Twisted Sisters (22 page)

Plus, he must have walked here, too, as his cheeks are flushed. I appreciate a man
who’s not afraid to hoof it. Even though Sebastian biked and played volleyball, he
still used to drive to my place and he was three blocks away. Made me crazy. Lazy
is the opposite of sexy. I breathe in and I can smell the fabric softener coming from
his chambray shirt. I lean in closer and note he’s wearing cologne with undertones
of cardamom and black pepper.

This?

This
is what I’d like for breakfast.

His dark eyes twinkle as he says, “Speaking of kinds of things, ‘I thought I’d go
for the “helpful gay pirate” kind of thing.’”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Helpful gay pirate?”

This is sincerely puzzling. I understand each word as an individual concept, but strung
together? Not so much.

I ask, “Are you at all familiar with the term
glossolalia
? Because it means fluid vocalizations of—” Wait, Geri would never have any cognizance
of the concept of speaking in tongues. But there’s weirdness afoot here; that much
is evident.

As the waitress approaches with a fresh pot of coffee, Kassel grabs my hand and says,
“‘Can you look me in the eye and can you promise me that it all means something and
that my whole bullshit life is just a bad start to a really incredible Cinderella
story?’”

I can feel my heart beating almost out of my chest, and for a minute, I forget that
I’m not exactly who I appear to be. In this one moment, it’s just me and Kassel and
his strong wrists and intoxicating fragrance. He and I should be together and we could
have it all—we’d have witty banter and tanned, toned children and a mantel full of
Emmys. This could really be my Cinderella story, because if you consider it, she dealt
with some awful sisters, too, and—

“Best. Show. Ever!” Brandi exclaims, slopping coffee into my cup.

And just like that, the spell is broken.

She prattles on, “Every day I scan the trades to see if there’s anything happening
with the
Party Down
movie. Rob Thomas promises there’s a script in the works, but no word on an actual
movie yet. Hope springs eternal, though!”

Wait, so he’s just been quoting some stupid
television show
at me?

“Up on the trades? Must be an actress,” Kassel notes. He doesn’t seem to be flirty
so much as friendly, but the distinction doesn’t offer much solace.

“Trying to be,” Brandi replies. “‘I think maybe I’m going to quit.’”

“‘Nobody ever accomplished anything by quitting. What if Ronald Reagan quit?’”

“‘Quit acting? He did.’”

“‘Yeah, that’s actually where I got the idea.’”

Then they laugh and fist-bump and the people at the table next to us join in because
apparently
they’re
fans, too, and I’m left sitting here like an asshole who’s not only incapable of
expressing my interest in a man, but also has never seen some esoteric television
show because I was busy trying to establish a career.

Story of my life.

Kassel finally returns his focus to me. “Sorry about that. Could have sworn we’d discussed
our mutual love of
Party Down
, but I must have imagined it.”

I really did not consider all the ramifications of this whole body swap/date crash
before I slid into Geri’s body like a pair of old jeans. Granted, I grew up with Geri,
so I’m aware of our shared history, but I haven’t exactly been paying attention to
the rest of her life. I’ve no clue what she likes or how she spends her free time.
(Although I would place money on much couch surfing.) I can’t impersonate her because
I don’t know her.

Kassel smiles at me and sighs like he’s so enamored he can’t even find words. Realizing
it’s Geri giving him this reaction and not me makes my heart feel like it’s ripping
in two.

Okay, that might be a trifle dramatic.

But it’s true that his interest in Geri hurts both my feelings and my ego. What’s
the draw? And it’s not just Kassel; everyone falls all over themselves for her. It’s . . .
almost unnatural and makes no sense. What’s it like to live in Geri’s world? (I suspect
there’s a low stress/high snack element.)

How does she hold everyone in such thrall? What sort of black magic does she practice?
How is she always so damn happy?

For all intents and purposes,
I
should be the one on top of the world.

I’m
the one who put in the effort. I’m the one who made the huge sacrifices to get ahead.
Why is no one sighing deeply over my unwashed butt at breakfast?

Well, if Deva’s to be believed—and I believe she’s proved herself credible—nothing
happens by accident. There’s no such thing as happenstance. So here I am on hiatus,
with a couple of weeks to kill before Christmas and the means to step inside Geri’s
world to conduct a proper investigation.

This can’t be a coincidence. Deva couldn’t have given me these tools without a quiet
understanding that I’d use them. This is like on those cop shows where someone really
needs info and the detective can’t officially share it, so he leaves the file on his
desk to grab coffee while the sassy private investigator is alone in his office with
her mini spy camera.

What’s so all-fired great about Geri?

Even if it’s immoral, unethical, and most likely illegal, I intend to find out.

Geri1234

“Jesus, Mary, and Joseph, it’s a Christmas miracle!” Ma hugs me to her, which is disconcerting
because Ma is not a hugger.

At all.

Also, it’s odd being able to look my mother in the eye. I’ve towered over her since
the seventh grade, but in Geri’s world, we’re on the same level.

Calculating I had at least six hours left until Geri/my body woke up, I figured I
should check in with our parents. I don’t have confirmation that she’s in almost constant
contact with them, but I have my suspicions.

I figure the next week or so will be a lot easier if I have some basic Geri intel,
so I’ve come back to our parents’ house to gather supplies. I just told them that
I’m going to bunk at Reagan’s because of our filming schedule, and Ma is happier than
I’ve ever seen her.

“I told your dad that if we gave you enough time, you two’d come together! Here we
are, almost twenty-eight years later, and you’re on your way to becoming friends!
This is all I ever wanted for you both.”

Huh. It never occurred to me that our not peacefully coexisting was that big of a
deal. Sisters fight. Happens all the time.

“I look at how close I am with your aunties Mary and Kathleen and it tears me up that
you girls don’t have that. But maybe now you will.”

I’m very uncomfortable with this display of emotion. Stop it! Bring back Iron Maggie,
please. Show me the woman who helped close Meigs Field without a second thought.

Ma sits on the bed while I grab items that look useful. I’ve already stashed Geri’s
laptop, her printed work schedule for the salon, and the Post-it from her bulletin
board, which I assume relates to her passwords as it’s labeled “passwords.” She frequently
uses “geri1234” for her login, but there are a couple of sites where its “1234geri.”
That’s a pretty foolproof system you’ve got there, sis. IBM’s definitely calling you
to learn more about all your security protocols.

Ma says, “Now, you gotta promise me that you’ll be nice to Reagan.”

This
should be interesting. “Why’s that, Ma?”

“That’s what you do when you’re a guest.”

“Oh.” I was expecting more of an insight than just a page from Emily Post.

Ma glances up at the ceiling as though she’s collecting her thoughts. “Reagan is a
good girl, but she’s lost, you know?”

I’d been throwing shirts in a duffel bag, but I stop in my tracks. No, I
do not
know; please enlighten me. I nod, as though to agree.

“She doesn’t allow herself to enjoy anything and she only seems happy when she’s out
of joint about something. Even her hobbies are miserable. Who runs twenty-six miles
for fun? People who want to punish themselves, that’s who.”

I would argue here, except I’m (literally) not myself at the moment. But this is definitely
unfair. I’m a runner because I want to challenge myself, to push myself to achieve
everything of which I’m capable. How is that not a selling point? And does Ma really
see me as someone who’s unhappy?

I offer, “Mary Mac says she has an eating disorder.”

Ma waves away the thought. “That’s a bunch of crap. She’s just picky, always has been.
And a little pretentious. She gets that from your father’s side of the family. Dad’s
father was an alderman. He never let us hear the end of it. ‘As an alderman, I’d have
to disagree.’ ‘The other aldermen and I believe that New York–style pizza is overrated.’
‘Alderman Bishop would like more potatoes.’ However, Reagan’s right—the rest of us
could
eat better.”

Ha-ha-ha! In your
face
, Geri! (Except about the pretentious part.)

“Of all you girls, I worry about her the most.”

I beg your pardon? Me? The
doctor
? And not the octo-mom or the freeloader?
I’m
your point of concern? Since when do you gossip? Damn it, why are you so willing
to share these stories with Geri and not me? I knew she was the favorite!

Ma continues, “Remember how different she was when she was with Boyd? She was fun,
she was relaxed, it’s like the stick finally disappeared from her ass. She finally
stopped looking at herself as a victim. Then she dumped him and for what? Where’d
it get her?”

Um, on DBS every Thursday night?

Of course, Geri’s there now, too. Damn it!

“I gotta go soon, Ma,” I say, anxious to change the subject. Even if Ma is speaking
a tiny portion of the truth, I’m not in the right mind-set to hear it. “Hey, where
do I keep my clean underwear?” With someone as disorganized as Geri, this is a legitimate
question.

“I did a load for you this morning.” She exits and quickly returns with a basketful
of NastyGirlz-worthy underthings. Then the phone rings and she leaves me to gab with
Auntie Kathleen.

I feel like I’m in some bizarre alternate universe right now—how is it that I’m the
one who’s lost, yet
she’s
the one whose mommy still washes her underpants? I don’t get it, I truly don’t.

I grab Geri’s duffel bags and I say a quick good-bye to my parents.

This should be an interesting week.

•   •   •

According to Geri’s schedule, she has today off because the salon is closed.

Well, that’s just dumb.

Don’t people need haircuts on Monday? Sure, I understand that stylists are busier
on the weekends, but perhaps everyone’s schedule could be staggered so that all shifts
could be covered without losing an entire day’s revenue. I’ll definitely mention this
to Miranda, Geri’s boss and bestie (at least until Geri screws her over with her nonexistent
work ethic and thus loses this job, too).

Not having to go to her job gives me an entire day to familiarize myself with her
world. I’ve double-dosed the Thanwell, so that buys me sixteen hours inside Geri.
While she rests in my body, I’ll live her life. Then, when the Thanwell wears off,
Geri will be back inside her own body and she’ll sleep on her own and I can take care
of the business of being Reagan.

Every time I feel a twinge of guilt, I remind myself of her perpetually swooping in
to take what’s mine, whether it’s my
Push
spotlight or Lilly-Lizzie, and my guilt magically melts away.

For the most part.

When Geri finally woke up last night, I immediately removed my amulet and we switched
back into our bodies. Of course she noticed the necklace, so I explained it as an
early Christmas present and she seemed satisfied by the explanation. Then I went into
detail about how she had this new kind of neurological flu that was ravaging Asia
and under no circumstances should she leave the couch, let alone my apartment.

Pfft, like I had to tell her twice.

With my remote control in one hand and her phone in the other, she acted like she
owned the place. Ironically, this was beneficial for me, because I was able to really
listen to her speech patterns as well as take notes on her plans.

But now she’s snug in my body/bed, so I can begin my research. I open Facebook and
I begin to scroll through her wall. After five minutes, I’m pretty sure I have boredom
cancer. Why on earth would anyone care what you had for lunch or how your feet look
in the sand on your vacation? Oh, hey, here’s a shot of a cat in a hat! Hilarious.
Not.

What a time suck this is. I use Facebook to advance myself professionally, and not
to exchange worthless commentary on why my political platform is better than yours
or whether or not Starbucks should be boycotted because they won’t stock almond milk.
(Although, really, why don’t they carry it?)

As I inspect Geri’s photos, I see that she is the master of the selfie. How does she
have time to get to her day job if she’s perpetually taking all these photos of herself?

I make sure to “like” everyone’s entries and I spout her usual banalities of “badass!”
and “OMG, u r the best!” and now I feel dirty.

As I tab through, I notice that Geri has a lot of friends. How does she have so many
friends? She has more friends than I have likes on my fan page, and as of yet, she’s
not even been on TV.

Her buddy list bears further investigation. I know she’s friends with Sebastian, but
who else might I recognize? I begin to scan the list and I recognize tons of people
from the neighborhood, as well as a bunch of my cousins. And . . . is that my dad?
My father has a Facebook page? His only entry says, “I don’t know how to work this
thing. Hello?”

Affirmative, that is my dad.

Why didn’t he friend me?

I’m about to click off this section when I see a shot of Boyd. I guess I knew he’d
finally joined Facebook, but I never searched for his profile. What would be the point?

I open his page and I’m taken aback to see he’s only gotten better with age. I feel
bittersweet about seeing him. As nice as it is to run across his photo, it’s also
painful, and I didn’t realize exactly how much until this moment. In this picture,
his hair is shorter than it was and he has a few tiny laugh lines, but otherwise,
he looks exactly like he did the day he drove me to the airport when I left Malibu
for good.

I quickly return to Geri’s home page. As much as I hope Boyd’s happy, I’m not sure
I want to delve deeper into his profile to see shots of whatever (or whoever) currently
occupies his time or where it is he currently bartends. I made my choice and I live
in the now.

I close Facebook and open her e-mail. She doesn’t have much in there, save for sale
notices at a couple of clothing retailers. I think her generation is too lazy to actually
pen an entire note, so e-mail isn’t cool anymore. Typical. But she has scores of new
texts. If Geri’s awake, she’s clutching her phone, so if I don’t answer them, her
friends will assume she’s been abducted.

Which is not entirely untrue.

Okay, here goes.

From Catelyn:
where u at gurl?

In a state of suspended animation.

Chillin,
I reply.

From Allison:
S’up, s’up, s’up?

Nada, nada, nada.

From Miranda:
How was ur brunch w the hotty?

Awkward. Infuriating. Enlightening.

Swag.

From Mindy:
The bitch makin u mental?

Delete. Rest up over Christmas break, kid. For that remark, I plan on running you
all over the city for green tea when we return to set in January.

From Mary Mac:
cme ovr 4 supper, 7:30. bring wine.

Oh,
Geri
will be there, all right.

Count on that.

•   •   •

“Auntie Geri, yay!” Kiley dances around me as I throw my coat on Mary Mac’s couch.
Reagan would have been thoughtful and hung up her jacket, but we’re in Geritown now,
where all we do is whatever is the quickest/easiest.

Instead of instructing Kiley to please not touch me until she washes the frosting
off her fingers, I give her a squeeze. I’m sure the cheetah stripe of Geri’s hideous
shirt will hide any stains.

I figured if I were coming over here, I’d better bone up on which kid was which or
else Mary Mac would instantly be alerted that something was amiss. I made flashcards
with all their faces and included their activities, so now I’m completely up to speed.

“Yo, Mickey Junior,
Beowulf
still kicking your ass?”

He glances up from the Xbox and gives me a massive grin. “Nope. Passed the test with
a high D!”

I stop myself from saying
congratulations on the bare minimum
, instead replying, “Badass,” which earns me not only a mock salute but also an invitation
to play
Halo 4
later.

“’S’up, Finley Patrick? Any good garbage pickin’ lately?”

“I found a tennis racket without any strings!”

“Awesome, buddy!”

He runs over and hugs me before heading down to watch the big TV in the basement.

So what Geri’s already taught me is that if you let children get away with everything
and prop up their self-esteem based on a minimum of achievement, they like you. Duly
noted.

“Open the wine, please, like right now,” Mary Mac says by way of greeting. She slides
a corkscrew over to me, even though I don’t need it because the bottle is a screw
top. I’m not sure how I feel about that. There’s an inherent amount of sophistication
that comes with drinking wine, largely because of the effort it takes to release it
from the bottle. But just unscrewing like it’s a soda? Seems like cheating to me.

At the wine store, I wasn’t sure what Geri normally drinks, so I perused all the labels
and picked the bottle that inspired me the most.

“Hey,” Mary Mac says, “Bitch wine, our favorite!”

Nailed it!

I pull up a seat at the kitchen island, scraping aside a mountain of kids’ homework,
mail, and cotton-ball-and-Popsicle-stick-based artwork. Mickey built this whole kitchen
addition, so its bones and the craftsmanship are superb, but it’s so full of the detritus
that I can barely see an inch of the granite. I also note the custom millwork is covered
in frosting handprints. Reagan would have inquired as to where each item would live
and then she’d help stow everything before wiping down the cabinets, but Geri has
no problem slopping wine in her glass and setting it precariously on one of the stacks.

Okay, not for nothing? This is fairly liberating. Every other time I’ve stepped into
Mary Mac’s place, I’ve grown tense because of the chaos and disorganization and my
need to set it all straight. But in living via Geri’s dictates, I can simply overlook
everything, even Kacey Irelyn walking in and placing her dirty juice glass next to
the dishwasher instead of inside it because why take that one minuscule extra step?
Whee! It’s a party! We can throw our empties anywhere!

“Made your favorite tonight,” Mary Mac tells me, pulling a casserole pan full of something
orange and gelatinous out of the oven.

Funny, that doesn’t look like ginger-soy-glazed salmon with a side of steamed kale
and a ramp salad tossed with chia seeds and aged balsamic.