The American Princess - Best Love Story Ever (6 page)

"How can you remember the guy I was with, and
not remember me?" It was beginning to dawn on Brad that Sandy was
doing a number on him.

"Tell you what. I'll get back to you if I'm
ever desperate—but Brad?"

His shoulders slumped. "Yeah?"

"Don't hold your breath."

He closed his eyes. I'm being mauled. "Sandy,
you don't understand. This is a limited time offer."

"Well why didn't you say so?" His hopes
picked up a little. "I'll bet most women go their whole lives
without being asked out by Brad Raiden."

"Exactly!"

"And those would be the lucky ones?"

Why doesn't she just plunge a dagger into my
heart? Get it over with. Christening vampires has to be easier than
this. Time to salvage any pride that's still hanging from the bone.
"Do you have long blond hair and green eyes?"

"You know my hair's short and black, and my
eyes are..."

"Damn, this is my fault. I never forget a
face, but with you I must have made an exception. Looks like I've
gone and phoned the wrong mouse. But if you don't want to be a
mouse you can be part of a horse."

"Waaat?"

"'I'll be the front end, and you can be
yourself!'"

He low fived the phone, and whacked himself
on the head. With his head hurting, he felt a little better, but to
further ease the pain he threw in five Hail Marys.

Why don't Anglicans have Hail Marys? We
should have something for times like this. Much more of that sort
of humiliation and the Hara Krishna, the God-squad, or the Praying
Mantises can take me away. There are worse things in life than
looking too anxious—looking like a dweeb for instance.

Four more calls to women who already had
dates left him feeling certifiably depressed. "This disaster's the
Sheik's fault!" He grabbed the phone, and pounded out Greg Harvey's
number.

"Yo, Grasshopper!" Greg said.

Brad banged his fist on the laminated-pine,
coffee table. "You did this to me!"

"Let me guess, Sandy slam-dunked you?"

"Didn't even remember me."

"Then you've lucked out."

"How's that?"

"Cause memory failure is the second sign of
senility."

"...I give up, what's the first?"

"I forget."

He grinned despite his attempt not to. "You
won't remember what day it is if you don't get me out of this mess.
When it comes to women, 'if it wasn't for bad luck, I'd have no
luck at all.'"

"Maybe you peed on some dragon's shoe, but I
suspect you didn't help your cause with Sandy when you told her
that her boobs reminded you of Lethal Weapons One and Two."

Brad raised a hand to the heavens. "That was
a complement!" he yelled into the phone.

"I know that. You know that. But women can
garble even the simplest message."

"All I know is that a few more calls like
that Sandy call, and I'll be curled up in the fetal position
chanting mantras."

"What are mantras?"

"Mantras, my Sheikie friend, are sacred
phrases chanted by Buddhist Monks, in their search for their inner
self. Your mantra will be, 'Please don't kill me, Brad,' but you'll
be using it for outer self protection."

"Hey! Relax mighty Grasshopper. You did your
good deed for the day. 'Women often won't give you what you want,
but [they're always] glad to have been asked.'"

"Glad to have been asked? My call was about
as welcome as a cockroach at a Thanksgiving dinner. If that woman
even thinks of me, she thinks of me as a worm she can use for
squishing practice."

"Listen carefully, feeble-minded worm. 'No
woman ever hates a man for being in love with her.'"

"That one has." He sat down, his head in his
hands.

"I tried to warn you about Sandy. She can
give a guy heartburn, the kind that even Extra Strength Tums can't
cure."

"She seemed friendly enough when I met
her."

"She's friendly alright. Friendly like a
stealth bomber," Greg retorted.

"Blew me away."

"Grasshopper! Grasshopper! Grasshopper! What
am I gonna do with you. You gotta understand—women aren't rabbits.
You want one, you can't just hide behind a bush and make a carrot
sound."

He refused to laugh. "If they were more like
squirrels I could sneak up on one disguised as a nut."

"You wouldn't need a disguise to do
that."

"Ha, ha. So now what do I do?"

"Now you cheer up! Even a blind pig finds an
acorn every once in a while."

"Oh groan."

"Enough of your sniveling," Greg said.
"Listening to you would make a rock sad. The near impossible task
of finding you a honey now rests with me, but you don't hear me
crying."

Half a grin escaped Brad. "That's because
you're too busy calculating your fee for services rendered."

"Now that you mention it, for a small token
of your appreciation, I think I can save you."

"How small?"

"All you gotta do is stand up in the dressing
room and yell, 'Magnificent Sheik, please find me a honey!'"

"In your dreams!"

"So much pride, so few women. But there may
be an alternative."

"Like?"

"You buy the champagne for the limo."

That I can handle! "How do I know I'll have
something to celebrate?"

"So now you're questioning my specialty?"

"Women?"

"Of course. And if you want one, you gotta
drop the attitude."

Brad cheered up a little. If anyone could get
him a date, the Sheik could. "Now I know why they say you meet your
friends for life at college."

"Your attitude isn't improving fast enough
for a guy who's facing cell phone annihilation, or a date with his
mother."

He knows he has me by the... "Okay, okay! But
have mercy. Don't land me a sturgeon."

"If you're not urgin' for a sturgeon, you've
lucked out. I'm thinking barracuda, the kind that eats minnows like
you for brunch."

"Could be fun."

"You'll never know what hit you with this
honey. She'll have you sliced and diced quicker than a Ginsu."

A senior at Grand Strand High in '94,
Betty-Jo attracted the guys at her school, or any other place on
the Grand Strand where they happened upon her. She so captivated
them that they ignored even attractive women who were with her.
That was probably why female friends were difficult for her to come
by—the slighted women were reluctant to become her friend.

Betty-Jo's one close friend was Susan
Foxwell, but everyone called her 'the Fox' because she didn't act
like a Susan. Earlier that year, old man Ducksworthy had given the
Fox and her a detention for talking. Their tack on the chair
retaliation—the Fox had provided the tack, and she the
placement—had succeeded in giving Ducksworthy a pain in the butt,
and in cementing the conspirator's friendship.

It also helped that the Fox was the swamp
variety. When it came to men, the auburn-haired, blue-eyed fox
could almost hold her own with Betty-Jo. Granted, she couldn't
offer what Betty-Jo had to offer, but what she had, she
offered.

"My attitude toward men," the Fox said, "is
'treat 'em mean, and keep 'em keen.'"

"Who am I to argue?" Betty-Jo replied. "It
seems to work for you."

* * *

Betty-Jo was partial to male company; she
found the guy's efforts to move on her amusing. Like well-endowed
women everywhere, she had learned how to fend off the unwanted
advances of the over exuberant variety of male. The one unfortunate
exception was Richard Whittle—the unwanted son of Rebecca Whittle,
Waldo Whittle, and Mercury. Richard was a loud and abusive bully,
with the IQ of a doily. And he was repulsive looking, 'like ugly on
a vulture.' Below a brush-cut his acne-laden forehead sloped
outward to protruding eye sockets that housed cold, black, lifeless
eyes. The Fox's take on him, was spot on. "'I thought you needed a
license to look that ugly.'"

Richard lived with his mother in Myrtle
Beach, but he summered with his taxicab, empire-owning father in
New York. He boasted a world-class, tennis ability, but if he were
any kind of tennis player, then so was Kermit the Frog.

Betty-Jo told Richard that her desire to know
him better was rivaled only by her desire to know more about
gingivitis—a big mistake because after that his verbal abuse became
so intolerable that soon all she wanted from life was for him to
leave her alone.

His weapon of choice was her public
humiliation—her clothes, her hair, her breasts, her butt, or her
pussy's extracurricular activities provided limitless fodder for
his polluted mouth.

"Hey, Stud Plaything," he'd say, "with tits
like you got, you could start a dairy farm," or, "Word is your
squirrel's busier than a revolving door at Bloomies." He never let
up. And he was even worse when he stopped trying to be funny, and
settled into being crude. She feared and detested him.

Despicable as a dung beetle, she thought. If
there's a higher order in the universe it's dung beetledom for the
Dick, assuming that the gods are so inept that they'd submit his
name for reincarnation in the first place.

She was determined to do something about
Richard Whittle, but what? Then, the day before April fools day,
she was hanging with the Fox and the guys when she hit upon a way
to disgrace Dungie. Just the thought of what she was about to do to
her nemesis, produced a giddy feeling.

When Richard strolled up to her, as repulsive
and obnoxious as ever, she was ready.

"Big tennis star, eh Stud Plaything?" he
said. "When you play tennis, those sweater-stretchers of yours
remind me of Flopsy and Mopsy on a cottontail. And your squirrel's
overrated—nothing but a big rat with a bushy tail."

She gave him her best smile. "Dungie, your
understanding of squirrel anatomy is woeful. No wonder you never
get any." The guys guffawed and the Fox grinned. "It's back to
squirrel school for you, Richard," she quipped.

Richard's fist clenched, and his eyebrows
pushed together. "If you were a guy, I'd rearrange your face."

"That won't be necessary," she said. "You
must be snacking on Frosted Lucky Charms, 'cause this is your lucky
day. We'll have an arm wrestle—you win, and I'll be your slave for
a day."

A broad smile spread across Richard's ugly
puss, and he licked his lips. "You'll be my slave?"

That Dungie is so thrilled with the prospect
of being able to do whatever he wants with me that he's darn near
drooling. "Sure. But if you lose, you wear a diaper to school, and
a sign around your neck that says Whittle Dick."

Richard's face turned red in a hurry. "I'm
gonna have a fun time with you, Stud Plaything. Imagine the worst
thing that can happen to you."

"I run out of food stamps the day before
Thanksgiving?"

"Let me sharpen your focus. You're gonna be
neckin' with anybody who wants you. It'll be a buck a kiss to
me—two if they wanta slug hug you. And you don't wanta know what'll
happen to you if I have any dissatisfied customers."

She forced a smile. "You don't have to worry
about dissatisfied customers, but don't you think you'd better win
the arm wrestle before you start lining up clients?"

"Then picture yourself on your knees, your
hands behind your back, suckin' dog food out of a bowl on the
lunchroom floor."

That I don't want to picture, let alone
participate in. "Sounds like a dream come true."

"It will be, because," there was an ominous
pause, "that's the nicest thing that'll happen to you."

"Y'all cheer up now, B-J," the Fox whispered.
"Maybe he'll feed you the kind of kibble that makes its own
gravy."

Betty-Jo laughed, and hugged her friend.
"Gravy Train," she said.

* * *

Betty-Jo could press 130 pounds, and she used
hand grips to strengthen her wrists. She could take most men in an
arm wrestle, but she was still taking a risk in challenging
Richard. She knew that men had a major advantage over women when it
came to contests that required upper body strength. Men's
testosterone enabled them to bench press their body weight, if they
were in reasonable condition, but women, morphed into females by
their estrogen, possessed an upper body strength that only enabled
them to press half their body weight. Estrogen weakened women the
same way kryptonite wimped out Superman. And she was well aware
that if she lost to Dungie, the indignities she would have to
endure would far exceed her humiliation threshold. The thought of
what he was planning for her, had her biting her lower lip, and
running her fingers through her hair.

"How can slurping dog food out of a bowl be
the nicest thing Dungie will make me do?" she asked the Fox. "I
can't imagine anything worse."

"But apparently he can. May I suggest you win
your challenge, 'cause you don't want to bear witness to the depths
of his depravity—especially not when you're his guest of
honor."

As the table for the arm wrestle challenge
was moved into position, and her classmates jockeyed for an optimum
viewing position, Betty-Jo became increasingly annoyed with
herself. I'm being petty, even nasty for wanting to humiliate
Richard in front of everybody. "Why am I doing this?" she asked the
Fox. "Beside having a face like a ripped open sausage, a foul
mouth, a rancid personality, and the social maturity of a gerbil,
what's Dungie's crime?"

"Stupidity—for being in love with you."

"I really shouldn't blame him for that."

"You wouldn't have this problem if you'd
converted to Islam and worn a burka."

She gave the Fox an obligatory smile. "I
can't see myself in a burka."

The Fox took her hand, and squeezed it. "If
you think a burka would be bad, make sure you don't commit your bod
to a day on the dark side with Dungie. That psychopath could make a
burka seem like a fashion statement."