The Best of Enemies (17 page)

“It’s silly,” she finally replies.
“It’s just . . .
Ugh, you’re going to laugh at me, Kit.”
She chews on her bottom lip, all pensive and intense.
I don’t let out a peep about how she’s eating all her lipstick.
We can fix that later.

“You can tell me anything,” I say.
“Whatever it is, I’ll keep it in the vault.
No judgment here.”
I place one hand on her shoulders and pretend I’m locking my lips with the other one before tossing the key.

She takes a couple of measured breaths and then exhales loudly.
“Um, in fourth grade, after my mother . . .”
She trails off.

Oh, crap, I didn’t mean to make her upset!
Not today!
But she is, and I can’t blame her.
How would I handle it if Mum died?
I’d likely be devastated, always and forever, but at least I’d still have Kelly.
To exist without any strong female influence to teach me to never mix plaids and stripes?
Unimaginable.
Jackie’s struggling for words, so I suggest a more delicate term than
died
.

“After your mother
was gone
?”

She meets my gaze, and seems to appreciate my trying to help.

“Yeah.
Was
gone.
” Her tone turns acidic for a moment, which I totally get.
Loss sucks.
But, why
specifically
is she bitter about losing her mom?
Was it a car accident?
Terminal disease?
Plane crash?
Random act of violence?
All I know is that it had something to do with milk.
I wish she’d tell me so I could help.

Jackie says, “After my dad was left in charge.
He’s a great father, but he wasn’t so skilled at domestic stuff.
Yet what choice did we have?
So on Halloween, he was the one who had to help me with my costume for the school parade.”

“Were you still in Saint Louis then?”
I ask, still trying to figure out the whole mom mystery.
They’d moved when she was a kid, but I’m not sure exactly when.
Should I try to look up Saint Louis newspapers on the microfiche in the library?
Maybe there’s a story because her mom must have been pretty young.
Or is that a massive violation of privacy?

“Uh-huh, we were.
I wanted to be Batman, but Dad suggested I try something more girly because he worried I was being unduly influenced by my brothers.
Anyway, I listened to his advice and decided to be Smurfette.
We found a white dress and a blond wig and a bunch of blue makeup to cover my skin.
I planned to paint my legs with the makeup, too, but Dad figured the blue would get all over his car’s cream-colored seats, so he found some tights at the drugstore.
They were sized for toddlers, but I managed to squeeze into them somehow.
Willpower, I guess.
Long story short, the tights began to suppress my circulation, I passed out, and the school nurse had to cut me out of them . . .
in front of my whole fourth grade class.”

“Oh, honey.
I’m so sorry.
That’s horrible,” I say, giving her a squeeze.
First her mother, and then she had to deal with that kind of humiliation?
So not fair.

“Not my finest moment,” she replies.
“After that, my dad promised me he’d never make me try to be all femmy again, so that’s the last time I ever wore panty hose.”

Who knew so much baggage could be attached to a simple scrap of fabric?
After hearing her story, I’m astounded that she let me take ahold of her like this.
I can’t believe we’ve built this kind of trust already and I’m not about to blow it by snooping into her past.
She’ll share when she’s ready.

But, desperate to make her feel better now, I grab the panty hose and say, “Then you don’t wear these things.
I insist.
If any sorority girl looks at you sideways, she’ll have to deal with me.
I won’t put on mine, either.”
Then I hug Jackie again, wishing I’d have been there all those years ago to make her feel better.

She rewards me with a small, tight smile.
“I’m being ridiculous, aren’t I?”
Jackie asks, taking the plain plastic egg back from me.
Earlier, I removed the outer packaging because I didn’t want her to see I’d bought queen-size and feel like I was insulting her.
She’s trim as can be, but her legs are so long, the bigger size is the only way to keep her crotch from riding around down by her knees.

“You’re not ridiculous in the least.
Here,” I say, moving the big fern out of the way of the hearth.
“Let’s have a ritual burning, like the hippies used to do with their bras.”

She laughs, breaking the suddenly somber mood.
“I’m
for sure
being ridiculous now.”
She cracks open the egg and pulls out the offending garment.
Then she kicks off the Mary Janes.
“You can be my wingman anytime.
Cover me, Goose, I’m going in.”

“
Top Gun
quote?”
I ask.
When we hung out with her brothers at home last week, it was all movie dialogue, all the time.
I didn’t get it but I didn’t hate it.

She shoots me a thumbs-up.
“Roger that, Ghost Rider.”

“Then you
must
be rallying,” I say.
Jackie gingerly steps into one leg before yanking them up her thigh.
Noting how her blood’s still circulating just fine, she pulls on the other side and then steps back to assess the damages.
“How do they feel?”

She runs her palms up and down the length of her calf.
“Um, silky?”

“Any discomfort?”

She lowers herself into a series of squats, lunges, and impressive karate kicks.
“None.”

I smile because my work here is done.
“As long as you don’t snag them on any sharp objects, you’ll be fine.”

I can’t put my finger on how or why, but I feel like this exchange has somehow brought us to a new level in our relationship, and that makes me so happy.
Despite how we differ, Jackie’s awesome and I want us to be friends forever.
And very soon, sorority sisters.

Jackie’s not terribly comfortable with big displays of emotion, so instead of saying anything mushy, I change the subject.
“You want to grab some lunch before we do this whole party thing?
They’ll serve food at each party, but we’re not actually supposed to eat it for some reason.”

Jackie raises an eyebrow.
“That’s bizarre, right?”

“So bizarre,” I confirm.

We’re just closing our door before heading to the cafeteria when we notice some kind of . . .
creature
skulking along in the shadows down the hall.
As the thing draws closer, I realize that it’s Sars, Her Royal Dorkness, the Weenie Queenie, lurching all club-footed toward us in a pair of sky-high heels she’s clearly never even tried on before.

I admit Sars’s A-line dress is cute, but the rest of her look is right out of
The Rocky Horror Picture Show
.
Wish I were kidding.
Thick red gloss bleeds far outside of her natural lip line and her lids have been swept with deep navy shadow from the lash line all the way up to her eyebrow.
She appears to have been punched in the face a whole lot of times.
In lieu of applying the mascara, Sars seems to have simply poked herself in the eyes with the wand multiple times, which looks even worse behind the travesty otherwise known as her Coke-bottle-bottom glasses.
Two blazing orange streaks adorn the apples of her cheeks back to her ears, completing her “look.”

“Whoa,” Jackie says, not realizing she’s speaking aloud.
She immediately smacks a hand over her mouth.
“Shit, Sars, I’m sorry.”

“Too much?”
Sars asks, pointing to the face Picasso himself must have painted.
(Am also taking Art History this semester.) “It’s too much.
Sorry, I’m still pretty new to makeup.”

“It’s a lot of look,” I confirm with as much diplomacy as I can muster as I lock our door.
Yet in my head, I’m all,
“Holy crap, the Tri Taus are going to laugh you clear to Champaign-Urbana.”

“Can you fix her up, too?”
Jackie asks, eyes searching my face.
She’s well aware that I’m not a huge fan of her dweeby, clingy little buddy.
“For me?”

The last thing I want to do is spend more time with this hideous troll, but I feel like helping Sars may be yet another tipping point for Jackie and me.
Jackie’s never asked me for anything.
For her to reach out is a huge step forward.

So I sigh and accept my fate, covertly squeezing Jackie’s hand as I do because, whether or not I like it, these two are a package deal.
“Okay.
For you.”

To Sars, I say, “I’m going to need a clean slate.
Go scrub.
And when you think you’re done, scrub again.”
We shuffle back into the room where I make Sars wash her face in our half bath.

Of course I have to tell her not to use the hand soap.

I send her downstairs to put in her contact lenses (why would she not wear them in the first place if she has them?) and when she returns, I sit her in a chair, draping a towel over her dress.

Sars beams up at me with her mousy little grin and buggy eyes and I can’t help but soften.
I haven’t been her biggest fan, but I’m not Kelly and I don’t get off on being deliberately cruel to people.
Plus, she’s important to Jackie, which means she’s going to have to be important to me.
If it’s on me to transform her look and stick close to her at the parties to help if (let’s be honest,
when
) conversation gets awkward, then so be it.
Every sorority needs a true bookworm to help raise the collective GPA, so I’ll make it my job to pitch Sars as Tri Tau’s resident nerd.

For Jackie.

“Do you have any rush advice for me?”
she asks, shifting anxiously in her chair.
Jackie’s back on the futon, legs neatly crossed, grinning at the both of us.
This must be how a little kid feels when his divorcing parents decide to give their marriage one more shot.

I decide to fix that which I find the most immediately grating.

I say, “Sars really isn’t the best name to use during rush.
It’s memorable, but not in a good way.
Kind of makes me think of a disease or something.”

“Okay,” she agrees.
“Should I go by Sarabeth?”

“Eh,” I reply.
“That’s kind of a mouthful and expensive to put on a pledge paddle.
No one wants to buy that many wooden letters for her li’l sis.
They’re like three dollars each!
Anyone ever given you a different, shorter, cuter nickname?”

“Nope,” she replies.

Of course no one has.
I try not to sigh out loud.
This one’s not going to make my job easy, is she?
Still, if she has any shot at pledging, I have to boost her confidence in any and all ways, starting at the very beginning.

I say, “Then, let’s find a super-fun abbreviation.
Why don’t we call you, oh, I don’t know, maybe . . .
Betsy
?”

Whitney University, Central Illinois

January 1995

Who knew how dirty girls could fight?

I assumed words would be Kitty’s eventual weapon of choice, so I was unprepared for exactly how devastating her silence could be.

Growing up, my brothers and I settled our arguments with a well-timed uppercut or a roundhouse kick and then it was over.
Maybe a game of HORSE if the problem was of a more philosophical nature.
Then our beef was settled.
Forgotten.
Forgiven.
I almost wish Kitty had punched me—I’d probably feel better right about now.

If Kitty wasn’t happy with me last semester, why didn’t she say so?
I’m like a computer—I can operate only given the proper input.
Can’t fix what I don’t know.

My plan from the beginning was to be the ideal roommate, making the effort to be as neat, quiet, and pleasant as possible.
Whenever Kitty suggested anything, I always responded with enthusiasm, even when her ideas took me outside of my comfort zone.
(Panty hose, anyone?) Like a butler, I tried to anticipate what she needed before she ever had to say so.
For example, as soon as I deduced she didn’t care for the guys in my journalism class, I stopped bringing them to our room for group project work.
Out of courtesy.
Because I
cared
about
my
roommate.

Truth is, I believe the boys in my class made her feel dumb, especially because they weren’t charmed by all that big, fluffy hair that she’s always tossing around.
To these guys, brains trump beauty all day long, which is why they busted a gut when she said, “Wait, aren’t you supposed to swim parallel to the shoreline when there’s an Apartheid?”

That’s when my friend Simon held up his copy of
Time
and said, “It’s called
the news
, Kitty.
Perhaps you should read it.”

Granted, Simon was snotty and officious.
I apologized on his behalf later, yet I was taken aback by her glaring lack of social conscience.
Who could be so blissfully unaware of an entire government built on racial segregation?
If college has taught me anything thus far, it’s that I’ve had it very easy growing up in well-off, suburban America, regardless of any past family drama.

(As for Kitty?
She was born on third base and assumes she hit a triple.)

I can’t figure out where she and I went wrong.
Was she somehow jealous of me?
Highly illogical.
She’s the one who flitted from sorority house to house during informal fall rush.
All the girls loved her and each chapter’s after her to pledge.
I suspect I was only asked back to a handful of places for their formal January party because I am—no,
was
—her friend and they assumed they had to take me if they wanted her.
What’s to envy about being an also-ran?

Clearly I must have committed some transgression; otherwise why spread rumors about the person who means the most to me in the world?

The way she couched the whole conversation, all that faux concern?
The quivering lip?
The watery eyes?
What an actress.
She must have been taking tips from her unholy sister.
I bet Kelly’s fat braid conceals the “666” birthmark on the back of her neck.

Kitty sat me down over lunch at the mall on New Year’s Day, pretending to be oh-so-troubled.
She grabbed my hand, all serious, and she said, “I’m not sure how to tell you this, so I’m just going to come right out with it.”
Like she was going to say she had two weeks left to live or something.
Then she spewed her ridiculous lie and I was blindsided.

So how was I not supposed to respond, “Don’t say Teddy’s gay just because he doesn’t like
you
.”

Honestly, I’d wanted to spare her the pain of the inevitable breakup.
I knew she wasn’t going to hold Teddy’s interest when they first hung out together over Thanksgiving and I tried to warn her.
The whole virgin thing might initially have seemed like a challenge to him, but when he realized she was serious about keeping her V-card out of his wallet?

Check, please.

I probably shouldn’t have accused her of not being smart enough to read the situation, which I’m sure entailed Teddy trying to let her down gently.
I possibly shouldn’t have solidified my case by bringing up other instances where she’s said dumb things, like when she asked if the Electoral College had a football team.
And maybe after I called her an airhead, I shouldn’t have stormed out of the food court, taking the bus home instead of waiting for her to drive me, but I didn’t want to hear anything else she had to say.
When you tell lies about my brother to protect your own precious ego, you’re telling lies about me.

Sars (whom I will
not
call Betsy) says she doesn’t want to be in the middle of this because she’s friends with both of us.
She says we should consider her to be Switzerland.
Once I cooled off, I realized I’d been hurtful, so I asked Sars to please broker peace.
I thought she could bring us together to talk it all out.
I figured that as close as we’d become, we could find some common ground, but Sars said Kitty was resolute.

Kitty hasn’t uttered a word to me since that day at the mall.
To think I almost told her about my mom!

So it’s been quiet around here.
Very quiet.
The tension’s so thick you could slice it up and serve it on a platter.
That’s why when our phone rings, I practically jump out of my skin, even though I’m in here alone.
I believe Kitty’s at the gym with Sars for step aerobics before this evening’s Bid Night rush parties, but can’t be sure.
I asked where she was headed but she chose not to respond.

I pick up the receiver.
“Hello?”

“Jackie!”
says a friendly male voice on the other end of the line.
“What’s shakin’, babe?”

“Not much,” I reply automatically.
“Wait, who’s this?”

“It’s Sean.
How was your break?”

Ugh, how do I even answer him?

“Fine.
How was yours?”

“Too short, as always.
You back early for rush?
Are you excited?
It’s Bid Night!
You’re at the finish line now!
Tomorrow, you’ll officially be a sorority girl.”

Wait, why’s Sean on the phone
now
?
I know he kept calling Kitty after she got together with Teddy over Thanksgiving.
I assumed he was trying to woo her back, so I always went to Sars’s room so they could speak in private.
I’ve never had a boyfriend, so the whole uncoupling process is a complete mystery to me.
I recall when Teddy dumped girls in the past, they were always finding reasons to drop by the house or phone, sometimes for months afterward, so I figure no breaks are ever completely clean or immediately accepted.

Still, it’s been almost six weeks.

That’s a little stalkerlike, right?

Can this guy not take a hint?

Kitty told me she and Sean were over as soon as she started seeing Teddy.
At the time, I thought that was a shame because he was really nice.
He seemed kind and thoughtful, always asking after me and remembering random facts, like the soccer position I played in high school.
He was one of those guys who’d smile often, and laugh easy, really listening to what others had to say.
But Kitty said Sean was pressuring her to take their relationship further, so maybe the good guy act was just that—an act.

He must be obsessed with her to be sniffing around here
again
.

Or, wait, what if this is a different Sean and Kitty was actually cheating on Teddy with a third guy?

“Are you Beta Theta Pi Sean?”

“Jack, it’s me.
’S’up with the confusion?
You got more than one Sean calling or something?”
he asks in an amused tone.
“A plethora of Seans.
No, a gaggle of Seans.
Perhaps a herd?
A pride?”

I reply, “No, I just assumed this was a new Sean since Kitty broke up with the old one after she started dating my brother at Thanksgiving.
Dude, I don’t want to tell you how to conduct yourself, but it’s a new semester.
Maybe it’s time to move on.”

If he’s still trying to win her back after pressuring her so much she broke it off, I’m going to protect her, even if she no longer has my back.

There’s a long pause on the other end of the line.

“Jack, please do me a favor and tell her I’m gonna call her back later.”

“Okay, I’ll leave her a message.”

See?
I’m still helping, even if she won’t talk to me.

As I’m due to get ready for tonight anyway, I’m happy to have ended the call.
I figured I may as well go through the last round of rush if there’s a chance I could fit in somewhere.
But this time I plan to be there on my own terms, in my own clothes, discussing my own interests.
At the Theta house, I spent twenty minutes listening to a debate over whether the sorority sisters were Team Kelly Kapowski or Team Lisa Turtle—I didn’t even know who those people were.
Still don’t, so I wasn’t unhappy not to be asked back.

My only nod to Kitty tonight will be donning panty hose, not because I want so badly to conform, but because I’m wearing my cotton graduation dress (a gift from Sars’s mom) and it’s flipping cold outside.

No.

Not flipping.
Fucking.
It’s
fucking
cold outside.

As we aren’t so lucky as to have a full bath, I grab my soap caddy and take my stuff down the hall to the shower after I lay out my outfit, complete with plastic egg canister.

When I finish, Kitty’s back in the room.

“Hi?”
I say tentatively.

No response.
Naturally, she’s still not speaking to me.
But she’s not here for long.
Her Caboodles case is already gone, so I assume she’s been getting ready in Sars’s room and forgot something.

Since I’m a
decent
person, I won’t interfere with their friendship, especially as Kitty seems to be coaxing Sars out of her shell socially.
I don’t have to like it, though.

I try to dry my hair as Kitty had previously shown me, but can’t quite manage working the brush in conjunction with the stream of air.
I keep blasting myself in the ear.
How can I land a Cessna, yet working a vent brush entirely eludes me?