Twisted Sisters (23 page)

“Mary Mac ’n’ Cheese!” she announces proudly.

Oh, Jesus Christ.

“Plus, there’s meatloaf basted in extra barbecue sauce!”

Not for nothing, Geri, but this is why you’re chunky. I bet your arteries look like
the Dan Ryan Expressway at 8:05 a.m.

Given such a repast, Reagan would run screaming into the night, but as this is what
floats Geri’s boat (and dimples her butt), then I can’t quibble.

“Shall I set the table?” I offer, before I catch myself going all Reagan again.

Mary Mac laughs and pours herself a glass of wine in a jelly jar. “Everything else
is dirty,” she says. Which brings me back to my point of the kids loading their own
dishes. Why does she insist on making it harder on herself? “Hey, Mickey Junior, piss
off! It’s
Bachelor
time!”

Apparently Mary Mac and Geri gather for a sisters’ dinner every Monday night to watch
The Bachelor
. I would complain that I’m never invited, but I can’t imagine I’d ever willingly
attend, so, really, it’s a wash.

We sit side by side on the couch with our plates balanced on our knees. Mary Mac cues
up the DVR. “Are you ready for an amaaaaaaaazing journey?” she asks.

“As long as you’re here for the right reasons and you don’t pull a Bentley,” I reply.

What? I work in reality TV; it’s my job to be familiar with the competition and it
seemed like a Geri thing to say.

Mary Mac tucks in to her meal while I assess the situation. I have no choice but to
eat some of this, lest I blow my cover. Okay, here goes . . . I take a tiny forkful
of the Mary Mac ’n’ Cheese and swallow without chewing while only breathing through
my mouth. I don’t notice any cloying processed cheese aftertaste, so I have another
nibble. This is . . . not awful. In fact, it’s palatable. The sauce is hot and bubbly
and the pasta is the perfect state of al dente.

I can do this.

The meatloaf is another story, though. The last time I tasted beef, Clinton was in
the White House. Plus, this barbecue sauce is loaded with artificial ingredients.
But I’ll give Mary Mac credit—at least she didn’t cook it into a petrified meat-log
like Ma used to do. Heck, her cooking’s the main reason that I didn’t miss meat when
I stopped eating it. I break off a small bit with my fork and take a small taste.

The only word that comes to mind is . . . transcendent.

Divine.

Heavenly.

I’d like to say this is Geri’s body’s response to a familiar stimulus, but that’s
not giving Mary Mac her proper due. This meatloaf is freaking spectacular and worthy
of being served at any of Chicago’s finest dining establishments.

I take a bigger bite this time, and before I finish chewing it, I stuff in another.
Oh, that fennel! Although I’m sure Geri couldn’t give a fig about table manners anyway,
I’m not even thinking about her right now. I’m just trying to calculate exactly how
much cubic space there is inside my mouth, as I would like to cram it as full of this
magical meat as humanly possible.

“Mary Mac,” I say between frantic bites, “this is the best meatloaf I’ve ever eaten.”
Utterly true.

She nods, eyes not leaving the screen, where Bachelor Brendon is tonguing the bejesus
out of a bikini-clad Bachelorette under a Tahitian waterfall. “Thanks, G. I added
powdered onion soup mix this time.”

“Always,” I insist, laying my hand on her arm. “
Always
add it from now on.”

When a commercial comes on, Mary Mac allows it to play and she begins to chat. “I
can’t believe you’re staying at Reagan’s. What’d she do to lure you into her lair?”

I don’t have a lair! Geri has a lair! I have an open, airy, tastefully appointed graystone
full of lovely couches and dupioni silk curtains!

I shrug my shoulders noncommittally. “It’s a
Push
thing, totally for convenience. But I’ve barely seen her since I’ve been there, so
it’s all good in the hood.”

Mary Mac takes a leisurely bite and nods. “She called you fat yet? At Thanksgiving,
she referred to your weight no less than twenty-three separate times. I counted. That’s
a new record. The winner of the Passive-Aggressive Olympics is . . . Dr. Reagan Bishop!”

In character, I snort, “I was all, ‘Whatevs, bitch.’ She’s jealous she doesn’t have
my curves.”

“That’s what I’ve been saying for years.”

In my defense, sometimes people are in denial, so it’s helpful when an impartial adviser
points out your shortcomings. If you aren’t aware of a problem, you can’t fix it . . .
right?

Although if I were counseling someone and they told me their sister was always calling
them fat, I’d probably consider the sister out of line.

I wonder if that’s why Geri flipped me off?

“It’s not like this is anything new with her. Remember the time you failed your math
test and she spent the next two weeks reciting times tables at dinner? Or how about
how she used to lord her mile-high peanut butter pie over you? She bites at your heels
whenever she’s given the opportunity.”

I nod, saying nothing. This really is news to me.

She raises her jar at me. “You notice how her buddy at Thanksgiving couldn’t take
his eyes off of you?”

That’s just mortifying, and now I’m glad I inadvertently mentioned Geri’s weight multiple
times.

Through gritted teeth, I reply, “I know, right?”

“Do me a favor while you’re there, G. Just watch yourself, okay? Reagan always has
an end game and you can’t trust her for a second. You never know what she’ll pull
and then find a way to justify. Be careful and don’t let her take advantage of you.”

“I will protect and guard my heart,” I promise, quoting Vienna’s squeaky-voiced
Bachelor Pad
paramour.

“That’s why you’re my favorite sister, G.” And then she momentarily rests her head
on my shoulder before fast-forwarding over the rest of the commercials. She smells
like Bitch wine and baby aspirin and barbecue, which actually pair nicely together.

Overwhelming pangs of guilt take hold of me, not only for possibly being part of the
problem in my relationship with Geri, but also because this is about the first nice
moment I’ve ever had with Mary Mac.

Not sure of what else to do, I inhale another bite of meatloaf.

For once, I’m delighted to have the opportunity to eat my feelings.

(Literally) in Her Shoes

“What are you doing here, Geri?” Stylist and manager Miranda glances down at her bling-covered
watch.

“Don’t I work today?” I assume I have Geri’s current schedule. What if I pulled the
wrong one? “Thought I was supposed to be here at noon.”

Both Miranda and her client eye me. “But it’s eleven forty-five. Your appointment
isn’t even here yet.”

“Don’t I need time to set up?” Although I can’t imagine I have to do much other than
locate some scissors, right?

Miranda, who’s dressed more for a rave than a day combing clients’ hair, steps away
from her station and speaks to me in a whisper. “I’ve never seen you early before.
Never once. I’m really glad you took our talk to heart. I hate having to write you
up, but the owner’s been up my ass about your perpetual tardiness. Thank you for not
putting me in this position.”

“Of course,” I reply. “What are friends for?”

I can barely hear myself think in here with all the thumping techno music. If I really
worked here, I’m sure I’d file a complaint with HR saying this was a hostile work
environment. There’s an actual DJ in here spinning tunes. A DJ! In a hair salon! Way
to take yourselves superseriously, ladies.

I quickly figure out that Geri’s station is the only unmanned chair, so I head over
there and begin to open and close drawers. A young woman with a ton of sparkly eye
shadow hands me a sheet of paper. “Your list, my lady.”

I glance at her name tag. Allison.

Taking into account Geri’s tendency for doing things the easy way, even when it comes
to saying someone’s name, I reply, “Thanks, Ali.”

“No probs, G-spot.”

I scan the appointment list and notice that I’m supposed to color someone’s hair at
four p.m. The cut I can handle because of body memory, but the color will take a working
knowledge of times and formulas. It’s best to not draw attention to what I can’t do,
so I say, “My eczema’s being a beyotch today. Can I do swapsies with someone else?
I need to not, like, touch chemicals.”

“Sure, G! I’ll give her to Catelyn and you can handle any walk-in cuts.”

Crisis avoided!

“Sweet.”

As I scan the salon, I notice that all the girls without clients are fooling with
their own hair. I’d simply drawn Geri’s into a ponytail this morning, which was all
I could handle after the trauma of having to wash her generous ass.

Huh.

I really do mention Geri’s weight a lot, don’t I?

That’s not cool.

But now, the frizzy red pony seems out of place in the club-like salon, so I use a
round brush to unkink the curls and smooth the whole thing into Rita Hayworth–style
waves. I admire my work in the mirror. Not bad!

I mean, not bad considering what I had to work with.

Allison agrees. “Superglammy, G!”

“Thanks!”

My first client arrives and I’m delighted that she’s new to the salon, so we don’t
have a previous relationship. I pieced together what I could from Geri’s social media
footprint, but clearly there will be portions I’ve missed.

I do my best to channel Geri. “So what are we doing today?” I ask, running my hands
through the client’s long, dark, straight hair, which is pretty similar to my own.
“I have my own ideas, but let’s hear what you’re thinking.”

Lydia, the client, replies, “I’m sooo bored with this all-one-length bullshit. I want
something new and fun.”

“Like . . . layers?” I probably should have studied up on actual hairdressing terms,
but at least my hands know what to do. I’ll whack off some of the stuff around her
face, like Geri’s always claiming I should do.

I keep running my hands through her hair and holding up little bits, and apparently
this seems enough like what a real stylist would do that Lydia doesn’t question me.

A staffer named Margarita leads Lydia over to the shampoo bowls, which is oddly disappointing.
I thought doing the shampoo would be fun, kind of like washing a dog.

When Lydia returns, I comb out her hair. She sits there quietly, but expectantly.
Oh,
I’m
supposed to initiate conversation. On it.

“What do you want to talk about today?”

Lydia glances up at me under her veil of wet hair. “I’m sorry?”

Shit, therapist mode. Try it again. WWGD—What Would Geri Discuss?

“You see
The Bachelor
last night?”

Lydia sadly shakes her head. “Had to TiVo it—my boyfriend was being a pain. He was
at my apartment and he insisted we watch the game. I was all, ‘But I was looking forward
to
The Bachelor
,’ and he didn’t care. I had this whole night planned for myself with wine and snacks,
and Kirk came over uninvited and totally bogarted my plans.”

I’m about to inquire about her feelings on the issue when I realize that I’m not encumbered
by APA rules. Not only can I ask whatever I want, but I can also offer my unvarnished
opinion.

“What an asshole!”

That felt
fantastic
. I’ve never been allowed to actually tell a patient in no uncertain terms what I
really thought. Maybe if I didn’t have to mince words so much, they’d be able to change
their behavior more quickly?

“Right? Then he had the nerve to try to send me out for beer because he didn’t like
the wine I bought!”

I’m a little in awe as Geri’s hands deftly move through Lydia’s locks, almost as though
they have a mind of their own. A ton of long strands fall to the floor, which starts
to make me feel panicky. But I have to keep my composure, lest Lydia panic as well.

I smooth and comb and snip. “Is this in character? I mean, does Kirk always pull stunts
like this?” I ask over the sound of clicking scissors.

“At first I thought he was really into me, being a gentleman and making all the decisions.”

“Such a red flag,” I say.

Whoops, was that out loud?

Wait, I’m
allowed
to say this stuff out loud! Yes! I remember when I was treating this woman who had
a borderline abusive fiancé and all I wanted to do was say, “Honey? Run.”

She replies, “I hear ya, but I didn’t see it. I just thought, ‘Wow, he’s so into me.’”

“But then it eventually occurred to you that he wasn’t being a nice guy so much as
he was being controlling?”

Lydia eyes me in the mirror. “Bingo.”

“What’s your game plan? Are you at the point where you can talk about this, or is
it better to end it?”

She bites her lip. “I’m not sure, honestly.”

“Has he ever been aggressive toward you?”

“Nothing like that, no, never!” Lydia quickly exclaims. Then, rather sheepishly she
adds, “Well, except that he pushed me over the weekend.”

I stop cutting. “He
pushed
you? Like out of the way of an oncoming car?”

“No . . . he’d had a lot to drink and he wanted to drive and I tried to take his keys
and we had a little scuffle.”

Alarm bells are dinging so loudly in my head that I’m surprised the rest of the salon
can’t hear them. “So what happened?”

“I ended up letting him drive and I got into the passenger seat,” she softly admits.

I spin her around to look at me. “What you’re saying is that you not only allowed
him to manhandle you, but then you risked your own life in riding with him?”

She hangs her head. “I never looked at it that way, but yeah. I kinda did.”

“Do you deserve better?” I ask.

“I do. My friend Scott is always saying so. He doesn’t understand why I’d be with
someone like Kirk in the first place.”

“Then you need to drop him like a bad habit. Go home and change your locks if he has
a key—does he have a key?” She nods and I continue, “Then you tell him it’s over and
if he bothers you again, you’ll be filing a police report.”

“But what will happen if I’m there by myself and Kirk shows up?”

“Can someone stay with you?”

“I’m sure Scott would. He’s like a brother to me. He’s always been there for me and
he’s a constant source of support. He’s such a good guy—I don’t know why he can’t
find a nice girl already.”

“Then it’s settled.”

As I begin her blow-dry, conversation becomes impossible, but we communicate by smiling
at each other in the mirror and I find myself gently swaying to the beats the DJ lays
down.

When we finish, I realize three things: Geri’s job actually requires skill and has
value, Scott’s about to exit the Friend Zone, and I really would look better with
a few layers around my face.

•   •   •

I never see Geri without her platform stilettos, so that’s what I wore to the salon
today. They were fine for the first hour, but after that, I felt like my feet were
caught in two separate bear traps. They went from aching to throbbing to screaming
to their current state of numb. I give her credit for wearing these with the frequency
that she does.

Couple the aching feet with the stamina it takes to work on that many clients, plus
the emotional toll of connecting with each person, and I suddenly feel like I have
to revise my previous opinion of Geri being lazy. No lazy person would ever hold a
job like this.

This profession is draining and grueling and utterly, entirely soul satisfying. Who
knew? People come in unhappy and they leave happy. Does a haircut solve deeply ingrained
behavior problems? Of course not. Yet the world seems a tiny bit more fresh and hopeful
when looking out from under a new fringe of bangs. I feel terrible for having discounted
what Geri does for so long. She performs a valuable service and I realize that now.

Plus, I hardly have anyone’s hair in my underwear.

(I did learn rather quickly to put a lid on my drink, though.)

All I want to do is go home, slip into a hot bath, and then put my own damn feet back
on, but Miranda and company have other ideas. Namely, Brando’s Speakeasy for karaoke.

I try to get out of the festivities. “I can’t, I’m too tired.”

“You say that every week,” Ali argues. “Get your shapely behind moving, because we’re
leaving.”

A group of us pile in a cab, even though the bar’s less than six blocks away. Normally,
I’d walk, but at the moment, I’d pay someone to carry me fireman-style, so the taxi
is a welcome compromise.

We arrive at Brando’s and I’m pleased to note that it’s in a gorgeous old Chicago
landmark building and not some hole-in-the-wall Bridgeport pub covered in neon beer
signs. The walls are beautiful dark wood paneling with lots of vintage advertising
art. There are velvet curtains and flattering lighting, too. If I went to bars, I
suspect this is one I might frequent.

We settle in at what’s apparently our usual table and the waitress rushes us over
a round of peach martinis. Miranda, who’s next to me, asks, “Are you surviving up
there?”

“At Reagan’s?” I ask. The way everyone’s been questioning me/Geri about her accommodations,
you’d think she was sent to a gulag and not a gorgeous graystone. I take a sip of
my peach martini and I can feel the liquor stripping off a layer of flesh inside my
mouth. Yikes. “’S’okay. Why?”

Miranda slicks on some sticky gloss and smacks her lips together. “It’s just a surprise,
is all. You’re so nice to her and she’s always such a bitch back. I don’t even know
why you try.” Newsflash? I’m pretty sure that’s a lie. “I was curious if she’s any
less intense when she’s on her own turf.”

“I’m gaining a whole new understanding,” I admit.

Catelyn chimes in, “Remember when your client brought you that amazing shirt back
from France and you posted it on Facebook and Reagan was all, ‘Stripes? No.’ Damn,
I wish there were an ‘Unlike’ button for those kind of comments. Who does that?”

“Y’know, I actually watched one of her old episodes on WeWIN—she was with some girl
named Dina? From New Jersey? The whole time they were talking, I was like, ‘She’s
so not listening to that girl. She’s smiling and nodding, but she’s not processing
anything this poor kid’s saying.’ It’s like she was mentally composing her grocery
list or something.”

I’d argue, but she’s not wrong.

Miranda brushes a stray fuchsia-colored feather out of her face. (Did you know there
are feather-based hair extensions now? I sort of don’t hate them.) “Then, when they’re
walking down the beach, I saw your sister’s backside. I don’t care how skinny that
bitch is, she has cellulite.”

Noo! That wasn’t mine! That was from sitting on the slatted bench! Cellulite isn’t
striped, for crying out loud!

Before I can answer her, Ali yanks me out of my seat. “They have your song cued up!
Everyone’s waiting!”

“For what?” I ask.

She hands me a microphone. “For this.” Then she shoves me onstage and I stare out
at the crowd, who are watching me expectantly.

Um . . . help?

What do I do here?

And why is this so scary? I’ve given plenty of speeches and lectures in my day, but
that’s always been talk based and scripted. I don’t sing. I’ve never sung. I have
a terrible voice! I don’t even hum in the shower!

The song begins and my hands begin to sweat. I’m so anxious that I’m actually manifesting
Geri’s physical responses. Words begin to scroll by on the screen and the audience
begins to grow restless when I blow the entire first verse.

I feel like not singing is the only fate worse than singing, so . . . here goes nothing.

The voice that comes out of me is rich and melodic and full of soul and the crowd
immediately responds.

I’ll be damned.

When Geri’s not shit-housed and not screaming Journey songs from the top of a bar,
she actually possesses a decent set of pipes.

The crowd goes wild and I’m completely bolstered by their response and possibly also
the peach martini. I add a few dance moves and strut across the stage. I flip my hair
and the crowd totally loses it.

“Here I go again!”

As I proceed, I channel Tawny Kitaen (before all the unpleasantness) and my performance
quickly becomes that of legend.