Twisted Sisters (21 page)

Georgette takes a delicate sip from the water bottle she’s been clutching. “What’s
funny is it’s not even the whole physical act that I miss so much, although that’s
part of it. I miss . . . waking up with someone else. I miss lazy Sundays reading
the paper together. I miss all the little intimacies that come from sharing space
with a significant other. I miss seeing my guy all curled up on my girly sofa, surrounded
by my pastel pillows and scented candles. Heck, I miss my furniture. It’s all been
in storage ever since I went to China in the first place.”

Gary focuses his camera on Georgette.

“Sounds like you’re dealing with a lot of losses,” Geri affirms.

“Never considered it that way, but you’re right. I miss having a bathroom free from
my mother’s knee-highs drying on the shower curtain rod. I miss throwing dinner parties.
I miss quiet and privacy. I adore my folks, don’t get me wrong, but I miss . . . having
the opportunity to miss them. They won’t be around forever, and I hate that I resent
their constant presence in my life.”

Geri begins removing the little foils, letting each one drop on the floor as she works
from the top of Georgette’s forehead to the back of her skull. Yeah, sure, just put
those foils anywhere, Pigpen.

“I guess I don’t understand what’s keeping you at home. Is it the financial thing,
like me? Maybe you can get a loan or something.”

Georgette blinks away a tear. “Actually, money isn’t my problem. My problem is I can’t
handle everyone being angry with me for leaving. I’m trapped and I can’t seem to find
the words to express how trapped I feel.”

Geri spins Georgette around to look her in the eye. “So what you’re telling me is
you’re willing to subjugate your own happiness because if you don’t it’ll make your
sisters mad?”

Where/when did Geri pick up the word “subjugate”?

Georgette says nothing. A couple of more tears escape and Geri hands her a Kleenex.
“Sweetie, you’re better than that. You deserve more than that. When you look back
on your life you’re not going to be all,
I wish I’d made my sisters happier
. They
have
their lives, and they’re bitches—lazy bitches—for not allowing you to have one yourself.
Don’t let them take advantage of your generous nature. I guarantee your folks would
rather hire a home assistant or a visiting nurse than live with the notion that you
gave up your youth to babysit them just to satisfy a pack of bitches. Guaran-damn-tee.”

Geri has Georgette rise from the chair and they head over to the wash sink.

“No.” Georgette stops in her tracks.

Geri’s puzzled. “No, you don’t want me to rinse your hair? Hon, I need to remove the
dye so your scalp doesn’t stain red.”

Georgette pulls off the cape and wraps a towel around her shoulders. “You can rinse
my hair in a minute. This can’t wait.” Without further ado, she marches out of the
makeup room and down the hall to the greenroom, where her sisters are gathered.

Gary’s hot on her heels with the rest of the crew, but I don’t need to follow to catch
what she’s saying. Pretty much everyone in the WeWIN studio can hear her right now.

Georgette kicks open the door. “We need to talk, bitches.”

•   •   •

“To Geri!” Everyone cheers and raises their glasses.

If we toast her one more time, I may have an aneurysm.

Due to today’s events, not only am I not to be featured on the midseason finale, but
the entire episode stars Geri, a bottle of dye, and a pusillanimous woman who was
suddenly emboldened by a bit of profanity. And here I spent all that time learning
the intricacies of the human mind, when I should have simply practiced giving scalp
massages.

Geri’s reveling in all the attention, wolfing back beers as though drinking and not
shampooing was suddenly her chosen profession.

We’re at Haymarket Pub & Brewery on Randolph, having our informal holiday celebration.
The event is specifically “informal” because we’re expected to pay for our drinks
ourselves, as the no-free-lunch policy extends all the way up the DBS chain of command.

Although the party was already scheduled for tonight, the event is extra-festive,
due to Saint Geri and the Miracle at Losers. Not only did Georgette tell off her sisters;
she immediately contacted her old supervisor in Changchun to inquire about open teaching
positions. By the time she was rinsed, clipped, and blown dry, she’d arranged a whole
new life for herself.

Yet do any of my coworkers give me a moment’s credit for my efforts with Georgette
prior to her sitting in Geri’s chair? Of course not. Much like with a tricky pickle
jar, I was the one who loosened the seal before Geri finally pried it open. But you’d
never suspect I was even a player considering how everyone else is carrying on.

Also? Georgette’s color is garish. There. I said it.

Geri, surrounded by every member of the
Push
staff, as well as a number of our freelancers, climbs up on her chair and holds her
glass aloft. “To the Bisshy Sissies!”

Even completely sauced, she’s keeping the fiction going that she just loves me sooooo
much and any problems I have with her are all in my own head. I wouldn’t believe the
way she operates if she hadn’t already been like this her entire life.

I remember one summer when I was fifteen, I was sitting in my room reading
Anne of Green Gables
. I’d just gotten to the part where Anne saved Diana’s baby sister when Geri marched
by. She looked at me and at my book and then smirked and yelled, “Ma! Reagan says
I’m stupid because I don’t like to read!”

No one believed me when I argued that I’d never said that, because the truth is I
didn’t disagree with her assessment. Later, she admitted to me she’d simply been bored
and thought it would be hilarious to “get the Goody Two-shoes” in trouble.

Yes. Ha-ha-ha, I hate you.

Geri’s fairly wobbly on her stool and Kassel reaches up to steady her, bracing her
with his magnificent wrists. “Steady there, rock star,” he says. She laughs, he laughs,
everyone laughs, and I want to karate chop the bar in half.

All the guys fight to help her down, and while they do, Kassel meanders over to me.
“Hey, Peace Corps, any idea how Geri got here tonight?”

“Broomstick?” I offer.

“She didn’t drive, did she?” I’m touched by his level of concern for Geri’s well-being.
Truly.

I say, “I think she drove to the studio this morning, but she was in the group of
us who walked over here.” Or stomped, in my case.

Kassel keeps stealing glances over my shoulder. “Well, I want to make sure she gets
home. I’m going to offer her a ride.”

“No!”
I shout, and then catch myself. “I mean, heh, no need. She’ll be . . . staying with
me tonight. I’ll make sure she’s fine. After all”—I give him my brightest smile and
toss my hair—“that’s what sisters do.”

Geri’s now leading the entire bar in a rousing rendition of Journey’s “Don’t Stop
Believin’.” “You may want to take her sooner rather than later. Otherwise, she’s going
to have a very unpleasant tomorrow.”

“I’d hate for that to happen,” I reply, biting my tongue so hard I practically taste
blood.

Kassel rubs his hands together, as though in anticipation. “Yeah, we’re having brunch
and I wouldn’t want her to miss it.”

For the second time today, I feel as though I’ve been sucker punched.

“Don’t stop be-leeee-vin’!”

“Listen, can you give her this?” He hands me his business card. In addition to his
professional information, he’s also written down his cell, his landline, his e-mail
address, his home address, his Twitter, Tumblr, and Instagram handles, as well as
his Facebook page.

“Are you not on Pinterest?” I ask.

Kassel begins to panic. “Will she need that? Happy to provide—”

“I’m kidding.”

“Oh. I really want to hear from her, is all. Do me a proper and remind her that we’re
on at Original Pancake House tomorrow at noon? The one in Lincoln Park, not the Gold
Coast?”

“Of course,” I reply in my most compliant tone.

See?
I’m
nice.
I’m
helpful. And I’m cute as can be, so why doesn’t he want to take
me
out for pancakes? (Except that I would never eat them, because gross.) What am I
doing wrong? Why isn’t he into me? Is it because I’m rusty on this whole flirting
business?

And how is it that Geri can waltz in, do virtually nothing, be her bullshit self,
and then be lauded as the Second Coming? Look at her; right now, men are lined up
to talk to her.
Literally
lined up. How fair is that?

Kassel gives me a brotherly chuck on the shoulder. “You’re a dream, Peace Corps. A
real dream.”

Really? Then why does everything feel like such a nightmare?

It’s Just Brunch

Immoral. Unethical. Most likely illegal.

I berate myself as I speed walk down Clark Street. I’d sprint, but that’s not possible
for a variety of reasons.

Queasy. Don’t forget queasy.

This is literally the worst thing I’ve ever done, as a doctor, as a person, and, to
a lesser extent, as a sister.

Yet I couldn’t stop myself.

There Geri was, head tipped back on my couch, all bloated and snoring. She wouldn’t
move to a proper bed, no matter how hard I tried to persuade her. She kept saying,
“Nooo, is too squishy-fantastic!” in reference to the buttery cashmere throw she was
drooling all over.

So anyone who’s priced contemporary sofas lately couldn’t blame me for what happened
next.

Right?

Technically, this is Trevor and Bryce’s fault anyway.

“Hey, Dr. B!” Trevor poked his head out into the vestibule after I’d wrestled Geri
up the front steps last night. “Kind of late for you. Burnin’ the midnight oil, son!
Or were you out with a playa, playa?” Then he spotted Geri under my arm and promptly
lost his marbles. “Yo, yo, yo—where my G-spot at?”

Which prompted Geri to point at herself and crow, “G-spot’s right here, bitches!”

Then Bryce scrambled out and the three of them pretty much danced up the stairs while
spouting gibberish, a bottle of their current libation in tow.

Cupcake-flavored vodka.

They were drinking
cupcake
-
flavored vodka
.

I’d recently perused a journal article about how kids have been imbibing via a method
called “butt chugging” which involves a tampon soaked in liquor and a lack of back
door inhibitions. At the time, I couldn’t understand why anyone would ingest alcohol
from that end until learning that
cupcake-flavored vodka
was indeed a thing now. Frankly, the feminine-protection angle seems like the lesser
of two evils.

I felt it behooved me to provide the three of them with drinking glasses, given the
alternative. They did their shots and brayed like a pack of jackasses until Geri nodded
off.

“Okay, boys, I need your help putting Geri to bed,” I said.

“Why can’t she sleep on the couch?” Trevor asked.

“Because a couch is not a bed,” I replied.

Trevor seemed confused. “That’s like saying an apple is not a bong. Maybe that’s not
its intended purpose, but, y’know, ingenuity and shit.”

To which I replied, “Trevor, tell me you never vote.”

He said, “Nah, no one watches
American Idol
anymore. All about
The Voice
, playa!”

I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again—I weep for the youth of this nation.

“Please help me roll Geri’s ponderous bulk into the guest room.”

“Totes would, but the thing is? My mom says I’m hypoglycemic, and I can’t lift anything
until I have a snack.” He held up his trembling hands. “See? Weak as a kitten. Couldn’t
even swat away a fly.”

I’m not sure what it was about the word “swat,” but it caused something in Bryce to
come unhinged. “Swat? You say swat, son?” He burst into song.
“You can do the Brooklyn Swat!”
and then he began air humping my ficus tree while Trevor slapped at the air in front
of him as though to simulate a spanking, ironic because I’m sure this kid never received
corporal punishment a single day in his life. Even Geri (who I thought was deeply
asleep) managed to shimmy her shoulders against the back of the couch.

This continued for a solid thirty seconds until it stopped, as inexplicably as it
started, right as I was about to dial 911 to report three concurrent seizures.

Is this some kind of meme?

Is this what I missed by not attending parties in college and not using the Internet
for anything but research?

Then the guys both made a mad dash for my kitchen. “Time to bust a grub, son!” Bryce
exclaimed, throwing open the pantry door. “Yo, jelly beans!” He opened a glass jar
of pinto beans and stuffed a handful into his mouth, before promptly spitting them
all over the floor. “Yo,
not
jelly beans.”

“Where’s all your casseroles?” Trevor asked, his not-currently-chugging butt sticking
out of my Sub-Zero.

“Were the two of you raised by Philistines?” I demanded, grabbing a whisk broom and
dustpan.

“Yeah, Main Line, baby! Gladwyne represent!” Trevor shouted.

Weep.

“This is a travesty and shit,” Bryce proclaimed, examining the spare shelves. “Gonna
do a Kickstarter because you broke, son. Otherwise, you’d have snacks.”

“I am definitely not broke, first of all. Plus, see? I have Greek yogurt, almond milk,
blueberries, pasture-raised eggs, chickpeas, peppers, and fresh kale.” I despise feeling
like I have to defend my healthy choices, especially to two uninvited guests.

“That’s why you’ve got no junk in your trunk, Dr. B. Time to chow mein! Men like something
we can hold on to,” Trevor explained. “In bed, I mean.”

“So I gathered.”

“Mo’ booty, mo’ cutie,” Bryce added, nodding sagely.

I struggle to maintain my composure. “Tell your parents I’m raising your rent at the
first of the year.”

“’S’cool,” Bryce replied. “Obvs you need the dolla dolla bills, y’all, to grocery
shop. I’mma introduce you to my friend Joe. He’s a Trader.”

That’s when I reached critical mass. I grabbed my purse and pulled out a twenty. “Okay,
kids, party’s over! But the Wieners Circle’s still open. Char dogs on me!” Then I
herded them out the door so quickly and forcefully that I forgot I’d wanted them to
carry Geri down the hall.

Related note? I need to convert this place to a single-family dwelling, like, now.

Anyway, after I determined that moving Geri under my own steam wasn’t possible, I
tried to behave in a sisterly manner, thus proving that I absolutely have more class
than she might have demonstrated were our circumstances reversed. I brought her a
bottle of water and a couple of ibuprofen and I made her swallow both.

As she lay there on my couch, cradling a cashmere throw, I felt an odd stab of affection
for her and I wondered if maybe, just maybe, I hadn’t been too quick to judge her.
After all, until this week, I had no idea she had even a modicum of ambition, nor
was I aware that living back at home wasn’t all peaches and cream. Perhaps since every
single person in my orbit seems to feel affection for her, it’s possible that I’ve
overlooked her better qualities.

Maybe it wasn’t so easy for Geri to grow up in my shadow. I set a high bar, at least
in terms of academics. Although we went to different high schools, she had all my
old teachers from kindergarten through eighth grade. If memory serves, I was quite
the little apple polisher. I bet the nuns were all, “Reagan’s sister? We expect a
lot out of you!” and she couldn’t deliver.

My parents have always been quick to highlight Geri’s achievements, lowly though they
may be, but it’s possible that they do this not because she’s the favorite, but because
they’re trying to compensate and protect her self-esteem.

Maybe Geri’s more of a delicate flower than I assumed.

I’m not a parent. I’ve never had to balance the needs of three very different daughters.
I’m sure my folks did the best they could. I bet when I’m not around, they champion
me like they do Geri and Mary Mac.

What if underneath it all, Geri really loves me and she’s never quite understood how
to capture my interest? What if her quest for negative attention is simply an offshoot
of her desire for my attention? What if she grabbed Lilly-Lizzie because she wanted
me to finally play with her and that was her best shot?

Then she opened one sleepy green eye and reached for me. She brushed my hair out of
my face and said, “It must suck to be you.”

Yeah.

That’s when I snapped.

And that’s why I’m currently walking down Clark Street in a Geri suit.

I’d planned on running to her/my brunch date because, frankly, she could use the cardio.
However, apparently Geri’s not that kind of coordinated. Also, I’m battling a monster
hangover for her. While she dreams all snug in my bed, I’m trying desperately not
to vomit nachos and cupcake-flavored vodka.

This feeling?

Right here?

Is why I never drink.

Perhaps by teetotaling, I’ll never lose my inhibitions enough to belt out the best
of Steve Perry from an alehouse bar top, but I’ll also never run the risk of tossing
my cookies in a public trash can.

I’m not entirely sure what my next move might be, after I meet up with Kassel. I probably
should have come up with some sort of plan before placing the amulets around our necks
and taking a Thanwell.

Yet here I am.

Fortunately, I was able to cram Geri’s posterior into one of my stretchiest pairs
of yoga pants and Sebastian’s old Blackhawks jersey. I threw her hair in a ponytail
and didn’t bother with makeup because I’m not giving her a single advantage on this
date. I didn’t even shower. Hope Kassel likes his women
earthy
.

Kassel spots me as soon as I enter the restaurant. He kisses my/her/our cheek. “I
was worried I didn’t specify which Original Pancake and you’d go to the Bellevue location.”

I’m so rattled by his pure joy in seeing Geri that I can’t help but respond, “I’m
not great with following directions because I’m a bit dim, so frankly I’m as surprised
as you are.”

But instead of being turned off by my statement, he simply laughs and his eyes crinkle
up. Damn it, why is stupid Geri’s naked face making his eyes crinkle? “I love your
self-deprecation. Rough morning?”

“Why does anyone drink?” I ask.

He places his hand on the small of my back as the hostess leads us to our table. “Believe
me, been there. You had a lot to celebrate. You were amazing with Georgette. Life
changing. By the way, sent the dailies to DBS and they lost their minds. They
worship
you. Never witnessed such a reaction. Big. So big! Keep it up, and you could find
yourself with a spin-off. Someday.”

The whole room begins to swim and I have to clutch his arm to stay upright until he
can help me into my seat. How is this possible? How does Geri have the whole world
handed to her based on one ugly haircut?

Kassel notices my distress and immediately orders us a couple of coffees. “I’d suggest
a little hair of the dog, but you may not be able to handle a Bloody Mary.”

“Oh, God, no,” I agree. A busboy quickly appears with our beverages. “This is just
what I need.” I take a bracing sip of the steaming liquid. If I drink fully caffeinated
coffee, which is rare, I tend to be a purist. I’m never one for sweetener, and if
I add anything, it’s almond milk, but today straight black is borderline nauseating.
I need to cut the bitterness, lighten it up. I reach for the little white pitcher
and pour in a splash. I can tell from the thickness that this is heavy cream, which
would normally turn my stomach. Yet today, it almost seems like a salve, as does the
spoonful of sugar. I stir and then sample.

How can something so wrong feel so right?

I’ve temporarily gotten my bearings, so I return to the business at hand. “Explain
this whole spin-off concept,” I say. “What might that entail?”

Kassel laughs. “Ambitious, eh? Let the show air first and then we’ll see.” He opens
his menu. “What looks good to you?”

Um, nothing?

This whole menu is revolting.

I see no indication that they use farm-to-table, local, or organic products, and from
the description, everything’s either basted in butter, comprised of white flour, or
full of pork products. The Three Little Pigs in Blankets are the worst possible offenders.
Our special links wrapped in light buttermilk pancakes and lightly dusted with powdered
sugar. Served with whipped butter and hot tropical syrup.

Disgusting.

So . . . why is my mouth watering?

Kassel says, “There’s nothing like a greasy breakfast to cure what ails you. Although
in college I was all about McDonald’s after a wild night. Fountain Coke? My frat brothers
and I were convinced it had healing powers.” He peruses the offerings. “Anyway, I’m
having corned beef hash, plus a side of chocolate chip pancakes.”

The waitress approaches and I have Kassel order first because I’m undecided. And by
“undecided” I mean “deeply appalled.”

“Do you have any muesli?” I ask.

“I’m not sure what that is,” she replies, chewing on the edge of her pen. Her name
is Brandi. There’s a little flower drawn over the “i.”

Bless her heart.

“Nothing with flaxseed, then?”

Brandi shifts and begins to nervously eye the other tables. “’Fraid not.”

“What kind of fruit do you serve?”

“Um . . . we have banana and peach pancakes.”

I squint at the laminated menu. “Ugh. No. Is there any chance your eggs are pasture
raised? I’ll take free-range in a pinch, although some farms do engage in beak cutting,
which is certainly regrettable. Also, talk to me about your orange juice—is it freshly
squeezed or from concentrate? And it’s not artificially colored, right? Because that’s
patently unacceptable.”

Kassel begins to laugh and lightly bats me on the knee. “Your Reagan impersonation
is
uncanny
. I assume you’re having your usual, yes? You said that’s why you wanted to come here.”
He tells Brandi, “Give her the Three Little Pigs in Blankets. Thanks!” Brandi ambles
off and he turns his attention to me. “So . . . are
we
having
fun
yet?”

No, not right this minute, not until the room stops spinning and not until I figure
out how to elegantly avoid placing Blanketed Pigs anywhere near the vicinity of this
mouth. But it occurs to me Geri’s always superannoyingly (possibly artificially) upbeat,
so I reply, “I imagine so, yes. This is a social situation and that’s my kind of thing.”

Kassel nods and I’m struck again by the cut of his jawline. I have to ball my fists
in order to keep from running my fingers across his face. I appreciate how even though
this is a lazy weekend brunch date, he still took the time to shave. He missed a tiny
spot up by his ear, which is oddly charming. And how is this man still tan in December?
Is that the end result of having lived in California for so long?