Twisted Sisters (16 page)

Ancient Chinese Secret

“Do I know you?”

I’m done playing the fake-humble fame game. My status as
Push
’s breakout star is
totes legit
.

According to Bryce and Trevor, that is.

According to Ma, my newfound status is no excuse to skip Thanksgiving with the family.
Argh.

Regardless, instead of being coy or retiring when approached by a fan, I’ve come to
embrace my well-deserved notoriety with open arms. With my most brilliant, freshly
whitened smile, I turn to the fellow Whole Foods patron and look her in the eye.

“
I’m
Dr. Reagan Bishop.”

“Oh, my God, I knew it!” she squeals, and I beam.

This must be what it feels like to be Ol’ Rat Nasty.

(Minus being pelted with drawers.)

Yet while I’m grinning beatifically, I can’t help but notice her cart is overflowing
with wine, bread products, and gelato, which is
so
not the point of shopping here. All those carbs make me feel nauseous. What’s with
her bushel o’ crap? Don’t others care to take advantage of the pesticide-free produce
and bulk-bin chia seeds, and if they’re into that sort of thing, meat classified by
its level of animal-centeredness? Otherwise, why wouldn’t they just hit Trader Joe’s
or Dominick’s?

However, I’m not judging her, because she’s a fan.

Although I bet her fridge is filled with diet soda.

Filled.

Which is none of my business.

She probably enjoys a refreshing Diet Coke while watching me on television.

All I’m saying is I hope she enjoys type 2 diabetes.

She gushes, “
I Need a Push
is the best, the absolute best! My friends and I love your show! I’m Cassie, by the
way—hi! Nice to meet you! Yo, Jessica! Jess! Come here!”

A woman with an armload of tortilla chips, presumably Jessica, rushes over to join
us. She’s cute in that generic, Big Ten–grad, wide-hipped, midwestern way, with straight,
shiny hair and a statement-piece necklace, topped with a utilitarian, all-weather
North Face jacket. The second the icy Canadian winds start rolling in off the lake
in late September, Chicagoans forswear fashion for function. Right now the coats in
this store are running about thirty-five percent North Face, twenty percent Mountain
Hardwear and Arc’teryx, and fifteen percent Patagonia, with the rest divided between
layered hoodies for the trust-funded hipsters and fur for the I’m-so-urban soccer
moms who’ll remain Team City until the first time someone breaks into their Lexus
SUV, at which point they will run like scalded apes to the friendly confines of Wheaton.

“Ohmigod,” Jessica exclaims, “what you did with Tabby Baylee? We were
weeping
! We’ve loved her ever since she was on the CW? In that show? About the college girl?
Who was secretly a member of Homeland Security? Remember? The best! Is she nice? Is
she so awesome in person? Are you friends? Is she on your Facebook? Do you guys text?”

I offer an enigmatic reply. “Tabitha is a superhero, and I mean that in every respect.”

I’m forever in Tabitha’s debt because she proved how easy it would be for us to swoop
in and make the switch. At no point during our swap did she suspect anything, largely
due to Deva’s ministrations.

Deva prepped Tabitha, telling her the three of us were going to do some creative visualization.
Tabitha and I sat next to each other and Deva stood behind us, ostensibly to “help
harness the negative energy.” But really, she just needed to be positioned in a way
where she could slip the matching amulets around our necks at the same time.

When I asked Deva about the origins of the amulets, she replied, “Ancient Chinese
secret,” and it took me a moment to realize she was serious and not just quoting a
classic detergent commercial.

Strung on lengths of black velvet cord, at first glance the amulets looked like any
other statement necklace sported by your average Lincoln Park resident. The amulets
are identical old bronze coins, maybe three inches in diameter, covered in Chinese
lettering on one side, and a head with two faces on the other. When I saw them, I
asked, “Is this an inscription? Do these characters actually mean something?”

Deva replied, “The loose interpretation is, ‘If there is anything that we wish to
change in the child, we should first examine it and see whether it is not something
that could better be changed in ourselves.’”

“I’ve heard that quote before,” I said.

“Probably because I just said it, Reagan Bishop.”

“No, it’s quite familiar. Have I read it somewhere?” I pulled my phone out and noticed
the shadow cast across Deva’s face.

“I’m Googling, okay? I’m not spying on anyone’s Facebook profile. No need for panic.”
Sheesh. You
accidentally
stalk one ex-boyfriend and suddenly the whole world thinks you’re filling a panel
van full of candy to cruise the parking lot at the junior high school.

My search results populated immediately. “I knew I recognized that quote! Carl Jung
said it!”

Deva looked at me quizzically. “Is he a friend of yours, Reagan Bishop?”

“No! Jung founded the whole analytical psychology school of thought.”

“Was he Chinese?”

“Swiss.”

Deva shrugged. “Then he must have been a fan of the Shang dynasty, Reagan Bishop,
because that’s where these are from.”

As I didn’t care to argue whether Carl Jung was a plagiarist or a psychiatrist, I
instead focused on exactly what I needed to do for a seamless switch.

Deva told me that the second Tabitha and I touched the coordinating amulets, we’d
project into one another’s bodies. When the time came, I can’t be sure if Tabitha
felt the same kind of change that I did when I landed in her skin. But before we started,
Deva had clearly explained that any disjointed feelings were part of the process,
so if Tabitha felt anything odd, she kept it to herself.

Thank God.

I’m sure if she’d heard my voice coming out of what she assumed were her own lips,
the damage would have been irreparable.

As soon as I finished filming, I dashed back to the dressing room. I sat down next
to her and Deva removed our amulets. And just like that, we were back in our own bodies.

No fuss, no muss.

The only real management involved Deva making sure that Tabitha kept both her mouth
and her eyes closed so she wouldn’t look down and suddenly be disappointed in her
cup size. Afterward, we explained to Tabitha she’d been hypnotized, which was why
she wouldn’t remember having been on the Ledge.

Did I feel dirty when the deed was done?
Yes.

Was I wrapped around the axle in terms of moral equivocation?
Indeed.

Did I swear to myself that I’d never perpetrate such a falsehood again?
Um . . .

I
meant
for the swap to be a onetime thing, I truly did. But everyone was so excited about
the results, especially Tabitha. She wanted to nail the scene more than anyone. When
we wrapped, I referred her to a clinical psychologist in LA to continue with exposure
work, so I felt like I did as much as I could given the parameters. And maybe I wasn’t
the best psychologist on television, but I was an outstanding television psychologist.

That counts, too.

Just ask Dr. Phil.

Cassie enthuses, “What about when the Olympic equestrian climbed back on her horse
for the first time since her accident? OMG, waterworks!” She makes spirit fingers
up by her chin when she says this.

That was a powerful episode, if I do say so myself. Was I sure to toss in one quick
jump over the exact same triple-barred obstacle where the rider had been thrown in
the first place? You betcha. Kassel said that episode had Emmy written all over it.

If only they awarded Emmys for giving perms, am I right, Geri?

“How ’bout when the guy who was afraid of flying took that chopper ride around the
city?” Jessica adds. I really had to rein in my excitement—I’ve always wanted to see
Chicago from a helicopter. I’ve flown over it dozens of times coming in and out of
O’Hare, but there’s something about the perspective from the chopper that makes the
whole town come alive.

Cassie grabs Jessica’s arm. “Or when the high school mean girl finally apologized
to her victims all those years later?” For some reason, Deva seemed particularly invested
in this episode. Not for nothing, but that band geek slaps really hard. You’d have
thought she played the drums, not the clarinet. I felt a lot of pent-up rage in that
backhand. A lot. I’m sure that guest Lissy’s face ached for a week afterward.

“Yes, yes,” I agree. “It’s all a rich tapestry.”

I’m sure my professors would be appalled if they had a clue about the sorcery I helped
perpetrate. Or they would, if I were a psychologist on television, rather than a television
psychologist.

Yet in many ways, I’ve come to believe my ends justify my means. A lot of people are
afraid to fly, or confront their enemies, or try something new and frightening. By
showing regular people experiencing victories on such a national platform, I’m surely
helping masses of viewers, even if my results aren’t exactly lasting for the guests
themselves. But they’re all given the option of DBS-sponsored therapy afterward, so
they’re in competent hands.

As it’s best to not let anyone genuflect for too long, I must take my leave. “Ladies,
I so appreciate your stopping to say hello, and I’m delighted you’re enjoying the
show. Because it’s Thanksgiving week, we won’t be airing a new episode, but tune in
next Thursday. Spoiler alert, have your Kleenex handy!”

I haven’t yet heard what we’re filming next, but that’s not terribly relevant. Rest
assured, I
will
make them cry.

We say our good-byes and I meander over to the bulk bins, where I’m debating the merits
of whole flaxseed versus ground when the pocket of my North Face jacket vibrates.
I pull out my phone and glance down at the message from Tiffany, the show’s publicist.

CHICAGO NOUVEAU MAG WANTS TO DO FEATURE ON U—U HAVE ARRIVED!

I sigh with contentment.

Indeed, I have arrived.

•   •   •

“Congrats on the
Chicago Nouveau
business, Peace Corps! Great for you, even better for
Push
. See? This is what I consider ‘big.’”

“And no cats had to be flattened in the process. Everyone wins!” I quip.

“When’s the interview?” Kassel leans back in his chair, placing his hands behind his
head. Now that I’m in his good graces, I’ve come to despise him a whole lot less,
and barely dread our weekly one-on-ones.

“Next month,” I reply. “They want to include it in their January first ‘Nouveau Year,
Nouveau You’ piece.”

“Nice. Very nice.” He stretches and I find myself craning my neck to see if I can
catch a glimpse of his six-pack. (I don’t hold out hope for Boyd’s V-cut, though.
No one with an actual day job could have one of those.)

You know, it’s rare for a man to wear a sweater well. Generally, sweaters add bulk
and almost never fit properly, but as he reclines in his chair, I can definitely see
the outline of abs beneath the cashmere. Kudos to his tailor. Or trainer. Or parents.
Possibly all four.

I modestly reply, “I’m duly flattered by their attention,” at no point mentioning
my having accidentally shouted,
Who’s the favorite now, Geri?
in front of the display of nut butters.

He leans forward conspiratorially. “Listen, Peace Corps, I was saving this news for
the next staff meeting, but I’ll let you in on it now because you’re such a major
portion of their decision: Santanos Mills is becoming a sponsor!”

I feel frozen in my chair, but clearly he’s waiting for a reaction, so I say, “Wow,
that’s . . .”

Disturbing? Shocking? Outrageous?

Not only have Santanos Mills soy products been linked to a sudden onset of testicular
cancer in laboratory rats, but their factories are the worst offenders in terms of
environmental damage due to pesticides and herbicides. They’re also the largest proponent
of using GMOs—genetically modified organisms—in their products. And their line of
Chomp-tastic prepackaged children’s meals? Revolting. The sodium alone in one perfectly
circular slice of their Hamnificent Hamlike Meat Product exceeds a child’s recommended
daily allowance by 153 percent!

(Have you any comprehension of how little actual ham has to be included in a product
before the FDA disallows the producer to use the word
ham
? Trust me, this is not knowledge you want.)

(By the way, when I quoted these stats to Mary Mac, do you know what she said to me?
“If I have to make seven individual school lunches every day, I will kill self-comma-others.
Sometimes a prepacked Chomp-tastic is the only thing standing between me and Susan
Smith.”)

Kassel rears back to give me a high five, as though Santanos Mills is a victory we
should celebrate. “Team
Push
!” he cheers. Then he notices my expression. “Hey, is everything copacetic with you,
Peace Corps? You seem off.”

I quickly try to cover up my distress. But my God, the Santanos Mills business is
worrisome. I can justify my actions with the amulets due to being a television psychologist
and not vice versa, but there’s little I can do to make peace with their practices.

However, ultimately Santanos Mills will be paying my salary and I’m loath to seem
ungrateful. So I quickly come up with a lie that, as soon as I say it, rings true.
“I’m just dreading the holidays,” I say.

“This is a hard time of year,” he agrees. As he speaks, he toys with the small, crude
ceramic bowl he keeps on the corner of his desk. The piece is fairly incongruous with
the whole turn-of-the-century robber-baron look going on in the rest of the office.
He recently brought in a new equestrian oil painting that appears to be directly out
of a villain-in-an-eighties-teen-movie’s house. Kassel notices me watching him and
offers, “My kid made this a couple of years ago in art class. It’s an ashtray, even
though I don’t smoke.”