The Idiot Girls' Action-Adventure Club (13 page)

Good Food

I didn’t want to go.

I didn’t want to get dressed up, or do my hair, or put on eyeliner, or try to find a matching handbag.

I didn’t care about meeting basketball star Charles Barkley.

I really didn’t.

But my friend Sara did, and it was only at her insistence that I agreed to go to the dinner thing, even if I did have to wear something nice. It was a free meal at a hoity-toity hotel, anyway.

My friend Huck had invited us, having won a Phoenix Suns raffle. It was only a dinner, I reminded myself, an hour of polite conversation at best, and most likely, I’d get free dessert, too.

So I said yes to Sara, tell Huck that I’ll go. After all, he was a good friend of mine, and I was flattered that he thought enough of me to ask me to be one of his guests.

Danny Manning would be sitting at our table, Sara informed me, and that was special. I nodded, even though I had no idea who she was talking about. Not all the tables had celebrity basketball players at them, she added.

“Well, it’s an expensive dinner,” she said casually. “If we had to pay for it, each seat at the ball is a thousand dollars.”

“Did you say a thousand dollars?” I asked loudly. “
A thousand dollars?
I could buy a new liver for that much and start drinking again. And back up to that ‘ball’ part that you just kind of threw in there.”

“It’s a charity thing,” she justified. “Every charity thing is called a ‘ball’ this or ‘ball’ that. It’s just a dinner thing. A dinner-and-dancing thing. We get free Nikes, too.”

“A dinner-and-dancing thing with a thousand-dollar price tag is a ball, Sara,” I insisted.

“Okay, it’s a ball, but it’s too late for you to back out,” she said decidedly. “Huck already RSVP’d for you, and Nike ordered your little shoes.”

I knew I couldn’t afford to buy a ball gown, so the next day I went to a fabric store, bought some taffeta, tulle, and organza, cut the velvet bodice off a vintage dress, basically stapled it all together, and I had a goddamned ball gown in which I was ready to eat a thousand-dollar steak. With a little deodorant and a lot of lipstick, I was as good as I was gonna get.

Hagarella was ready for her ball.

Sara picked me up, and we headed to the Arizona Biltmore, the fanciest resort in town. When we got there, we checked in, got our little Nike sneakers, and found our table. Huck smiled as he introduced us to his other guests, two sets of sisters that looked like twins to me. Twin Group A was a fortyish sister/sister duo decked out in more sparkly beads than the rear ends of two Crystal Water trucks, burning my corneas if any ray of light should happen to hit them from any angle.

Twin Group B, two bartenders from some fancy restaurant also in the Biltmore, exuded snot in their pink Ann Taylor suits and were obviously JUST TOO GOOD to talk to us. We hated them right away, and I think that came out when I repeatedly asked them what color apron they had to wear while performing their duties in the “service industry.”

But I didn’t care. I was there for my thousand-dollar steak, and I didn’t care, even when the waiter dribbled beer on my head and lap and some wealthy woman stepped on my dress with her free Nike and ripped the shit out of it. Even when Danny Manning could not have given less than a rat’s ass about providing his promised celebrity conversation, and the snotty bartender twins started giggling and then going to the bathroom with his wife.

When my steak came, it turned out to be a filet mignon, which I would have placed at a two-thousand-dollar dinner, and I dug in. It was wonderful, tender, flavorful, creamy if that’s possible, and I savored bite after bite. I didn’t notice as the Crystal Water Truck Twins downed carafe after carafe of white wine, and I didn’t notice that, immediately after I had shoved a quarter of a yellow squash in my mouth, Charles Barkley was behind me, wanting to shake my hand.

I looked up, and there he was, his shiny head right near mine, and there I was, trying diligently to swallow whole a piece of squash the size of four DD batteries that I couldn’t even manage to get my teeth over.

“How are you?” he asked as he extended his hand and I reciprocated. “Are you having fun?”

I nodded, with wide eyes, I’m sure, shaking his hand as he waited for my reply, which was lodged right smack behind the squash. Squeezing itself up and over my gums and teeth, the reply was suddenly free, and it escaped in a muffled cry—since my tongue was pinned down by the massive girth of the vegetable. I heard the reply as it started, driving itself in slow motion to procure the clearest delivery possible.

“GOOD FOOD,” is what I said.

“Good food” is what I said to Charles Barkley, “Good food” was my intelligent and witty answer, “Good food” was the product of the muse that twirled itself outside of my mouth.

GOOD FOOD?

A Bosnian refugee with absolutely no command of the English language could have come up with something better than that, I screamed silently at myself.

He looked at me slightly and tilted his head in a curious motion. Then he quickly withdrew his hand, as if he had suddenly realized my body was covered with weeping lesions, and moved on to one of the twins.

Stunned by my own inadequacies, I realized that I hadn’t even used my tongue when I spoke.

“He thinks I’m retarded,” I found myself saying aloud.

“Oh, how nice,” he must have thought as he tilted his head, “that someone took the little retarded girl to the charity ball. I bet the ball is for her charity. I bet she’s the poster girl.”

“He thinks I’m retarded,” I said again.

“No, he doesn’t,” Sara said, trying to console me. “He probably just thinks you have some little mouth deformity.”

The Crystal Water Truck Twins, on the other hand, were having a grand time. One of them had kicked off her Nikes and was strutting around the dance floor like a stripper. The other one was too busy stalking Charles Barkley around the room, touching him in an overfamiliar way and trying desperately to get his attention.

She wanted his autograph, and with liquor fueling her determination, she marched to the nearest table and whipped five used napkins off of it, shoving them underneath both armpits. Then she walked up to an innocent woman and just plain snatched the pen out of her hand, all the while keeping her double vision on Sir Charles.

The dancing Crystal Water Truck Twin had apparently worn herself out and returned to the table, where she picked up Sara’s wineglass and downed it. Her sister, on the other hand, was tapping Barkley on the shoulder like a woodpecker until he turned around. She presented him with the napkins and pen. He smiled politely, yet tiredly, and began scrawling on the dirty linens.

At the table, however, the second sister had disappeared, and I hoped it was to the bathroom, where a lot of cold water on her face would have done her a world of good. The snotty twins had long ago vanished after exchanging phone numbers with Danny Manning’s wife and taking one last trip to the bathroom together, where I believe they shared a lip liner.

After she got each napkin signed, the sassy Crystal Water Truck Twin lassoed it around and over her head until she was swinging five of them, after which the basketball player kindly excused himself and rejoined his friends.

Suddenly, a loud disturbance from underneath the table exposed the dancing Crystal Water Truck Twin, who popped up quickly, smacked her hand on the table, waved, and said, “Hi!” with a giggle.

“You need to call a cab,” I said with a slight sympathetic smile and a nod.

We weren’t about to give them a ride, and I wanted to get the hell out of there before the bold twin found her car keys. I grabbed Sara, got our real shoes back, and headed toward the car.

The ball was over, and my thousand-dollar steak was now being churned and marinated in bile.

I checked the rip in my dress, and we began to drive away, fully wishing that I had hit that rich lady or at least threatened to sue her for ruining my original gown. I was just about to get really mad when I saw something sparkly and blue on the side of the road with what looked like maxi pads shoved underneath her arms, dumping the contents of the upside-down purse on the grass, obviously looking for keys. Beside it was another glistening figure, passed out cold and belly-up on the lawn of the Biltmore hotel.

I could only think of one thing to say.

“GOOD LIQUOR.”

On the Road

I’ll be brutally honest: I know nothing about my car.

I know where the ashtray is and I know how to pump gas. That’s it.

If you try to teach me how to change a tire, I’ll forget. If you show me how to check the oil, I won’t understand. If you change the adjustments on the driver’s seat, it will take me three weeks to figure out how to get them back. I’m just not that kind of car girl.

My friend Kate tried to help me by teaching me how to fill my tires up with air. I, of course, don’t own a tire-pressure gauge, so she was particularly careful to show me the right way.

“You mean I can’t just leave the hissing thing on the tire until the time runs out?” I asked quizzically.

“Absolutely not,” she replied. “The tire will blow up on you.”

“And take all the skin off my face,” I said, nodding.

“No, no,” she answered. “It will explode on the road, when you’re driving. Then just pull over and call AAA.”

“No, I heard it’s okay unless they blow up in your face,” I informed her.

Kate knows these things, but I was pretty sure I had heard about the tire thing on
20/20.
She knows when her fuel pump is about to go, when her carburetor is making funny noises, and when her transmission is about to drop out of the engine.

I, on the other hand, don’t pay attention to funny noises. I just turn the radio up louder and pretend it’s someone else’s car.

I tried to be self-sufficient last week when I noticed that the tires were looking squishy again. I dropped my quarter in the air machine, counted to thirty on each tire, and figured I was done. They looked big, full, and ready to go. My face was intact. Kate would have been proud. It was Monday morning, and I was heading down the freeway because Nordstrom’s was having a shoe sale, and I had to be there first.

I was making the curve at the busiest portion of the freeway when I heard a terrible noise. A horrible, grinding sound that started at the front of my car and filled my ears. It was far too loud for the radio to drown it out, no matter how high I turned it up. I knew right away what it was.
20/20
was wrong.

Kate was right. Tires
do
explode on the road, I thought.

I remembered her words and pulled onto the shoulder as hordes of cars whizzed by. I carefully got out to see which one was gone, but as I walked around the entire car, I was surprised to see that they all looked okay.

I got back in the car and started it again, convincing myself that it really had been someone else’s car making the noise, not mine. I hit the gas, and immediately, the sound returned.

Oh Christ, I thought, what is it? What happens when your transmission drops out, the clutch goes bad, the fuel pump quits? I had no idea. I called AAA on my cell phone and told the operator that I needed help.

“Do you need a tow truck?” she asked.

“Maybe,” I answered. “What happens with a bad transmission? I think that may be the problem.”

“You won’t be able to go into drive or reverse,” she said.

“Okay. Then how about a bad clutch? I think that may be the problem,” I mentioned.

“Do you drive a stick shift?” she responded.

“No. Okay, what about a fuel pump? I think that may be the problem,” I said, panicking.

“I’m just going to send a truck, lady,” she said.

“I’m just not a car kind of girl!” I pleaded as she hung up.

Ten minutes later, I jumped when someone knocked on the passenger window. It was a cop. I had forgotten to put my hazard lights on, mainly because I don’t know where they are. I lowered the window. I know where that button is.

“Hi,” I said quickly, “it’s my fuel pump. Or transmission. Or carburetor. Or muffler. I
think
it’s my muffler. I’ve called a tow truck, it will be here any minute.”

“I don’t think you’ll need a tow truck, ma’am,” he answered. “You ran over a gas can.”

“Oh,” I replied.

“How far did you drag that thing?” he asked. “I don’t know how you didn’t see it. It’s as big as a TV! Do you have a jack?”

I hoped to God I did, and that he knew what it looked like.

I popped the trunk (I know where that button is, too) and helped the cop take out a couple of lamps, a box of books, and a pile of dirty clothes I had forgotten were in there. I was embarrassed when he found the jack, put it in place, jacked up the car, lay down on the ground, and then kicked the biggest gas can I had ever seen out from underneath my car, but not as embarrassed as when he got up just in time to see a big gust of wind from a passing truck rush toward me and blow my skirt all the way up to my chin.

“Your tow truck is here,” he said, trying not to laugh.

Are You
the Petersens?

I was biting into the best tortilla of my life at my favorite Mexican restaurant when I saw her.

Sitting at the next table, behind my friend Jeff’s head, there she was: my eighth-grade math teacher. I couldn’t mistake her still jet-black hair, the soft curve of her almond-shaped eyes, and her thin, pursed lips.

It was her, all right.

I nudged my friend Jamie, who went to all the same schools I did since the third grade, and was now sitting next to me enjoying her very own heavenly tortilla.

“That’s my eighth-grade math teacher!” I said to her as she lifted the buttery, golden, nearly transparent tortilla up for another bite. “Do you remember what her name was?”

“Was that the teacher that made you stand in front of the class and add fractions until you cried?” she asked for the benefit of Jeff and Kristin, our newly betrothed friends who were sitting on the other side of the table, since we didn’t meet Jeff until high school.

“That’s the one,” I confirmed. “She’s also the one that gave me detention for asking why we couldn’t just ‘round up.’ ”

“You got in more trouble then than when you stole all of those
Little House on the Prairie
books from the library, and the librarian caught you with
On the Banks of Plum Creek
stuffed down your pants,” Jamie added.

“They weren’t pants, they were Sassoon gauchos,” I stressed. “And I
had
to steal them. I didn’t have enough baby-sitting money to pay for the late fines on that
Joanie Loves Chachi
book that I found stuffed in my little sister’s Easy-Bake Oven two years later. I still can’t believe gauchos went out of style.”

“Her name is on the tip of my tongue,” Jamie finally remembered. “Her husband was my biology teacher in ninth grade . . . Mrs. Petersen!”

“MRS. PETERSEN!” I nearly shouted.

“And that’s him right there!” Jamie pointed out excitedly. “Mr. Petersen is sitting right next to her!”

“You guys should say hi,” Kristin said. “I’m sure they would like to see you.”

“I don’t know,” I said, shaking my head. “I wasn’t the best student . . .”

“I know!” Jeff ventured. “Maybe you can impress her and completely validate her career as a teacher if you show her you can figure out how to leave a tip!”

“Why didn’t you guys
both
have her for math?” Kristin asked innocently.

I looked away.

“Well, you see,” Jamie started to explain, “in junior high, I was in a special group for math and science.”

“What do you mean, ‘special group’?” Jeff practically yelled. “Do you mean . . . you were in the Dumb Group in math?”

I turned my eyes back to Jeff. “It’s NOT called the Dumb Group, Jeff!” I hissed. “It’s called Essential Math Skills, and it’s nothing to be ashamed of. Some people have more creative skills than technical skills. Some people want to smell the flowers instead of counting the petals! Some people are just circles being hammered relentlessly into square peg slots! Some people just want to ROUND UP!!”

“I was in advanced-placement math,” Jamie finished.

“And I . . .” I said quietly, “was in . . . Slow Math.”

The silent pause at the table was timeless and dreadful.

“Somehow,” Jeff finally stammered, “I now see you differently. Do you . . . get checks from the government? How did you get a driver’s license?”

“If you fill in
C
for every answer, you’re bound to get some right,” I snapped.

“I still think you should say hi to them,” Kristin repeated. “Won’t Mr. Petersen be thrilled to know that Jamie is now a microbiologist with her own cancer research lab! And Laurie, you didn’t need math after all to write . . . those little things in the paper! See? You should say hi!”

“I still don’t know . . .” I hesitated, shaking my head.

“Come on.” Jamie nudged me. “I will if you will!”

“Oh, all right,” I said, giving in.

“I have a microscope and an autoclave in the car,” Jamie said, jumping up from the booth. “Should I bring them in?”

“I don’t have any of . . . my little things,” I protested. “That’s hardly fair.”

Slowly, we took the two steps necessary to reach the Petersens’ table, where Mrs. Petersen had her lips stretched wide to accommodate a rather thick taco. Mr. Petersen, on the other hand, was armed with a fork and knife, and was preparing to bludgeon his chimichanga.

“Excuse me,” Jamie said, leaning over slightly.

The Petersens suddenly froze in time as they looked up at us.

“It’s Laurie!” I said as I waved at Mrs. Petersen. “Remember me? ‘Round up’!”

Mrs. Petersen’s eyes grew wide; her mouth was still open, though slightly more circular, as if to accommodate an element of complete horror.

“LAURIE NOTARO!” I emphasized, sensing that she could not place me. “From Retard Math! I write little things for the paper now!”

“It’s Jamie,” I heard my advanced-placement friend say to Mr. Petersen. “Remember when we cut open that cow’s eye, and Mike Purcell ate the retina on a bet, and you made him throw up in the sink?”

“Want me to figure out how much you need for a tip?” I said to Mrs. Petersen. “’Cause I can!”

“I have slides and a microscope in the car, but she wouldn’t let me bring them in,” Jamie said, and added in a whisper, “She was in Retard Math.”

The Petersens remained silent, saying absolutely nothing as they just sat and stared at us.

“Um,” Jamie finally said. “Are you . . . the Petersens?”

The two of them slowly, and in a synchronized movement, shook their heads from side to side.

The fake Mrs. Petersen pointed at me. “You have refried beans on your cheek,” she said, still holding her taco with her other hand.

We took the two steps back to our table as the fake Petersens continued to gawk at us.

“You won’t believe this,” Jeff said as we slid back into the booth, “but your high school English teacher is sitting right over there!”

“Mrs. Gaio?” I said as Jamie and I both turned around to look.

“It’s her, all right,” Jamie said.