Chapter #22Two Triangles by: Seuzz   "While you've been moping around like the saddest girl in the world, I've been getting things done," Jessica says as she flounces up to your locker at the end of the day. You look at her from under your eyelashes. "Jeremy's meeting us at our place after school," she continues, leaning in to talk to you a low voice. "I'll be going over to Chelsea's as him. Chelsea will get Gordon out there with the excuse that they all need to talk. Do you want to wait in the car, or have me bring Gordon's stuff back to the house so you can change there?"
"Umm, do I have to be involved in this at all?" you ask. "Can you just, you know, get Gordon's mask made and put it back on him? That's all we need, is to get a mask on him."
"You don't want to actually switch?" she asks. "I figured you were dying to get out of Eva."
"I have a date tonight, and it has to be Eva who shows up."
"I didn't figure it would be Prescott who had to show up," he acidly replies. "Who is it with?"
"Andrea Varnsworth," you mouth.
Her mouth drops.
"Okay, yeah," she says =. "You definitely wouldn't be going as Prescott, would you. What's the story?"
You tell him about your encounter with the swimmer at lunch. "You wouldn't ask me to not be there, would you, dude?"
She ignores your rhetorical question, and leans back and lets her eyes roll toward the ceiling. "Andrea Varnsworth. Man, what I wouldn't give to have a slice of her."
A sharp feeling of possessiveness sweeps over you. "She's mine," you snarl. "All mine!"
"You said you wanted guys for your team!"
"I said I wanted girlfriends. I didn't figure on there being a twist in the tail."
"Shhh. Keep your voice down. Now look." Jessica puts an arm around your shoulder and grips you. "You're going to want to keep her, right? There's only one way to do that."
"Don't patronize me. She likes 'em fluffy, and Eva is fluffy."
"But you wanna be in control, and Eva isn't the controlling type." Her grip tightens. "I can give you just as good a time with her," she says, her voice deepening to a growl. "As her."
"You'd claim Chelsea and Andrea?"
"I was gonna let you have Black and Patterson."
"I'm suddenly less interested in them."
"You're gonna let a girl come between us?"
"Dude," you protest.
"No, I get it," she says, leaning back again. "I guess I shoulda seen it coming. This kind of power, these kinds of possibilities ... Yeah, it was actually kind of predictable."
You sigh. "Are you saying you'd be my girlfriend?"
"I'd be Andrea for you," she replies. "I bet her hands feel real good running up and down her body when she's drying herself off."
"You didn't answer my question. Look, let's just see how it plays out tonight," you say, trying to postpone the quarrel. "Maybe it'll be weird. Can you handle Gordon by yourself?"
"Yeah," she says unhappily. "But you will take our last blank along tonight. You get me? This could be a once-in-a-lifetime chance."
* * * * *
"My mom's working late," Andrea says as she lets you in. She steps lightly back into the house without beckoning you to follow. "Did you eat yet?"
"Uh-uh." It's a small house in one of the pokier parts of town. The living room is spare to the point of being Spartan, with only a futon in one corner, a desk and chair in the other, and a bookcase in between. There's no TV, only an old-style boom box and a stack of CDs, and a laptop on the desk.
Andrea disappears through a wide doorway at the other side of the living space. "Kitchen's in here," she calls. "I was making myself a Greek salad."
"Sounds yummy." You follow her. The kitchen is also small, but warm. The air of hippiedom continues with some ugly 70s-style prints on the wall. "What does your mom do?"
"She's a waitress. Kind of a hand-to-mouth existence in some ways, but it means she can take months off at a time. She took me to Australia when I was twelve for a whole summer."
"I didn't think waitresses made that much."
"They do at Ristorante Locarno." You let out a low whistle. "Yeah," she smiles. "Twenty, twenty-five percent on a bill for twelve people on entrees that start at fifty dollars? Look in that drawer next to you." You open it; it's stuffed with twenties. "She's co-manager, too. Been there forever, and everyone loves her. When I was little I thought it normal to play Monopoly with real money, not the funny colored stuff."
"And you live here?"
She gives you a look.
"No one ever got rich spending money on junk. Anyway," she adds, turning back to the wooden bowl of vegetables, "I sometimes help out, so I've got some spending money of my own."
"I worked at Taco Bell over the summer," you say, miserably aware of how pathetic that sounds.
"That's great," she says. "Never been in one myself. How's the food?"
"Cheap."
"Come over on Saturday, and I'll fix you something Bolivian."
"Are you for real?"
"I'm not a hippie, if that's what you're asking." There's the sound of the front door opening. "Oh, there's the other guest. He called just before you arrived, invited himself over. But you'll like him."
You have a sinking dread of who it will turn out to be, and peer around the corner. The reality is even worse.
"Well, aren't you cute," Charles Hartlein chortles when he sees you. "Come on out and lemme take a look at you."
You look back at Andrea, but she just smiles privately to herself. You go back into the living room.
Hartlein is casually dressed as ever in that way of his that combines neatness and slovenliness: a thin white t-shirt emblazoned with Mickey Mouse's face and name, cargo shorts, running shoes, and a watch on a leather wristband. His hair and beard are trimmed neatly.
Something about the shirt catches your eye: it doesn't say "Mickey Mouse," it says "Maikey Mouse." He catches your stare and glances down, then grins. "Yeah, brilliant, isn't it? A friend of mine bought it from a street vendor in Seoul. Wanna bet Disney didn't get any royalties? Drea, is it rabbit food again?" he calls. "I wore my rodent shirt 'cos I was sure it would be." She says something inaudible and he passes into the kitchen. There's a shriek and some nasally laughter and then more banter. You sit on the futon, feeling out of your depth.
Dinner, when it comes, is thinner than you're used to, but tasty. "I'll show you the garden on Saturday," Andrea says. You girls sit cross-legged on the floor while Charles takes the futon. Andrea tries paying attention to you, but Charles dominates the conversation with a lot of snark and allusions whose meaning escapes you. When you're all finished, he crosses his legs at the knee and ankle, lights a cigarette and peers at you through the smoke.
"She's a doll, Drea," he says. "I can't wait to show her around. There are so many people who will get a kick out of her."
"I didn't win her at the carnival," Andrea says.
He sniggers. "But she is a prize. You'll fit right in," he says, his eyes shifting back to you. "As soon as we get you loosened up."
You feel yourself stiffen. Hanging out with Andrea is one thing. But if this cocksucker is going to be lurking around, and if he thinks--
"So what happened between you and Chelsea?" he asks bluntly. "Were you drunk? Was she? I bet she's into her daddy's Scotch every night."
"How about some music?" Andrea asks. She leaps to her feet and puts a CD into the player. A jazzy Latin number fills the air, and she pulls you up to dance. You are awkward and uncomfortable, especially in front of Charles, who just grins at the two of you like butter wouldn't melt in his mouth. When you're done, he grinds out his second cigarette.
"We'll have to do something about one of her left feet," he says.
"I'm tired now," Andrea says, and it's like the lights have snapped out. "Both of you can go now." She disappears into the kitchen.
Charles chuckles and stands. "I'll walk you to your car," he says, and goes to the door. "It was dreamy, Drea, but it always is when you and me get together!" He goes out the front door.
You're left stranded in the living room, unsure what to do. Anger mounts inside you as you hike your purse onto your shoulder, and the weight reminds you that there is a mask inside it. If things are going to work out between you and Andrea--and you desperately want them to--you have the distinct impression you are going to have to do something about this very queer friendship between Charles and Andrea.
* Copy Charles Hartlein (non-canonical): "Oh, the Drama!"    indicates the next chapter needs to be written. |
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