My Own Worst Frenemy (14 page)

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Authors: Kimberly Reid

BOOK: My Own Worst Frenemy
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“Nice to meet you, Mr. Larsen. Mrs. Larsen was just telling me how you own an oil company. That's very interesting.”
“It
is
very interesting. Oil is my passion. Love me some oil.”
“So does your company do horizontal or conventional drilling?”
“Say what? Oh, yes, right. We do the conventional-type drilling.”
“That's probably the best way to go, certainly the least expensive. That way your wellbore is always parallel to your oil zone.”
Bethanie is looking at me like I'm crazy, and her father just looks lost.
“That's it exactly,” he says. “That's the very reason I go conventional.”
Oops. Wrong answer.
“You're just a little Einstein, aren't you, hon?” Mrs. Larsen says. “I can see why they let you into school with that scholarship.”
Bethanie grabs my arm and hauls me off to the kitchen.
“What's the deal interrogating my father like that? And what are you—some kind of oil geek?”
“I wasn't interrogating him. I was genuinely interested. Science is my favorite subject.”
“I thought French was your favorite subject.”
“French is my favorite
class
. Big difference. Anyway, I've been reading up on oil exploration, you know, because of the political climate and all. I'm no expert, but I do know the closest your father has ever gotten to oil is the unleaded fuel pump at Conoco. What's the deal?”
“There is no deal, so mind your own business. I'm going to run upstairs for just two minutes. Don't you dare move from this spot.”
Once she's out of the room, I do move, of course. There's a stack of papers on the breakfast bar and I suspect I'll find something there. But before I can have a look, I hear the makings of an argument brewing between Bethanie's parents.
“If y'all don't stop spending all my money, we gonna be broke again,” says Mr. Larsen.
Broke
again.
So I was right. They are newly rich.
“
Your
money?”
“That's right. I earned it.”
“Earned it? Is that what you call it? Well, at least I got something to show for my spending. What you got to show besides losing tickets from the dog track? At least I got
things
for my money.”
Scratch-off tickets and Dad bets on the horses, too. Seems to be a theme. They must remember I'm in the house because they quiet down and I pick up the stack of papers on the breakfast bar. I don't even have to rifle through them because the evidence is right there on top. A letter from the lottery commission. And not just any old lottery commission. Bethanie is Powerball rich.
I can see hiding that from people, but I don't get why her family is pretending to be from oil money. If I'd won the lottery, I'd keep it on the down low just to keep long-lost relatives from hitting me up for money, or to avoid being a mark for a ransom hit. I sure wouldn't be trying to perpetrate a whole different kind of rich life. I mean, rich is rich. If you're going to flaunt it, why not just go with the truth? Solving Bethanie's mystery will definitely be my next case.
Chapter 19
B
ethanie parks in front of a house just a few blocks from her place and I already regret saying yes to celebrating. She's scammed me into hanging out with some of her stuck-up friends. Not exactly my idea of a good time.
“Whose house is this, anyway?” I ask as we walk up to the front door.
“I hope there'll be some cute guys at this party,” Bethanie says, ignoring my question.
“Party? Wait a minute. That street sign back there said
Prado
, didn't it?”
“Okay, don't get mad.”
That's when I notice the house number over the door.
218.
“Where are we, Bethanie?”
Before she can answer, and before I can make my escape, the front door opens. There's Annette, and I want to kill Bethanie. When Lissa walks up behind her, I want to kill myself. But that's a little drastic, so I just turn to leave.
“I think Chanti left something in the car. Will you excuse us a sec?”
I'm already standing at the car when Bethanie reaches me and whispers, “Come on, just give it an hour, please?”
“You tricked me into going to Lissa's party.”
“Because you wouldn't have come if I'd told you.”
“Damn skippy.”
“Lissa invited me at the last minute and I didn't want to come by myself. I'm not all that comfortable around these people.”
“I thought these
were
your people.”
“I mean, I don't know them that well, and I want to. Come on, just half an hour, then we'll go. Besides, how will you get home? I'm your ride.”
She has a point there. I suck it up, hoping nothing could be that bad for half an hour. When we get inside, it doesn't look like much of a party. For one, it's really quiet, except for a TV playing somewhere in the house. And for another, no one else is there, except for the other two clones.
“Are we early? Did I get the time wrong?” Bethanie asks, realizing there is not a single cute guy to be found.
“When you told me you were bringing Chanti, I figured it might be a chance for us to get to know each other,” Lissa says. I half expect her to add an evil villain laugh. “You know, a real Langdon welcome to the scholarship kids. I was kind of hoping you'd bring that hot friend of yours, but just as well. We planned a girls' night.”
“
Night?
We won't be staying long. Right, Bethanie?” Because I can manage half an hour, an hour even, but there is no way I'm staying here any longer than that.
“You have to stay. We're having a fashion show and doing makeovers, complete with goodies to take home. That was my idea. Sort of my version of public service, help the needy and all that.”
“Oh my God, that sounds like so much fun,” Bethanie practically squeals. Why she wants to be one of these people is beyond me, but I suspect it has a lot to do with that whole upscale Langdon life she's creating for herself out of a dollar Powerball ticket.
The fun starts with a full tour of the house, and I don't mean one of those important room tours like
here's the bathroom, here's the kitchen
. Because really, do I need to see the parents' room and their priceless figurine collection or hear the story of how the silver in their special dining room (they have two dining rooms—special and everyday) was handed down by some deposed Korean emperor generations ago? Okay, I get it. You're mad rich.
“Fashion show time,” Lissa announces after we've seen every last room in the house. “But before we start that, guess what Annette snagged from the wine cellar? Champagne. The good stuff, too. This goes for five hundred dollars a bottle.”
“My parents are collectors,” Annette says.
“Won't they notice it's gone then?”
“Who cares?” Lissa says, laughing as though I'd made a joke. “What a weird thing to worry about. Let's just enjoy it.”
Annette fills our glasses while the clones go upstairs and change into their first ensemble.
“So Bethanie, I see your rich uncle let you borrow the car again,” Lissa says after sipping from her glass like she drinks rare champagne all the time.
“Yes. He doesn't drive that often, anyway,” Bethanie says weakly. She won't even look in my direction.
“He's very generous, your uncle,” Lissa says before refilling her glass.
That's interesting. Maybe Bethanie will be busted twice today. But Lissa quickly bores of Bethanie and turns on me.
“So what's the deal with you and that scholarship boy? Are you two a thing?”
“His name is Marco and we're just friends.”
“Yeah, but I bet you want to make it more than that. I can tell.”
I ignore her, hoping she'll focus back on Bethanie, who looks relieved not to be the one in Lissa's interview chair.
“My brother hates him. Their coach benched Justin so—it's Marco, right?—so Marco can start the season opener.”
“He's starting?”
“You didn't know? Some girlfriend you are. Maybe he's not as into you as I thought.”
“He's into me?” Even when I'm talking to someone else
about
Marco, I have a hard time forming complex sentences.
“Well, he's way out of your league as far as looks, but you do have that whole poverty thing in common. It might be enough to build a beautiful relationship on.”
“You must have started the champagne early, Lissa. You're already drunk,” I say. “Not pretty.”
“Don't be mad. I wish the best for you two. Really I do.”
The clones return then. I'm pretty sure they're wearing clothes I saw during that shopping trip to Bethanie's mall, clothes that ended up in Annette's dog carrier. I manage to sit through thirty minutes of conversation about Prada, Gucci, and Juicy Couture before I have to get away.
“You mind if I use the bathroom?” I say to Annette, but Lissa answers as though it's her house.
“Of course not, but use the one upstairs, in the master bedroom. The one down here isn't working. Isn't that right, Annette?”
Annette looks confused, like she doesn't know what Lissa is talking about. A little too much champagne, I guess. Five hundred dollars or five dollars—it all makes you drunk. Bethanie gets up to follow me.
“What are you two, joined at the hip?” Lissa says.
“I just need to talk to Chanti for a second. I'll be right back.”
“Whatever,” Lissa says, polishing off her glass.
When Bethanie and I get upstairs and out of earshot, she says, “I wanted a chance to talk, you know, about what happened at my house. We didn't get a chance to in the car and . . .”
“I want out of here, now! Isn't this supposed to be
my
celebration, you know, to say thanks for me keeping us out of jail?”
“I know, we'll go soon. But about what happened at my house . . .”
“Bethanie, I know about the lottery win.”
“How do you know?”
“It's what I do, remember? What I don't understand is why you're faking a whole different life, but that's your business. If you're worried about me telling them you're only pseudo-rich, don't. Your secret's safe with me.”
“Look, don't be calling me no pseudo-rich,” Bethanie says in a voice I've never heard. All of a sudden she's got her mother's accent, but without the magnolias and mint juleps. Wherever she's really from, I'm thinking it's the Dirty South version of Aurora Ave. “Rich is rich, okay? No one cares how you got there. What I'm worried about is getting busted out of Langdon. Once I'm in there a minute and people accept me as one of them, they won't care about my money or hold me to that scholarship.”
“Bethanie,” I start, then realize that name doesn't match the hood girl she's suddenly morphed into. “Wait, is that even your real name?”
“It is now.”
“Okaaay, whoever you are. Do you really need Langdon and those twits down there to make you feel good about yourself?”
“Don't get all Dr. Phil on me. I don't need your analysis. I just need you to keep your mouth shut. You don't know nothing about me or where I come from. I can tell you now—I'm never going back.”
She returns downstairs to Lissa and her clones. I'm so shocked by this whole new person I just met, I forgot I was supposed to be escaping torture. I'm dying to know what happens now, so I follow her.
“You weren't up there very long,” Lissa says, looking disappointed. “I thought you had to go.”
“I changed my mind. Is that a problem?”
This girl has serious control issues. She'd better recognize I'm not one of her minions.
“Should we do makeovers now?” Annette asks Lissa, as though this is not her house and not her party. I can't stand Lissa, but I'd love to know how she works this mind-control thing she has over these girls. Maybe I could use it on Marco.
“I'm tired of fashion and makeovers,” Lissa says, picking up her phone to send a text. Apparently she's bored of discussing Gucci and criticizing me. Wait—I spoke too soon. “Let's have some real fun and play a little truth or dare. I'll start.”
The she-devil looks into my soul when she suggests truth or dare, and I really want to leave this place. Nothing good can come out of Lissa's mouth, no matter what she's about to say.
“I know a little truth about Chanti that no one here knows. Not even her bestest friend Bethanie. I don't know why she's hiding it, because it really makes for an interesting story.”
I'm thinking she knows how I broke into Smythe's office to get information about the thefts, but that isn't it at all.
“Our little Chanti has a record. She's been to jail.”

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