Twisted (13 page)

grown apart. And when . . . when she introduced me to Drew, I

thought he was perfect for her. That he was more . . . like her. A part of the world she lives in now. And the way he looked at her, George.

It was so obvious he adored her. how can he
treat
her like this!?”

George’s voice is calm. Understanding. “I know. I . . .”

My mother cuts him off, and I imagine she’s pacing. “No! No.

he’s not going to get away with this. I’m going to . . . I’m going to call his mother!”

George sighs. “I hardly think that’s what Kate would want you

to do, Carol. They’re adults—”

My mother’s voice rises, high-pitched and protective. “She’s

not an adult to me! She’s my baby! And she’s hurting. he broke her heart . . . and . . . I don’t know if she’s going to get through this. It’s like she’s just . . . given up.”

I hear a hand slap against the wood table. “That little . . . punk!

he’s a foul-mouthed, smart-ass little punk. And he’s not going to

get away with this!” her tone is determined.

And a little scary.

“You’re right—I won’t call Anne. I’m going to New York myself.

I’ll show him what happens when you mess with my daughter.

he’ll think Amelia Warren is Mother Fucking Theresa when I’m

done with him. I’ll rip his balls off!”

Holy Moley
.

Okay, my mother? Doesn’t curse. Ever. So the fact that she’s

dropping f-bombs and talking about the ripping off of balls?

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Frankly, it’s disturbing.

I walk down the rest of the steps, like I haven’t heard a thing.

“Morning.”

My mother’s face is slack. Shocked. “Kate. You’re up.”

I nod. “Yes. I’m feeling . . . better.”

Better might be too strong. Resurrected road kill is more accurate.

George offers me a mug. “Coffee?”

My hand covers my queasy stomach. “No, thanks.”

My mother shakes off her surprise and asks, “how about some

warm Coca-Cola?”

“Yeah. That sounds good.”

She gets it for me. Then she smooths my hair down as she

says, “When I was pregnant with you, I was sick for seven months.

Warm Coca-Cola always made me feel better. Plus if it comes back

up, it doesn’t taste all that bad.”

She’s got a point.

FYI—peanut butter? So not fun the second time around.

My mother’s brow wrinkles as she notices the uniform. “Are all

your clothes dirty? Do you need me to do some laundry?”

“No, I just thought I’d help out in the diner today. You know—

keep busy. So I don’t have too much time to think.”

Thinking is bad. Thinking is very, very bad.

George smiles.

My mom rubs my arm. “As long as you’re feeling up to it. Mil-

dred is working today, so I could certainly use the help.”

Mildred has worked at our restaurant for as long as I can remem-

ber. She’s a terrible waitress—I think my mother just keeps her on out of charity. Legend says that she was once a beauty queen—Miss

Kentucky, or Louisiana, or something like that. But she lost her

looks and her zest for life when her fiancé played chicken with an oncoming freight train. And lost.

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Now she lives in the apartment complex downtown, and

smokes two packs a day.

But she’ll probably live to be a hundred and seven—compared

to the thirty-one-year-old mother of three who’s never touched a

cigarette a day in her life, yet somehow still dies from lung cancer.

Like I said, God? he’s a real sick son of a bitch sometimes.

Waitressing skills are like riding a bike—you never really forget.

Though there are a few close calls, I manage to get through the

morning without vomiting in any of the customers’ cheeseburger

deluxes or French onion soups.

Golf clap for me.

The toughest part is the questions. About New York—about

my handsome boyfriend who came here with me to visit three

months ago. I smile and keep my answers short and vague.

By noon, I’m pretty much wiped out. Physically and mentally.

I’m just about to retreat to my room for a nap when the bell above the door rings, and a voice comes from behind me.

A voice I would know anywhere.

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“Katie Brooks in a cowgirl uniform. Is this for real, or some

freakishly vivid acid flashback?”

I was six years old the first time I laid eyes on Billy Warren.

Around the same time that Joey Martino was abandoning Amelia

in that hotel room? her younger sister, Sophie, was being kicked

out of the house.

Because she was pregnant too.

Apparently the elder Mrs. Warren subscribed to the
Mommy

Dearest
style of parenting—wire hangers and all. Anyway, five years later, Sophie died in a drug den from a meth overdose. The state

took custody of Billy until they were able to track down his only

living relative, Amelia Warren.

Delores stayed with us for the weekend while her mother drove

to California to get him. Amelia walked into the group home and

saw a small, hollowed-eyed little boy in a ripped black T-shirt. And from that moment on, Billy was hers—even though she hadn’t

given birth to him.

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For the first four months that Billy lived with Amelia and

Delores, he didn’t speak. At all. he followed us around, did everything we did. When we played school he was the chalkboard, when

we dug for buried treasure, he was our pack mule.

But he didn’t talk.

And then one day Amelia was running errands on Main Street,

and they passed a pawn shop. Billy stopped in his tracks. And

stared into the front window.

At a shiny red guitar.

Amelia went in and bought it for him. By this time I was pretty

good at playing, so she figured my father could give Billy lessons too. But—here’s the thing—before my dad got around to giving

him even one lesson? Billy already knew how to play. he was a

prodigy, like Mozart. A true musical genius.

he can be really annoying about it sometimes.

“Billy!”

I throw my arms around his neck. he squeezes me tight at the

waist and my feet leave the floor. My voice is muffled by his shoulder. “God, it’s good to see you!”

I know you think he’s a dick. But he’s not. Really.

You’ve only seen him through Drew-colored glasses.

Billy pulls back, his hands on my upper arms. It’s been about

eight months since I saw him last. he’s toned and tan—healthy.

he looks good. Except for the beard. I’m not digging the beard. It’s thick and shaggy—reminds me of a lumberjack.

“You too, Katie. You look . . .” his brow furrows. And his smile

turns into a frown. “God
damn
. You look like day-old shit.”

Yep, that’s Billy. he always did know just what to say to a girl.

“Wow. With lines like that, you must be beating them off with

a bat in LA. By the way—you know there’s a rat hanging off your

face?”

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he laughs and rubs his beard. “It’s my disguise. I need one

now, you know.”

On cue, a boy who looks to be about ten approaches us hesi-

tantly. “Can I have your autograph, Mr. Warren?”

Billy’s grin widens. And he takes the offered pen and paper.

“Sure thing.” he scribbles quickly, hands the autograph back, and

says, “Don’t stop dreaming, kid—they really do come true.”

After the starstruck boy walks away, Billy turns back to me,

eyes sparkling. “how fucking cool is that?”

he’s the hottest thing in music these days. his last album

stayed at number one for six weeks—and there’s big Grammy buzz

for this year’s awards. I’m proud of him. he’s right where I always believed he could be.

Still, I tease, “Careful. You still have to get that big head back out the door.”

he chuckles. “What are you doing here? I was supposed to

come to the city to see you guys next week.”

Before I can answer, a face appears out of thin air on the other

side of the glass door.

Scaring the ever-loving shit out of me. “Ah!”

It’s a light-haired woman with huge, unblinking brown eyes.

Kind of like ET in the blond wig.

Billy turns. “Oh—that’s Evay.”

“Evie?”

“No, E-vay. Like eBay. She’s with me.” he opens the door and

ET girl walks in, hands folded tightly at her waist. She’s wearing black leggings and a Bob Marley T-shirt. The word skinny doesn’t

even come close. She reminds me of one of those skeletons in biol-

ogy class, with a thin, flesh-colored coating.

She’s kind of pretty—in a concentration camp kind of way.

“Evay, this is Kate. Kate—Evay.”

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In the professional world, handshakes are important. They give

prospective clients a sneak peek at how you do business. They can

make or break a deal. I always make sure my grip is firm—strong.

Just because I’m petite and a woman doesn’t mean I’m gonna get

stepped on.

“It’s nice to meet you, Evay.” I hold out my hand.

She just stares at it—like it’s a spider crawling out of the shower drain. “I don’t make direct female-to-female contact. It depletes the beautification cells.”

O-kay
. I glance at Billy. he seems unperturbed. I hook a

thumb over my shoulder. “So . . . do you guys want to eat? how

about a booth?”

When Evay answers, her tone is airy, dazed, like a concussion

victim. Or an acting coach—
be the tree
.

“I have my lunch right here.” She opens her palm to reveal

an assortment of capsules that make my prenatals look like baby

candy. “But I need water. Do you have clear water from a snowy

mountain spring?”

Wow.

Somebody call Will Smith—aliens really have landed.

“Uh . . . we don’t get much snow around here, this time of year.

We have Greenville’s finest tap water, though.”

She shakes her head. And she still hasn’t blinked. Not
one

freaking
time.

“I only drink snowy mountain spring water.”

Billy raises his hand. “I’m jonesin’ for some onion rings.”

I smile and put in his order. “Sure.”

Evay sniffs the air, like a squirrel before a storm. Then she

looks a little petrified. “Is that grease? Do you cook with actual grease?”

I take a step back. She might be one of those wacked-out,

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PETA-loving, vegan people who are offended by animal byprod-

ucts—and the prospect of being doused with red paint isn’t too

appealing at the moment.

“Ah . . . yes?”

She covers her nose with bony fingers. “I can’t breathe this air!

I’ll break out!” She turns to the door.

And waits.

Guess females aren’t the only thing she doesn’t make contact

with.

Billy opens it for her and she scurries out. I look at him, flab-

bergasted. “Okay, what the hell was
that
?”

“
That
was a Californian. They’re all like that. I think it’s from too much sun . . . and weed. They make Dee Dee look fucking

mundane. Plus Evay’s a model, so she’s an extra-large kind of weird.

She won’t smell grease, but she smokes like a chimney.”

That’s why I’m happy I live in New York.

Where the normal people are.

Well . . . lived, anyway.

I walk behind the counter to get a take-out box for Billy’s rings.

he rests his elbows on the counter, leaning over. “So where’s Dr.

Manhattan?”

he means Drew. You know—after the arrogant, inhuman,

blue physicist in the
Watchmen
comics?

“he’s not here.”

Billy looks surprised. Pleasantly so. “No kidding? I didn’t think

he let you out of his sight, let alone out of the state. What’s up with that?”

I shrug. “Long story.”

“Sounds promising. hey—let’s hang out later. Catch up. I

have to get Evay back to the hotel for her nap, then I’ll swing back and pick you up.”

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My eyes squint. “her nap?”

he lifts his chin defensively. “Yeah. Lots of people sleep twelve

hours during the day.”

I hand him his onion rings. “I know. They’re called vampires,

Billy.”

he laughs.

And then my mother walks out of the kitchen. “Billy! Amelia

said you were visiting.”

She hugs him and he kisses her cheek. “hey, Carol.”

She looks disapprovingly at his beard. “Oh honey, you have

such a handsome face. Don’t cover it up with all . . . this.”

My mother is such a mom, isn’t she?

Billy defends his facial hair. “Why’s everyone hating on the

beard? I like the beard.” Then he holds out a hundred-dollar bill.

“For the onion rings.”

She shakes her head and pushes his hand back. “Your money’s

no good here—you know that.”

A crash of breaking glass comes from behind the kitchen door.

And George Reinhart’s voice: “Carol!”

My mother clicks her tongue. “Oh, dear. George is trying to