Twisted Sisters (15 page)

(Which makes me wonder about the boobs.)

I lower my chin and blink up at him through the thick fringe, and Richard practically
melts. This is amazing! My God, if I had the ability to turn a grown man into a puddle
simply by blinking, I’d never have spent that much time in the library! It’s a shame
I’m only squiring Tabitha around for the next five minutes or so. What I wouldn’t
give to drop by Sebastian’s office and show him what he’s missing!

Except that wouldn’t really make sense, as he’s never met Tabitha, and also, I own
the fact that I may have been a bit stalkeresque in the past. Plus, I pledged to Deva
that I was going to break the cycle of insanity and I’m no longer going to try to
contact him. So approaching him again, even if it’s in someone else’s (amazing) body?

Kind of counterproductive.

“I’m ready.” The voice that comes out isn’t my own shrill (according to Mary Mac)
tone, but instead is a husky, velvety, melodic, Kathleen-Turner-back-in-the-day sound.
(Note to self: If possible, record outgoing voice mail message before returning Tabitha’s
bod to its rightful owner.)

“Do you need your doctor with you on set?”

“
No!
” I bark, before I quickly clarify. “I mean, Dr. Reagan said I’d do my best if I,
I mean, she weren’t watching.”

Also, Tabitha . . . kind of hasn’t been informed of what we’re doing right now, so
she’s in no position to fake being me. She’s in the dressing room with Deva, wearing
an ancient amulet, eyes clamped shut to ensure she doesn’t look down and realize she’s
not in her own skin. We told her that this was a creative visualization exercise,
but at the end of it, she’d have completed her task with no real memory of actually
having experienced what terrified her.

I know, I know.

If the APA ever caught wind of my shenanigans, I’d never . . . well, I can’t even
consider the repercussions right now.

Richard calls, “Places, everyone!” and his team scrambles. They’ve all been warned
that they only have moments to capture the shot, and woe be to them if they’re not
ready. From the corner of the room, I spot the
Push
team as well, and I have to catch myself before waving to our crew. Pfft, like Kassel
needs the ego boost of having been acknowledged by a movie star, especially one as
undeniably hot as I am.

Granted, I’ve never had a desire to . . . dine at the Pink Taco before, but my God,
look at me! This face! This skin! These tits! I’m a total game changer.

“And we’re rolling . . .”

Okay, Tabitha’s body, let’s do this.

My only task is to sit here in the corner of this clear box, one hundred and three
stories above the rest of Chicago, using nothing but my face to communicate the whirlwind
of emotions my character is feeling. Not only has Parker Peter recently discovered
her new superpowers stemming from a radioactive spider bite, but she’s also just learned
she’s tasked with saving the city from her new arch-nemesis, Venom, played by a catsuited
Charlize Theron.

While the cameras are on me, my goal is to project equal parts fear, resolve, and
hope.

Easy-peasy.

I fear being found out, while I resolve to keep my job and license to practice, and
I hope to wheedle the name of Tabitha’s surgeon out of her.

I emote the hell out of the scene, somewhat inadvertently.

As excited as I am that this is actually working, a part of me is racked with guilt.
Although technically psychologists don’t take a Hippocratic oath, we govern our practices
by it. The first-do-no-harm business is no joke. I’ve been wrestling with myself over
this deception, as I’m not doing harm so much as I’m helping Tabitha keep a hundred-million-dollar
movie on track.

Yet I’m motivated by my own self-preservation, which is at cross-purposes with all
my training and values.

When I asked myself if Maslow, Jung, or Freud would ever perpetrate what I’m doing
right now, the answer was no, never, under no circumstances, even for the purpose
of research.

But what about Dr. Phil?

Pfft, in a heartbeat.

So that causes inner turmoil—do I want to be a psychologist who happens to be on television
or do I want to be a television psychologist?

If I choose the latter, then I wonder if the rules shouldn’t be relaxed a bit.

“Cut!” calls Holthaus. He comes over to where I’m perched and eases down next to me.
“Tabby, baby—that was incredible. I’m so proud of you. Whatever your doctor did worked.”
To the rest of the crew, he calls, “It’s in the can!” The whole Skydeck, which is
filled with cast and crew, begins to cheer.

Which means I’m not fired!

I glance over at Kassel, who’s conferring with a cameraman who isn’t Gary. (Like I’d
trust Gary with a nickel, let alone my career.) He pumps his fist in victory—apparently
the
Push
crew nailed the shot as well.

As I still have a couple of minutes before the jig is up, and for the entirely selfish
reason of wanting to walk around in Tabitha’s superhero shoes for another moment,
I find myself asking, “Do you want a take from a different angle?”

The Ego Has Landed

The episode airs on Thursday night, one week after having been filmed. The team had
to do a crash edit to pull it all together, but Ruby and Faye made it happen.

I mean, after
I
made it happen.

(Yes, I’m giving myself affirmations again. I deserve them.)

Normally, the whole staff would stage an episode-watching party, but after everything
that went down with Lance and Ashlee, and following the soft opening of Dr. Karen
and the not-exactly-OCD hand washer’s episode, everyone’s understandably afraid to
jinx tonight. I’d have invited Deva over, but she’s taking a mini-break at one of
her other houses since we’re not shooting this week. As she completely saved my hide,
I begrudge her nothing.

I’m just about to settle in on the couch to watch the episode when there’s a knock
at my door. This is odd, because no one can enter without having been buzzed.

“Who is it?” I demand, my voice coming out sharper than usual.

“Yo, Dr. B! It’s Trevor and Bryce. Got something for ya!”

I open the door, and not only are the boys completely dressed, but they come bearing
gifts: a bottle of whipped-cream-flavored vodka and a six-pack of sugar-free Red Bull.

“’S’like a housewarming dealie,” Trevor explains. “Only for your new show. Bought
you sugar-free. You know, for health.”

I look at the guys, grinning from ear to ear, and then at each of their offerings.
“That is really”—don’t say disgusting, don’t say disgusting, don’t say disgusting—“very
sweet. Would you like to come in?”

“Naw, gots to go, playa,” Bryce explains. “Three-dollar Fireball shots at the Dark
Horse and half-price apps, yeah! Gotta get my Thursday night on!”

“Well . . . thank you for this thoughtful gesture, and I won’t keep you.”

Trevor salutes and says, “Yeah, gratz, Dr. B!” They begin to clatter down the stairs
when, as an afterthought, Trevor adds, “Next time your buddy Tabitha’s in town, maybe
you give us the fresh hookup?”

“Sure thing.”

If my time with (and being) Tabitha Baylee taught me anything, it’s that she would
absolutely jump on every semiliterate, inexplicably ESL frat boy who crosses her path.

Not.

I shut and lock the door behind them.

I glance at my whipped-cream vodka (why, God, why?) and sugar-free Red Bull, you know,
for health. I’d likely drink paint thinner before allowing any of this near my lips,
but I’m still oddly touched by the gesture. They certainly could have asked me for
a favor without the sickly-sweet hooch and sugar-free rocket fuel.

I shove the libations into the hall closet. At some point I’ll regift this all back
to them and they’ll never have been the wiser.

I grab the remote and sit down, but before I can even kick off my shoes, I hear the
phone. I jump a little, as it’s so rare for my phone to ring, particularly with anyone
with whom I’d like to speak. The sound is somewhat foreign between these four walls
and echoes the length of the apartment.

Tentatively, I pick up. “Hello?”

A familiar voice comes on the line. “Hi, Reagan . . . it’s Bethany.”

“Bethany? Bethany
Walker
? Long time no talk.”

I’m not mad about hearing from my former marathon-training buddy after a whole summer.
Rather, I’m pleasantly surprised. I thought our bridge had long since been burned.

Rather sheepishly, Bethany says, “Reagan, I know it’s been a while, but I saw that
you’re on tonight and I just wanted to say congratulations and I’m sincerely happy
for you.”

I perch on the corner of the couch. “Thanks, that’s very kind of you. With all the
weirdness leading up to last week’s premiere, I’m thrilled that we’re finally starting
to find our way.”

I don’t add that I’m delighted to not have been fired, as that’s no one’s business,
regardless of how true it may be.

“Well, I’m definitely rooting for you. Anyway, I’m sure you’re busy, but I wanted
to say hello. Um, listen—I’m doing an LSD this weekend”—meaning long, slow, distance
run, as opposed to Lake Shore Drive or Timothy Leary’s drug of choice—“so give me
a jingle if you’re up for joining.”

Huh. I’ve decided against doing the marathon this year, but it couldn’t hurt to step
up my distance runs. “I’ll have to check my calendar, but pencil me in with a possible
yes,” I say.

“Super! I look forward to it. See you soon!”

I find myself smiling.

“Sounds like a plan. Bye!”

Now, that’s both surprising and serendipitous. However, I don’t even have time to
process our conversation when the phone rings again.

I’m less hesitant this time. “Hello?”

“Hey, Reagan, it’s Caroline. Saw the preview for your show and I thought,
I haven’t spoken with Reagan forever
. How are you?”

Caroline, rather Dr. Caroline Kenner, has a bustling North Shore practice where she
specializes in working with teens. We met through a professional association a few
years ago and we bonded over common philosophies. She’s the only other psychologist
I’ve met who shares my reservations about pharmaceuticals, and she’s always on CNN
advocating against overmedicating children.

“Everything’s great,” I reply.

Because at the moment? It really is.

“Kudos on the program,” she says. “Have you seen it yet?”

“I’m just sitting down to it now. I mean, I viewed the final cut in the edit bay,
but there’s something so gratifying about watching it on television between the Taco
Bell and State Farm commercials and all.”

On the WeWIN network,
Push
was always buffeted by low-budget ads for local carpet retailers and Life Alert buttons
and Bumpits. Nothing says “big” like a name-brand soda commercial.

“Absolutely,” Caroline agrees. “I shan’t keep you, Reagan. I just hoped to say hello
and to wish you well. Apologies for having been so swamped. It’s back-to-school season
and all the parents want extra time to help their kids gird their loins for the coming
year. I’m telling you, the bullies are buying my kids an Ivy League education. However,
my schedule’s opening up, so please give me a ring when you’re free. I’d love to hear
your thoughts on the book I’m working on—it’s about the overuse of psychotropic drugs
in the Louisiana State foster care system.”

Sounds like
somebody’s
not considered Dr. Wack anymore!

I enthusiastically reply, “That sounds fascinating! Let’s talk soon.” We lob a couple
of dates back and forth and decide to meet up next week.

Well, isn’t
this
an interesting turn of events?

I should probably be suspicious of suddenly hearing from people, but if I’m to be
perfectly honest, I’m not concerned about anyone’s motives. I’m tired of feeling ostracized
and I’m grateful to be invited back into my friends’ lives. And if I had to perpetrate
a small but effectual fraud with a movie star before they’d have me back? That’s a
price I’m willing to have paid.

My phone vibrates and I read the incoming text:

Congratulations beautiful person! Knew it would all work out! Feeding Greater Chicago
Ball @Metropolitan Club this Saturday—let Janie know if u want to be on the list!
Besos,
WW

I can feel a massive grin spread across my face. Wendy Winsberg, whom I haven’t heard
a single word from since Hawaii, wants
me
at her charity event? Network must be an even bigger deal than I thought.

An infinitesimal part of me is angry about how she hung us out to dry, and yet, I’ll
admit I adore being privy to her inner circle. I don’t hate appearing on the party
pages of
Chicago Nouveau
magazine or rubbing elbows with the rest of the city’s glitterati. I make a mental
note to call her assistant, Janie, in the morning.

I feel another buzz and glance down.

me and you at the bou?

I recognize Rhonda’s number—she’s a former U of C classmate and current neighbor.
Funny, but I could have sworn she looked right through me in front of the coffee shop
a couple of weeks ago. I thought she was being a megabitch, but now I wonder if she
legitimately didn’t see me.

At the same time, my landline and cell phone begin to ring, and I can hear the incoming
bing of e-mail on my laptop. This is crazy! Unsure of how to prioritize, I allow everything
to go to voice mail.

This never happened when
Push
was on WeWIN.

Bzzt, bzzt.

gr8 job, girl!—S

Oh, my God!
Sebastian’s
watching the show? And thinking of me? Unbelievable! I’m not even sure of how to
react. I feel like I’m finally moving on, and yet, the idea of
him
being in contact with
me
gives me butterflies in my stomach. What would it be like if
he
were to come crawling back to
me
?

My phones keep ringing. I scroll through the caller ID on my mobile and am pleased
to note all the old friends and classmates who are suddenly back in touch. I imagine
this is what it must have felt like to be popular in high school.

Which . . . don’t even get me wrong—I’m so proud of having graduated from Taylor Park.
Yet I wonder how much more I’d have enjoyed the experience if I’d ever stopped studying
long enough to eke out a minute of fun. Pep rallies, bonfires, homecoming dances—never
made it to one of them. I wasn’t unpopular so much as I never even allowed the other
students to give me that consideration.

I was always That Girl in the Library.

By the time second semester of my freshman year rolled around, people stopped even
trying to invite me to events, confident I’d never attend.

Would I be a different person if I’d figuratively let down my hair?

Maybe some of the Taylor Parkers would have scoffed at my solidly middle-class status,
our Bridgeport bungalow, and my blue-collar family, but surely there were others there
on scholarships? In retrospect—and given the school’s commitment to academia—it stands
to reason I could have found like minds in students who cared more for books than
boys.

Perhaps this is one of the reasons I fell for Boyd so quickly? He and his friends
instantly welcomed me into their social circle. Sure, the guys would tease me about
bringing bags of books to the beach, but they were always respectful. And their girlfriends
became my friends, sharing stories and seeking my counsel. It’s little wonder that
I found myself so distracted.

My point is, would I be so eager to forgive those who dumped me so easily if I’d learned
to be social earlier in life?

Of course, all I need to do to affirm my choices is look at Geri’s life. At St. Francis
Xavier (where I guarantee she was accepted due to nepotism, not merit) she was the
queen of all she surveyed. Despite not being particularly cute or academically gifted,
she managed to rule her school.

And where is
she
now?

Standing in a pile of someone else’s hair.

Pretty sure I win.

Bzzt.

watchin ur show! pls pls let me cut some lyers in ur hair, at least aroun ur face.
Is 2 severe. wll stll b bouncy, but wll have + lift/- heft XOX, ur lil sis

Leave it to Geri to be the world’s biggest killjoy. She can’t just be happy for me.
It’s like she goes out of her way to find a way to criticize me. Her jealousy is all
consuming. And like I’d
ever
let her touch my hair. The last thing I need is more lift, and is she honestly one
to lecture
me
about too much heft? Really? The Stay Puft Marshmallow Sis?

And yet my folks wonder why we can’t get along.

Bzzt.

Don’t be angry that Geri gave me your digits, Ray. Listen, if the show proves too
overwhelming, you’re not obligated to proceed. Your goal was to be a therapist, not
a pitchman for Ford F150s. Be true to you.

Oh, Boyd—why couldn’t you be a tiny bit more driven? Trade in your board for a briefcase
and we could be great together.

Until then? Delete.

Bzzt.

Halo, Rogain Barkeep!

Deva has the damnedest time texting with her massive appendages. When I hear from
her, I have to try to interpret what she means, and not what she actually types.

R ur phonies ringaling?

Are your phones ringing?

A ward of car Sean—

I’m guessing . . . a word of caution?

UR reel fronds r tons how spork tooth

So, my real friends are the ones who
spork tooths
?

Noted.

Not understood, but noted.

As I’m in too fine a mood to try to interpret Deva’s cryptic text, I silence everything
and arrange myself on the couch to watch the first episode of my new, fresh start.