Teenage Waistland (26 page)

Liselle tosses her cigarette butt into the shrubs. “You amaze me, Marcie. How could you make this all about you? You left your best friend drunk and crying out for help in the middle of a strange city—you’re damn lucky she remembered how to find your grandmother’s apartment building or she could have been hurt! Jen needed you then, Marcie. She
needs
you now, more than ever! Don’t you see how unhappy she is—how desperate? Where the hell are her parents? A sixteen-year-old girl is allowed to get breast implants and a lip job? Did you know she stole a bottle of my dad’s twelve-year-old scotch when she was here July fourth weekend? Do you even know she’s drinking?”

My Ben & Jerry’s has melted on top, and I take a swig straight from the container.

“Okay, Marcie. Let’s forget about how you’ve abandoned poor, sad, love-hungry Jen for the moment and talk about someone else you’ve taken great pleasure in hurting.”

I make a Bitsylike sweeping motion giving Liselle the floor. “My life runneth over with morons. Who’s up next?”

“Your gran,” Liselle says gingerly, like she’s afraid—with good reason—that she’s going to set me off again.

“Oh, you also think I’ve done her wrong? She was on my back all the time telling me I wasn’t good enough. What am
I supposed to understand about her that makes
that
okay?” I nearly shout.

Liselle motions me to keep my voice down and lights up another death stick. “Your grandmother was like from ancient times when the only thing women were supposed to do was get married,” she says. “But she loved you a lot.”

I shake my head vigorously. “Sure, she’d
say
how much she loved me. And then, in like the same breath, she’d catalog everything that was wrong with me. If I wasn’t good enough for someone who loved me, what chance did I have with the outside world? That’s why I couldn’t—
wouldn’t
—deal with her anymore. And I won’t be a phony and sit down here acting like I gave a crap about her dying when I couldn’t stand her alive. I don’t understand why I can’t get anybody to understand this.”

Liselle takes a last inhale of her cigarette, leans forward, and snuffs it out in my ice cream. There was still a good five-hundred calories left. “What the fu—” I start, but Liselle puts her finger in front of her mouth and moves her chair closer.

“Marcie, I heard the saddest story in my life tonight at the shivah while you were at group. It was about your grandmother and I think you need to hear it. Especially now, with what’s going on with Jen. But listen—don’t say a word of this to anyone. Your aunt Lucy was sloshed when she told me, but afterward she was terrified that Abby would find out that I knew.”

“Fine, I won’t rat out the old lady, but nothing you tell me can change how I feel about my grandmother.”

Liselle smiles. “Let’s make a bet. If this story doesn’t change your mind, I’ll be your slave all summer and drive you wherever you want to go. But if it does, then you’re going
to clean up your act and take your crabby self-absorbed head out of your butt.”

“Not an enticement, Liselle. You drive like a maniac. And I’ll get my license soon anyway.”

“Yeah, but I have a cool car,” Liselle says.

“None of your nitwit friends will be in it with me, right?” I say. Liselle lights yet another cigarette. If Marlboros were ice cream, Liselle would be twice my size.

“Okay, Marcie. We have a deal. Until you decide you like my friends, they will not be in the car when I drive you around. Which I won’t have to do, because you’re going to lose the bet.”

“Fine, but I don’t see what you get out of this either way,” I say.

Liselle smiles again. “That’s okay—I do.” Then she takes another puff and inhales deeply. “You know how your grandmother talked about her boyfriend, Michael? You know—how wonderful and successful he was. How he kept her in fresh flowers? Her whole ‘he was the love of my life’ rap?”

I nod. “They were together for over ten years or something—ever since my grandfather died. What about him?”

“Well, did you know that when your gran first got sick, she told Michael that she didn’t want him to watch her waste away, that she wanted him to leave now so that he would ‘always remember her as beautiful’?” Liselle’s doing the air quotes thing. I let out my loudest snort ever.

“No, I didn’t know that. What a drama queen!”

“Marcie,” Liselle says softly. “He did it. He went away. Just like that. No more visits, no more telephone calls, no
more flowers. He just disappeared. He didn’t even show up to her funeral.”

“He
did
it?” I am absofreakinglutely
incredulous
. “When Gran said, ‘I want you to remember me as beautiful,’ that was his cue to say, ‘Darling, you’ll always be beautiful to me, no matter what you look like.’ ”

“Of course!” Liselle says. “That’s my point! Can you imagine how awful that was for her? Can you even begin to imagine how abandoned and alone and unloved she felt? It took your grandmother her entire lifetime to discover that beauty doesn’t guarantee happiness, and that it doesn’t guarantee finding love. Not one that lasts, anyway.”

I hadn’t realized Michael wasn’t in her life anymore. She must have been heartbroken! And as heartbroken as she must have been about him, it was
me
she wanted to talk to at the very end.…

A lump begins to form in my throat, but then Liselle sniffles and I pull in closer and see that
her
eyes are wet. “Liselle, are you crying? You didn’t do anything to Gran—you were really sweet to her.” Liselle waves me away with her cigarette like she’s fine, but then she starts crying even harder. “Liselle?”

“After I heard that story, Marcie, I felt so sad, and I needed to talk to you.” She wipes her eyes with my snotty napkin.

“You needed to talk to
me
? That’s why you came downstairs? You didn’t take me out here because you knew
I
needed to talk to someone?”

Liselle shakes her head, sobbing harder. “It was about me. And then, when I saw you crying, it became a little about you too. But mostly, actually, it was about
us
.”

I shake my head. “I have no idea what—”

Liselle interrupts with a combo laugh/sniffle. “Marcie, I envy you because you know who you are. I’m practically done with high school and I still have no clue who I am or what I’m good at. I was a complete spaz at cheerleading—I was only captain of the team because everyone voted for me. And that leaves me alone like your grandmother when I get old, because if people like me only for my looks, then what happens when I’m a shriveled-up hag?”

“Or if you get hit by a bus?” I add, probably not too helpfully. Liselle laugh/sniffles again.

“When I was up in my room crying, I thought if you knew I felt like this, maybe you wouldn’t hate me anymore. And I didn’t want to go off to college in September without taking one more stab at that little-sister fixation of mine.”

Liselle wipes her nose again and looks up at me so sweetly—with such hopefulness in her eyes—that something in me cracks, and I erupt into sobs.

“See?” Liselle laugh/sniffles. “Gran’s story changed how you feel. Time for Marcie to take her head out of her butt.”

I take off my glasses and wipe my eyes on my sleeve. “Sorry, Liselle. You’re driving me around all summer, even once I get my license. Gran didn’t make me cry really. You did.”

“Oh no!” Liselle shrieks.

“Don’t worry,” I laugh. “I’ll consider removing my head from my butt anyway. Or at the very least, I’ll make up with Jen—if she can ever forgive me for being such a horrible selfish person, that is.” Liselle nods and wipes her nose again on my skeevy snotrag.

“Uh, Big Sistah?” I say. “Now that I’ve listened to you
whine about your problems, something major happened with Char at group tonight, and before I do something head-up-my-butt selfish again, I need to talk. Would that be okay?” Liselle smiles and nods. And then she bursts right back into tears.

Marcie Mandlebaum here, riding back into town with my faithful steed Carlo. My mission is to right a terrible wrong, and I’m packing a weapon far more powerful than a pistol—
information
. As soon as I can shoot some into East—and good aim will be critical because she, like Jen, hasn’t returned one of my texts or phone messages all week—she’ll
have
to forgive Char. Just like Jen will have to forgive me. And then, together, we’ll set things straight with Teenage Waistland so that Char can return and get her surgery.

“Miss Marcie,” Carlo says, “I hope you brought your shovel. That girl is in some deep you-know-what.” Deep I-know-exactly-what. I’m still reworking my pitch for East when Carlo pulls up in front of Park Avenue Bariatrics.

“Same bat time, same bat-channel,” I tell him as I open the limo door.

“Miss Marcie, you must wait for me to come around,” he says, reaching the passenger side in time to close the door behind me.
Don’t bet on it, Carlo. Miss Marcie’s last name isn’t Rescott
.

I get to the room about fifteen minutes early, but East is already there, along with Michelle, Lucia, and Alex. East’s huddled in her seat away from the others, and I head straight for the chair beside her. Mobilizing East to see Char’s side is going to be a nightmare—she looks
dour
.

“Looking good, East,” I say as I plop down and stow my cell phone and my bag under my seat like I’m on a freaking airplane. “I bet you’ve lost more weight than anyone.” She forces a smile. “Speaking to Char yet?” I say in a more hushed tone. Given my nonstop conversations with Char, though, I already know the answer.

East lowers her eyes. “No. And I’m not going to.”

“Ever?”

East shakes her head.

“Never
ever
?” I say, eyes wide. East shakes her head more violently. “Wow, that’s a crazy long time.” For a split second, I think I have her, but East quickly purses her lips and fixes her eyes on the floor. “East,” I say, “this is serious and we need to talk.” I stand and gently take her arm. “Let’s go out into the hallway.”

East shifts her shoulder forward as if to escape my grasp, but I hiss,
“Please,”
and when we spot Bobby coming into the room, she reluctantly follows me out. We walk down the corridor in silence and turn down another hallway so we’ll be out of view from the rest of the group as they arrive. When we stop, I move in to comfortable talking distance, but East backs away like a cornered animal, tears brimming.

“East,” I say softly. “I know how awful this thing must be for you and I don’t want to upset you further, but talking out what happened with Char will make things better.” East looks me in the eye without bothering to hide her crying.

“Marcie, I’ve already talked it out. With my mother. And Char can go to hell! She goes after what she wants regardless of how it affects anyone else. After my father died, Char practically moved in with us, to comfort
me
, I thought. But she was really there to
screw my bob—my brother
. She was there to screw Julius!”

“You’re shouting, East,” I say. She’s actually frothing, but I don’t say that nor do I comment on the Bobby slip. The only one who
isn’t
aware of East’s crush on Bobby is probably Bobby himself, but if I even hint that East’s anger toward Char might also have something to do with Bobby, she’ll really flip out.

“Sorry, Marcie, but the truth is the truth. Char gets pregnant, but
Julius
has to leave town because
her
mother threatens mine with criminal charges. That doesn’t make what Julius did right—my mom and I know that. But Char’s not innocent either. She knew what she was getting into. She
wanted
him—
she
went after
him
! Julius was having enough trouble staying above water—we all were. Because of Char, I didn’t just lose my father, I lost my brother too! And even my mother—If Julius had been around, maybe my mother wouldn’t have shut herself up in her room. So you tell me,” East hisses the last part, “how can
anything
make this better?” Tears are streaming down her face, and she crosses her arms tightly.

“I agree. It’s horrible, and nothing can make
that
story better,” I say softly, marveling at the sheer volume of East’s verbiage. “
But
, that’s the story from your perspective, East. Char has her own story, and it’s only fair that you hear it before you end your friendship.”

East laughs bitterly. “Char always has a story—she has
millions of them. I’ve watched her spin her webs of lies since we were toddlers. So I’d advise you to take Char’s ‘story’ with a whole tablespoon of salt,” she spits out—literally. There’s a tiny bit of spit on my glasses. “Sorry,” East mutters, and hands me a tissue from her pocket.

“Granted, Char has a knack for schmoo,” I allow, “but can you remember even one time that Char lied with the intent to hurt someone?”

East frowns, a look not dissimilar to Liselle’s
if you’re so smart, why are you such an idiot?
expression. “No one lies to hurt other people, Marcie. They lie to protect themselves.”

“Or to protect people they care about,” I say. “Like you.”

East puts on a tight smile and shakes her head. “Is that what Char told you? That she lied to protect me? Or was she honest about her lies? They’re always just about her getting what she wants.”

I shake my head. “East, I’m not here to justify Char’s actions. I just want to tell you her story. Both your stories share the exact same facts, so Char’s lying has nothing to do with this, okay?” East turns her face from me and crosses her arms again, but she doesn’t move her body. I calculate that I’ve got maybe a minute before she storms off, so I decide to go with the abbreviated version.

“So, yes, Char did practically move in after your father died to comfort you, East. But she was a twelve-year-old girl who fell under the influence of an eighteen-year-old
adult
she had known and
trusted
all of her life. He gave her drugs and alcohol and then had, er, unprotected sex with her and got her preg—”