Heteroflexibility (4 page)

We’d had to rush the pictures, something that would have driven me batty as a photographer, due to Cade’s tardiness. Later, after the reception, when we entered the hotel room (he had tried to carry me but the dress was too slippery, and I kept falling out of his grasp), I learned why he was late. He’d filled the room with star lilies. Their perfume was so strong, we almost choked on it.

“I love them,” I had said, coughing and laughing.

He smacked me on the back. “You’re going to think I tried to kill you with flowers.”

No one had ever done anything romantic like that for me before. I had been so amazed, knowing I looked okay for once, the veil hiding my frizzy hair that refused to iron flat, the beaded dress rearranging my flat chest and doughy waist into something that resembled a normal figure. On that day, I’d felt worthy.

Back to reality. I opened my eyes and flipped through the pages of the petition. I couldn’t make sense of any of it. On the last page, the word “Prayer” made me pause.

I read the smaller print.

I ask the Court to grant me a divorce because the marriage has become insupportable due to discord or conflict of personalities that destroys the legitimate ends of the marital relationship and prevents any reasonable expectation of reconciliation.

That did sound a bit like a prayer, a shot in the dark, a Hail Mary, football style, not the rosary beads variety.

I dropped the pages back onto the table. I didn’t even know what I was supposed to do with these papers. It didn’t have signature flags, or action items, or instructions.

“Hellooooo! Zest, baby! You here?”

Fern stood in the doorway, the sun brightening her spunky bleached ponytails nearly to white, decked in a totally Fern outfit—hot pink halter and black leather skirt, pink-striped stockings and knee boots.

Sometimes it was all I could do to keep my self-respect in light of that girl’s utter physical perfection. I’d have hated her in most any other situation. Maybe I did hate her.

I shoved the papers back in the envelope and shook my head. “You must be on the set today.”

“The director likes me to look the part.”

“Of the slutty assistant?”

Fern rolled her eyes beneath enormous false lashes with glitter on the ends. I should photograph her, really, get some model shots. She’d do anything, boudoir, leather, nudes. If only I had some time before I dismantled the lights. I had no idea when I’d be set up again.

“So why exactly are YOU the one packing?” she asked.

“He wants the house for the baby.”

“Oh, right. The love child. You aren’t going to take him to the cleaners?”

I resumed shoving books into boxes. “He doesn’t have anything to clean out. We dumped everything into the house.” Bloody bad timing, actually, for this to happen. We could have at least had something to split, so I could get a fresh start.

She kicked a wall with her shiny boot. “Fuckin’ a.”

“Besides.” I scooted a box closer to her. “He’s obviously had her over here. I found these in the liquor cabinet.”

Fern bent over the box. “What’s in it?”

“Sex toys.”

She pulled back a flap. “Really? He just left them with the liquor?”

“Never wanted to do any of that stuff with me.”

Fern sorted through the box, her honey-toned body not showing a bulge anywhere, totally the opposite of me, with my skinny arms and legs and a pooch belly, topped by a face only a bulldog could love. But Fern. That girl inspired stalking at epidemic levels. If she’d ever had a relationship last more than five minutes, I might have been jealous.

“I guess they forgot to use these.” She held up a string of florescent orange condoms.

Not funny. I turned away to sweep all the CDs off the bookshelves. Mine, his, and ours. He’d have to start his collection over. I could resell these if I got desperate.

She dropped the condoms back into the box. “You going to be okay?”

“No, actually, I’m pretty screwed. I don’t even have a studio.”

“Well, I have good news for you. We’re going to get you that wedding gig back.”

“The one with the lesbians?”

“Oh yes.”

“But they weren’t even sure they were going to go.”

She dug through the toy box again. “Well, they are. And I want you to meet the rest of the girls. They’ll love you, you’ll be hired, and everything will be okay again.”

I stared at a Blondie album cover, not sure why Fern was so bent on helping me. We were friends, of course, but mainly as Sisters in Whine, more likely to share a text message than a night out.  She was a hottie trust-funded assistant in the movie industry, and I was, well, a wreck. “When are we going?”

“Tonight. Meet me at my place at six.”

“I’ll be there.” I swiped at the dust hidden behind the row of CDs. Housekeeping, not my strength.

Fern scooted over closer to me. “Will you be okay for a while once they pay for the wedding? Enough to get a place?”

“Yeah. I’ll be all right. As long as you’re okay with a houseguest for a few days until then. I’ve got to get out of here.”

She sorted through the teensy purse attached to her belt and tugged out a spare key. “As long as you don’t scare the boys away.”

I took the key and stuck it in my pocket. “Just warn me when they’re coming.”

“That’s the problem, they’re always coming without warning.” She reached into the sex-toy box and retrieved a pink rabbit vibrator. “You’re better off with one of these.”

Chapter 7: Get Your Game Face On

 I took the stairs two at a time up to Fern’s fourth-floor condo. Time to ditch the pot belly if I was going to date again. Blech.

I paused, huffing, outside her door. A mirror in the hallway confirmed my hair had gone wild again. I smashed it down and rang her buzzer. I didn’t think I should use the key until I was officially moved in.

Fern threw open the door, and I staggered back when I saw her outfit.  “Are you really wearing that?”

The getup was straight from
A League of Their Own
. Short pleated skirt, matching crew-neck top, ball cap, and even bobby socks. All the color of a petunia. “Did you forget your pink pom pons?”

Fern arranged her face into a pout. God, that girl could put it on. “You never like my
couture
.” She headed to her bedroom.

I followed her. “It’s just a little…unexpected. Where are we meeting them exactly?”

Fern faced the mirrored wall behind her bed, adjusting her ponytails beneath the cap. “Their softball game.”

“Oh. That’ll be interesting.” I twisted my own hair self-consciously as she perfected hers. “So what’s your connection with these women?”

 “I know a few of them.”

“Which ones?”

She turned around, hand on her hip. “Just Aud, really. The others I only met a time or two.”

“How do you know her?”

She sat on the bed in a huff. “What’s with the third degree? I know tons of people in this town.”

“It’s just strange how you’re going so out of the way for me.”

She pressed down on my hair, then giggled when it flew back up. “Stop worrying.”

I stepped away. “Stop worrying! These women will eat me alive. I barely made it through the first meeting.”

“They’re okay girls,” Fern insisted, coming back at me, this time with a comb.

“I don’t know anything about gay rights. I got confused just trying to figure out who they were in the coffee shop.”

She began combing through my frizz. “It’s not rocket science.” She stood back to assess her progress on my hair. “Just don’t be a homophobe.”

“I’m not a homophobe. I just worry I might look like one.”

“You’ll do fine. Stick close to me.” She turned to a rack of hats by her closet door. Every type of headwear imaginable covered the pegs, from sequined top hats to pink net pill boxes. She tugged down a red ball cap, standard issue.

“Really?” I asked.

“You’ll fit right in.” She set the cap on my head and pulled my hair through the hole in back. “This needs some conditioner.” She stepped into the bathroom and returned with a squeeze bottle. The room filled with the scent of gardenia as she smoothed the mass of frizz. “There. Much better.”

She turned me to the mirrored wall. My hair was almost tame, the flyaway strands smoothed into a curly mop.

She popped the cap shut. “Let’s go!”

I trudged after her, quite sure I was headed toward certain doom.

***

My Volvo bounced and bumped through potholes in the dirt as we approached the softball fields.

Colored shirts dotted the fields in every direction, along with knee socks and shiny shorts. I had never been much of a sports player. The two times I’d ever been to bat in junior high, I’d closed my eyes and swung. Making any sort of connection between metal and leather was about as likely as bumping uglies with Brad Pitt.

Fern peered out the window like a kid looking into FAO Schwartz.

I gripped the steering wheel. Despite being worried about how she might act, I was glad she had asked me to come along. I vowed to let her do the talking to avoid embarrassing myself. “What are we looking for?” I asked.

“Red uniforms that say ‘Satan’s Hoebags.’”

“Oh, right. Their team.”

She pointed at a mass of women in purple. “Oh, look at those. Palin’s Power Tools.”

Their shirts had an image of Sarah Palin’s face on the front. The backs read, “A Team You Can Get Behind!”

I pulled up next to the line of cars and parked. “Sarah Palin. Finally get a woman on the ballot and it has to be a conservative ex-beauty queen.”

Fern opened her door. “Don’t worry. Caribou Barbie will have the shelf life of a day-old Twinkie once Obama gets elected.”

I killed the engine. “He’s a sure thing?”

Fern stepped out of the car, then popped her platinum head back inside. “As sure as Carrot Top being your soul mate.”

I got of the car and nervously ran my hand along the conditioned ponytail. Strands were already starting to dry out and fly away.

We headed toward the bleachers. “I am so going to blow this.”

“Just be calm and confident.” She waved to a blue group. “These team names are so great—the Love Monkeys.”

A beautiful girl in a Love Monkey uniform nodded as we passed. “What team are YOU on?” she asked.

I shook my head at her. “We don’t play softball.”

Fern gripped me tighter and steered me abruptly away. “Just a joke!” she called over her shoulder. “This one’s not mine!”

After a few steps, she said, “Don’t talk!”

“What? What did I say?”

Fern leaned in so close her cheek brushed mine. “She wasn’t asking me if I was on a softball team. She wanted to know if I was gay or straight.”

“How was I supposed to know that?”

We passed another team called the “Big Rods.” I had to tread carefully over the broken ground, rutted with tire tracks and clumps of dried dirt. Fern hanging on me like a drunk chimpanzee didn’t help. “Is this a special league?”

“With names like that? Obviously. It’s the Gay and Lesbian Athletic Alliance League. They have them in California too.”

I forced us to slow down to avoid tripping. “Are only gays allowed?”

“I don’t think so. THAT boy doesn’t look gay.” She pointed at a twenty-something with a mop of curly hair and biceps on his biceps.

“How will I know what to say or do?” I asked. Paranoia began to mushroom. “What are you going to say to Mary and Jenna?”

Suddenly it was too late. A cluster of red-uniformed women approached us from behind, catching up, one of them draping her arm around Fern. “It’s the hottie!” She tossed her dreadlocks as she whipped around to the team members behind us. “Blitz, get up here. You remember Fern, right?”

We stopped walking. The woman holding on to Fern was tall, statuesque, and utterly beautiful, with model-perfect skin and dark, soulful eyes. She held out her hand to another woman, even taller, broad, and a bit menacing. My mind thought, butch! But then remembered the coffee shop. Shut up, brain. I clamped my lips together.

“Krieg!” Fern said. “It’s been ages.”

Mary pushed through them, spotting me. “Zest! You’re here too!” She enveloped me in a sweaty embrace. Fern let go of me, and I patted Mary awkwardly on the back. She pulled away. “I didn’t think you’d ever speak to us again! Jenna was such a bear!”

Jenna approached, arms crossed. “At least I’m not a Republican.”

“Stop acting like Hoebags!” A short girl with shiny black hair and smooth caramel skin pushed through the crowd. “Is this the photographer you political nut jobs pissed off?”

I raised my eyebrows, refusing to break my silence even though I was quite taken aback. They thought they had wrecked it with ME?

“Nikki!” Mary said. “You haven’t even registered to vote.”

“Yeah, yeah.” Nikki grabbed me around the neck, pulling me down to rub her knuckles on my hat. “She’s noogie-proof!” she announced. “Damn it. Somebody remove this cap.”

I stared at the many pairs of worn cleats and wondered what the hell I was doing here. I had no idea why this woman had me in a vise.

Then suddenly, I was up again, Nikki right in my face. “You’re kinda easy prey, aren’t you? Don’t let the right winger and the Obama freak scare you. We need a photographer.”

Krieg grasped Nikki by the shoulders and yanked her a couple steps back. “Give the girl some space.”

“So what do you say?” Nikki asked. “Will you do it? We leave in three days.”

I glanced over at Fern, who stood a few feet away. She nodded at me. I guessed that meant it was okay for me to talk. “Of course I’ll do it.”

They let out a collective cheer, coming forward for hugs.

Fern gave me a thumbs-up, then her expression froze on someone behind me.

I turned to look. Another Hoebag. This one wore her polyester in a tailored fit, smooth and tapered from shoulders to hips. She shifted her softball glove back to her right hand and smoothed her hair in its perfect ponytail, a spunky curl coming off the back. I could already see the image of her, the clean sharp features would photograph well. Her figure would work divinely in silhouette.

“Fancy seeing you here,” she said to Fern. She didn’t look pleased.