Bad Boy (38 page)

She must have dozed for a while, but she woke when she heard the rattle of her lock. By the time she came out from under the blankets, Laura had entered the bedroom and was looking around. “Wow. Worse than I thought. I bought everything you asked for but the cookie-dough ice cream. That was too decadent.”

“Yours is not to reason why, yours is but to shop and die,” Tracie said.

Laura sat down at the foot of the bed, got up to remove a plate with toast crusts, and then sat down again. “You’re the one who looks like you’re going to die. Look, I know you feel really bad. Maybe you even fucked things up permanently with Jon, though I think you two may work it out,” she told Tracie. Tracie merely groaned. “Still, you have to get out of bed eventually,” Laura said.

“No I don’t,” Tracie contradicted. “I have
_p. 381
no job, so I’m not going to the office. And I’m not going to the gym ever again. It’ll take at least two years before I need another haircut. This is it.”

Laura looked into the bag of groceries, pulled out a package of Goldfish, and opened them, popping a handful into her mouth and passing the rest to Tracie. “But what will happen to you?” she asked.

“As long as there’s pizza delivery and cash to pay for it, I’ve hit the mattress and I’m staying right here,” Tracie declared. “I’ve ruined my life. Molly was right. I’m such a fool.”

Laura got up, went over to the dresser, and took bread, cream cheese, and a jar of Welch’s grape jelly decorated with the Spirits of Mickey Mouse from the bag. Laura opened both spreads, laid out the bread, and, using her finger as a knife, began to make two sandwiches. “Molly’s a wise woman. And a nice boss.” She handed a sandwich to Tracie.

“Ummm.” The soft white bread, the creamy cheese, and the sweetness of the jelly comforted her. Before she swallowed, she pulled herself up into a sitting position. She wanted to die, but not the way Mama Cass had.

Laura sat down beside her and took a bite of her own sandwich. “So what did Molly say?”

Tracie dripped a glob of jelly onto the blanket, smeared it up with her forefinger, then licked it. “She told me I was wasting my time with idiots, when Jon loved me. Jon was right there in front of me all the time. And I couldn’t appreciate him.” She took another bite of
_p. 382
the sandwich. If she kept focused on her regret that soon it was going to be gone, she couldn’t think about her regrets over Jon. “Why do women go for bad boys?” Tracie asked Laura. “Why do we make ourselves suffer when there are nice men around? Why don’t we see them?”

Laura shrugged. “Because God is a sadist?” Laura asked, getting up to make another pair of sandwiches.

Tracie ignored her flippancy. “Why did you think you loved Peter and I thought I loved Phil and Beth thought Marcus was worth obsessing over?”

Laura handed her another sandwich, sat back on the bed, and crossed her legs. “I figure it’s just one of nature’s ugly little jokes on women. A phase we have to go through, like menopause or bloating.” She took a bite of her second sandwich. “The worst irony is that in about five years, we’re going to start looking around for nice guys to marry. And all the ones we blew off in high school and college and in our early dating years will be taken
‌
—you know, the nerds like Bill Gates and Steven Spielberg and Woody Allen. The guys who couldn’t get laid for two decades and now get to sleep with movie stars and models because they’re so smart and powerful.”

Tracie threw herself back down onto her rumpled pillows and let her cream cheese and jelly sandwich rest on her chest. “I’ve messed up my whole life. I’ll die miserable and alone.”

Laura shrugged. “What about Phil? You don’t
_p. 383
have to be alone. You could probably stay with Phil, even if he is unpublished, unemployed, and has an unrealistic sense of his self-worth.”

Tracie listened to Phil’s description. “Wait, I think I’m falling in love with him all over again.” She paused for a moment and then shook her head. “Phil! He’s bored me for a long time. I just didn’t notice.”

“Oh, I don’t know,” Laura said. “He’s not so bad. I kinda
‌
—”

Tracie interrupted her by sitting up. The two sandwich halves flew down the length of the bed and hit Laura’s arm, flopping onto the blanket again. “You know what really bothers me? I can’t believe I didn’t notice Jon until I dolled him up and got all the other girls interested.” She shook her head. “I didn’t see who he was until I ruined him.”

Laura picked up the two sandwich halves and handed them to Tracie, who shook her head. If she ate anything else, she’d vomit, and since she wasn’t going to get out of bed, she didn’t like to think of the consequences. “I love him, but I deserve to be alone here the rest of my life.” She flopped back down. “Believe me, it will be better for the world this way,” she said, staring up at the ceiling.

“Well, look on the bright side,” Laura said cheerfully. “You’ve finally realized you love him. I’ve known it for at least a year.”

“Great, be like that. Be the smart one. If you had told me that then, I could have had him. Now I have to get in line behind Allison, Beth, Samantha, Enid, and Ruth.”

_p. 384
“Wow!” said Laura. “They’re all hooked, huh? It’s a good thing he never slept with me.” She paused for a moment, as if considering whether or not she should say what she had on her mind. As always, she decided against discretion. “Was he as good in bed as Beth said he was?”

“Better.” Tracie groaned, began to cry, and pulled the blankets over her head. A few minutes later, she controlled herself and wiped her eyes and nose on the blanket, then looked out from under it. Laura still sat at the side of the bed.

“Tracie, I don’t think this is healthy,” she said in what had to have been a whopper of an understatement. “Are you sure it’s over with Jon? You’re never coming out of your apartment again?” she asked.

Tracie nodded. “This is not a negotiation, Laura. I’ve taken myself hostage and nobody gets out of this place alive.”

Laura nodded and shrugged. “Then it won’t bother you that something else really bad has happened. Something worse than your fight with Jon.”

“What? What could possibly be worse than this?” Tracie asked.

“The article ran.”

Tracie jumped up as if hit with an electrical current. “Get out! It didn’t!” she said. “Marcus fired me, but he wouldn’t
‌
—”

Laura took the newspaper out of the paper bag and threw it on the bed. “It did. And he would.” She grabbed the paper and began
_p. 385
riffling through it. “Page one of the Living section,” Laura told her.

Tracie got to it, surveyed the damage, and moaned. The article took up the whole front page, and it continued on the third and fourth pages. It also carried the ridiculous makeovers of the hacker and the high-tech CEOs. Tracie moaned again. “Oh God. I’ll never make up with Jon now. He’ll never speak to me. Fuck Marcus! That lying scumball.” She began to scan the piece. “Oh no. The best man on the planet, and I’ve made a laughingstock of him.”

Just then, Tracie heard the door locks as they started to be released one by one. For a minute, she thought it was Jon, then realized who it had to be. “Oh God! Phil’s here.” Tracie heard the last lock release; then the door opened and Phil’s footsteps crossed the living room.

He entered the bedroom. But he was a different Phil. He looked like the subject of some makeover from hell. He’d had his hair cut and his act was cleaned up significantly, but in all the wrong ways. He still wore jeans, but he had a lamé sports jacket on. He carried a briefcase, as well. He approached the bed, yet he didn’t notice Tracie’s condition or the junk all over. He just swept a spot clear and sat down next to her. Tracie was too exhausted to comment. Laura, however, did a double take. “Phil, is that you?” she asked.

“Hi, Laura,” he said cheerfully. “Hey, Trace, notice anything different?”

_p. 386
“You got a haircut?” she asked. “Yours is too short, too.”

He smiled. “You’ll get used to it. And that’s not the only change. I got a job.”

Laura stood up. “Hey, guys. I’d better go. I’ve got the evening shift at Java, The Hut. Trace, call me later.” She reached down and rubbed Tracie’s foot, then left the room.

Alone in a dirty bed with Phil, Tracie felt unbelievably claustrophobic.

Phil smiled at her, as if she looked as pretty as a picture with her butchered, greasy hair, her oldest nightgown, and the dirty coverlet. “Tracie, you won the bet,” he said. “I saw the article. And I’m ready to be committed.”

“We look like we both are,” was all Tracie could manage to say.

“Great. You got me. Fair and square. I got my stuff packed to come here.”

Tracie groaned and rolled over in bed. “That’s all right, Phil. The bet idea was stupid. You shouldn’t play with people’s lives to win a bet.”

“Well, stupid or not, I’m ready to move in,” Phil said.

Tracie didn’t respond. Her life was a nightmare. She just lay under the covers, promising herself she would never move or speak again.

“Hey. You sick or something?” Phil asked. Tracie knew he was self-involved, but she’d never thought he was an imbecile until now. Phil pulled the blankets down from her head, and though she tried to catch at them, he was too fast for her. He reached into his brief
_p. 387
case and took out a paper bag and a black velvet jewelry box. He handed it to Tracie. “This will make you feel better.”

Tracie rolled her eyes. “Phil, I gave up farm cakes and I don’t need another guitar pick right now.”

“It’s not a guitar pick,” he promised. “Open the box.” Tracie did. There was a tiny diamond in a traditional engagement setting. She tried not to let her jaw drop. No wonder Phil had never been able to succeed as a bass player. He had the worst timing in the world.

“Marry me, Tracie,” Phil said. “I love you.”

Tracie looked at the ring, then back at Phil, and burst into tears. She was so frustrated with her own stupidity that if she could have, she would have torn her own head off.

Lovingly, Phil took Tracie in his arms. “Oh, baby. I know. I love you, too,” he told her. “I’m sorry I put you through such hell. I guess I just had to grow up a little. You know, start thinking of other people.” Tracie sobbed louder. He held her tighter. “It’s okay,” he said. But of course it wasn’t. “Thanks for putting up with me and going the distance.” He patted her back. Tracie hated to be patted.

“You know, Laura helped me think this through. I’ve set new priorities, Tracie, and you’re my number one.” She sobbed harder, but he didn’t seem to notice.

“Your article was really good. You’re better than Emma Quindlen.”

_p. 388
“Anna,” Tracie sobbed, dangerously out of control.

Phil looked at her with concern. “Honey, calm down. You got to try on the ring.”

She couldn’t. She’d rather cut off her hand. The man that she’d thought she desired for so long, the man that she’d tricked herself into thinking she cared about was not only ridiculous but also a stranger to her. “I . . . I . . .” She tried to stop crying, wiped her eyes and her nose with her fingers, and looked at him. “Phil, do you think my earlobes are adorable?”

He shrugged. “I don’t know. I never noticed.”

Tracie began to wail again. Phil stood up, reached over to her bureau, and handed her a Kleenex. Then he turned his back to the bed and took off his sports jacket. He laid it carefully on the chair beside the bed, then patted it as if it were a good dog. “I got to take care of this baby,” he said. “I think it was the jacket that got me the job.”

“What job?” Tracie managed to ask.

Phil turned back to her, and for the first time, she saw the T-shirt he’d been wearing under the jacket. It had a huge Micro/Con logo on it. Wordlessly, she pointed at it and began to scramble off the bed in horror. “What? How?” she managed to say. “Why . . . are you . . .”

Phil looked proudly down at his chest. “Oh, yeah,” he told her. “They didn’t just give me the job. They gave me the T-shirt and a thousand dollars’ worth of stock. Isn’t that neat?”

_p. 389
Jon was sweating. He was moving as fast as he possibly could. The last time he’d felt this kind of panic was when he was being chased by the neighborhood dog, notorious for biting anyone that got within fifty yards of his owner’s yard. But this time, Jon was trying to escape himself. He had managed to get into the Micro/Con building undetected early enough that morning and get himself set up on the treadmill in the workout room. Now, however, people were starting to come in, and he knew it wasn’t his imagination
‌
—he was the focus of everyone in the room. Usually, people would stare blankly while they pedaled a bike, pulled on the weight bars of the bench press equipment, and walked on the treadmills. But this morning, it was the stare of wonderment, of recognition, of celebrity. That’s what happens when your best friend splashes you all over a section of the local newspaper, he thought.

He couldn’t believe that Tracie had been so spiteful as to publish the article because of their fight. But he guessed he’d just never really known her. He’d been so upset, he’d had to spend the night at his mother’s, and that hadn’t been easy, either. She hadn’t approved of the article, but she’d kept urging Jon, “Call Tracie. I don’t know why this all happened,
_p. 390
but I do know that a friendship like yours and Tracie’s shouldn’t end like this. Call her.” Then she’d talked a lot about forgiveness, and visiting his dad in the hospital. Jon had been upset enough to think
‌
—but not say
‌
—that it was a lot easier to forgive someone who had ruined her life than it was to forgive someone who had ruined his.

He still hadn’t actually taken in his visit with his father. After he’d gotten over his pity, he thought he was angry at Chuck, too. What was this Mother’s Day and Father’s Day about anyway? Why wasn’t there a children’s day? Chuck had just used the holiday as a wedge, as a way to get Jon to see him without having to actually apologize directly for all of his childishness and thoughtlessness over the years. It was easy enough for his mother to preach forgiveness: Grandpa had been a really good father and a really nice guy. He’d filled in for Chuck more times than Jon liked to remember. Next Father’s Day, Jon decided, he was going to go to his grandpa’s grave and thank him. Maybe, that is, if he didn’t die of embarrassment between now and then.