Confessions of a Triple Shot Betty Page 5

  We were at her house earlier today when I realized just how far gone she is. First off, we were in her room, which I have to say is even more annoyingly pink than I remember it. In my opinion, it’s more suited to a fairly slow second grader who is still enamored with Barbie than a sixteen-year-old— that’s how ruffle-infested and cutesy it is. Ever since Aunt Kathy died, Hero’s refused to change a single aspect of her childish sanctuary, even though it completely clashes with the rest of the house. Walking through that place—passing the enormous windows and vaulted, exposed beams of the living room, the stainless steel appliances and bamboo floor of the kitchen, up the great, cold sweep of marble stairs to the glass fountain and river-rock moat of the hallway, the last thing you’re prepared for is pink ruffles. It’s like stepping through the sleek world of the future and then stumbling into My Pretty Pony Playland circa 1995.

  Bronwyn, our resident psychologist, says Hero won’t redo her room (or change her hair, for that matter) because she suffers from arrested development brought on by severe trauma. She says that emotionally, Hero is still eight, which I have to admit makes some sense, since I may be the only sophomore-nearly-junior who’s never made it past second base, but Hero is surely the only one who’s never even gotten to first.

  “Hey,” I said, eyeing her pink satin comforter and matching shams. “Don’t you think it’s time for a new look in here?”

  She didn’t respond; she just lay there on her bed, staring dreamily out the window. If I’d had a camera right then, I would have captioned her photo "Teenage Lobotomies: Are They Worth the Price?” There was an arrangement of daisies in a crystal vase on the bedside table, and she absently selected one before slowly, deliberately yanking the petals off one at a time.

  “What’s up with you?” I asked, sitting next to her on the bed. “Why are you maiming that poor flower?”

  She paused in her petal yanking long enough to look up at me. “Dad won’t let me go out with Claudio.”

  “Aha. And this is surprising because . . . ?”

  She kicked at one of the elaborately scrolled bedposts. “His rule is so stupid. Just because Bronwyn got burned doesn’t mean I will.”

  Uncle Leo has a firm commandment: No dating until college. This law was passed on Moon Mountain when Bronwyn fell for Tad Wollner the summer she was sixteen. At first Uncle Leo was pretty open to the idea; the guy was an Eagle Scout—how bad could he be? Then she missed her period, and made the mistake of confiding in her father. It turned out to be a false alarm, but Uncle Leo was livid; he wasn’t taking any more chances.

  “I bet he’ll let you guys have lunch or something,” I said.

  She looked incredulous. “Have lunch? Have lunch? I want to share the secrets of his soul for eternity, not a measly hour over french fries and shakes.”

  “Oh, come on.” I laughed. “You just met him a couple weeks ago. Is he really all that?”

  Her pretty little mouth went into indignant pout-mode. “You don’t get it.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  She propped herself up on one elbow. “Love is completely foreign to you. I bet that journal you’re always writing in has more about skateboards than guys.”

  “That’s not true!”

  “Oh yeah? Name the last guy you were into.”

  I thought for a second. “Ashton Kutcher?”

  She nodded with an annoyingly wise expression. “I rest my case.”

  “No, I mean, I think lots of guys are cute. I just . . . can’t really see myself with any of them. So far, anyway.” I decided to change the subject. “If you really like Claudio, you’ll just have to convince your dad that you’re not going to get knocked up.”

  “It’s hopeless. I’ve been trying for weeks.” She got a puzzled look on her face and added, “Except he’s not consistent. When John Jamieson called a few days ago—”

  “Wait, John called you?”

  “Yeah. He wanted me to go to the city with him . . . Something about his friend has a sailboat or—”

  I let my jaw drop. “John ‘the Man’ Jamieson asked you out on the yacht and you didn’t even tell me?”

  “I never said yacht.”

  “Hero, that boat is legendary. Any girl at SVH would kill to set foot on it.”

  She furrowed her brow at me. “What are you talking about?”

  “If you went to school here you’d totally get the magnitude of this. Last year John took Lexa Davis out there after junior prom—people were talking about it for weeks. She was an instant celeb. Until he broke up with her, that is.”

  Hero rolled her eyes. “You think I care about John and his Love Boat? I don’t even like him. Apparently, though, you’re not the only one around here who thinks he’s God. Dad actually seemed impressed when I told him who’d called.”

  Outside, wheels crunched gravel as a car pulled up. She jumped up and ran for the far window, tripping on the rug and nearly falling flat on her face, but recovering just in time. “He’s here!”

  I walked up behind her and looked over her shoulder.

  Uncle Leo was explaining something to Claudio and about five others. Behind them, the vineyards sloped out and down in a rolling carpet of lush green. The view was amazing from up here. Hero obviously saw nothing but Claudio.

  She nibbled her bottom lip. “Isn’t he unbelievably sexy?”

  “Sure, he’s cute I guess.” I was noncommittal. It hardly mattered. I don’t think she even knew I was there anymore.

  “He has the most beautiful green eyes.”

  “Have you talked to him since the party?” I grabbed my board, plopped down on her pink rug, and started examining my trucks. I’d been meaning to replace the bearings. It just wasn’t riding smoothly these days.

  “Yeah, we’ve been IM-ing. Every night. For like five hours at a time.” She did a giddy little dance. Then there was laughter outside and she suddenly ducked. “Oh God,” she breathed, still crouching below the windowsill. “I think he saw me.”

  “So? It’s your house. Can’t you look out your window if you feel like it?”

  “I’m so embarrassed,” she said. “My hair was sticking out all over the place.” She crawled over to me and collapsed onto the rug. “Do you think it’s weird I’m so into him?”

  “No, not at all. I mean, personally I see love as a social construct designed to enslave women in the institution of marriage—remember how Bronwyn explained all that?”

  “Ohh!” Hero flopped violently onto her back. “I don’t care what Bronwyn says about it.”

  “Not that you would even think about marrying Claudio— I mean, obviously. You should just have a hot summer fling, get some sexual experience in, and then sail away to boarding school before the relationship gets boring and confining and your identities get blurred. Sounds perfect.”

  She stared at the ceiling. “You don’t understand, Geebs. This is serious. I have to be with him or I’m going to die.”

  “Can anyone say drama queen?”

  She ignored me. “You have to help me convince Dad.”

  “Yeah, right.” I was still concentrating on my trucks. “You got any WD-40?”

  “Are you even listening to me?”

  I looked at her, surprised. "’Course I am.”

  “I’m totally serious. You have to help me convince Dad that Claudio’s not like other guys.”

  “I don’t even know Claudio!”

  “So?”

  I spun the wheels on my board aimlessly with one hand. “So what can I do?”

  “Please?” she begged. “Dad respects you. He might listen.”

  I shrugged. “Okay, I’ll try, but I’m not making any promises.”

  She sat up on her knees, leaned over, and hugged me. “Oh, thank you, thank you, thank you!”

  “Go on,” I said, nodding at the daisy that was still dangling, half-mutilated, from her fingers. “Finish dismembering it already. The suspense is killing me.”

  She pulled the remaining
five petals off slowly, deliberately, whispering to herself. When she got to the last one, a radiant smile lit up her face. “He loves me.”

  We decided our chances were best with Uncle Leo right after lunch. We enlisted Elodie’s help, who, being French, was eager to conspire in matters of romance. She uncorked Leo’s favorite Petite Syrah, and we kept refilling his glass when he wasn’t looking. We ate out on the back patio, where the view of the vineyards, the smell of lavender, and the trellises overrun with wisteria always put him in a good mood. Elodie cooked up a delicious meal of grilled ahi, seared asparagus, and fresh tomatoes with basil and mozzarella. Uncle Leo loves a long, indulgent lunch alfresco. It’s one of his favorite pastimes. The afternoon was particularly beautiful, with big bumblebees dipping drunkenly in and out of tiger lilies and the Tuscan fountain gurgling a bright little rhythm nearby. Luck was on our side.

  Uncle Leo took a long, satisfied draw from his wineglass and leaned back in the teak lawn chair. He closed his eyes, letting the sun warm his face. Leo’s older than my dad by three years, but they look more like ten years apart. His face is pinker than Dad’s, his hair is thinner, and his jaw is covered with salt-and-pepper stubble. There’s a certain distinguished charm to him, and I know for a fact that he’s considered quite a catch around town. He took off his spectacles, studied them for smudges, and set them next to his wineglass. Hero kicked me under the table.

  “So,” I said, spearing another bite of mozzarella. “Uncle Leo. What do you think of your new intern Claudio?”

  His eyes popped open. “Are you going to start on me now too?”

  Hero’s head slumped forward in frustration.

  “He seems like a really nice guy.” I tried to infuse each word with innocence and objectivity.

  “You know my rule, Geena. No boys until college.”

  Elodie came out then carrying a tray filled with crème brulée, crystal glasses, and a chilled bottle of Gewürztraminer. She raised her eyebrows like Did it work yet? and I shook my head.

  Uncle Leo spun around and barked at Elodie, “Are you in on this? My God, it’s a conspiracy.”

  Elodie just made a very French sound (something like “boef”), set down the dishes of crème brulée, poured the dessert wine into fresh glasses for all three of us, and disappeared. For some reason, Uncle Leo never minds if we have a little wine—as long as it’s top quality (i.e., his). Crack open a Coors, and he’s ready to put us in rehab, but a finely crafted Gewürztraminer in the right stemware is a totally different thing.

  After he’d finished half his dessert, I decided to try again. “You know, in many ways, Italian boys are more sophisticated than Americans.”

  “All these punks are after one thing.”

  Hero made a breathy, indignant sound. “Maybe he likes me—did you ever think of that?”

  I shot her a stay out of it warning glance and she shut up.

  “And anyway, Uncle Leo,” I persisted, “Hero’s smart. She’s got values. It’s not like she’ll just hop into bed with him.”

  He almost spit out his Gewürztraminer at that.

  “And you can totally trust Claudio. I mean, you trust him with your wine, right?”

  “He’s an intern—I’m not exactly handing him the business.”

  “Yes, but you must trust him a little, if you hired him.”

  “It’s not that I’ve got anything against Claudio—or John Jamieson, for that matter. Did Hero tell you he asked her out?”

  I couldn’t help but notice the proud little grin as he said this. John had that effect on people. Even old guys like Leo wanted to be associated with him.

  “I’m not interested in John!” Hero blurted out.

  “Leo, come on, you were sixteen once.” I looked him in the eyes. “Didn’t you ever fall in love?”

  “Look, Geena, if it was you, I’d be fine with it.” He wiped his mouth with his napkin and studiously ignored Hero’s slack-jawed indignation. “Really. You’re level-headed, you know what insufferable pricks they can be. But Hero’s full of romantic ideas. I don’t want to see her get hurt.”

  “Dad! That is so unfair.”

  He reached over and touched her hand with surprising tenderness. “Honey, I’m your father. It’s my job to be unfair.” He leaned back in his chair and considered me with a sigh. “Maybe we can reach a compromise.”

  Hero’s eyes sparkled. “Really? Like what?”

  “So far, he seems like a decent guy. But then, I thought Bronwyn’s Eagle Scout was decent too, and look what happened with that.”

  “God,” Hero moaned, “why do I have to pay for Bronwyn’s mistakes?”

  I kicked Hero gently under the table. Uncle Leo was leading up to something, and it sounded like he was getting ready to cave—at least a little. “So, what’s the compromise?” I asked.

  “Here’s what I propose,” he said, turning to Hero. “You can go out with Claudio, on a probationary basis. And only if Geena tags along.”

  We both just stared at him. Hero spoke first. “Why would that help?”

  “Because she’s your cousin, she’s a straight-shooter, and she’s just enough of a hard-ass to talk you out of doing anything stupid.”

  I shook my head. “I don’t know . . . I’m not a babysitter.”

  He tossed back the rest of his Gewürztraminer and licked his spoon. “That’s my offer. Take it or leave it.”

  “We’ll take it,” Hero cried, then grabbed my hand and pulled me away from the table before I could protest further.

  Monday, June 23

  6:10 P.M.

  Hero hasn’t stopped hounding me since Saturday. I can’t believe Uncle Leo did this. He knew I’d hate the idea, but he also knew it would get Hero off his back and onto mine. What tyranny!

  Thursday, June 26

  4:00 A.M.

  Mom came into the kitchen, where I was nursing a cup of chamomile tea (hideous, by the way—I suspect it “soothes” by knocking you out with its indescribably sucky flavor— tastes like compost). She was all squinty-eyed in her huge, baggy T-shirt, wondering what in the world I was doing up at three in the morning.

  “I’m having a moral dilemma,” I said.

  “What kind of moral dilemma?”

  I explained the situation with Hero and Claudio and Uncle Leo. When I was done, she put an arm around my shoulder, and her skin felt cool against mine. “I see. That is a tough one, isn’t it?”

  “I mean, why should I be their chaperone? It’s embarrassing.”

  She tilted her head away from me and studied my profile.

  “I guess it means Uncle Leo trusts you.”

  “Yeah, to be the sex police! How flattering is that?”

  She chuckled. “Well, you should listen to your feelings.”

  This is a tiny taste of my mother’s patchouli-scented past—this “follow your feelings” bit. Mostly she’s annoyingly logical, but I happen to know that before she became an English professor, she was a full-time hippie. I know this because one time she got a little wasted on red wine and burdened me with the following secrets: a. I was conceived in a tepee

  b. While she and Dad were tripping on acid

  c. His nickname for her was Ruby Tuesday

  Oh, horror! Why does my brain refuse to store useful information, like, say, bus schedules or algebra formulas, but when it gets its claws into a hateful picture like my parents doing it in a tepee with long, greasy hair, and my father crying out “Ruby Tuesday!” it simply will not let go?

  “So you think I shouldn’t do it, then?” I asked, trying to block out this grotesque image.

  “I’m just saying you should trust your intuition. You want a little of Uncle Leo’s Merlot?” She poured herself a glass. “I’ve found it’s a more effective soporific than chamomile.”

  “Sure.” I took the glass from her and sipped. “What’s up? You don’t want to drink alone?”

  “No, I’m trying to get you to stop banging around in the kitchen so I can get some sleep.” />
  “Selfish, selfish,” I said, smiling. “I should have known.”

  We sipped our wine in silence for a few minutes. When she’d finished hers, she stood up and carried her empty glass to the sink. “How are you doing with your dad gone?”

  Bit of a non sequitur, but whatever. It was after three; I guess I had to cut her some slack. “Um . . . I guess I’m fine.”

  She turned the tap on and washed her glass out. “You miss him?”

  “Sometimes.” I hesitated. “You?”

  She shrugged, her back still to me. “Occasionally.” She turned and looked at me, leaning against the counter. “Well, don’t stay up too late.”

  I looked out the window. “Yeah, okay.”

  The weird thing is, I don’t really miss Dad. Not actively, anyway. I mean, he wasn’t around all that much, even when he was here. He worked a lot. He’s preoccupied by nature.

  Still, it would be nice if he called more than once a month.

  Friday, June 27

  1:00 P.M.

  I was skating to work today when I noticed a truck slowing down behind me. When I heard a heavy bass beat and an Ice-T riff pouring out the windows, I knew exactly who it was.

  “Hey, Geena. Hold on.”

  PJ was idling behind me in his electric blue truck. He still had the music blaring so loud it made my chest thrum. I skated over to his window, shielding my eyes against the brilliance of his paint job in the sun. He did me the honor of turning down the music.

  “Cool shoes.” He nodded at my Pumas.

  “Thanks.”

  “Hey, does Hero have a boyfriend?”

  “No, why?”

  “Here’s the deal,” he said, leaning a little out his window. “Don’t tell anyone, but you know Claudio?”