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Rose stared down at her mismatched shoes. What was going on was that her apartment was a mess, her life was falling apart, she owed the Parking Authority two hundred dollars, there was a dog living illegally in her living room, and, evidently, she couldn't even dress herself anymore. She needed him to hold her, to cradle her head in his hands and tell her that the two of them were just starting out, and that it might have been a rocky start because of Maggie's omnipresence, but that soon they'd be together again. "Hey," said Jim, leading her to the leather seat in front of his desk, the one for clients, the sloping Eames chair that canted their butts back and away from his own, assuring that he'd always be taller than they were, no matter what. Rose stood instead, and took a deep breath. Summarize, she told herself. "I miss you," she said. Jim looked rueful. "I'm sorry, Rose," he said, "but it's been just crazy around here." Rose felt as if she were on a roller coaster that had just crested a hill that she hadn't seen coming, and now the bottom of her world was falling away. Couldn't he see that she needed him? He wrapped his arms around her shoulders, but kept her body at a distance. "How can I help?" he murmured. "What can I do?" "Come over tonight," she said, pressing her lips against his neck, knowing that she was doing the very thing that women were never ever under any circumstances supposed to do—namely, begging. "I need to see you. Please!" "It might be late," he said. "Like, ten or so." "It's okay if you're late. I'll wait for you." I'll wait forever, she thought, and let herself out of the office. His secretary glared at her. "You can't just walk right in," said the secretary. "You have to be announced." "I'm sorry," said Rose, feeling as though she'd done nothing but apologize all day long. "I am. I'm sorry."
TWENTYTHREE
Rose's phone was ringing again. Maggie ignored it. She dropped her towel on the living room floor and walked into the shower. It was her third shower of the morning. Maggie had taken lots of showers in the day following her up-close and personal encounter with the dynamic duo of Grant and Tim, spending ten, twenty, thirty minutes scrubbing herself with her loofah, washing her hair until it squeaked. And she still felt dirty. Dirty and furious. All these weeks on Rose's couch, and what did she have to show for herself? No money. No man. No head shots. Nothing, nothing, nothing. Just assholes who'd grab her in parking lots like she was nothing. Like she wasn't even real. She heard her sister's voice blatting from the answering machine. "Maggie, are you there? Pick up if you're there. I really need to talk to you. Maggie . . ." She wrapped herself in a towel, palmed the condensation off the mirror, ignoring her sister's voice on the answering machine, and looked at herself. Weapon One, as always, was her body, and it was finer than a gun, sharper than a knife. She'd find those guys again. She'd haunt the city until she found them, at a bar or on the bus. Somewhere. She'd walk over to them, head held high, chest thrust out, and smile. The smile would be the hardest part, but she was
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sure that she could manage it. She was an actress. She was a star. She would smile and lay her hand between Tim's shoulder blades, ask how he was doing. She'd sip her drink, leaving lipstick half-kisses on the rim, and brush her knee against his. She'd lean close and whisper that she'd had a great time that night, that she was sorry she'd run away, and could they maybe do it again? Were they free tonight? And they'd bring her back to the apartment. And then it would be Weapon Two. Maybe a knife. A gun, if she could find one. Something that would cause them permanent damage, something that would show them that she was not a girl to be fucked with. The phone rang again. "Maggie, I know you're there. Would you please pick up the phone? I just got off the phone with the parking people again, and they say the car was taken out of an impound lot and there's a bunch of fines ..." Maggie ignored the phone and cranked up the stereo—Axl Rose wailing "Welcome to the Jungle." "Do you know where you are?" he squealed. She shoved her feet into Rose's newest acquisition, a pair of knee-high black leather boots that hugged her calves. Two hundred and sixty-eight dollar boots, and her sister could buy them without a second thought, because nothing ever went wrong for Rose. Oh, no. Rose wouldn't get tripped up by a TelePrompTer, Rose would never park on the wrong side of the street, Rose wouldn't have assholes groping at her in parking lots, and Rose certainly never would have to take a job that involved squeezing dogs' asses just to make ends meet. Rose had everything, and Maggie had nothing. Nothing at all, except for the little dog who'd been dumped at the Elegant Paw for months until Maggie had rescued her and taken her home. Naked except for the boots, she paced back and forth from the bedroom to the living room to the kitchen and back again, hearing the squeak of the soles against the hardwood floors, smelling the leather and the soap and sweat from her body, seeing a red fog. Seeing the knife. Seeing herself flashing in the mirror as she stalked past the bathroom, flushed and wet and lovely—a clever disguise, a
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flower with creamy petals on long-stemmed legs. Nobody looking at her would ever suspect what she really was. The intercom buzzed. The dog whined. "Don't worry," Maggie said, and yanked a T-shirt over her head. She thought about panties for a minute, then figured, why bother? It was eight o'clock—too early for Rose to be home and start lecturing her again. It was probably only the asshole next door telling her to turn her music down. She turned out the lights and flung the door open, eyes blazing, prepared to give someone a piece of her mind, and saw Rose's boyfriend standing before her. "Rose?" he said, squinting at her through the darkness. And Maggie laughed—a brief giggle at first, but the laughter kept rolling up her throat like poison, like throwing up in reverse. She wasn't Rose. She would never be Rose. She lacked her sister's abilities, her sister's easy successes. She'd never be the one to offer advice, to poke and prod and scold and lay down rules and offer cheesy sympathy laced with impatience. Rose. Hah! She threw back her head and let the laughter come. "Not hardly," she finally said. He looked her up and down, his eyes lingering on her boots, on the span of bare thigh, on her breasts. "Is Rose home?" he asked. Maggie shook her head and gave him a slow, saucy smile. A plan was forming in her brain. Revenge, she thought, the blood pounding in her temples. Revenge. "Would you like to come in and wait for her?" she asked. Jim stared at her, his eyes licking her up and down, and Maggie could practically read his mind. She was Rose, only improved, amplified, digitally perfected; Rose, only a thousand times better. He shook his head. Maggie leaned against the doorframe insolently. "Let me guess," she said in a rich, taunting voice. "You're looking to upgrade from ground chuck to filet." Jim shook his head again, still staring at her. "Or maybe," Maggie continued, "you want both of us. Is that it? A sister sandwich?"
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He stared at her, trying to look outraged, but she could tell from the expression that had flickered across his face just how appealing he found that idea. "Well, you'll have to wait," said Maggie. "Nobody home but little old me." She reached down, grabbed the hem of her T-shirt, pulled it up over her head, arching her back so that her breasts almost brushed his chest. He groaned. She took a short step forward, closing the distance between them. His hands closed over her breasts, and she was sucking at his neck with her hot, avid mouth. "No," he whispered, even as his arms were wrapping around her. "Don't," she said, and wrapped one naked leg around him, pressing herself against him. "Don't what?" And now she lifted her other leg so that she was twined around him like a snake, and he moaned as he lifted her and carried her inside. "Don't tell me no."
By the time she made it back to her apartment building, it was almost nine o'clock, and the elevator was crowded. Rose wedged herself into the last available bit of space and tried to ignore the suffocating perfume of the woman next to her. "I swear, either I'm going crazy, or there's a dog in this building," the woman announced to the elevator at large. Rose stared at her feet. "I don't know who'd be inconsiderate enough to have a pet here," the woman continued. "There are people with terrible allergies." Rose glanced up desperately at the floor indicator. Third floor. Thirteen to go. "People are unbelievable," the woman continued. "They just don't care! Tell them what the rules are, and they say, 'Oh, well, those are rules for other people. Not for me. Because I'm special, Finally, the scent-drenched lady got off the elevator, and Rose arrived at her floor. Walking down the hallway, she hoped that her sister would be home, and began rehearsing her speech. Maggie, we
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need to discuss things. The dog has to go. The calls have to stop. I need my apartment back. I need my shoes back. I need my life back. She turned her key, opened the door, and walked into pitch darkness. She heard voices, a giggle, the little dog's whine. "Maggie?" she called. There was a tie flung over the sofa. Oh, great, she thought bleakly. Now she's bringing guys home to my apartment. And doing God knows what with them on my bed. "Maggie!" she yelled, and walked into the bedroom. And there was her sister, on the bed, absolutely naked except for Rose's new Via Spiga boots, below a naked Jim Danvers. "Oh, no," said Rose. She stood, staring, trying to make sense of what she was seeing. "No," she whispered. Maggie rolled out from beneath Jim and stretched languidly, giving her sister a long look at her slender back, her perfect little butt, her long, smooth legs rising from the black leather boots, before plucking Jim's T-shirt off the floor, pulling it over her head, and strutting out of the room, into the hall, as if it were a catwalk, as if there were an audience of thousands, with flashbulbs and notepads, all of them waiting for her. Jim shot Rose a desperately shamed look and yanked up the blankets. Rose clapped her hand over her mouth, turned and ran to the bathroom, where she threw up into the sink. She ran water until she'd washed the remains of her lunch down the drain. Then she splashed her face, scrubbed her hair back with wet, shaking hands, and went back to the bedroom. Jim had his boxer shorts on, and was scrambling to pull on the rest of his clothes. Rose saw his retainer glinting on her bedside table. "Get out," she said. "Rose," he said, and reached for her hands. "Get out and take her with you. I don't want to see either one of you ever again." "Rose," he said. "Get out! Get out! Get out!" She could hear her voice, spiraling up into a shriek. She reached for something to throw at him—a
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lamp, a candle, a book. Her hand wrapped around a bottle of massage oil, scented with sandalwood. Open. Capless. Recently used, no doubt, and bought with Maggie's credit card, another bill her sister would never pay. She threw it as hard as she could, wishing that it were glass, that it would break up and cut him. Instead, it bounced harmlessly off his shoulder and rolled on the floor, dribbling oil as it rolled beneath her bed. "I'm sorry," Jim muttered, without meeting her eyes. "I'm SAW-REE," Rose parroted. "Oh, you're sorry, huh? And so that makes it okay?" She stared at him, shaking. "How could you? How could you?" She ran through the living room, where Maggie sat on the couch, channel surfing, and into the kitchen. She pulled out a trash bag and started filling it with everything she could find that belonged to either one of them. She snatched Maggie's lighter and cigarettes from the coffee table and threw them in. She picked up Jim's briefcase and hurled it against the wall as hard as she could, hearing a satisfying crack as something inside of it broke. She went to the bathroom and gathered up Maggie's stockings and bras, wisps of black and cream-colored synthetic satin, lined up on the shower curtain rack, and shoved them into the garbage bag, too. Back in the bedroom, Jim was pulling on his pants. Rose ignored him, grabbing Maggie's Fifty Great Resumes workbook. Maggie's nail polish and nail polish remover, her tubes and tins and pots of blush, foundation, mascara, hair mousse, her tiny tank tops and skintight jeans and knockoff Doc Martens from Payless. "Get out, get out, get out," she muttered under her breath, dragging the garbage bag behind her. "Talking to yourself, Rosie Posey?" Maggie called. The words were ice-cold, but Maggie's voice was shaking. "You shouldn't do that. It makes you sound crazy." Rose picked up a sneaker and threw it at her sister's head. Maggie ducked. The shoe bounced off the wall. "Get out of my house," Rose said. "You aren't welcome."
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Maggie hooted. "Not welcome? Well, isn't that too bad." She strolled into the bathroom. Breathing hard, sweating, Rose pulled the bag into her bedroom. Jim had gotten into his clothes, but his feet were still bare. "I don't suppose it would do any good to say that I am sorry." He had gone from looking stricken to just plain sheepish. "Save it for someone who cares," Rose snarled. "Well, I want to say it anyhow." He cleared his throat. "I'm sorry, Rose. You deserve better." "Asshole," she said, in a dead voice that surprised her, and scared her, and reminded her of someone else, from years and years ago. She felt as if this were all happening at a great distance, or to somebody else. "With my sister," she said. "My sister." "I'm sorry," Jim said again. Maggie, who was now standing hip-sprung in the hallway, and who'd gotten herself dressed in painted-on jeans and spaghetti-strapped top, said nothing. "You know the really pathetic part? I could have loved you. And Maggie won't even remember your name," she said to Jim. She felt the words, hateful forbidden words, words she'd never spoken before, bubbling up in her chest. She thought that maybe she should try to stop them, and then she thought, why? Had the two of them tried to stop themselves? "See, Maggie's very pretty, but she's not very bright." She turned, slowly, tucking her hair behind her ears. "In fact, Jim, if I were a betting woman, I'd say that she can't even spell it right now. Three letters long," she said, stabbing three fingers into the air. "And she can't do it. Want to ask her? Huh? Hey, Maggie, you want to give it a try?" From behind her, she heard Maggie gasp. "You're an asshole," she continued steadily, turning back to Jim, pinning him with her eyes. "And you," she said, turning to face her sister. Maggie's face was pale, her eyes were enormous. "I always knew you didn't have a brain. Now I know you don't have a heart." "Fat pig," Maggie muttered. Rose laughed. She dropped the bag and laughed. She rocked
