Twisted Sisters (24 page)

When the song ends, the audience gives me a standing ovation and her friends are shouting
their heads off and collectively it’s about the best feeling I’ve ever had.

And that’s when it occurs to me that there may be more to Geri than I ever realized.

Point Break

A small admission, if I may?

I may have screwed Geri over in regard to her relationship with Kassel.

While he and I were at that brunch, the more we spoke, the more I was struck by how
little common ground he and I shared. My intention was to Cyrano de Bergerac him—let
him know the real me while I was in my Geri suit, assuming he’d be more about the
personality than the package, eventually revealing that it was me he really loved.

Not so much.

As our date dragged on, he insisted on quoting all these stupid movies I never heard
of (who is Pauly Shore?) and then we had a stultifying conversation about some ex–Notre
Dame football player with an imaginary dead girlfriend who turned out to be a live
dude.

What does that even mean?

The lack of commonality wasn’t the worst part. Handsome is the great equalizer. Give
me broad shoulders and a square jaw and I can overlook terrible taste in entertainment.

Because I’m apparently a masochist, I brought up the subject of
my sister
Reagan. I dropped a trial balloon on how I thought they might have chemistry.

And do you know what that SOB said?

He told me, “Your sister’s way too tightly wound. Too intense. I can’t deal with perfectionists.
Not my jam.”

“What about how you two banter?” I asked. Surely that was significant? I mean, Boyd
and I could have based a lifetime on our bantering alone.

He made a face as though he’d smelled something sour. “That whole angry-banter thing?
Only works for Spencer Tracy. In real life, it’s just bickering and it gets old fast.
Exhausting, actually. Give me laid-back any day. See, I’ve been down the high-maintenance-woman
route before and it didn’t end well.”

Then he had the nerve to shudder.

The notion of dating me merited a full-body shudder?

I was so angry, thinking how number one, I’m not high maintenance and number two,
I’m not tightly wound and number three, and then I couldn’t think of a number three
because I was still seething about numbers one and two.

So after pushing my blanketed piggies around the plate for a while, I told him I was
feeling ill and I must take my leave.

Okay, that’s a lie.

I told him I was afraid I might shart myself and I needed to get home, and thought,
There, is that laid-back enough for you, Kassel?

I suspect he was so turned off by the whole date that any nascent feelings he might
have had for Geri are gone. Again, in the moment I was all,
Well, too bad, Geri. You lose the game that you should have never played in the first
place.
Then I may or may not have called him an “effing creeper” when he kept texting afterward.
And this time I didn’t use “effing.” I was furious with her, and, by extension, him.
But now that I’ve literally walked a mile in her shoes, I can’t say I feel the same
way.

Now? I’m kind of a fan of Geri.

I sort of get why everyone’s so into her.

I’ll be honest. I’m having a lot more fun being Geri than I ever had as Reagan. Her
friends are immensely entertaining and I love how nice they are to me. How great is
it to walk into a room and have people excited to see me? I appreciate how her job
makes everyone happy. Clients come in, all split-ended and unstyled, and bam! Forty-five
minutes later, they’re goddesses. Plus, singing in front of the audience at Brando’s
was a rush I’ll always remember. Who knew she was talented?

(Okay, probably everyone but me.)

The best part is I’m connecting with Mary Mac and her kids in a way I never realized
was possible . . . largely because I upped Geri’s dosage.

I know, I know. This is so wrong.

And yet I feel like I’m onto something here and I’m not quite ready to inhabit my
own life again. I’ve worked out the specifics in such a way that I’m able to feed/exercise/maintain
my own body and life while Geri’s physical self is asleep, so, really, I’m not doing
anything unhealthy, per se, save for a possible tiny Thanwell addiction Plus, since
we’re on hiatus, Reagan’s not exactly missed anywhere.

“Geri” is supposed to be “staying at Reagan’s” out of convenience, but I keep being
drawn back to the south side to hang out with Mary Mac’s family. Yes, her kids are
a little loud and a bit pushy, but they’re also freaking hysterical. Teagan does an
impersonation of me that had me rolling. (I think it was the day she kept calling
herself “Doctor.”)

When I’m not there, Mary Mac and I chat multiple times a day, while she ferries her
brood to their practices and activities. I’m a little in awe of how organized she
is. I found out her Christmas shopping was completed in October.
October.
That still blows my mind. Maybe her house is messy, but she’s so on the ball in regard
to all other aspects of her life, from her children to her volunteering to her marriage,
that it doesn’t matter. Sure, she always seems exhausted, but it’s only because she
puts in such effort.

I remember the amount of posturing and social climbing it took for me to rub shoulders
with Wendy Winsberg’s crowd. At no point had it occurred to me that some of the best
people I’d ever meet are in my own family.

However, I hadn’t yet realized any of the above when I was making my way up Clark
after the Kassel brunch. The day had become decidedly cold since I’d headed to the
restaurant, and I wasn’t wearing enough layers. I must have been walking hunched over
for warmth, so I didn’t realize I’d body-slammed anyone until he helped me up.

And when I realized the kindly stranger was Sebastian, I truly did almost shart myself.

He looked great and he was so happy to see me that I couldn’t help but reconsider
the idea of us maybe, possibly reconnecting. That is, until he called me Geri and
I realized I wasn’t who he thought I was.

Long story short, that’s how I found myself agreeing to dinner tonight at Frances’
Deli.

Sebastian’s already seated at a table by the window, wearing pressed gray flannel
slacks and a shirt with French cuffs, which seems a bit formal for a relaxed deli-type
meal. In fact, Frances’ is so casual that it’s one of the few places on the north
side that’s acceptable to my parents. On the rare occasions they’ve been in my neighborhood
at lunch, this is where they insist on going. Dad’s a fan of the Douglas Boulevard
sandwich, which includes corned beef and chopped liver, whereas I’m normally a fan
of ordering hot tea and swapping the Lipton’s for a bag of the organic stuff I brought
from home. Everything about this place is old school, from the pressed tin ceiling
to the vintage wood paneling to the original marble-topped bar. To me, the space is
dark and depressing, but there must be some appeal as they’ve been operating successfully
since the 1930s.

“Glad you could come!” Sebastian says. He rises to kiss my/our cheek. Did he used
to stand when I walked in the room? Can’t recall.

Last week when Sebastian requested that we get together sometime to talk, I was a
little curious about what he had to say to Geri, but not so much that I thought the
conversation merited a meal.

Since then, though, I’ve made peace with all things Geri. I see now that any unpalatable
behavior she exhibited stemmed directly from my actions. (Pretty sure I’d tell someone
to go eff themselves, too, if they had a single thing to say about my weight.)

I’m learning that Geri’s perpetually there for people, ready to listen, willing to
help, all without a judgmental internal monologue. Maybe she’s not a saint, but she’s
not the sinner I’d previously suspected, either.

Over the past few days, I’ve been trying to help her. I figure my inhabiting her is
kind of like sending her to a day spa. I bought her some new, tasteful clothing, and
I’m feeding her healthy foods and taking her on long walks. (I need to help compensate
for the mass amounts of Mary Mac’s cooking I’ve been eating, which, OMFG, that woman
does unspeakable things with spareribs.)

I’ve also been working on a business plan for her potential salon. I found notes in
her laptop, and Geri’s ideas are perfectly solid, but she needs to present them in
a professional prospectus if she wants to turn this into a viable venture. I’m in
the process of doing that for her.

The thing is, I’m not entirely sure that getting over my incessant sibling rivalry
is going to fix what’s wrong with
me
. Having experienced being laid-back, friendly, and fun, not to mention relaxed about
dietary constraints, I learned that I
am
uptight, I
am
dour, and I
am
kind of a pain in the ass about my diet. I’m also narrow-minded and my positive affirmations
are nothing less than straight-up, overcompensating narcissism.

I’m neither victim nor martyr, so it’s time I stopped acting like I am. No wonder
I alienate others. No wonder I have virtually no friends. I’ve been allowing my anger
and various proclivities to keep others at arm’s length. I don’t have close connections
in my life, and at the end of the day, my job doesn’t kiss me good night.

Speaking of employment, in all my time practicing and with all my training, I never
closed out the day feeling exhilarated about what I do for a living. Sure, I’ve always
reveled in the various benefits, like being recognized at Whole Foods and having George
Stephanopoulos flirt with me, but the actual act of patiently listening to others’
problems? Not really into it, if I’m being honest with myself.

I’m certainly not going to chuck it all for cosmetology school, but I do need to figure
out what’s next for me, and I suspect it’s neither being a psychologist on television
nor being a television psychologist.

Where does that leave me? I’m not yet sure.

But before I can figure out what’s next in my life, I need some measure of closure,
so last night I Facebooked Sebastian and suggested we meet after all. And here we
are.

Sebastian grins at me. “You’re radiant this evening.”

I say, “No, I’m just windburned.” I’ve been running by the lake this week and I’ve
already shaved two minutes off of Geri’s newfound ability to jog a mile. I’m very
proud of her/us!

He scoots his chair closer to mine. “Don’t sell yourself short, kid. Reagan didn’t
get all the looks in your family.”

Oh, God, did he just wink?

I try to steer away from the subject of Geri. “Perhaps we should order.”

“Nothing on the menu will be as delicious as you.” He abruptly juts his chin in an
effort to toss his hair out of his eyes. For some reason, he wears the front of his
hair long, like he’s starring in some 1990s Keanu Reeves surfing flick. Sir, I know
surfers. Surfers have been friends of mine. You, sir, are no surfer.

The hair flip is his prelude-to-seduction move and it’s only now occurring to me that
it’s comical. What’s with the full-court-flirting press, anyway? Was Sebastian always
smarmy? I feel like I’d have noticed if he was smarmy. I realize that Geri and I were
never the best of friends, but we’re sisters. Surely there’s some code of ethics that
prevents guys from hitting on their ex’s sisters?

I challenge him. “What about your girlfriend?”

“What girlfriend is that?”

“The Hooters waitress?”

“Nonexistent. Pretty sure Reagan’s still spying on my profile, so I made her up and
posted on my Facebook so it’d get back to her.” He reaches for my hand across the
table, but I quickly busy myself with my napkin to hide my shock.

Now, that’s patently unfair! I haven’t been to his Facebook page in months, save for
making our date last night, and that wasn’t even as me.

I ask him, “To what end? Why make up a girlfriend?”

Sebastian flips his bangs out of his eyes again. Did I like his ridiculous hair when
we were together? Because now I kind of think Morrissey called and wants his look
back.

“Eh, I wanted to make sure she’d leave me alone. Figured if she thought there was
someone new, particularly someone who was her intellectual inferior, she’d stop trying
to compete and finally move on.”

A waitress approaches and she peers down at me. “I’m sorry, do I know you?”

Are you freaking kidding me? Here? Now?

She says, “You were at the Original Pancake House a couple of weekends ago. I’m Brandi,
remember?”

I have a newfound appreciation for people who are friendly, so I enthusiastically
reply, “Oh, right, you’re the actress!”

Brandi laughs. “Mostly I’m the waitress. I have a handful of shit jobs and I work
nights and weekends so I can have my days free for auditions. You do what you gotta
do, right? Anyway, you ready to order?”

I’ve barely said, “Seb, you go ahead. I’m not that hungry,” when Geri’s stomach lets
out an audible growl.

“Don’t go all Reagan on me,” Sebastian insists. “Give her a Zookie the Bookie sandwich
and a matzo-ball soup. I’ll have the same.”

“Be back with your balls,” Brandi replies, spinning on her heel toward the kitchen.

I hope she’s a better actress than she is a waitress, and I mean that in the nicest
possible sense.

“It’s so refreshing to be with you. Reagan would have never done that,” he says. I
notice he keeps checking out his reflection in the window glass. Definitely Smarmy,
coming close enough to Cheesy’s border that its prime minister has issued orders to
shoot on sight.

“What, have a sandwich with roast beef?” Because I eat roast beef all the time now.
Mary Mac makes this homemade horseradish sauce that is slap-and-go-naked good. Yes,
she gives her kids Chomp-tastic on occasion, but only as a supplement on the days
she’s too busy to pack seven lunches with a toddler on her hip.

He snorts. “More like speak to the waitress as though she were an equal. Actually
treat her like a human being. That’s what I find so appealing about you, Geri. You
don’t bring all the baggage. You know how hard it was to extricate myself from that
crazy bitch’s life?”

Okay, that was harsh.