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Authors: Jen Lancaster

Tags: #Fiction, #Humorous, #Contemporary Women, #Mystery & Detective, #Women Sleuths

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BOOK: The Best of Enemies
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Ah, yes, Kelly was right.
Ashley will do.
This girl will learn.

Because I’ll teach her.

“You mean, do I have an entire lifestyle blog where I post recipes about hiding veggies in deceptively delicious meals called SecretSquash.com?”

Ashley gasps.
“Ohmigod!
No way!
Like Jerry Seinfeld’s wife does?
I saw her on Oprah a few years ago!
Are you going to publish a cookbook?
Are you going to be famous?”

I explain, “I’m not in it for the glory.
Doing right by children is all that matters to me.”

Well, doing right and the occasional page view.
How would everyone see how hard I’m killing the mom game without sharing my success on social media?

Although I’m still flashing my show-stopping smile, I notice I’m clenching my fists.
Fine, maybe I’d have enjoyed more of my well-earned glory if Mrs.
Famous Pants hadn’t stolen my idea and beaten me to market.

Damn it,
I
was the one who first hid broccoli inside of chicken nuggets!

Not her,
me
!

I find myself gritting my teeth as I grin, which is problematic.
If Dr.
K was here, he’d make me put in my mouth guard right now.
Clenching is the enemy of healthy molars.
True story.

I take a couple of deep yoga breaths to calm myself.
Whoosh
in,
whoosh
out.
There, that’s better.
I can’t continue to be frustrated by Jessica Seinfeld, as it’s possible she came up with the idea on her own, too.
Surely I’m not the first one to figure out how to properly nourish her children.

Granted, some days it feels like that, but it can’t actually be true.

I inhale through my nose and exhale from my mouth.
There.
Getting better.
Being able to maintain my cool in a crisis is precisely why I’m such an outstanding PTO president.
When everyone else is losing their heads, I’m the one who maintains a laserlike focus.
That’s why
my
number’s at the top of the phone tree.

Betsy believes I’d have been running a Fortune 500 company by now if I hadn’t opted for the mommy track.
Yet at this point, I can barely even remember what my PR job was like, save for all the cosmos we used to drink after work.
And really, it’s not as though writing press releases about a new brand of antiperspirant for teens could compare to, you know,
creating baby humans
!

I do recall having fun crafting the client pitches, and the day we landed the fragrance division of Calvin Klein as a client was amazing.
They sent over so much free perfume!
But about a minute later, I got pregnant with Kord, so now I always associate the smell of my old favorite Obsession with barfing in a metal office trash can.

Definitely no longer obsessed with Obsession.

I breathe in one last time and I am Zen again.

“I don’t know how you’re so calm,” Ashley tells me, wrapping an extension (?) around her French-manicured digit.
“If someone famous swooped in on my million-dollar idea, I would be batshit?
You are amazeballs for not, like, hating her?”

I’m very strict with the Littles about the “H” word in our home.
It’s simply not something we say, ergo it’s on the Never Never list.
Plus, I don’t
hate
Jessica Seinfeld.
I’m simply disappointed to not have been first to market.
If only I’d known about blogging back then I could have staked my claim!
Yet what really matters is that my children are thriving because they’re properly parented.
That I have way more pins than Mrs.
Not Shoshanna on Pinterest is an added bonus.
(My coco-loco energy balls did make me a household name in the blogosphere.
Fact.) Plus, it’s against my policy to hate people, even Nana Baba, my overbearing MIL.
I don’t hate anyone except for those who truly
need
hating.

Like Jack Jordan, for example.

But that’s a story for another day.

I appraise Ashley one last time.
Time to turn Ashley into an asset.
“Sweetie, have you ever heard of a
wonderful
clothing store called Talbots?”

“Um . . .
no?”

I hook my arm through hers and guide her down the hall, away from the second grade classroom.
“Then do I have a treat for you!”

CHAPTER TWO

GIRL O’ WAR: A MEMOIR CUSTOMER REVIEWS

* * * * *
ARE YOU FLIPPING KIDDING ME?

By: BestSmileEVAH, April 21, 2013

Format: Kindle

Amazon Verified Purchase

I wish I could give this book zero stars.
I’m sorry, but how is anyone impressed with this navel-gazing piece of yellow journalism?
A “new American classic”?
Please.
Beth Harbison’s Shoe Addicts Anonymous is a million times more classic than this could ever possibly be.

Seriously, are we supposed to buy that Jack Jordan is some kind of saint for donning a flak jacket and traipsing around the Middle East, sharing her Very Important Feelings about the state of the world?
Well, I have news for you, Ms.
Jordan—some of us do important jobs every single day by raising the kind of children who will eliminate the need for war when they’re adults.

So put that in your peace pipe and smoke it!

Helmand Province, Afghanistan

March 2014

I hate girls.

I do.
Can’t stand ’em.

I hate how petty girls are.
I hate how they’ll smile so kindly to your face while they’re mentally tearing you to shreds, for committing no transgression other than wearing the wrong shoes.

I hate how girls pass judgment as easily as they’d hand out Halloween candy.
I hate how they’re more concerned about the content of your closet than the content of your character.
Although a few reporters mentioned Margaret Thatcher’s power suits when she died last year, Iron Maggie’s legacy is that of changing Britain, not changing hemlines.

Margaret Thatcher was young once, but I guarantee she was never a
girl
.

I can’t stand the way girls giggle for no good reason.
Or all the shrieking, which is as grating as the whispering.
Or their inability to use the bathroom alone.
What’s the story behind that?
I’ve yet to require an escort to the latrine and I live under the near-constant threat of live fire.

Girls are superficial.
Artificial.
Plastic, not fantastic.

Girls escalate the smallest conflicts until they become epic in scope.
Molehills become mountains and tiny skirmishes morph into great wars.

Or, what
they
believe are great wars.

Honestly, it’s offensive.
I understand the implications of war.
I’ve been a foreign correspondent for twelve years.
Trust me, I know what real conflict is.
So, raging over who has dibs on wearing fuchsia to the prom or who borrowed your Nine Inch Nails CD without permission or who hid broccoli in a chicken nugget first?

Well, it ain’t exactly Kandahar.

There are no girls on the front line.
Marines are stationed here as part of the FET (Female Engagement Team) but they’re
women
.
They’re soldiers.
Warriors.
They do not engage in slap-fights over who looked sideways at someone else’s crush.
They’re tough and competent and I’m not referring to them when I say I hate girls.

That’s why I eschew most female friendships, save for Sars.
But she’s half a world away right now.
Wish I were better about keeping in touch when I’m abroad, but between her grueling travel schedule for W3 and the ten-hour time difference, we don’t often connect.
When I’m not filing a story, I’m in my tiny Kabul apartment, researching my next assignment, so my time’s limited and my focus specific.

Sars understands, though.
She’s always been a good egg.
I’m so proud of her work with W3.
I hope in some small way I inspired her with my stories of how hard life is for those without access to clean water.
After she and Trip made Chandler Financial Group into the premiere wealth management firm, she could have been content to stay home and push out babies, the pampered wife of a wealthy man.
Instead, she’s been funneling all her time and resources over the past few years to create and manage a nonprofit that builds wells in the third world.
I can’t imagine a better use of her considerable talent and resources.

Sars and I became friends the day my family bought the house across from hers in grade school.
Moving to a new state was overwhelming on top of the other circumstances, but Sars eased the transition.

I remember sitting on the porch swing, watching the movers haul in furniture, when this tiny, birdlike person flew up the stairs to sit next to me, a ball of frenetic energy, eyes enormous behind glasses that even I knew were nerdy.
And in one breath, she said, “Hi, you’re the new girl!
I live across the street.
My ma says we’re gonna be in the same class.
I hear Miss Meyer is pretty nice, even though her spelling tests are supposed to be hard.
I don’t love spelling.
My pa says computers are going to do all the spelling for you in the future, so why bother learning how?
Math’s my favorite subject.
I can divide fractions in my head, no fooling!
Someday I wanna be a banker.
I already have a savings account where I put all my money from losing my baby teeth.
My ma’s actually the tooth fairy, but I pretend like she’s not.
I got two bucks for each front tooth!!
We should be friends.”

Before I could say a thing, she went on.
“There are no girl kids in this neighborhood.
Wait, my cousins live down the block.
They can drive and they’re kinda mean.
They made fun of me for liking
Growing Pains
because they say Kirk Cameron’s a tool, so I pretend that I don’t watch even though I do.
He’s
not
a tool, but his friend Boner is.
Is Boner a dirty word?
Everyone laughs at me when I ask.
Did I say one of my cousins can drive?
Big whoop.
Cilla and Gracie think they’re so rad because they got to see
Dirty Dancing
.
They’re in love with Patrick Swayze, but he’s, like, seventy years old.
Ugh.”

She looked at me expectantly.
I understood the conversation ball was in my court, yet I had no idea how to respond.
I’d already learned more about her in thirty seconds than I did playing Peewee hockey with my old neighbor Jason for two years.

Actually, all of my buddies in Saint Louis were male.
Without a female influence for the past few years, I’d become a full-fledged tomboy.
I have early recollections of tea parties and lace-trimmed dresses with shiny, buckled church shoes, but at this point, I wonder if I haven’t somehow co-opted Sars’s memories.

So, I was in the dark about how to address this exotic, bespectacled creature perched next to me, with two elaborate braids hanging halfway down her back, secured with big plaid bows.
Noticing her pristine white cotton shirt buttoned halfway down and then tied at the waist like Jennifer Grey in the
Dirty Dancing
movie trailer, I suddenly felt self-conscious in my brother Bobby’s old Cardinals tee.

She grinned at me.
“You wanna play Barbies?”
she asked.

Before I even realized what I was saying, I responded, “Nah, I hate dolls.”
I instantly regretted my answer, assuming I’d blown my shot at my first real female friendship.
Thing was, I didn’t
hate
Barbies—I just didn’t know what to do with them.
When my mom was still with us, I had a few dolls.
I don’t remember playing with them, though.
Mostly I recall my brothers and I just threw them at one another.

Luckily, Sars granted me a reprieve.

“’S okay.”
She shrugged, adjusting her giant horn-rims.
“We can play whatever you want.”

Sars was the first female I ever met who could keep up with my brothers and me.
Sure, she had that doll collection, and, yes, her mom bought her a lot of frilly stuff, but she never forced any of it on me, and despite her feminine proclivities, she could frontload a jump on a dirt bike better than any of us.
(Pro Tip: you compress the suspension in order to keep the throttle steady before hitting the lip of the ramp.) Sars caught air like nobody’s business, largely because she understood the geometry behind the sport.
She always launched herself at precisely the right second.

She was brilliant and fearless back then.
She’s still brilliant now, but much more circumspect.

Of course, Sars always said that I was the real adrenaline junkie between the two of us.
She claimed I was attracted to anything that made my pulse race.

I’m not sure that’s completely true.

The simple explanation is I don’t care to sit still.
I can’t stand to be bored.
I’d rather climb Kilimanjaro than laze on the sand with a fruity drink.
Give me a campsite over a beach with cabana boys any day of the week.
My comfort zone is discomfort.
I feel the exact same way about what I do for a living, too.
Would I prefer to have kept my first job out of college, covering the Home and Garden beat before going home to my cozy lakefront apartment?
Or would I rather report on what it’s like to sleep in fighting holes, with nothing but dirt walls as protection from mortars?

Fighting holes.
No question about it.

Life’s too short to be cautious.
That’s why I pursued a pilot’s license when my peers were working on their learners’ permits.
Was I the only
girl
in my class who didn’t have a date for prom?
Yes.
But was I also the only
girl
who could execute a perfect aerial barrel roll?

Would I have rather slow danced to Ace of Bass with some high school junior who believed I owed him my innocence because he sprang for a tux?
Or felt the rush of soloing over Lake Michigan for the first time?

Honestly?

Maybe
I’d have attended prom if any of the boys I liked saw me as a date and not just a pal, but given the benefit of twenty years of hindsight, I believe I did what was best for the long run.

Bobby, one of my brothers, credits Tom Cruise for all my life’s choices.

When other kids were watching
Punky Brewster
, we were wearing out the family copy of
Top Gun
.
To this day, Bobby, Teddy, John-John, and I can quote every single line from memory.
Before you ask, yes, my mother had a Kennedy fixation.
Among other things, I’ve never forgiven her for saddling me with the middle name Bouvier.
I’m not often one to express myself in text language, but OMGWTF?
Bouvier?
Want to know who thinks the name Bouvier is absolutely hysterical?
Every girl in middle school, save for Sars.

What I’m saying is that after hundreds of viewings of
Top Gun
, I perpetually feel the need for speed.
So, when the F-16s fly their sorties overhead, I’m never afraid.
I’m jealous.
Wish it was me on that hop.

My brother John-John married a
total
girl named Heather.
They live in Atlanta where my brother develops software and they have three-point-five children.
(She’s pregnant.
Again.) She spends her days redecorating their museum-quality home.
Exactly how many shades of beige are there?
Seems as though Heather’s found quite a number of them.

BOOK: The Best of Enemies
12.91Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
ads

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