The Best of Enemies (10 page)

Mimi, my mom’s mother, was half Japanese, so there’s a hint of something exotic in both our faces.
Ted and I inherited the high cheekbones and stupid-thick, straight, dark hair from her side and freckles from Dad’s Scotch-Irish side.
We all have the same small, straight nose and dimpled, determined chin, but John-John and Bobby are more fair, with wavy hair.
Ironically, those two actually look like they could be Kennedy offspring, which is one of the many reasons Ted calls them chowderheads.

Teddy, Bobby, and I share a genetic abnormality called heterochromia iridum, meaning our eyes are these weird, multicolored patches of green and yellow with dark blue outlines.
I don’t like them because the question “What’s your eye color?”
requires an explanation.
We inherited this trait from our mother.
Her mutation was much more pronounced, with one eye of golden-green, and the other a smoky blue-gray.
When my parents met in law school at Whitney in the early seventies, Dad would always sing “Lucy in the Sky with Diamonds” because her name was Lucy and she had kaleidoscope eyes.

I hate that song now.

“I always thought you resembled Pierce Brosnan, Teddy,” Sars says in a rush, anxiously biting her bottom lip.
Again, color flushes across her cheeks.
What the hell, Sars?
Does she seriously have a fever?
She’s practically steaming up her glasses.

“Then that means Jack looks like Pierce Brosnan in drag,” Bobby crows.

Teddy bristles.
“Stop hurting her self-esteem, you douche.”

“Make me.”

Teddy rises imperiously from his stool.
“I will.”

Bobby considers his threat and backs down.
“Good thing I’m a lover, not a fighter.”
He clicks the remote.
“Hey, be sure to keep it down.
Ninja Turtles
is coming on.”

“What are you kids doing?”
Teddy asks, returning his attention to us.

“We’re trying to figure out where to live on campus.
We have to fill out our housing forms and send them in together so we can be roommates,” I explain.
“And now Sars says she doesn’t want to live in a coed dorm, so that seriously narrows our options.”

“I thought you got into Stanford, Sars,” Teddy says.
“Whitney’s good, but it’s no Stanford.”

“I can’t go to college without Jack!”
she replies.

John-John, self-appointed God’s Gift to Evanston, comes sauntering into the kitchen, wearing track pants and Adidas soccer sandals with socks and a perfectly gelled coif.
I just want to run my hands through his dumb, stiff, prissy hair and make it messy.
I swear he thinks he’s Morrissey.
I share a bathroom with him and when he’s home in the summer, his toiletries fill up the entire counter.
“Those two looking for a dorm?
They should live in the Virgin Vault.”

We consider John-John our most expendable brother, in case anyone asks.

“Wait, where?”
Bobby asks, interest momentarily diverted from his beloved break-dancing reptiles.
I’m not sure he watches anything that isn’t animated.

John replies with his ever-present smugness.
“That’s what everyone calls Haverford Hall.
It’s by the Bio building.
Killer campus location, but no male visitation, except for fathers on move-in day.
That’d probably work best for you, squirt.
May as well pack your Melissa Etheridge albums now and greet your lady-lovin’ destiny.
I see a lot of plaid shirts and big watches in your future.”

That’s so unfair.
Just because I’ve never had a boyfriend doesn’t mean I want to play for the other team.
I
like
boys.
A lot.
I’m just not sure how to let them know I want to do more than arm wrestle with them.
(Should I let them win once in a while?)

And if I look just like Teddy, how come guys don’t throw themselves at me like the girls have been doing at him since he was twelve?

Ted doesn’t mind the attention, though.
He’s a total playboy.
Last summer, he had three dates in one day.
He went to lunch with the first girl, hit the beach with another, and took a third to a party.
I figured his plan would devolve into a Peter Brady level of sitcom hilarity but he juggled them just fine.

He’s probably a better brother than he is a boyfriend.

Bobby takes the juice carton Ted whipped at him a few minutes ago and hurls it at John-John before any of the rest of us can dog-pile on him for being his usual unpleasant self.
Pulpy liquid splashes his sweatshirt and he dampens a dish towel to absorb the stain before it sets, grumbling to himself about how he never gets the respect he so richly deserves.
I’m not kidding—this kind of stuff happens a hundred times a day here.
Dad says this is why we can’t have nice things.

Righteously indignant, John tells us, “Whatever, losers, I’m going over to Donnie’s house to play Nintendo,” instead of good-bye as he heads out the back door.
In ten minutes, he’ll have forgotten this incident.

Unless he was a girl, in which case I imagine he’d take the slight to the grave.

Ted says, “Live in Wadsworth Hall.
Square footage is on the small side but if you’re lucky, you’ll get a fourth floor assignment.
A couple of them have fireplaces, but all the rooms have leaded glass, wide molding, and box beam ceilings.”

“They have what?”
I ask.
Sometimes he forgets he’s not speaking to other architecture students.

“That means those rooms retain the original Craftsman style of when first built.
Aesthetics aside, Wadsworth’s centrally located.
You won’t care in August, but wait till you pass under the breezeway of the Engineering building in January and the wind hits you.
Coldest spot in central Illinois, guaranteed.
You’ll thank me for shaving any distance off of your walk.”

Before we can fill out our forms, the doorbell rings.

“Got it,” I say, running down the long hall in my stocking feet.
I pull open the huge double doors (large enough to drive a John Deere tractor–lawn mower through, but don’t ask us how we learned this) to find Sars’s mom.

“Hi, Mrs.
Martin!
What’s up?”

“Hey, sweetie, how are you?”
Mrs.
Martin places a warm palm on my cheek and it’s all I can do not to lean into it like Mikita does when we pet her.
She’s almost more like a grandma because she’s older.
The Martins call Sars their miracle baby because they were both well into their forties when she was born.

Mrs.
Martin is like one of those sitcom moms we watch on Nick at Nite.
Her graying hair’s always brushed really nice and she smells like roses.
She knows how to make a million different kinds of food and she’s always trying new recipes at dinner.
She loves to throw dinner parties and on my birthday, she cooks something she calls “Coquilles Saint Jack” in my honor.
It’s this crunchy, creamy, fishy casserole.
Sounds gross, but it’s the best stuff I ever tasted.
Around here, we know only how to make hot dogs, spaghetti, steak, and reservations.
John says he can cook omelets, but won’t show us how.

Sometimes when I go to Sars’s house for supper, I envy her being an only child and the center of her parents’ universe.
Then I see all the empty chairs at their dinner table (which is never covered by an ongoing game of Risk) and I remember you can’t be lonely in a house like mine.

Mrs.
Martin asks, “Can you please send Sars home, sweetie?
I could use her help getting the house ready for the party.
I wasn’t quite as prepared as I hoped!”

“You need an extra hand?”
I volunteer.

When she smiles, her eyes get all crinkly and I feel calm and safe whenever she’s near.
She was once a nurse, so she’s really good at making everyone around her feel at ease.
“You’re such a doll, but, no.
The party won’t take too long, so don’t worry about it.
But swing by later—I’m making Peanut Butter Wonder Bars.
See you in a bit, sweetie!”

I return to the kitchen where Sars has scooted closer to Teddy.
She’s pressed against his shoulder, and . . .
did she just surreptitiously smell his hair?
Blech.
She jumps when I approach.

“Great news!
Your mom’s making Peanut Butter Wonder Bars later!”

“She came over to tell you that?”
Sars replies, puzzled.
“Weird.”

“Are those the chewy sort-of-a-cookie, sort-of-a-candy deals?”
Bobby asks, suddenly very attentive again.

I nod.
“Roger that.
Hey, Sars, your mom says you’ve gotta go home.
She needs party help or something.”

Sars deflates.
“Oh.
Okay.”

“Doesn’t sound like it’ll take long.
I’m coming over for Wonder Bars later, so no worries.
We’ll get this figured out before the deadline.”

She grabs her stuff from the counter and begins to walk backward toward the door.
“Um, yeah, so, like, see you later, alligators!
Ha!
Maybe we can all go to the movies or something later?
As a group?
Mrs.
Doubtfire
looks really funny.”
Except when she extends this invitation, it seems as though it’s directed more to Teddy than the rest of us.

When we hear the click of the front door, Bobby turns to Teddy and says, “Someone has a big crush on you, bro.”

“Impossible.
You guys are her
family
.”

“That’s a negative, Ghost Rider.
She was practically drooling over your boy here,” Bobby replies.

“Wait,
you
?”
I say, sitting back down on my barstool, swinging around to Ted.
“I mean, no offense, but really?
You?
Does she like you?
I just figured she had a fever or something.”

Teddy shrugs.
“Used to it.
High school chicks dig college guys.”
To Bobby, he says, “One more semester at USC and even you’ll get laid, loser.
Then you can finally give Rosie Palm and her five sisters a break.”
He turns back toward me.
“I don’t date high school chicks, but I’m flattered.
See, I’m into
women
.
Right before break, I hooked up with this Kappa at Henry’s Ale House who used her tongue to—”

I tell him, “Please don’t finish that sentence.
Impressionable youth here.
I mean, I’m happy for you, but the whole notion is super-grody.”

I’m creeped out to no end imagining my brothers having drunken mash sessions.
Although, I bet the idea of
me
kissing a guy likely creeps them out as well, or at least it would until they began to beat the dog shit out of the poor guy.
Fortunately, or not, that’s yet to happen.

Teddy replies, “None taken.”

Hey . . .
hold up, here.
Let’s not be so quick to dismiss this whole notion of Sars dating someone in the family.
The idea may hold some merit.
What if she did indeed eventually hook up with Ted?
Like, when we’re all grown-ups?

I begin to consider the possibilities of a Sars/Teddy potential merger.
Not the worst idea in the world.
The worst idea in the world happened when John bleached his hair and rocked a Caesar cut last summer.
Even poker-faced-Dad-the-litigator had to excuse himself from the room when John came in that day.

If Sars and Ted were to couple up, we’d always be invited to her family’s Thanksgiving dinners and if you’d ever tasted her mom’s apple-cranberry-sausage stuffing, you’d know that’s worth the price of admission right there.

“Would you date Sars?
Not now, but in the distant,
distant
future?”

“Hypothetically?”
Teddy asks.
“If we were both single adults, living downtown or something?”

“Yes,” I say.

“I dunno.
She has potential, but I’ll probably always think of her as a little girl in big glasses.”

“But you’d be open to the possibility?
There’s a chance?”