Friday Night Chicas

by Mary Castillo

  I stared at Sue Ann, more in shock that she’d recognized me than in fear that she might reveal my secret. “I’m okay. Just had a little surprise upstairs. Where are my manners?” We air-kissed like civilized women.

  “I’m glad you’re all right. You scared me for a second.”

  “Thanks. It’s something I’ll take care of soon. Sue Ann, I’d have recognized you anywhere. You haven’t changed.” It was true. She still had dark chestnut hair, wide dark eyes, and a tall, lanky figure. “What were you doing at Fashion Week?”

  She grinned. “I cover fashion for the Chicago Tribune, and caught Ken MacBray’s runway show. You work for him, don’t you? And I was at your trunk show, too, for your line, Cali E. That’s how I recognized you, ’cause, girl, you are totally changed.”

  That was gratifying. Better than a mojito.

  “You were at my show?” The night was a blur of faces in a crowded room, exciting but chaotic. “I am so sorry I missed you, Sue Ann. Why didn’t you talk to me?”

  She smiled. “Are you kidding? You were mobbed. And your designs are divine. I love that layered, casual look. And the way you mix natural tones with blues is terrific. I’ve been reading about you since you left Miriam Zimmerman to work for MacBray. But you know, Cali E is so strong, you should ditch MacBray and open your own shop.”

  “Thanks. That’s my dream, but it’s a scary one.” The recognition was flattering, but bad. I didn’t want to tell her that I was pretending to be Dorothy Kalucheck. I smiled at her. “Most people outside the trade don’t know my name, or my tiny little private label.”

  “They will. So, is this a vacation? Fashion Week was grueling, wasn’t it?”

  I agreed, looking over her shoulder. Although I wanted to talk longer about the insane world of high fashion and ready-to-wear, I wanted to find Rick.

  Alma walked past and smiled approvingly at us, and I realized that Sue Ann must have been on the list. Sue Ann, who knew my real name. Suddenly, the room felt stuffy.

  “Uh, Sue Ann, I need to tell you something.”

  She tilted her head. “True confession time?”

  “What do you mean?” My heart thumped loudly.

  She shrugged. “Isn’t that what people do at reunions? Forgive and forget? Or there’s revenge, of course.”

  I tensed, wondering if she was going to bring up Rick and Jen. My teeth ground together at the thought of their names strung together, as if they belonged that way. Except they did. They were married.

  She noticed my expression and grinned. “You know, hoping the cheerleaders are fat and the football players are bald.”

  I relaxed, remembering the time that Sue Ann loaned me lunch money in fifth grade, when I’d lost mine on the bus. She had been one of the kind ones. Trust is built on simple things when you’re a kid. Betrayal, too.

  “Do you remember Rick Capaldi?” I kept my voice casual.

  She rolled her eyes. “Brains, looks, and bad attitude. Yup. He’s here, you know.”

  “I’ve spoken to him.” I kept my voice neutral.

  “Oh yeah?” Her eyes sparked with sudden interest. “A new acquaintance, or revisiting history?”

  “He used to come to the library, to talk.”

  Sue Ann’s brows rose. “About?”

  “Stuff. You know, kid stuff.” It sounded lame to me, too. Back then, it had seemed intense and sexy. Anything but kid stuff.

  “And you had a crush on him?” Her smile turned cynical.

  “Was it obvious?”

  “No.” She laughed. “Cali, everyone had a crush on him.”

  Everyone? Suddenly my special feelings felt bargain store. I wanted to yell, “Nuh-uh. I saw him first.”

  “He was so dangerous,” she continued. “I would never have dared bring him over to meet my parents. He was a punker.”

  “Punk,” I corrected. “And he wasn’t, not really. He liked the music, and some of what the punks stood for, but he was too, too—” I wanted to say, too real, too grounded.

  “Too Elmwood Park?”

  I laughed, a little too loudly. “Perfect. Yeah, too Elmwood Park.” And he still was.

  “You know he’s married.” Her tone was cautious, as if I might slap her at the news. Okay, I wanted to slap someone, but it wasn’t Sue Ann.

  “I heard.”

  She opened her mouth to say something else, then shut it again. Wise girl.

  “Another rum and Coke?” Zack the bartender grinned at me from the end of the bar.

  “You know how to make a mojito?”

  “Mint crushed into sugar, rum, ice, fresh lemon juice. I don’t have fresh mint, though.”

  “Make it without, I don’t care.”

  His brows went up. “Rum lemonade, then. Any brand of rum?”

  “Bacardi.” I handed him the empty glass I’d been carrying around like a good luck charm.

  “That sounds good,” Sue Ann said. “Make me one, too.” She turned to me while we waited for our drinks. “What did you want to tell me? Just that you had a crush on our bad boy?”

  After looking around to be sure no one was listening, I shook my head. “It’s me, Sue Ann. I haven’t told anyone who I am.”

  Her eyebrows rose. “Incognito at your own high school reunion? Cali, that’s just weird.”

  “Don’t call me Cali out loud,” I said, shushing her.

  “Did you register under a false name?” She looked confused.

  “I didn’t register at all. I thought I’d get my business done and leave. Lydia grabbed me at the door. She thinks I’m Dorothy Kalucheck.”

  “The documentary filmmaker? Oh, that’s rich. You don’t look anything like her.”

  “You know her?” This was great. “What does she look like? If she’s here, I’m so gone.”

  “Relax. I don’t think she’s coming tonight—she would have been here by now. We’ve emailed back and forth for a while. She contacted a friend of mine at City Hall about filming a high school reunion, and we hooked up. Our class is so strange, she couldn’t resist.”

  “Keep my secret?” I crossed my fingers.

  “Are you kidding? This is a hoot. I’ll be able to talk about it afterward, right?”

  I shrugged. “Why not?”

  “Hey, you want these drinks or not? The ice is melting. Found some mint, too.” Zack held out two tall glasses. I took my drink and Sue Ann got hers. She tasted it and licked her lips.

  “Damn, that’s good.”

  I smiled and gave Zack a thumbs-up. He smacked the bar gleefully and raced to the other end of the bar, where faded football heroes needed beer. When I turned back, Sue Ann had wandered off to mingle some more. I’d wanted to quiz her about Rick and Jen.

  I sipped my drink at the bar, watching the action on the dance floor. Whatever else you could say about them, the class of ’89 was not inhibited. I wondered how I’d find Rick in the mass of gyrating suburbanites. There was no balcony like any decent dance club would have, so I’d have to circulate. Totally primitivo.

  Zack danced by, two beers held aloft, and passed them over the crowded bar to waiting hands.

  Someone tapped on my shoulder, and I turned to find Lydia’s face only inches from mine.

  “Earth to Dorothy,” she chirped. “I’ve been calling your name for about a minute.”

  “Sorry.” I didn’t even pretend to come up with an excuse. “What’s up?”

  “Alma’s looking for you. She’s by the front door.”

  “On my way.” Alma probably wanted to check out how many people I’d spoken to. Amused at my painless pseudo-relationship with my former enemy, I slipped off the stool and started to thread my way through the increasingly rowdy crowd, still looking for Rick and Jen. Around me, old Elmwood Parkites were sliding back into adolescence, lubricated by Zack and his merry alcohol-slinging coworkers.

  Someone grabbed my elbow, nails digging into my flesh. I turned. “Ow, Lydia, quit grabbing me—”

  I stopped, horrified.

&n
bsp; Jen Peterson was clinging to me, a cosmopolitan clutched in her other hand. From the lopsided smile on her lovely, evil, face, it wasn’t her first.

  Chapter Five

  “Dorothy Kaluchnik? I need to talk to you.” Jen looked angry. With her lean, elegant, body she could almost be one of my models.

  I felt inferior and suddenly tongue-tied.

  “Kaluchick,” I said, then cursed inwardly. “Kalucheck.” Just being next to her was making me loca. I banished all self-disparaging thoughts that immediately flashed into my mind, reminding myself that I was a curvy Latina, and that I wasn’t short, I was petite.

  She waved her drink. “Whatever. Come on, let’s get private.”

  It was like being in a car wreck; I was a participant, but had no control over the outcome. We made our way back toward the bar, moving as if in slow motion. Around us, faces flashed by, smiles turned questioning, probably wondering what Jen had to confess to the filmmaker. I couldn’t hear the music anymore, just the throbbing bass. Ahead of me, at the other end of the tanned and shapely arm that held me, Jen’s blond shoulder-length hair swung in time to the beat.

  I attributed the Fellini-movie atmosphere to my empty mojito glass. In a symbolic gesture of sobriety, I handed it to a surprised redhead by the bar as Jen and I started up the stairs to the game room.

  Relax, I told myself. No es nada. It’s nothing. She thinks I’m Dorothy Kalucheck, and she wants to talk. My thumping heart was so not listening. I pictured my grieving mother’s face. I couldn’t have a heart attack from a simple confrontation. I had arguments at work all the time with my temperamental boss. Ken MacBray was an animal. He even threw things. Jen didn’t look the book-heaving type, though she could sure sling the hurt.

  There were leather sofas at the other end of the pool tables. I’d missed seeing them when I came up earlier because the tables and their low-hanging industrial lamps hid them from view. Very cozy. Very private. Absolutely terrifying, if it involved Jen and me, mano a mano.

  Jen fell onto one of the red sofas, pulling me down next to her. “Let’s talk, Dorothy.”

  “Okay.” I steeled myself for the confrontation. “What do you want to talk about?” As if I didn’t know.

  “Me, of course. Aren’t you interviewing the class of ’eighty-nine?”

  My mouth opened and closed. I’d been ready to talk about Rick. Or about when she attacked me in the cafeteria.

  “Alma gave me a list. I’m not sure who’s on it.”

  “I’m on it,” she said. She sounded confident. I envied that natural confidence. I’d worked hard for mine. Not that it was anywhere in sight. “I was very popular in high school. It was the best time of my life,” she added.

  Not mine. “Really? Tell me about it.”

  She looked over at me. “Aren’t you going to take notes?”

  Concho. I didn’t have anything to write on. Then I remembered what Lydia has said. “I’m just checking you guys out. I’m not sure I’ll be doing your reunion or another one. If I decide to do yours, then I’ll come back tomorrow with my film equipment.”

  “Oh. I think Alma mentioned that.” She watched a nearby game of pool. The upstairs was almost crowded, but most of the people clustered around the pool tables and the video games.

  “You must have a lot of friends here tonight.” That should get her talking, I thought.

  “Absolutely. I was one of the more popular girls.” She actually preened as she said it, like a peacock with breasts. Artificially augmented ones, from the looks of it. I know. Meow.

  I nodded. “Can you define popularity? What does it take to be popular?”

  I was trying to fake being Kalucheck, but I couldn’t miss the opportunity to hear it in her own words. It almost made me wish I were really a filmmaker. I was treated with respect and could ask personal questions and get an immediate, almost eager answer.

  She flipped her hair back and smiled. Her teeth were white and even, but she still managed to look like a barracuda.

  “There were people who were just naturally popular, you know? They were great at sports and cheerleading. Others wanted to be popular. Some of them tried really hard, and it was pitiful. But others did their own thing, like the musicians and drama people. They hung around together, not with us.”

  So far, she hadn’t said anything I didn’t know. She was conceited, but truthful. I listened as she spoke, mixed feelings roiling in me. I hated her, or I had, fifteen years ago, but even up close, she was still beautiful. I wondered what it would be like to grow up lovely, admired even by strangers. A model once told me that school had been effortless due to her looks. Good looks buy goodwill, from teachers, other students, and later, possible employers. It was a lesson that I learned in college. Too late, in some ways.

  My parents had told me to be strong, to love myself. They’d been right, but I needed more detailed instructions. Of course, they also didn’t let me date or go out with friends. Are there Cuban Amish? I’d felt like one.

  “What do you do now, Jen?” It was hard to say her name without wanting to spit to clear my mouth out.

  “This and that. I don’t have kids, so I’m not part of the PTA crowd. And my husband absolutely forbids me to set foot in his offices.” She laughed nervously.

  I had been almost getting comfortable in my role, but I felt my back stiffen again. Her husband. My Rick. “What does your husband do?”

  What was I doing, asking that question? Maybe I really was a masochist. I needed another mojito. That way, I could have a drink and still have the lemon slice to rub all over my raw wound. It would probably hurt less than this conversation.

  “Rick’s another Elmwood Park success story. He owns ten car repair shops and two BMW dealerships,” she said.

  I stared. “I talked to him earlier. I thought he did auto repair.”

  She rolled her eyes. “I’ve told him a million times not to get his hands dirty. He’s a CEO, not a mechanic. Not anymore. It’s part of our problem. He needs to oversee the operations, but still he’s out there, changing spark plugs.”

  A waitress in black slacks and a silly little white apron came by. “You ladies set for drinks?”

  Jen waved her empty martini glass. “Get me two more cosmos, will you?”

  “Not for me, I’ve been drinking rum,” I said.

  “The two cosmos are for me,” Jen said, looking peeved at my interruption. “This girl hasn’t been around in ages. I figure I’d better get my drinks lined up.”

  The “girl” in question was about our age, and Jen didn’t notice her eyes squint into little slits. The waitress turned the little slits to me. “What can I get you, then?”

  “Rum and diet Coke,” I said. Diet because sugar would make the alcohol go straight to my head. Jen’s cosmos certainly seemed to have affected her. At PeeBee’s my girlfriends and I don’t hesitate to cut each other off, or to confiscate car keys, either. I didn’t qualify for that post in Jen’s world, although I wondered how she’d gotten to Scooters. Briefly, but I wondered.

  The waitress left with our order. I didn’t think we’d see our drinks before the end of the evening; Jen didn’t exactly encourage good service.

  The second she was out of earshot Jen grabbed my arm again. “That’s what I brought you up here to talk about.”

  “The service?”

  “No. Rick and me. I don’t know how to break it to the guy. He’s crazy about me, but—” She stopped and started chewing her lip, staring at her French manicure.

  It’s just as well. All I could hear was a buzzing in my head, from “He’s crazy about me” on. The table in front of us was low slung, made out of some dark wood. It wasn’t bolted down. Maybe I could brain her with it.

  I stood up. “Thanks for talking to me, Jen. It’s been edifying, but I’ve got to run.”

  “But I wasn’t finished.”

  “Catch me later, then.” If you can, I added silently.

  “Sit down, this is important.” She grabbed my dr
ess and tugged.

  “Let go.” I’d had it with her. “I said I’d talk to you later.”

  Tears filled her eyes. This was so unexpected that I stopped trying to pry my dress loose from her fingers.

  She whispered hoarsely, “My husband doesn’t know.”

  “Know what?”

  “Sit down.”

  I sat. She was drunk, but she was also upset. A teeny-weeny, mean part of me was really glad. The rest of me put on a concerned face.

  “Rick and I got married when he came back from college, after his father died. He loved me so much. Still does. It’s that puppy dog kind of love, you know? And he wants kids.” She shuddered. “So it’s really hard on me.”

  “Sounds tough,” I said. I was all choked up too. Different reason.

  “So I met this guy, Chip Alstead. He teaches tennis at the Y. And he’s so buff, you know? Really takes care of himself. He understands me.”

  I nodded, thinking that Rick didn’t deserve to be treated like this. Hell, I didn’t deserve to be treated like this. Dorothy Kalucheck owed me one.

  “Chip knows the real me, more than Rick ever did, even after seven years of marriage.”

  “Why are you telling me this? Do you think it should be part of the film?”

  “I had to tell someone, and everyone else here knows me. Although come to think of it, maybe it would make a good part of your movie. Star-crossed lovers.” She hugged herself. “Do you think I should tell Rick?”

  “I can’t tell you what to do. I’m not an attorney or a psychologist. Are you going to stop seeing Chip?”

  Her eyes widened. “No, I love him. Well, sort of. He’s great in bed. He’s got lots of money, too.”

  TMI, I thought. Way too much information. It made me wonder how Rick’s performance rated. I was not going to ask.

  “He acts rich, too, instead of hanging out with poor people and writing poetry.”

  I straightened. Rick still wrote poetry? My heart, calmed after my initial fear, started thumping hard again.

  “It doesn’t matter, either way,” she said. “I’ve got the papers filled out, and my lawyer’s filing for a divorce on Monday.”