The Best of Enemies (33 page)

I move closer.
“Um, obviously.”

“She kept trying to negotiate with me about sex.
Said she’d only do it if I gave her my fraternity pin.
Listen, I’m graduating next year and I have to keep my grades up if I want to get into UCLA med school.
I’ve got to buckle down so hard I’m living off campus in an apartment next year.
Plus, I’m in charge of pledge education.
I have a shit-ton on my plate.
There’s ten solid years of school and residencies and fellowships in front of me.
The last thing I’m going to do right now is get preengaged, you know?
I told her, if that’s what you need, then I can wait.
I’m cool.
Why am I telling you this?
I can’t believe I’m telling you this.
Anyway, so instead of taking it slow with me, the last actual gentleman on earth, she hooks up with your brother and then lies about it?
I don’t get it.”

“Yet she wanted to give it to you; I can see your dilemma.”

He grins and I notice he has a dimple on the right side.
“Forgot you were funny, Jackie.
Always liked hanging out with you.
You owe me a rematch.
You cannot consistently be that good at foosball.
You can’t.”

Ugh, stupid Jackie.
That name has never fit.
“Do me a favor and call me Jack.”

He nods, seeming to digest my request while scanning my face.
“You seem more like a Jack.
Jacks are badass, you know?
All of ’em.
Jack Nicholson.
Jack Nicklaus.
Jack LaLanne.”

“Please.
Jack LaLanne is, like, a hundred years old.”
At this moment, I’ve almost forgotten about being nervous.
Sean is smart and, by virtue of my pants still being on, chivalrous.
Why would Kitty throw all this away for Teddy and his microscopic attention span?

“He’s still doing one-armed push-ups!
LaLanne could kick my ass
today
, so my point’s valid.
Who else?
There’s Jack Ruby.”

“Interesting you bring him up, considering all my siblings and I were named after Kennedys.”

“See?
I pay attention.
And how about Jack Kennedy?
All those guys he saved on his PT boat?
Badass.
Then you’ve got the one-two punch of Jack Johnson and Jack Dempsey, pun intended.
Thesis statement?
Jacks London
and
Kerouac.”

“I may fall spontaneously in love at your knowing how to pluralize Jacks.”
Then I blush furiously, not having realized what I was saying until it was too late.

UGH, THIS IS WHY BOYS DON’T WANT TO DATE ME.

Somehow determined to save me from my awkward self, Sean says, “Eh, not the worst reason.
Better than being into someone for their Ralph Lauren shirts, right?
Speaking of worse, do you really want to drink these wine coolers?
I’m worried they’ll give us diabetes.”

“They’re horrible, right?
Like cough syrup, sans the whimsy.”

He stands, holding out a hand to help me up.
His grip is warm and firm.
“Let’s go do something fun.
We’re young, we’re free, and it’s Saturday night.
Let’s burn shit.
Figuratively.
Or we can go back to the Beta house, where they probably will burn something literally.
Last week the pledges torched a couch.
Now we have to sit on the floor in the TV room.”

I tell him, “The only event I heard about tonight is an all-male version of
Little Women
at the experimental theater.”

He looks at me long and hard.
His gaze is . . .
smoldering.
Is that a thing, smoldering?
Now I kind of wish he would make a move on me.
Yes.
I would indeed be fine with that.
“I’m going to pretend I didn’t hear that.
I may have to drink this bottle of glucose to erase the image from my mind.
Okay, you and me?
We’re making a plan.
You have boots?”

“I live in Illinois and it’s January; of course I have boots.”

“Then I presume you have a warm coat, mittens, and a hat.
Possibly some long underwear.”

“Affirmative, Ghost Rider.”

“Then suit up, Maverick; I feel the need for speed.”

•   •   •

“You’re a lunatic.
Take that as a compliment.”

“You’re a complete wuss.
Not a compliment.”

“I don’t want to fall and break my hands, wreck my career before it even starts.”

“That’s a fancy way to say, ‘I’m chicken.’”

We’re at the bottom of the highest run on Squires Hill, where the sledding is every bit as good as I imagined.
I just won a bet by taking the hill standing astride dining hall trays, riding them like two small, square skis.
The whole crowd burst into applause when I finished upright.

“Bawk, bawk,” he replies.

The flurries are still coming down and the moon’s out, making the hill almost bright as day.
I feel like I’m in the middle of a snow globe.
There are dozens of other students out here with us and for once, no one cares who’s Greek and who’s not or who’s drinking hot chocolate instead of swigging schnapps.
We’re just a bunch of big kids enjoying the rush.
Tonight is absolutely the most fun I’ve had since starting college.

I stopped feeling nervous around Sean about three hours ago, right after I made my first trip down the hill at the front of a two-person toboggan.
Told Sean I was likely the better pilot, so he acquiesced and I was the one to steer.
We wiped out in a spectacular fashion because we were going way too fast, our tilted sled sending a spray of icy snow out twenty feet.
I’ve crushed him so handily every time we’ve raced back up the hill that I assume I’ve inadvertently entered the Friend Zone again.

Can’t believe I’ve not suggested we arm wrestle.
But I’m sure I will.

So, when Sean eventually suggests we get out of our wet, freezing cold clothes back in my dorm room, I take the statement at face value.

Um . . .
way off on that.

Did falling asleep half dressed in his arms start World War III when Kitty arrives home twelve hours early, jumping to a conclusion that wouldn’t technically be true for another three months of our covert dating?

Abso-flipping-lutely.

And worth it.

To: Undisclosed Recipients

From: [email protected]

Subject: Good and bad news

Hi, all!

Thanks a million for coming to Avery’s party.
Good news?
She’s still over the moon about the fun and friends.
You are all simply THE BEST.
She’ll be sending her own thank you notes out shortly.

The bad news?
Well, there’s been the teensiest wrinkle to what otherwise was the MOST PERFECT DAY!
Your child may or may not have been exposed to lice.
But fear not, fellow moms!
I’ve already arranged to take care of any child who may have been impacted.
Please call Denise at Hair I Go Again (contact info on attached VBC) for your confidential, prepaid, in-home delousing.

Have a wonderful summer!

Brooke B.

Attachment: VBC, Click to Download

The Monaco, Chicago

Wednesday

“I vote we deal with the lice in the morning and we leave for the Monaco now,” Jack says.

“Right now?”

“Yes.”

“Like this?”
I point to my yoga pants, bare face, and damp bun.

“Yes.”

I remark, “You’ve never been to a nightclub, have you?”

“I have been to clubs all around the world,” Jack replies.

“I don’t doubt that, Miss Global Entry.
But how many of these clubs were in the
first
world?
Any place the women wear those burlap sacks over their heads?
Doesn’t count,” I say.

“Number one, offensive, number two, they’re called burkas, and number three, you don’t see devout Muslim women in Western clubs
at all
in the Middle East.”

“Let me explain something to you, Jordan—we’re not in Kabul.
You might be the hottest chick to ever don a flak jacket in Over-there-istan, but here in Chicago?
You wouldn’t make it past the door like that.
Nor would I.
Granted, I haven’t been to a club since before Kord was born, but I’m sure nothing’s changed.
We show up at eight p.m.
in exercise togs and the doorman will laugh us down the street.
We need to work on our look before we venture anywhere.”

Jack stamps her foot.
“Wrong.
I am not your Barbie styling head and this is not Queen for a Day at the Omega Moo house.
Makeovers?
Not happening.
We need to interrogate the roommates, for
Sars
, so let’s hustle.”

“Jack, I’m not fighting you.
Let me explain in terms you understand,” I tell her, with as much patience as possible.
If I can’t convince her why I’m right, we’re destined to fail.
“Would you, say, minesweep in board shorts and a tank top?
Of course not!”

“Are you referring to minesweeping, which is the act of mine detection, or mine-clearing, which is an entirely separate entity and entails the physical removal process?”

“Either-flipping-or,” I reply tersely and then I stop myself.

Calm blue ocean.
Calm blue ocean.

Okay.
Better.

I say, “My point is, the minesweepers and the mine-clearers wouldn’t dare head into danger without their gloves and helmets, right?
Running pell-mell into a field of potential landmines could be a death sentence, yes?
I’m trying to prevent our accidentally getting exploded.
Metaphorically.”

Grudgingly, Jack admits, “Well, protective equipment
is
a key component to survival, should the process go awry.
I’ve written about soldiers experiencing great success using the Guartel Inflatable Mine Shoes, which allow them to—”

“Super!”
I crow.
“You grasp the concept.
Perfect.
Then consider this—you and I are heading into a different
kind
of battle tonight.
If we show up to the Monaco in yoga pants or mom jeans or a Junior Leaguer shift, we’re done before we begin.
We can’t get in without having properly groomed, having dressed for success.
We want to blend and we need the right kind of camouflage.”

“So you’re saying we participate in a makeover, which, I’ve already established, is a no.”

“How do you not get this?
I am
not
advocating for a makeover.
Makeovers, wonderful though they may be, are not appropriate here.
Makeovers are for nineties movie montages.
Makeovers turn you into someone more elegant,
beaucoup
sophisticated,
trés
refined.
To go ‘clubbing,’ we’re striving for less elegant, less sophisticated, and less refined.
Even if our mission is to go in all CIA, we need to
look
DTF.”

“DTF?”

“Down to—never mind.
We need a
skank-over
.
Remember at the end of the movie
Grease
where Sandy got all tarted up in the shiny cigarette pants and poufy hair?
That’s the game plan.
We need to be made
under
.
And I have just the person to call for help.”

•   •   •

“Awesomesauce!”
Ashley coos, sweeping the final coat of body glitter across my collarbone.
“Ohmigod, if the PTO could see you now!
You should put your new look on your blog.
Everyone would pin the crap out of this!”

“For sure!”
I reply, knowing my posting this outfit is as likely as me sharing my secret Snickerdoodle ingredient with Brooke Birchbaum.
(Homemade pumpkin pie spice with grated, crystallized ginger.) “But in case I forget, you’re still a total lifesaver, thank you so much!
I owe you a massive favor.
And a favor from Kitty Carricoe?
Is money in the bank.
Fact.”

Upon the news of our last-minute club-themed costume party (the easiest explanation), Ashley came rushing over with cases of cosmetics, scores of fake hairpieces, and stacks of dresses.
I chose the only garment that would accommodate both a strapless bra and a pair of Spanx.
The downside is the halter holding up my bodice is made of chain link, which is freezing cold against my skin.
But at least I’m not Jack, stuck in a hot pink pleather one-shoulder sheath with a gigantic, daisy-shaped cutout up the side and
Pretty Woman
–style, thigh-high platform boots.

“Where’d you learn to do all of this?
Are you a makeup artist or film costumer?
If not, you should be,” Jack says.
I can see why she’d be incredulous, with Ashley all radiant and summer-chic in a blousy Tory Burch tunic, Jack Rogers wedges, and skinny white Bermudas, hair simply secured in a low, messy bun.

“Eh, I helped on some music videos, nothing real serious, though.
This was my daily style before Kitty taught me to be all classy,” Ashley replies.
“I’m taken way more serious now, totes legitamittens!”

“Then well-done.
I’m a completely different person in this outfit.
I feel like Mata Hari,” Jack says, turning back and forth in front of the mirror, far less distressed than I’d expect.
Ashley’s given Jack straight-up Kardashian-inspired hair, slicked back from her face and pulled high and tight, with a fake ponytail that hangs all the way to her waist.
To make the extension seamless, Ashley’s braided the ends of Jack’s real hair and wrapped the piece around the clip of the fall, in a woven crown.
Her makeup is fairly minimal, save for the J.Lo–style false mink lashes, so long and full they graze her cheekbones when she blinks.
“The shoes will probably end me, but otherwise, I’m all ready for
the costume party
.”

“How do you like your look, Kitty?
Bet you wish Dr.
K were here to see you!”

Actually, that’s not untrue.
I’m a sleazy kind of hot, too.
Whereas Jack’s all smooth and sleek, I’m leonine with my flowing, clip-in golden mane and air-brushed bronzer.
I’m less Snack Mom and more MILF right now.

“It’s fab!
I should borrow all this hair again so Kassie can trick-or-treat as Rapunzel.
Where did you get all the clip-ins?
I thought you never wore extensions,” I say.

“Barry and I are into cosplay.”

So I probably won’t borrow the hair again.

Ashley circles around me, not completely satisfied.
“Something’s missing . . .
oh, I know.”
She reaches into one of her tubs and pulls out what looks like a set of chicken cutlets.
Without a second’s hesitation, she’s suddenly rooting around inside my bodice.

“Buy a girl a drink first!”
I cry.
Yet when she’s done, I do appear . . .
perkier.
Like those three full years of breastfeeding never actually happened.

“Better, right?”

I have to agree.
Can I purchase these from her?

Jack says, “Ashley, you are a girl to the nth degree . . .
much to our collective advantage.
Thank you.”

“No probs!
So, who’s having the party tonight?”
Ashley asks, packing up all her lotions and unguents.

“Some of the hygienists from the office,” I reply.

“Cool!
Gotta run.
You both look
to die
, so have fun!
Kisses!”

We depart soon afterward, but not before Nana Baba nearly wets herself laughing at us.
Even though she understands what we’re doing and why the costuming is necessary, we can hear her choke and snort all the way down the drive.

We climb into the back of the cab and give the driver our destination in the Gold Coast downtown.
“You ladies workin’ tonight?”
he asks with a leer.

“That depends.
Are you planning on collecting a tip tonight?”
Jack replies.
After that, he stays quiet.

“So we’re ready,” she says to me.
“Ashley’s makeunder is kind of genius.”

“Right,” I reply, “but we still need some help.
Do you know anyone who has recent experience attracting women in their twenties?”

Jack places a quick call to Bobby and relays his advice.
“He says we need to get a table with bottle service and offer the girls free drinks.”

I feel an irrational twinge of something—jealousy?—but I can’t even imagine why.
I’m a married mom of three and he’s a man-child.

Even if he is a decent listener.

“Bobby says that’s the second fastest way to win them over.”

I shake thoughts of him out of my head and refocus on what’s important.
“What’s the first fastest way?”
I ask.

“Free drugs.”

“Bottle service it is.”

•   •   •

Without Ashley’s careful ministrations and her “chicken cutlets,” we’d have never been granted entry to the Monaco.
We’d have never mixed so seamlessly with the rest of the clubgoers.
Ashley’s makeunder has delivered us halfway to the finish line, but we still have to find answers.

We reel in Ingrid’s roommates, all of whom I recognize from their Instagram accounts, with a story of a breakup and “grrrrl power” and a boyfriend’s stolen credit card.
Tonight we’re calling ourselves Patsy and Edina in honor of
Absolutely Fabulous
, a show Jack and I used to watch together.
To “prove” our story, Jack even flashes her platinum AMEX (really?) with her shortened first name on the front.