Confessions of a Triple Shot Betty Page 7

  “Hey, maybe your ‘friend’ Ben would like to come along.” My dad injected the word friend with tiny, barely audible quotes, and I could feel myself going beet red.

  “Oh, uh, thanks Mr. Sloane,” Ben said, “but—”

  The bimbomaniac came striding up to us then, looking all dewy-fresh and inhumanly tall, stopping Ben mid-sentence. She was wearing a floppy straw hat and a white spaghetti-strapped sundress that showed off her shiny brown shoulders and her ample cleavage. I’ve never actually worked up the nerve to ask my dad about the bimbocita’s age, but I’m guessing she’s either a Botox miracle or she’s a long way from thirty. As much as it pains me to admit it, the woman’s a dead ringer for Julia Roberts circa Pretty Woman. If I were Mom, I’d seek vengeance.

  She flashed her big white teeth at us, saying, “Hey Geena,” then turning to Ben with, “Hi there, I’m Jen. Are you Geena’s boyfriend?”

  Oh, God, I thought. I wonder if they still have nunneries. All the blood surging to my face at once was giving me an ice cream headache.

  “We—um—we were just looking for Auggie,” Ben told her, obviously flustered.

  Bimbo-san looked puzzled. “Auggie?”

  “Geena’s dog,” Dad offered.

  Would this never end? Either we were calling Ben my boyfriend or we were dwelling on Auggie doggie, who, through absolutely no fault of my own, didn’t exist.

  “Anyway,” I said, giving Dad a meaningful look, “Shouldn’t we get going? Aren’t Bim—Jen’s parents expecting us?”

  Dad looked at his watch. “Not for a little—” But then Mom walked out to greet us and he mumbled, “Yeah, maybe we should.”

  It’s not that my parents can’t be civil to each other. It’s just that their heightened state of niceness is exhausting for everyone involved, like smiling for a picture when the photographer is taking way too long.

  “Hello, Jen,” Mom called, friendly as could be. “Dan.” She gave my father a quick, impersonal kiss on the cheek. The tepee scene flashed through my brain like a pornographic film strip spliced into a Disney movie; thank God it disappeared as soon as I blinked.

  Mom was wearing her new red halter top, startling red lipstick, and bright white wide-legged slacks. She’d blown her auburn hair dry and had even applied some mascara. She was no Julia Roberts, but I thought she looked elegant, in her own way, and I was torn between being proud of her for making an effort and feeling sorry for her, dressing up like that just so she could wave good-bye without looking like a slob.

  “Hi, Mrs. Sloane,” Ben said.

  “Hi, Ben. Did you come by to see Geena?” Mom gushed.

  Soon I’d be discovered, imaginary dog and all. I had to act fast. “Dad, we better get going.” I started moving toward Dad’s Porsche in an urgent, Let’s get out of here fashion. Dad seemed willing enough to follow my lead, but the Bimbomeister lingered.

  “Sure you don’t want to come, Ben? It’s a pretty drive.” I turned to see her beaming at him enticingly.

  “Oh, no, thanks,” he said. “My parents would wonder . . .”

  She whipped a tiny silver cell phone from her purse. “You could call them. I’d explain.”

  I stood there, flabbergasted. My dad’s girlfriend was flirting with my not-even-boyfriend. I’d be on Jerry Springer any minute now.

  “No, really,” Ben said. “I was just helping Geena look for her dog.”

  He’d said it. My life was over.

  Mom blinked. “Sorry, I thought you just said you were helping Geena look for her dog.”

  Ben nodded. “Yeah. Auggie.”

  My mother’s head swiveled slowly in my direction. “Geena doesn’t have a dog,” she said, eyeing me.

  I laughed nervously. “Of course I don’t! I was just . . . joking.”

  Now everyone’s heads turned in my direction.

  “I thought that was kind of odd,” Dad observed, and then, to Mom, “I didn’t think you’d give in.”

  Mom got a flinty look in her eye. “It’s not a matter of ‘giving in,’ Dan. We’re just not set up for a dog.”

  “Oh, you could have a small one and you know it,” he said.

  “That’s not true. Don’t make me look like the bad guy.”

  “Come on, Joan, you hate dogs.”

  “I don’t hate dogs! I put up with your smelly little cocker spaniel for seven years.”

  They were off, then, bickering over the ancient dog issue like they’d never even gotten divorced. Ms. Bimbonstein hovered nearby, looking like she wanted to contribute but didn’t quite know how.

  Ben walked over to me, his hands in his pockets. “So you don’t have a dog?”

  “I was just playing around,” I said, barely able to look him in the eye. “You know, like a July Fourth joke.”

  He nodded. “Okay, Sloane, if you say so.”

  “Shut up.” I was so mortified, it was the only thing I could think of to say.

  “Lubricant, imaginary dogs—what’ll you think of next?”

  “You’re just mad ’cause you fell for it.” I folded my arms and leaned on one hip, hoping I looked defiant instead of lame.

  “Yeah,” he said, not looking convinced. “I’m real mad about that. Later on, Sloane.” Then he got on his bike and rode away, calling, “Here, Auggie! Auggie!” all the way down the street.

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

  11:50 P.M.

  Luckily, we got back from the Geriatric Meat Fest in time for me to skate down to the high school for the fireworks. On the way there, some little punks on boards—probably freshmen—stopped and stared as I bombed a hill. When I got to the bottom one of them yelled, “Show us your tits, Skater Girl!” I did an ollie instead and flipped them off when I hit the ground.

  Skating always makes me feel a little more right with the world. I got my first board when I was thirteen, around the time when my parents started fighting a lot. There was a practical element; I needed a way around town, and bikes just didn’t appeal to me aesthetically. But there was something deeper too. I was shopping for an identity. I refused to go in for sparkly eye shadow and bubble-gum pink lip gloss, like most girls. In my mind, that was the fast track to misery. The hereditary Uniboob was just starting to come in, so already men were looking at me—not just boys, but father types, which creeped me out. I guess it’s not totally logical, but skating made me feel tough, invincible. Like I could defy everything: lip gloss, heartache, gravity.

  I got to the high school just as the first round of fireworks was exploding against the dusky blue sky. There was barely enough light left for me to see people’s faces. I wandered about, feeling conspicuously alone, looking for Amber or Hero.

  I spotted Amber sitting with PJ, Claudio, and Ben on a big plaid blanket. She was wearing a bright orange tube top and a short denim skirt; she looked like a night-blooming orchid in the middle of their white T-shirts and faded jeans. I was kind of torn—after the Auggie doggie incident, I wasn’t exactly dying to interact with Ben, so I didn’t head straight over. That’s when I felt delicate little fingers squeezing my arm, and I turned to see Hero beaming at me.

  “You’re here! Finally!” She was wearing a cute yellow sundress with one of her trademark, barely-there cardigans, apparently knit out of dandelion fluff. Next to her, my none-too-clean cutoffs and Sector Nine T-shirt probably made me look like a big-boobed boy.

  “Yeah, sorry I’m late. Had to hang with Dad and his midlife-crisis-arm-charm. I swear to God, if she becomes my stepmother I’ll move to Uzbekistan and join a cult.”

  She kept glancing furtively over my shoulder, and it didn’t take a genius to figure out why she was so happy to see me. Now she’d have an excuse to go sit with her dreamboat.

  I turned and looked pointedly at their blanket. “Ohh, you want to go over there?”

  She put on an absurdly innocent face. “No, why?”

  “Oh, I don’t know—you can’t stop looking at them for three minutes—just thought you might want to se
e what they’re up to.”

  She smoothed her hair. “Well, okay, if you feel like it.”

  I’d have to face Ben at some point, imaginary dog and all; it might as well be sooner rather than later. We started walking toward them and were only about four feet away when I was enveloped in a cloud of Calvin Klein cologne. John Jamieson was suddenly in our path, blocking our way with loose-limbed confidence.

  “Hey girls.” He held a can of Mountain Dew in one hand, and he raised it slightly in greeting. In the weeks since graduation, his tan had deepened to a perfect golden brown, and his eyes looked even bluer than usual. “It’s my two favorite heartbreakers: Skater Girl and the pretty little pixie Hero.”

  “Hi, John.” I still wasn’t used to such a celebrity addressing me directly, and I tried not to look too dazzled.

  “Hey, John,” Hero echoed, though she sounded more annoyed than impressed.

  “Missed you out on the water the other day,” he told Hero. “I really think you’d like sailing. There’s nothing like the feeling of wind in your hair, watching the sun go down behind the Golden Gate. It’s amazing.”

  Hero offered a polite smile, then snuck a furtive glance over his shoulder. “Yeah, well, too bad I couldn’t go.”

  John’s look darkened as he glanced back and saw Claudio on the picnic blanket. He didn’t let his irritation show for long, though; he covered it with a smile so luminous, I could see why he got cast in that Aquafresh ad last year. “Maybe I should swing by sometime and talk to your dad? It’s criminal he keeps you locked up like that.”

  Hero shook her head. “I wouldn’t bother. He’s pretty set in his ways.”

  “Worth a try, though, huh?” John’s smile looked slightly strained now.

  “Actually, no.” Hero didn’t even try to hide her impatience. “It’s not.”

  I was shocked. Nobody talks to John like that—I mean, he’s John Jamieson, for God’s sake! He invented charisma. Most girls would give their right breast just for a three-minute flirt-session with the guy, and Hero was treating him like an annoying freshman with food caught in his braces.

  “Hey guys.” Amber sauntered up to us then, her hips swaying. “Happy Fourth.” She raised a paper bag in a toast, clinked it soundlessly against John’s Mountain Dew, and took a swig.

  “ ’Sup, Ginger?” He slung an arm around Amber’s shoulder casually and she looked up at him with starry-eyed delight.

  “When do you head off to Yale?” She sounded so unlike herself—perky and alert, like she was auditioning for something. She even twisted a strand of hair around her finger. Gag.

  “Probably leave in August.” He offered her a lazy grin. “You gonna miss me?”

  “Duh!”

  Was it my imagination, or was John sneaking sideways glances at Hero? She raised an eyebrow as she watched them, but said nothing.

  A truck screeched to a stop at the entrance to the field, and we all turned to look. It was Corky’s Ford Explorer, and its tinted windows rattled with bass. There were at least three other senior guys piled in back. Corky leaned his head out the window and bellowed over the music, “Yo, Jamieson! Come on, we’re late!”

  John started to back away from us. “Party at Salmon Creek if you feel like it. There’s a bottle of Jack reserved for you Bettys, okay?”

  His friends started chanting at him, “You the Man, you, you the Man!”

  He flipped them off, but loped over to them and jumped in the Ford before it peeled out and roared away.

  “You guys want to go?” Amber followed the Explorer with her eyes as it disappeared around the corner.

  “Naw.” I knew Hero couldn’t, and even if she could, it sounded like a disaster in the making. Amber was obviously not 100 percent over John, and he was starting to seem a little too interested in Hero. None of this bode well for my girly summer aspirations.

  Amber looked at Hero, one hand on her hip. “So what’s the deal with you and John?”

  Hero addressed her shoes. “There is no deal.”

  “A word of advice,” Amber said, her green eyes boring into Hero’s. “He’s impossible to resist, and a pain in the ass to get over.”

  “I’m not even remotely interested, so don’t worry.” Hero sniffed and stared off into the distance.

  Okay, this was leading us nowhere sisterly, I could see that right away. Eager to distract them both, I led my little virgin-whore posse over to PJ, Ben, and Claudio.

  “Hey Sloane, how’s Auggie?” Ben asked as we approached. I expected the other guys to erupt in snide giggles, but they didn’t. Amazingly, he must have kept it to himself.

  “Auggie’s good,” I said, sitting on the blanket. “How’s Mr. Peabody?”

  “What, are we talking in code here?” Amber demanded. “Who are these people?”

  “Nobody,” Ben and I both said, and exchanged a look.

  A truly impressive round of fireworks exploded overhead then, and the crowd oohed and ahhed; some whooped in approval. We just kicked back in silence, too cool for exclamations.

  Hero was sitting next to Claudio, and I overheard her saying, “I’m having a birthday party at the beginnig of August. PJ’s doing music. I was wondering if you would . . . you know . . . be my date? Dad said it was okay.”

  Unfortunately, Amber overheard this too; she collapsed against me, whispering, “What is she, seven? ‘Be my date’? ‘Dad says it’s okay’?”

  Hero shot us a sidelong glance and I shushed Amber. It was a little geeky, yes, but Claudio probably just figured this was how Americans did things. The last thing I wanted was to embarrass Hero in front of him. Apparently, he didn’t have any problem with the formality of her request, because he was nodding yes with the urgency of a wind-up toy.

  Thank God. Maybe Now she’ll stop hounding me about dating Ben.

  A particularly huge boom of fireworks went off just then, followed by cascades of gold that lingered in the sky like fistfuls of glitter falling through water. I glanced at Ben just as he was looking at me. We both looked away, embarrassed.

  When the finale kicked in, the whole sky erupted in a massive series of explosions while the crowd around us went wild. I lay flat on my back and watched the mad orgy of color as it peaked. Streaks of violet, blue, red, gold, and green spiraled and swirled like the brushstrokes of a Van Gogh painting. I let myself be swept up in the heart-pounding beauty of it. It was so violent and anarchic up there, and at the same time Disneyland-sweet, especially when all the explosions ceased and there were just the fizzy remnants of fairy lights spiraling slowly toward the earth.

  “Well,” Amber said when it was over. “That was good, wholesome fun.” She turned to me. “Now I think I’ll go home and listen to my mom having sex with her boy toy.”

  Thursday, July 10

  2:30 P.M.

  Being a Triple Shot Betty is a lot like being an animal in a zoo. Without the perks. We can never loll about doing nothing. There’s always something to wipe or wash or scrub or sweep or stock, even if business is slow. And when people try to rattle our cage, we never get to roar; we have to smile sweetly and suggest through gritted teeth that they have a nice day.

  Mr. Little had been skulking in the parking lot in his gigantic monster truck, peering down at Amber and me through the windshield. The guy is way sketchy. He hangs out around the shop at least two or three times a week, more than that when the weather’s nice. He’s got sad, lank hair chopped into a mullet, a bushy mustache, and these huge, mirrored aviator sunglasses.

  “I’m going over there,” Amber threatened for the third time in ten minutes. “We’re not TV. He can’t just sit there and stare.”

  I shook my head. “I know, it’s disgusting.”

  She threw down her sponge. “Okay, here I go.”

  “Wait!” I grabbed her arm. “What if he yanks you up into his truck and drives off? Next thing you know, you’re a face on a milk carton, and I’m scarred for life.”

  “Why would you be scarred?”

 
; “Duh! Helplessly watching your best friend get abducted by a monster-truck-driving-mullet-guy scars you for life.”

  We turned our attention back to Mr. Little. He did something disgusting with his fingers and his tongue.

  “Ooh! What a—” Amber called Mr. Little a string of epithets that would have been rendered as one long, screaming beep on the air. Luckily, at that moment, a distraction appeared to keep her from racing across the parking lot and getting in his face. An old yellow VW bus pulled in with three beat-up surfboards strapped to the roof. When it stopped in front of Triple Shot Betty’s, the window rolled down slowly and a cloud of smoke poured out that was so thick you could taste the THC.

  “The stofers,” Amber and I said simultaneously.

  “Morning, dude. How ’bout a big mocha? Better make it a double.” It was Dog Berry behind the wheel. Also in the car were Virg Pickett and George Sabato, his constant companions. They were stoner-surfers, but that was a mouthful, so Amber and I shortened it to stofers. It was, more or less, a term of affection.

  Virg leaned over from the passenger seat until he was practically in Dog’s lap. He had a digital camcorder glued to his face. “Smile, Bettys,” he said. “You’re on Candy Camera.”

  "Candid, man,” George called from the backseat. “It’s Candid Camera.”

  “What are you talking about? It’s my camera,” Virg told him, indignant. You never saw Virg when he wasn’t filming something. Hardly anyone knew what his face looked like, because all you ever saw was the lens. Once, at school, I’d watched him from the window of my geometry class for an hour; he was out in the senior parking lot, filming clouds.

  Dog turned to his passengers. “You Barneys want anything?”

  “Strawberry shake,” George called.

  Amber went to get the ice cream from the freezer.

  Dog turned to Virg. “Hey, kook, what do you want?”

  “I want her to take her top off,” Virg said, nodding at me, the camera still stuck to his face.

  Dog shoved Virg back into his seat and turned to me with an apologetic smile. “Sorry, Geena. He’s a real turd in the morning.”