think I wrote that?” I asked.

  “You’re the only one who knows what I did and I happened to find it in your blazer.”

  “That’s not Lily’s blazer,” Blake said. “It’s Mike’s.”

  “But you told me it was—”

  “Yeah.” Blake sighed. “I told you a lot of things.”

  Vanessa threw down her poles. “I’m so confused.” She buried her face in her mittens.

  “I think we all are,” I said, leading her into the igloo.

  It was the perfect opportunity for Blake to tell Vanessa the truth, but he didn’t. Normally, I would have found pleasure in his discomfort, hoping it might bring him closer to a confession. But I needed to prove I’d never betray him again so I turned the attention back to me.

  “Why would I want to threaten you?”

  “Because Blake and I are a thing,” she said, “and you obviously have feelings for him.”

  “Vanessa, I don’t, I swear.”

  “Then why didn’t you respond to the email I sent last week?”

  “I was using a typewriter.”

  “Aha!” Vanessa said.

  “What?”

  “The notes were typed. Case closed.”

  “Wait,” I said, finally understanding why Mike was so desperate to get his blazer back. “Doesn’t Mike have a typewriter?”

  “Yeah,” Blake said. “He bought it at a garage sale during his Mad Men phase.”

  “Mike wrote that note, Vanessa. Not me.”

  “Mike? Why would Mike?” Vanessa asked, searching us both for something that made sense. “Lily, did you tell him what I did?”

  I glared at Blake. Handle this.

  Blake glared back. Don’t make me do this.

  I began scraping the gold nail polish off my thumb. Anything to avoid the desperation in Blake’s eyes.

  Finally, he said, “Mike can be a little… jealous.”

  “I knew he liked me,” Vanessa said. “Don’t worry, though. He’s hardly a threat.”

  “More like he likes me,” Blake said.

  “Huh?” Vanessa knit her brows while her hard drive calculated this new route. “Wait. You mean… Mike is gay?”

  “Yes,” Blake said.

  “But…” Vanessa paused.

  Blake lowered his eyes.

  “Oh,” she said, flatly. Then she turned to me. “Did you know?”

  I nodded and braced myself for the icy stab of her ski pole.

  “Well.” She sighed. “That’s a relief.”

  “It is?” Blake asked.

  “I thought there was something wrong with me.”

  We spent the rest of the afternoon laughing about misunderstandings, embarrassing truths, and how hard it was to pretend we hadn’t missed one another.

  When Mom surprised us with a fresh round of steaming hot chocolates, we lifted our mugs and toasted many things, including but not limited to: homosexuals, stalkers, upgrading perfectionists, the magic of snow days, second chances, and peanut M&M’S who ski.

  Friday

  The Flames were on fire tonight, especially for an away game. We smoked the Pinedale Gulls 66–32.

  I wore my old sweat bands under my Heavy Metal Bands so I don’t know which bands brought the luck. Maybe wearing both at the same time did it. Maybe that’s why everything is so doubly epic right now.

  At first the Gulls called us Team Wonder Woman because we all had them. But by the end of the game they were asking where we got them because the Pinedale girls were all over us, trying to touch and feel the cuffs up close.

  Feeling = Hud said that’s the excuse they gave their boyfriends. And that they were all over us because they thought we were hot.

  I wasn’t sure if he was right until I asked this girl who looked like Katy Perry where we should go for a slice.

  GIRL: Cuts, the Brick House is always crowded.

  I didn’t mean “we” as in me and her. I meant it as in me and the Flames. But my guys were fist-bumping so I said cool.

  Feeling = I’m glad Sheridan wasn’t there. Not because I liked these girls more than I liked her. I didn’t. But I did like that they liked me and I didn’t feel like pretending I didn’t.

  Morty, our bus driver, followed Katy Perry’s car to Cuts. Tons of her hot friends showed up and we took over the whole restaurant. Everyone was laughing and taking stupid pics with each other’s phones and having fun until the Gulls showed up.

  I didn’t mind because I moved a ton of product. The guys on my team were pretty pissed, though.

  First thing I did when I got home was check my sales.

  Feeling = When did Mr. Spencer buy 20 Toolery rings?

  Feeling = Sheridan rocks!

  $533.85 to go.

  Feeling = No problem.

  11.10.12

  INT. THE SPENCER HOME—PANTRY FLOOR—NIGHT.

  Nude and swaddled in last year’s pink Christmas Snuggie, SHERIDAN channels herself from the year 1997; back when she was a fetus in utero and still a size zero.

  Heavy sigh.

  SHERIDAN lifts her gaze toward the cabinets overhead. How proud they seem; storing our favorite snacks, juice boxes, and non-perishables. But behind their glossy finish lies an aching sadness.

  I know this, Pantry, because I too have been unfairly judged. Me by my society, you by Mom when guests stop by. Ashley, I just love what you’ve done with the kitchen. What’s behind that door, another bathroom?

  Storage. Come, let me show you the den.

  Mom doesn’t like that you’re L-shaped and thinks a D or a T would be more practical. Well, you know what I don’t like, Mom? Shapeists! And unfortunately for me and Christina Aguilera, Pantry, people like you walk among us.

  FLASHBACK.

  INT. THE DUFFY HOME—LIVING ROOM—EVENING.

  I prepared for the role of “parent-approved love interest” by workshopping my smile, handshake, and costume—dark-wash jeans, floral blouse (untucked), and winter-white blazer. I researched conversation topics like Thursday’s snowstorm, The Life of Pi—movie vs. book—and Lady Gaga’s new tattoo. I even brought homemade pralines. Did I sneak two in the car ride over? Yes. Yes I did. That’s how superlatively nervous I was.

  Mom sensed my anxiety because she went into a whole story about the first time Dad introduced her to Grammy and Grandpa. I nodded like I was listening, but it was impossible to hear over the noise inside my head.

  Is Duffy dreading my arrival? What did they say about me during dinner? Wha
t if they don’t like pralines? Why didn’t I ask about nut allergies? Does Amelia even exist? If so, is she even more beautiful than Mandy? If so, how ugly will I look by comparison?

  I took it as a good sign when Duffy answered the door. The dogs charged me, and then began obsessing over the zipper of my jeans. I pretended to pet them but was really pushing them away from my First Lady.

  Finally, someone normal. (Duffy, smiling.)

  (Me, looking over my shoulder.) Where?

  He laughed. I blushed. He was wearing worn jeans, a green shirt with duct tape over the logo, and socks. No gold cuffs or designer denim. More like how he used to dress when we first met. Another good sign.

  Are you sure you want to do this? (Duffy.)

  Why? You don’t want me to?

  I do. Do you?

  Yeah.

  Close the door, it’s freezing! (Mandy.)

  Maybe if you had more body fat you wouldn’t be so cold. (Amelia?)

  Maybe if you had less you wouldn’t be so jealous. (Mandy.)

  Girls, please. I could die any minute. Don’t make this the last thing I hear.

  I love you, Bubbie. (Amelia.)

  I love you more. (Mandy.)

  Better.

  Duffy asked if I wanted to leave my cookies with my coat, like they were shopping bags or something.

  I brought them for dessert.

  You can eat that much? (He asked.)

  They’re for your family, not me.

  (He looked confused.) We already had dessert.

  You’re such a guy. (Me.) The girls will appreciate it. You’ll see.

  He shrugged and then led me into the living room to meet his sister. The whole family was there. Lazing by the fire, flipping through magazines, and dressed in pajamas. Even Mr. Duffy, who upon seeing me announced that he was going upstairs to read.

  Everyone else looked at me like I was some vagrant who wandered in through an open door. Hi, I’m Sheridan.

  Mrs. Duffy, a blond celery with navy eyes that matched her nightgown, said, I’m Patricia. If we knew Andrew was having company we wouldn’t be dressed like this.

  I managed to shake her hand without dropping my plate.

  Duff—Andrew didn’t tell you I was coming over? Speaking his real name felt awkward, like it was made of marbles instead of sounds.

  I thought I did. (Duffy.) If he hadn’t blushed I never would have believed him.

  Andrew, what happened to Lily? (Bubbie Libby.)

  Ma! (Patricia.)

  Bubbie! (Duffy.)

  What? I liked her.

  Well, any girl who brings pralines has my vote. I’m Amelia.

  She was nowhere as pretty as Mandy. Not because she couldn’t be, but because she wasn’t trying to be. Her stringy hair was dyed black, possibly to match her outfit and chipped nail polish. Green eyes were her only pop of color. She was Mandy on opposite day.

  I offered her the plate. She took three pralines and thanked me with a kind smile.

  Anyone else?

  No thanks. (Mandy while chexting.)

  Mrs. Duffy fake-yawned. None for me, thanks. I’m off to bed.

  I wanted to offer some to Bubbie Libby but I didn’t know what to call her. She wasn’t my “Bubbie” and I hadn’t been cleared for “Libby” so all I said was, Any for you?

  She leaned closer to the plate. The tops of her boobs spilled from her nightgown. Are they kosher?

  They are. (Me, proudly.)

  She looked impressed and then pinched one off the plate.

  You have a kosher kitchen? (Amelia.)

  I’m not sure. I looked at Duffy. Do I?

  Doubt it.

  The praline came to a complete stop at the pucker in Bubbie Libby’s lips.

  Why would you say they’re kosher if you’re not sure?

  What happened next was the closet thing to stage fright I had ever experienced. Blushing, sweating, shaky voice, dry mouth, confusion, delayed responses, awkward pauses. I thought—doesn’t kosher mean good? You know, like everything’s kosher over here.

  Mandy busted out laughing. Classic!

  Bubbie Libby tossed the praline on the plate then looked at Duffy like this was his fault.

  He ignored her and asked if I wanted to go downstairs and watch TV.

  I said okay even though all I really wanted to do was go home and punch my pillow.

  Andrew, help me upstairs, will you please? (Bubbie Libby.)

  Why?

  My sciatica.

  Your what?

  Now!

  Mandy hurried to her feet and ran from the room.

  Don’t you dare steal the remote! (Duffy following Bubbie Libby up the stairs.) Mandy! I’m serious. Don’t.

  So now it’s just me, Amelia, and the pralines. I take two and bite into both at once.

  I’m impressed. (Amelia.)

  Why?

  You have substance. I can tell.

  Thanks. (Me, finally smiling.)

  I always thought my kid brother would be more into girls like Mandy. You know—textbook pretty, living off all-you-can-tweet buffets and celebrity sound bites.

  Thanks. Amelia was obviously clever and I felt honored to have won her seal of approval.

  But you’re more like me. You don’t have to be the hottest girl in the room because that’s not what you’re about. You don’t beat yourself because you’re ten pounds heavier than everyone else. I’m the same way. And I have to say, I’m impressed that Andrew is comfortable with that. It says a lot about him.

  Good. (Me.) Oh, I left something in the car. Be right back.

  I tossed the plate in their bushes and ran. Tears blurred my vision. Cold air bit my lungs. Snot bubbled from my nose. I didn’t care. I just kept running.

  Mom gasped when I came in the door. She hugged me and asked me what happened. I cried so hard I threw up.

  Don’t worry. I hated it.

  To Be Continued…

  END SCENE.

  Saturday, November 10, 2012

  My View in Haiku.

  Blondie goes next door (5)

  Baked goods on a plate for him (7)

  Too happy to care. (5)

  By Lily Bader-Huffman.

  Sunday

  I have no clue why Sheridan left my house without saying goodbye. I wanted to go after her, but Bubbie Libby said it’s for the best. Once a runner, always a runner. I said she’s not a runner. Maybe something happened.

  BUBBIE: She tried to poison me, that’s what happened.

  Feeling = Bubbie only wants me to date Jewish girls. So I asked my sisters.

  MANDY: Amelia called her fat.

  AMELIA: You weren’t even there.

  MANDY: That’s what you think.

  AMELIA: You were eavesdropping?

  MANDY: Reporting.

  AMELIA: Well then, you should know I didn’t call her fat. I complimented her on being comfortable in her own skin.

  ME: What does that mean?

  AMELIA: It means starvation isn’t her hobby and I said I admired that.

  MANDY: Exactly. Who wants to hear that?

  AMELIA: Sane people.

  ME: It wasn’t the fat thing. She doesn’t care about that stuff.

  MANDY: Every girl cares.

  ME: Not Sheridan. She’s cool.

  AMELIA: Then go find her. Any decent man would.

  MANDY: Don’t.

  ME: Why?

  MANDY: Because you’re freshman A-list. If anyone finds out you’re chasing after some drama queen you’ll lose status. Would you rather be decent or respected?

  ME: Decent.

  Amelia clapped.

  BUBBIE LIBBY (from upstairs): Respected!

  Mandy clapped.

  Feeling = I wanted to go after Sheridan. I wanted to be decent and make sure she was okay.

  Feeling = I want to be respected because I know what it feels like not to be, and it’s worse than getting kicked in the tenders.

  MANDY: Sheridan’s the rude one, not you. She’s the
one who left without saying goodbye.

  Bubbie Libby (from upstairs) started clapping.

  I ended up watching SNL and passing out until 3 AM. When I woke up I checked my phone. No texts. No messages from her parents either, so I guess she made it home.

  Feeling = I guess I’ll see her at school.

  Nov. 11.

  I open my eyes.

  There’s a shadowy figure sitting in the chair beside my bed.

  He’s wearing a suit.

  I’m being taken downtown for questioning.

  I hope I get time to pee and put in my contacts before we go.

  I wonder which lie gave me away.

  I contemplate the drop from my bedroom window. A real neck-breaker, a hip at the very least.

  I can’t do it. I don’t like hospital smells.

  I put on my glasses.

  I flop back onto my pillow.

  It’s just a suit. No man inside. Mother must have put it there.

  I wonder if someone died.

  Then I remember.

  It’s Ponnowitz holiday card photo day.

  I’d be happier if someone died.=

  11.11.12

  INT. THE SPENCER HOME—PANTRY FLOOR—MORNING.

  SHERIDAN wakes up on the pantry floor to the sound of her MOTHER’s voice on the telephone. She was talking to MADELON ETIENNE.

  I GOT IT. I GOT IT. I GOT IT. I GOT IT. I GOT IT. I GOT IT. I GOT IT. I GOT IT. I GOT IT. I GOT IT. I GOT IT. I GOT IT. I GOT IT. I GOT IT. I GOT IT. I GOT IT. I GOT IT. I GOT IT. DID YOU HEAR THAT B.U.R.B.F.??

  I can’t wait to tell Audri. I can’t wait to tell Octavia! I can’t wait to humble-brag it to Mr. Kimble so he can superlatively regret not casting me as Elphaba. Hey Duffys: You should have eaten my pralines while you had the chance!

  Should any of you want to apologize, stop by the studio in early January. I’ll be playing an au pair in a variety show called Amuse-Bouche.

  What, Duffys? You’re too uncouth to know what those French words mean? Allow me to translate.

  An au pair is what the French call a nanny or governess. Surely you’ve heard of Mary Poppins, no? That’s right, Andrew, I did play her a few summers ago, nice of you to remember. Why yes, there is a video available upon request.

  Amuse-Bouche translates to Mouth Amuser. Is this “mouth amuser” kosher? Good question, Bubbie Libby. Madelon said they’re still working on the American title so why don’t you hold off for now. I’ll know more when I go in to sign my contract on the 30th.