The Bachelorette Party (4 page)
Grey put his arm around Zadie’s shoulders and looked at Mavis. “Do you mind if I borrow Zadie for a few minutes?”
“Go right ahead.” Mavis thought Zadie was crazy for not looking at Grey as a potential husband. When Mavis and Sam met Grey on Intervention Day, Mavis had pulled Zadie aside and said, “He has a full benefits package and you just gave him to Helen?” Zadie wanted to explain to her mother that Grey once sent back a cheeseburger three times, but what was the point?
Grey dragged her outside to the deck overlooking the marina. Zadie willingly followed. She would have driven to Detroit just to get away from her family at the moment.
Grey looked at her, worried. “How are you?” Wow, the question of the night. Couldn’t anyone ask her the time? Or what she thought of the Iraqi situation? Or how many times she’d burped after eating the salmon?
“For the ninety-fifth time tonight, I’m fine. How are you, groomto-be?” She said it with the proper ironic inflection, so as not to be cheesy.
“I’m great. Ready to shit myself, but great.”
“You look like you’re having fun.” She meant it. He did. No need for ironic inflection here.
“I am. I can’t imagine why, but I really like your family.”
“Well, don’t sign up for the fan club. You’re the only one.”
“I’d introduce you to Mike, but something tells me you’re not in the mood.”
For a brief moment, Zadie wondered if Mike was the guy in the green shirt, but it didn’t matter. She had no interest in meeting him.
“You’re a wise man,” Zadie said. “Besides, this is your night. You’re not supposed to be worried about pairing off your friends. You’re supposed to be attending to your bride.”
“Helen can’t stop smiling.” He looked proud of this fact.
“Helen has never stopped smiling. She smiled the day I shot her in the knee with a BB gun.” That was a good day. Fourth grade. Summer picnic. The savage beauty of childhood.
“Is that what that mark is?” Grey honestly looked concerned.
Zadie rolled her eyes. “Christ, you’ve actually memorized her skin?”
“That makes me sound pathetic, doesn’t it?”
“You are pathetic.”
Grey smiled at her. They clinked beer bottles and looked out at the marina. “Helen’s dad? Drug dealer. Colombian. Fifty kilos a day.”
Zadie smiled at him, picking up the thread. “My Aunt Josephine? Call girl. Runs a few handguns on the side.”
“Your Grandma Davis? Man in drag.” Zadie spit her beer over the railing of the deck and into the harbor. Grey started laughing. And all was right with the world again.
“I’m happy for you, you know. I really am. Helen will never cheat on you, she’ll always stay beautiful and happy and you’ll have smiley little babies that will never need braces.”
“You think she’ll put up with me that long?”
“I guarantee you she’ll choose her own bed skirt, but aside from that, I think you’ll survive.”
He put his arm around her shoulders and gave her a squeeze as they continued to look out at the marina. At the end of the dock, a fisherman pissed onto the side of a yacht. It was a beautiful night.
As Zadie sat through homeroom on Monday, she couldn’t help but obsess about the fact that Helen had actually asked her if she was afraid she might cry during the ceremony. Meaning cry in a bad way. Zadie hadn’t cried during her whole heart-wrenching fiasco. She’d waited until she got home and then she imploded. Grey as witness. The fact that Helen thought her own precious nuptials would set Zadie off incensed her. No, she wouldn’t fucking cry. She might puke, but she wouldn’t cry.
And wasn’t it just like Helen to make Zadie hate her again right when she was trying so hard to like her?
Zadie had never had a problem with Helen—at least not a severe problem—until high school. When Helen hit puberty, she sprouted the perkiest of breasts. Not too big, not too small. Phoebe Cates tits circa
Fast Times at Ridgemont High.
And she still had them. Unlike Zadie, who was sporting C cups that were far more susceptible to gravity than she would’ve preferred. Certain months seemed to feel the pull of the earth more than others. August, for instance. Whenever she put on a bikini, her boobs seemed to hang in a distinctly southern direction. The left one hung a good half inch lower than the right. Which was not something Victoria’s Secret cared to address. Had she a need for sexy lingerie, she might’ve been moved to write a letter. The fact
that she was currently spending every weekend hiding out in her apartment allowed her to not give a shit. Except when she saw Helen’s tits.
Fast Times at Ridgemont High.
And she still had them. Unlike Zadie, who was sporting C cups that were far more susceptible to gravity than she would’ve preferred. Certain months seemed to feel the pull of the earth more than others. August, for instance. Whenever she put on a bikini, her boobs seemed to hang in a distinctly southern direction. The left one hung a good half inch lower than the right. Which was not something Victoria’s Secret cared to address. Had she a need for sexy lingerie, she might’ve been moved to write a letter. The fact
that she was currently spending every weekend hiding out in her apartment allowed her to not give a shit. Except when she saw Helen’s tits.
But it wasn’t just Helen’s physical superiority that angered Zadie, it was her incessant good will. Helen had once given Zadie a kitten. For her sixteenth birthday. Helen had always given her a birthday present. Zadie could barely remember when she was supposed to change her Brita filter, let alone buy her cousins charming birthday gifts. Denise didn’t seem to mind. They’d never exchanged gifts. But Helen sent her one every goddamn year, like a plague. Reminding Zadie that she was too disorganized and callous to do the same.
Sometimes Zadie felt that Helen was only well mannered in order to point out to others that they weren’t. Not to mention that there was a vengeance in Helen’s thoughtfulness. The kitten had peed on every square inch of Zadie’s comforter. And the beautiful wall mirror framed by Italian tile that Helen had given her for her thirtieth birthday only served to make Zadie ashamed that she left the house without makeup so often. Why would you give someone a gift that reminded them how inadequate they were? Why didn’t Helen just send a framed picture of herself with a card that said, “You suck and I don’t”?
By the time homeroom ended, Zadie had a raging headache and was fairly certain that Helen deserved to be tortured by angry bees. Before the engagement, Helen and her spiteful perfection were merely a thorn in Zadie’s side. Now they felt like a pine tree jammed right up her ass.
When Trevor arrived for sixth period, his crack was showing. Plumber’s butt on the middle-aged was fodder for SNL, but a hint of crack on an eighteen-year-old boy whose round globes of asscheek were just a scant bit below said crack was something to be worshiped. Zadie had once stood behind him at the Coke machine, imagining what it would be like to put her lips on the back of his neck—so smooth, so tan, so soft. Would he sigh? Would
he turn and kiss her on the mouth? Would he get hard? She looked away. The sight of his ass crack sent her into a spiral of shame. No, no, no. Trevor was
not
lickable. He probably didn’t even taste good.
he turn and kiss her on the mouth? Would he get hard? She looked away. The sight of his ass crack sent her into a spiral of shame. No, no, no. Trevor was
not
lickable. He probably didn’t even taste good.
As she tried to distract herself with the attendance sheet, he walked up to her desk. “Ms. Roberts, do you think you could hook me up with someone who could get me into Stanford? I got waitlisted.”
Zadie glanced up, trying not to look directly at him. “Have you talked to your counselor about it?”
“He doesn’t know anyone.”
“What makes you think I do?”
“You’re cool. You have to know somebody.” The fact that her students thought she was cool because she’d been engaged to Jack was something she generally ignored. But now it occurred to her that Trevor might think she was hotter than he’d normally think she was, due to this fact. The tragedy and joy of this discovery danced in her brain, giving her a worse headache than she’d had before.
“I’ll try to find someone, but I can’t promise you anything.”
He smiled at her. “Thanks. You rock.” Oh, yes she would. She’d rock his fucking world. He’d go off to Stanford with a whole new understanding of the clitoris. She’d actually be doing him a service. And the women of Stanford. Yet she’d have to live with the fact that she’d defiled a teenager, and that was just too sad to comprehend. As demented as she was, she had a conscience.
Nancy waved her over at lunch from a picnic table outside, but Zadie kept walking and got into her car, on a mission. She drove down Ventura and pulled over in front of the Sportsman’s Lodge, parking near the entrance. She’d read in
Soap Opera Digest
that
Days of Our Lives
was having a fan club luncheon there. She wasn’t going in. Christ, she wasn’t that pathetic. She just wanted to see him walk by. Just to make sure she wasn’t upset anymore. She shouldn’t even be reading
Soap Opera Digest
, but her subscription was endless. It just kept showing up. She happened to
notice the mention of “Eat Quiche with the Men of
Days!
” on the cover. It’s not like she was here to stalk him. She just wanted proof that he was a cheesebag who now wore leather pants.
Soap Opera Digest
that
Days of Our Lives
was having a fan club luncheon there. She wasn’t going in. Christ, she wasn’t that pathetic. She just wanted to see him walk by. Just to make sure she wasn’t upset anymore. She shouldn’t even be reading
Soap Opera Digest
, but her subscription was endless. It just kept showing up. She happened to
notice the mention of “Eat Quiche with the Men of
Days!
” on the cover. It’s not like she was here to stalk him. She just wanted proof that he was a cheesebag who now wore leather pants.
The day that Zadie realized she was in love with Jack, it had been pouring rain. El Nino rain, which somehow seemed wetter than normal rain. Jack was lying on his stomach in the mud, changing her tire on the side of Laurel Canyon. Cars were whizzing by, water was rushing down the hill in a stream that was about ten minutes away from being a flash flood, and Zadie was warm and dry inside the car while Jack spun her lug nuts off. Most guys would’ve called Triple A. At least, most L.A. guys. Most guys would’ve yelled at her for hitting the curb and slicing the tire open on the edge of a grate. Jack simply said, “Stay here, I got it,” and got out to change the tire. The fact that he’d been capable was a plus. The fact that he’d been willing was a four-star bonus. Zadie was overcome with such a huge rush of love for him in that moment that she rolled the window down and stuck her head out in the rain to tell him. He got up on his knees, kissed her, and told her that he loved her too. They’d been dating for two months at the time.
Zadie checked her watch. She’d been waiting for thirty minutes. If she didn’t leave soon, she was going to miss eighth period. Right as she turned on the ignition, she saw a Porsche pull up. Jack got out and sauntered into the restaurant, waving at the screaming housewives who clamored up behind him.
He had sunglasses on.
It was cloudy.
There was no conceivable glare that he needed to shade his eyes from.
Zadie started her car and drove away. She felt nothing. Except overwhelming nausea and a blinding stab of rage.
Once she was back out on Ventura, she saw a drunken homeless man sitting under the awning of a doughnut shop, holding out a cup. She pulled over and stopped, rolling down her window.
“Hey. I’ve got a job for you.”
The homeless man looked up, not sure if he was excited or dismayed at the prospect. “What is it?”
Zadie pulled out a twenty-dollar bill and handed it to him. “See that parking lot over there? There’s a silver Porsche Boxster in the last row. I want you to piss on it.”
“You want me to piss on a car?”
“Make sure you get the door handle on the driver’s side.”
“Whose car is it?”
“Osama bin Laden’s.”
“No shit? We should call somebody.”
Damn. A responsible drunk. “It’s my ex-fiancé’s.”
“Was he mean to you?”
“He made me cry for a very, very long time.”
The homeless guy frowned, then nodded. “I’m your man.” He pocketed the twenty and unzipped his pants as he walked toward the Sportsman’s Lodge.
Zadie drove off, trusting him to do his job well.
When Grey picked her up to go surfing on Saturday, she was in the midst of trying to deodorize her wet suit. She’d left it in the trunk of her car after the last time they’d gone and it had been cooking in there for the past month. It now smelled like something a bulimic would sniff in order to vomit.
“You ready? Waves are at three feet. Glassy and clean.”
She was definitely ready. She wanted that feeling. The feeling you got when you stood up easily and got a nice long ride into the beach. There was something magical about standing on the ocean, sun shining down, feeling like you were doing something truly cool. Even if it wasn’t cool, she would’ve done it, though she was admittedly what she thought of as a “tourist” surfer. She didn’t particularly like carrying her board, or any of the other exhausting aspects of the sport, like paddling out to the break or fighting the current to stay in position. She heard that in Waikiki you could just walk down onto the beach and rent a board right there, along with a big Hawaiian man to push you into the waves. This was her dream. Someday, she would treat herself.
In the meantime, she was spending twenty minutes strapping her board on top of Grey’s car. They were heading south to Bolsa Chica in Huntington Beach. A nice beach break, if you could avoid the stingrays. Shuffling your feet in the sand was supposed
to scare them. Zadie usually shuffled so thoroughly it looked like she was doing some type of clog dance. If you stepped on one, someone had to douse your foot in boiling water. Big fun.
to scare them. Zadie usually shuffled so thoroughly it looked like she was doing some type of clog dance. If you stepped on one, someone had to douse your foot in boiling water. Big fun.
When they got there, the waves were only two feet, and not so glassy. So much for the surf report. A two-foot break was easy to paddle out in however, so she couldn’t complain about that. Grey had taken her to San Clemente on a five-foot day where she got slammed in the face by waves for forty-five minutes while trying to paddle out, never even making it to the break. Those were the days when she wondered why the hell she liked surfing at all. It was hard. It was frustrating. But here she was again, paddling out in the cold green water, so there must be crack in the ocean. Calling them all out for another fix.
When they got out to the break, they sat and waited. Along with twenty or so other surfers.
“I hear Helen’s planning a bachelorette party,” Grey said.
Zadie rolled her eyes. “Something tells me it won’t be the kind of party where she carries around a blow-up penis.” Given Helen’s disdain for alcohol, how could her party possibly involve fun of any kind? It would be lame and painful and Zadie was annoyed that she’d be forced to attend.
“Do me a favor and make sure she has a good time. Maybe loosen her up a little.”
Zadie raised her eyebrows. “Like make-sure-she-uses-a-condom good time?”
“Funny. Here it comes. Paddle.”
Zadie turned around to look at a three-foot wave coming up behind her. She was in perfect position, near the peak. She lay down on her board and paddled hard, waiting for the wave to catch her. When it did, she raised herself into a push-up position and popped up, landing in the middle of her board, perfectly balanced. A miracle. Her first wave a perfect ride. Usually, she pearled for at least three waves, the nose of her board going under water, causing her to get spun. Yet, here she was, standing up, smiling, stomach pulled in, riding the wave. Life was good. As the wave
ended, she sank back down onto her board and turned it around to paddle back out.
ended, she sank back down onto her board and turned it around to paddle back out.
“Nice one.” Grey was still at the break. Waiting for his wave. “You got your foot forward. That’s what was holding you back last time.”
In the midst of Zadie’s postnuptial depression, Grey had insisted that she go surfing with him. She balked, of course. Why would she do something she knew she would suck at? Not that Zadie wasn’t athletic. She played softball in high school. She went to the gym. She could kick ass in a beach volleyball game. She played tennis a couple times a year. But surfing required one to go from lying down to standing up in one smooth motion, while balanced on a piece of fiberglass that was shooting across the ocean. Not the most graceful thing one could be doing on a Saturday. But it beat watching reruns of
American Gladiator
on TNN, no matter how hot Nitro was.
American Gladiator
on TNN, no matter how hot Nitro was.
Their first surfing excursion was an exercise in torture. Paddling was a fucking drag. Her sunscreen melted in the salt water and ran into her eyes. Her wet suit weighed a million pounds and felt like a full-body girdle. Zadie didn’t even like wearing a bra. Why was she doing this? She was convinced that Grey was trying to kill her, when all of a sudden she was up. On a wave. For a good ten seconds. And then everything changed. Now that she’d done it once, she had to do it again. And all of the paddling and all of the salt water in her eyes didn’t matter. She had to catch another wave.
“Promise me you’ll take charge of the bachelorette party if it gets too pathetic.”
Zadie looked over at Grey as she sat up on her board, facing the ocean. Never turn your back on the waves. She’d learned that early on. That, and to keep your mouth closed when you’re underwater. The Pacific Ocean is neither tasty nor nutritious.
“Do I sense preplanned guilt in your plea? Like you’re having an orgy and want to make sure Helen has a quality pedicure to make up for it?”
“You know what I mean. Helen isn’t like you. And I don’t think her friends are like you, either.”
“Yes, thank you for reminding me that I’m a big alcoholic slut. But sadly, I’m not going to apologize for that.”
“I don’t want you to. I wish—”
“Wave.” Zadie pointed at the incoming peak behind him and Grey started paddling, popping up and showing off until the wave died out. Grey was good. To meet him on the street, you would never imagine he could surf. You might imagine that he would take a Dustbuster to his car after every trip to the beach, and you’d be right. But anal or not, the man could shred. When he paddled back to the break, Zadie was waiting.
“You left off at the point where you were saying that Helen is pure and I’m a big whore.”
“How’re you a whore? You didn’t sleep with anyone but Jack the whole time you were dating him, and you haven’t slept with anyone since.”
Zadie thought about this. He was right. It was just in her mind that she slept with eighteen-year-olds and tried to dry-hump the maintenance man who installed her trash compactor.
“I just want you to try to get Helen to have fun. Sometimes, she seems—a little uptight,” he said.
“Because she won’t fuck you?”
“Well, yeah, there’s definitely that.”
“Don’t worry. I’m sure it’ll happen once you shower her with rose petals on the honeymoon bed.”
Grey rolled his eyes. “Why do you think she’s held out this long? It’s not like she’s religious.”
“Some girls need a thing. Virginity is Helen’s thing. Otherwise, she’d be just another beautiful Orange County fashion merchandising major.”
“Come on—she manages a boutique. That’s not embarrassing. She’s great at it.”
“Of course she’s great at it.”
Grey sat back on his board, ignoring a perfect wave as it passed him by. “You know, sometimes you sound like you really don’t like her.” He looked her right in the eyes, making it hard for her to lie.
“Sometimes I don’t.”
“She’s your cousin. She’s my fiancée. You
have
to like her.” He looked upset. This was obviously important to him. “She’s the sweetest person I’ve ever met. What’s not to like?”
have
to like her.” He looked upset. This was obviously important to him. “She’s the sweetest person I’ve ever met. What’s not to like?”
“I do like her. Of course I like her. I love her. I have to. She’s family. I just don’t like the way she makes me feel about myself sometimes.”
“Wave.” He pointed out a perfect one behind her. She started paddling, glad to escape the conversation. And she pearled. Goddammit. She was too tense to surf now. Grey was making her analyze why she hated Helen. She hated to analyze her feelings. Because then she had to feel them. Denial and repression were her friends.
She paddled back to the break, after wiping the ocean snot from her face. “Can we not talk about Helen right now? She’s fucking up my surfing.”
“How the hell does Helen make you feel bad about yourself?” Clearly, Grey wasn’t listening.
“I didn’t say that.”
“You implied it.”
Zadie sighed. There was no use avoiding a conversation that Grey was determined to have. She’d learned this on their fourth night out when he insisted she explain her repulsion for men who wore open-toed shoes. Not Tevas or flip-flops, just the leatherbanded open-toed sandals. There was something so wrong about that.
“Sometimes, I feel like Helen is perfect to remind me that I’m not.”
Grey looked at her like she was insane. “You realize that’s psychotic.”
“How is it that I can tell you how many fingers I stick inside myself without shame, yet when I make a general statement about my cousin, I get a big dose of judgment?”
“Helen can’t
make
you feel anything. Only you can make you feel something.”
make
you feel anything. Only you can make you feel something.”
“Thank you, Oprah. Can we just surf?”
Grey looked at her for a moment, then pointed behind her. “Paddle.” She lay down on the board and paddled hard. Catching the wave and popping up. Then falling off the board to the left. Balance completely shot. Fucking Helen.
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