Confessions of a Triple Shot Betty Read online

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Dedication

  Thursday, June 5

  Friday, June 6

  Saturday, June 7

  Monday, June 9

  Thursday, June 12

  Saturday, June 14

  Tuesday, June 17

  Saturday, June 21

  Monday, June 23

  Thursday, June 26

  Friday, June 27

  Saturday, June 28

  Friday, July 4

  Still Eat-Dead-Things-and-Blow-Shit-Up Day

  Thursday, July 10

  Monday, July 14

  Saturday, July 19

  Sunday, July 20

  Wednesday, July 23

  Saturday, July 26

  Sunday, July 27

  Thursday, July 31

  Friday, August 1

  Saturday, August 2

  Sunday, August 3

  Monday, August 4

  Tuesday, August 5

  Saturday, August 9

  Tuesday, August 12

  Wednesday, August 13

  Thursday, August 14

  Friday, August 15

  Saturday, August 16

  Friday, August 22

  DIAL BOOKS

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  Published by The Penguin Group

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  Penguin Books Ltd, Registered Offices: 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England

  Copyright © 2008 by Jody Gehrman

  All rights reserved

  The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for

  author or third-party websites or their content.

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Gehrman, Jody Elizabeth.

  Confessions of a Triple Shot Betty / Jody Gehrman.

  p. cm.

  Summary: Sixteen-year-olds Geena, Hero, and Amber

  spend their summer working at a Sonoma, California, coffee shop,

  experiencing romance, identity crises, and newfound friendships.

  eISBN : 978-0-803-73247-6

  [1. Interpersonal relations—Fiction. 2. Friendship—Fiction.

  3. Summer—Fiction. 4. Identity—Fiction.] I. Title.

  PZ7.G25937Co 2008 [Fic]—dc22 2007017128

  http://us.penguingroup.com

  For my mom, Sherry Garner,

  who knows the power of a good caffeine buzz.

  Thursday, June 5

  8:10 P.M.

  Great. So much for my summer. I should have known. School’s not even out yet, and Operation Girlfriend is already in tatters. Amber, Hero, and I were going to be glorious; armed with big sunglasses and supersized iced mochas, we were supposed to take this crazy, tourist-trap, sun- and wine-soaked town by storm. I could see us so clearly, laughing happily as sunlight doused our brown shoulders and pooled in our bouncy, naturally highlighted hair. We were supposed to spend lazy afternoons lounging in bikinis on Hero’s deck, and long, giggly nights painting our toenails in sorbet hues. But what are we doing instead? Enduring awkward pauses and thinly veiled snarkiness.

  Fabu. Just what I had in mind.

  Tomorrow, after a mercifully brief half day, school’s officially out. When that final bell rings and we’re released en masse from those stifling, fish-stick-scented halls, I should be the happiest girl on Earth. I mean, come on, this is my sixteenth summer; it should be epic. I’ve read enough coming-of-age novels to know this is the magic moment when even we late bloomers get to shed our ugly duckling baby fat and emerge as triumphant, nubile swans. I wanted to share this historical turning point with my two best girls: my cousin Hero, and my friend Amber.

  Just one tiny glitch in that brilliant plan: Hero and Amber are on the fast track to hating each other’s guts. They met for the first time like four hours ago, and already they’re constructing voodoo dolls.

  What was my first clue that Amber and Hero weren’t exactly hitting it off? Oh, let’s see, maybe it was when Hero stopped by Triple Shot Betty’s today and Amber called her a scrawny little beeatch.

  I honestly have no idea how this happened. There I was, wiping up coffee grounds, nursing a mocha, and bursting with almost-summer excitement. Triple Shot Betty’s is a drive-through coffee stand about the size of a shoe box; if you don’t clean constantly, it’s like working in a mine shaft. I guess the caffeine and chocolate hit my system all at once, because I found myself chattering incessantly to Amber about Hero while I cleaned.

  This, I suspect, was my first mistake.

  “She’s a total girl-genius,” I said, scrubbing at the espresso machine. “She speaks fluent Italian—her mom was from Milan—and now she’s learned French too, and last summer she taught herself Latin for fun! Can you believe that? I just know you two are going to get along so well. She’s flying in from Connecticut today. Her sister’s picking her up. Bronwyn. You’re going to love her too. She’s a sophomore at Berkeley and she’s so insightful about the human condition—picture Michelle Pfeiffer with a psych degree. Okay, only half a psych degree, but she’s going to be the best therapist ever. She’s been practicing on Hero and me since we were five, analyzing our dreams and asking us how decapitating Barbie makes us feel. Anyway, sorry I’m babbling, I just can’t wait for you to meet Hero!”

  “Cool.” Amber toyed with the straw in her drink. She didn’t look very excited.

  “What’s wrong?” I paused in my frenetic cleaning and studied Amber. Her long red hair was draped around her face, so it was hard to tell if she was mad or tired or what.

  “Nothing.” She still didn’t look up. “What kind of name is Hero, anyway?”

  “Oh, that. Our moms were totally crazy about Shakespeare—it’s a long story.”

  “And she goes to, like, a boarding school?”

  “Yeah. She has English with Virginia Woolf’s greatgrandniece.”

  “Who’s Virginia Woolf?” Amber asked.

  I searched her face for signs of irony. Nope. Not a trace. “Nobody—just a writer.” I racked my brain for something that might impress her. “Plus, her roommate’s mom is Johnny Depp’s agent.”

  Amber looked up. “Has she met him?”

  “Who?”

  “Johnny Depp.”

  I shook my head. “No. The school’s in Connecticut. Johnny’s in L.A.” Strictly speaking, I guess I don’t really know where Johnny Depp lives, but it seemed a reasonable guess that he wasn’t camped out in Connecticut.

  “Oh.” Amber went on twisting her straw in listless circles. I’d never seen her like this. She was acting like this was Labor Day, not Summer Vacation Eve.

  “Aren’t you psyched? School’s out tomorrow! No more legalized torture a
t the hands of sadistic algebra Nazis!”

  “Yeah. I’m psyched.”

  Usually Amber is the most vivacious, in-your-face, outrageously funny coworker on the planet. Get a double latte in her, she’s like your own in-house comedy channel. Today she was acting more like the Grim Reaper on downers. I didn’t have time to investigate further, though, because right then a familiar blond head appeared at our window.

  “Hero!” I dropped my sponge and almost knocked Amber over as I lurched past her. “Oh my God! You’re home!” I wrenched the window open and squeezed my body halfway out, pulling her into an awkward hug.

  “Geebs!”

  As I clutched at my cousin, I smelled her familiar scent: apple shampoo and baby powder. We hadn’t seen each other since Christmas, which seemed like forever. She looked a little different: Her usual B cup seemed to be inching toward the C range, and the rail-thin, hipless body she’d inhabited throughout our childhood was filling out into curves. Her nose was still slightly freckled, though, and the miniature rhinestone barrettes she’d been wearing since junior high were still struggling to stay attached to her blond, babyfine bob. She was dressed in her usual: a gossamer-thin skirt paired with a filmy tank under a barely-there cardigan.

  “I’m so glad you came by!” I said. “Come around back—I’ll show you the inside.”

  She ran to the back door and I let her in. As she crossed the threshold, she said, “Wow, this place is so small!”

  “Welcome to our pygmy sweatshop.”

  “It’s kind of cute,” she said, wide-eyed. “Like a doll’s house. Bronwyn just went to Sonoma Market. She’ll pick me up in a minute.” Hero nodded at Amber, then quickly cut her eyes to me.

  “Oh—sorry . . .” I looked from Hero to Amber and back again. This was the moment I’d been looking forward to— finally, our trio would magically come together—but now that it was really happening, I found myself going all awkward and shy. “Hero, this is my friend Amber. Amber, my cousin Hero.”

  Amber didn’t get up; she just sat there, fiddling with her straw, looking glum. “Hey.” She gave Hero the once-over. “What’s going on?”

  “I’m fine, thank you. And yourself?” Hero has such impeccable manners, you’d think she was employed by the royal family. It can be embarrassing.

  “Can’t complain.” Amber looked mildly amused. “Geena was just telling me all about you.”

  Hero glanced at me and tucked a strand of hair behind one tiny, translucent-pink ear. “Oh, really?” She giggled nervously. “Like what?”

  Amber leaned back against the counter, her knees splayed out immodestly in her distressed-denim mini. “Like how you’re roommates with Johnny Depp’s daughter.”

  “His agent’s daughter,” I corrected.

  Hero nodded, setting her tiny Prada purse on the counter. “Oh, yeah. Mallorie. She’s really nice. She’s spending the summer in Tuscany,” she said to me. “Dad said we might go there for Christmas again.”

  “How nice for you.” Amber’s sarcasm was obvious to me, though Hero’s bland expression made me wonder if she detected it.

  What was happening? “Um, Amber moved here from Lake County,” I blurted. “Last fall.”

  Hero nodded politely. “Do you miss it?”

  “Not really. I mean, you know, if you like hippies, tweakers, white supremacists, and born-agains, it’s paradise. Otherwise it pretty much sucks ass.”

  Hero’s lips tightened, like she’d just sampled a lemon. “And how do you find Sonoma?”

  I wanted to shake Hero—she was being so stiff and aloof—but then, Amber wasn’t doing much to put her at ease either.

  “I find it . . . quaint.”

  “So you like Sonoma Valley High? I never went there.”

  Amber squinted at her. “It’s like most high schools. You’ve got your jocks, your emo-kids, wangsters, FFA freaks. I seem to have found my niche right away, so that was nice.”

  I knew what was coming; I wanted to close my eyes, like before a car crash. I started to say something—anything— but it was too late.

  “Oh, well that’s good, that you feel—you know— comfortable,” Hero said, nodding.

  “Uh-huh. I even have a nickname at school. They call me Blowjob Beezie.”

  Hero’s eyes went wide. I winced. Amber smirked.

  Cue extremely awkward pause.

  Just then Bronwyn’s bright red Jeep pulled up and she hollered through the window, “Hey, little cuz—what’s up?”

  Only then did I realize I’d been holding my breath.

  “Bronwyn! Love the new haircut.” She’d chopped her hair really super-short, and it made her eyes look even bigger and grayer than usual. She’s so beautiful. If she weren’t my cousin and incredibly useful when it comes to psychological insights, I’d have to kill her.

  “Thanks.” Bronwyn looked at her sister. “Come on, Hero. We gotta fly. I told Dad I’d get you home for dinner. Elodie’s making millefeuille just for you.”

  My mouth actually watered slightly. Elodie, their French chef, makes the best millefeuille in the world.

  “Millefeuille,” Amber said, still smirking. "Quelle yummy.”

  “Okay, just a sec.” Hero looked at Amber uneasily. “Nice to meet you.”

  “Same here.”

  I grabbed Hero’s hand and squeezed. “I’ll call you soon as I’m off.”

  “Okay.”

  The minute they’d driven away, Amber blew a couple strands of hair out of her moody green eyes and looked at me. “So that’s Hero . . .”

  “Was that really necessary?”

  Amber raised her palms. “What?”

  “‘Blowjob Beezie’?”

  “What? That’s what they call me. Is that supposed to be a secret?”

  I sighed. “Hero’s sheltered. She’s—”

  “The chick’s got a phone pole up her butt—is that my problem?”

  A black convertible Saab full of tourists cruised up to the window. You could tell they’d already sampled a few too many Pinots and Chards, because the women were laughing like hyenas. The driver looked at me over his Ray-Bans and ordered four cappuccinos in a sulky tone. I got them their coffees; predictably, they didn’t tip, and I swore at them under my breath.

  When I looked at Amber, she was back to twisting her straw in slow circles. She looked as miserable as the stingy Saab guy.

  “I was hoping we’d all be friends,” I said.

  “Don’t hold your breath,” she said.

  “What don’t you like about her?”

  She looked at her watch. “How much time you got?”

  “Seriously.” I knew from her expression she was getting annoyed, but I wanted an answer. “Name one thing that’s wrong with her.”

  “She’s a stuck-up, rich, bony-assed beeatch.”

  I sighed. “That’s three things.”

  “That’s the abridged version.”

  “Why are you being like this?” I put a hand on my hip. “She’s not stuck-up. Just because her dad owns Monte Luna doesn’t mean—”

  “Wait a minute . . .” Amber looked like she was trying to remember something. “Her dad owns Monte Luna Winery?”

  “Yeah.” I tried not to sound defensive.

  “So Alistair Drake is their new neighbor?”

  I looked at her blankly. “What are you talking about?”

  “Hello! Alistair Drake? Former drummer for Stalin’s Love Child? Founder of Floating World Tattoos in Santa Monica?”

  "If you say so.”

  "Dub, he just bought a huge place right by Monte Luna.”

  I was steadfastly blasé. “Oh. So?”

  She made an impatient sound. “So he’s the most amazing tattoo artist on the planet, and he’s going to open a second Floating World up here.”

  Amber’s big dream is to be a tattoo artist. At first I thought that was kind of sad. I mean, we’re young, we can do anything we want, and her mission in life is to drill ink into the pores of hippies, bikers, and
giggly trendoids? But the more she told me about it, the more I started to respect her vision. She says it’s body art; skin is her canvas. And anyway, who am I to judge someone who knows what she wants? I’m so indecisive, I’ll probably still be a barista when I hit thirty.

  “Alistair Drake studied tattooing in Japan for years. He’s a genius. Anyone who apprentices at Floating World has respect and job security for life.” She bit at a cuticle on her thumb, looking suddenly small and scared. “It’s going to be totally competitive. I bet everyone in northern California’s going to apply. Still, I have to work there.”

  “Well, maybe Hero could introduce you, then. I mean, if they’re neighbors . . .”

  Amber arched an incredulous eyebrow. “Yeah. Like that’s going to happen.”

  “What? It’s not a big deal. I’m sure she wouldn’t mind.”

  She didn’t look convinced. In fact, she was staring at me like I was pathetically slow. “Girls like Hero don’t do favors for girls like me, okay? We’re from completely different worlds.”

  “Oh, come on—you don’t even know her.”

  "I know how much money it takes to buy a winery like Monte Luna.”

  I shook my head. “Uncle Leo didn’t buy it. Hero’s mom inherited it—it’s a family business.”

  She eyed me suspiciously. “So then, your family owns it too?”

  “No. Hero’s dad is my dad’s brother—my parents aren’t rich, you know that.” Hero and I don’t talk about money, but it’s pretty obvious her side of the family has a lot more than mine. They live in a sprawling, vineyard-enshrouded nouveau villa up on Moon Mountain, while Mom and I inhabit a tiny Craftsman-style bungalow in town. I never really think about the differences between us that much, but obviously these distinctions were important to Amber, and for some reason that irked me. “So what if Hero’s family has money? It’s not like that’s who Hero is. Monte Luna doesn’t affect her personality or anything.”

  “Right.” I’d never heard her sound so bitter. “And I suppose boarding school is just a way to ensure she’s well-rounded. It’s got nothing to do with being too good for us townies.”

  I hesitated. Sure, I was bummed when Hero decided to go away to school. And yeah, sometimes I wondered if she didn’t feel a tiny bit superior, now that her classmates were chummy with Johnny Depp. But Hero was still my cuz; it bugged me that Amber was so sure she had Hero pegged five minutes after meeting her.