Twisted Sisters Page 6

  This stretch is where I challenge myself, and my goal is maximum roadkill. (Passing slower runners. Of which there are many.) I keep up the velocity until I hit the volleyball courts on North Ave. I slow down a bit to see if I can spot any friends. Then I realize it’s a weekday and anyone I’d recognize is at work, so I accelerate again. I maintain that pace until I hit Fullerton. From there until I reach Arlington, I do my recovery run.

  I find it almost impossible to be upset after hitting the pavement. The runner’s high is a real and powerful phenomenon.

  So maybe I overreacted to hearing Patty’s news. To be fair, Wendy was equally upset and she whisked Patty away for some quality time at Canyon Ranch. Seems like Wendy could have added the proviso that Patty run the show when she sold it to DBS, but her business is none of mine. Yet I’m confident those two will make it over this blip in their relationship . . . after all, they’re like sisters. (Technically not a selling point in my world, but still.) And I hate to broach the possibility, but what if Push could benefit from fresh blood? Perhaps DBS is bringing in an executive producer who’ll shepherd us to the next level. I guess I’ll find out at the staff meeting this afternoon.

  As I reframe events, I can feel my spirits lifting. Everything will work out as it should, and the universe has a plan.

  Then I laugh at myself. I swear, Deva’s starting to rub off on me. I wouldn’t say we’ve become bosom companions since Hawaii, and I don’t buy into her ridiculous beliefs like astral projection, but she’s not without charm and I recognize that now. Just last week, we had dinner at the Green Zebra, a vegetarian, farm-to-table concept restaurant. Apparently she’s friends with the owner, who wouldn’t let us pay for a single bite. I’m a big fan of free.

  As I slow my pace to a walk up my street, I blot the sweat from my brow and check the numbers. Twenty-nine minutes—bravo! I’m delighted with today’s stats and make a note to run angry more often. I shaved a minute off my usual thirty. It’s iced-tea time!

  Except my good humor vanishes as soon as I see what appears to be an angry leprechaun perched on the wide cement railing by the front door, holding a foil-wrapped dish.

  “A Cubs hat? Jesus, Mary, and Joseph, where did we go wrong with you?”

  I lean down to kiss her cheek. “Hello, Ma.”

  “What, it’s bad enough you have to live up here with all the quiche eaters, but you’ve gotta support their team, too? Your grandfather Murphy is rolling in his grave right now.” My mother then stands to her full height of five-two—in heels—yet she carries herself like a giant. Her once flaming red hair is now shot with white patches, and her freckles are beginning to fight for real estate with her wrinkles. She refuses to try any of the fine antiaging products I’ve gifted her, saying she won’t “put on airs.” I hardly think moisturizing is “putting on airs,” but it’s simply too exhausting to argue.

  Her still-vibrant green eyes are boring a hole in my stupid hat, as I’ve inadvertently reminded her of the crosstown rivalry that’s been raging for a century. “Okay, okay, I’m taking it off,” I tell her. My hair’s damp with sweat, and I do my best to smooth it down.

  “What I don’t understand is why you’d put it on in the first place.” Do I even need to mention that the rest of the family bleeds Sox black and white?

  I try to remain patient. “Because I wanted to keep the sun off my face and it’s the first thing I grabbed. Besides, it’s not even mine—I think it belongs to Sebastian.” Note to self: Have his assistant schedule us some time together over the weekend.

  “Him,” she snorts. Of course my family worshipped Boyd and they’ve never forgiven me for ending things. Geri was all, “But I love ice cream for dinner!”

  Of course you do, sweetie.

  Ma clucks her tongue, and she’s still glowering as I toss my damp hat into the vestibule. “You know, your sister’s already been to a dozen games at the Cell so far this year.”

  “I’m sure she’s maintaining her girlish figure with a constant influx of ballpark hot dogs and giant beers.”

  Naturally, my mother defends her precious baby Geri. “You wouldn’t know because you haven’t seen her.” Pfft. By design. “Besides, Geri’s been busy working out. I hardly ever run into her anymore.”

  “Ah, so she’s finally moved out of your basement?”

  Geri is five years younger than me, but in that time period, everything changed in regard to how parents related to their children. I’ve no concrete evidence—yet—but I suspect the transition to helicopter parenting has something to do with those damn yellow Baby on Board decals that became so prevalent in the mideighties. I wasn’t even made to wear my seat belt when I was little, but suddenly, Geri comes along and she’s so valued she merits a sign? I remember my early summers when Ma would be all, “Go play in the vacant lot. The drifters and stray dogs won’t bother you if you don’t bother them.” By the time Geri was five, my folks had fenced in the yard, constructed a massive swing set, and installed a swimming pool so she wouldn’t ever want to roam from our yard.

  Ma shoots me yet another disapproving look. “Nobody likes a smartass, Reagan.”

  I find myself clenching my fists. “Better than a fat ass, cough *Geri* cough.”

  “Is that what they taught you in your fancy mental health college? To mock your sister’s underactive thyroid problem?”

  “Oh, so it’s her underactive thyroid that makes her eat all those nachos? Noted.” Then I stop myself. I hate when I get like this, but there’s something about my little sister that brings out the worst in me. “You know what, Ma? That was inappropriate and I apologize. Please send Geri my best.”

  I don’t mean it. But I have to say it.

  “I’ll do that.”

  We reach a tentative truce.

  “Hey, what are you doing on this side of town? What’s caused you to venture north of Madison?”

  She shrugs. “Eh, there’s a something at the Notebaert Museum and I promised Richie I’d swing by.” I do admire how my mother’s so thoroughly unimpressed by anyone that she has no problem referring to the former mayor as “Richie.”

  “Is Dad joining you?”

  “Nah, he’s over at Mary Mac’s. One of the kids tried to flush a box turtle and now the plumbing’s all jacked. The turtle’s fine, though. Little pissed off . . . largely at being pissed on.”

  My mother cracks herself up at this.

  (This incident does nothing to disabuse me of my notion that those children are trouble.)

  “Anyways, the closet bend in the toilet? It’s messed up, so your dad’s working on it and couldn’t come.” Dad sold his plumbing business a few years ago and grudgingly retired, so he leaps at any chance to roll up his sleeves. Ma glances at her simple Timex. “Listen, gotta go. But here, this is for you.” She thrusts the foil-wrapped pan at me.

  “Um, thanks. What is it?” If I were a betting person, I’d wager whatever it is contains canned cream of mushroom soup, chock-full of MSG and sodium.

  “Turkey tetrazzini.”

  “You made it with turkey?”

  “That’s why there’s ‘turkey’ in the name, dear. Didn’t they educate you on anything at Battle of the Network Stars school?” And then she snorts to herself again.

  “Thank you, Ma, but did you forget I’m a pescatarian?”

  She shrugs. “That’s why there’s no beef in it.”

  “Can’t argue with that logic.” Fortunately, the Nittany Lions who live on the first floor are going to love this dish, so I’ll save it for them.

  “Take care, Reagan.”

  “Okay, Ma. See you soon.”

  I kiss her cheek again and open the door to the vestibule, sure to retrieve my hat before it’s usurped by a neighborhood Golden Gopher. I watch as my mother strides confidently down the stairs in her sensible shoes.

&nbs
p; In terms of familial interaction, this wasn’t so bad. I maintained my cool, and we didn’t get into it over Geri. Mission accomplished!

  But before I step onto the stairs leading up to my unit, I realize my mom’s at the door.

  “Hey, Reagan, I won’t see you soon; I’ll see you Sunday. We’re having a birthday party for Finley Patrick. Plan to be there.”

  And with that, she totters off to her Buick, neatly and completely annihilating any positive energy created on my run.

  • • •

  After I shower, I grab the casserole and knock on the first-floor apartment’s door. One of the boys occasionally telecommutes, so I take a chance that he’s there.

  Trevor answers the door clad in Penn State boxers and a rumpled hockey jersey, his early-days-of-Bieber ’do hanging even more in his eyes than usual.

  “Trevor, did I wake you up?” I glance down at my watch. “It’s almost one p.m.”

  He stretches and his shirt pulls up over his stomach, which he then scratches vigorously. “Yeah, I like to sleep in on the weekends.”

  “It’s Wednesday.”

  He shrugs. “’S the weekend somewhere.”

  “Actually, it isn’t.”

  “You sure?”

  I nod. “Pretty sure.”

  “Shit. Anyway, wanna come in?” I step past his foyer and then into the living room. The layout of his place is identical to mine, with a large living room surrounded by bay windows. Whereas mine is arranged with low gray linen couches and butter-soft cashmere throw blankets, his entire room is taken up with a leather couch the size of a boxcar, positioned in front of the television altar. I have ecru silk dupioni curtains on top of feathery sheers, whereas he and his roommate, Bryce, have nothing. I don’t know why this generation cares so little for the concept of privacy, but I suspect it has something to do with sharing every aspect of their lives on social media. Today’s not the first day I’ve inadvertently seen this kid in his underwear.

  Beyond the living room is the dining area. I have a vintage-look Parsons table from Crate and Barrel, whereas they’ve opted for the more traditional billiards table. Our units differ in that I renovated my kitchen and swapped it with the front bedroom for better flow. In his place, there are a couple of bedrooms and baths between the dining room and the kitchen, which made no sense. Now my master is over their kitchen. As they’ve no idea how to cook, I never hear them in the back of the house once I’m in bed, which works out nicely for all of us.

  “Listen,” I say, “I won’t keep you from your, um . . . busy day. But I have this casserole I thought you might want.”

  Trevor snatches the container out of my hands. “Sweet! What flavor?”

  “Turkey tetrazzini made with canned soup.” I shudder involuntarily at the idea of the preservative-laden, gray-mushroomed, goo-topped noodles.

  “Thanks, playa! Did you make it for us?”

  “My mother brought it over. She knows I’m a pescatarian and yet she insists on bringing me a dish made with turkey.”

  He angles his head, looking down at me. “Thought you were Catholic.”

  I weep for this generation.

  “Lapsed. And ‘pescatarian’ means I don’t eat anything but fish. So turkey? No. No way. I’m sure it’s not organic, pasture-raised, antibiotic-free turkey, either. Whatever’s cheapest at the Jewel? That’s what she used.”

  His whole face lights up. “Badass! How cool is it that she makes you dinner and then takes the time to drop it off? You have the best mom in the world, son!”

  That’s his takeaway from this situation? Here she completely disrespects my lifestyle choice and he thinks it’s “badass”?

  I point out, “Your mother pays your rent.”

  He rotates his head and I can hear the vertebrae in his neck popping. “Yeah, and I appreciate that. But anyone could write a check. It takes, like, commitment to make a dinner. I mean, my mom’s my best friend, but she never learned to cook for me. That’s love.”

  Yeah, love.

  Or passive-aggressive.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Big Time

  For the sake of the show’s continuity, DBS is leasing space from Wendy, so our offices are still in the South Loop WeWIN studio. We’ll continue to film audience segments here, too.

  I find a seat in the back of the conference room and set my purse down on an adjacent chair, saving a spot for Deva. As I settle in, I notice there’s a steady buzz of conversation, and it all seems to be centered around the same topic.

  “Where’s the fruit tray?”

  “Probably with the croissants. Which is to say, not here.”

  “Seriously? No one stocked the Keurig machine? Seriously?”

  “I’m starving! Are the sandwiches coming soon?”

  For the first time in Push staff history, the credenza behind the conference table is not groaning under the weight of all manner of treats—muffins, scones, bagels, doughnuts, cookies, cream cheeses, an assortment of nut butters, six kinds of juices, platters of fresh fruit, sandwich fixings, and ice baths brimming with boxed salads, yogurt, kefir, and individual servings of cottage cheese. In fact, there’s not a morsel anywhere. Personally, I’m fussy about my food’s origin, so I had a spinach salad and some hummus before I arrived and I’m fine, but still, it’s odd not to see the usual spread.

  “What are people going to have for lunch?” I say, more to myself than to anyone around me.

  “Whatever they buy for themselves,” says a masculine voice behind me. I whirl around to see an attractive man, maybe in his mid- to late thirties, leaning against the wall. I don’t recognize him, but there are some new faces here. A few of the Push staff opted for the contract buyout, and a couple went to the scripted-television division, so we’re an equal mix of old and new. Yet outside of the lights/camera/sound guys, we don’t have a ton of male employees, so I’d definitely have seen him before if he were a returning staffer.

  This particular gentleman is a shade over six feet tall, deeply tanned, with an almost imperceptible smattering of gray at his temples blending in with his short blond waves. The brown eyes are an unexpected twist. I’m normally a fan of light eyes/darker hair, like Sebastian, but I could see how others would find him handsome. He’s broader than Sebastian, too. (All that biking and volleyball keeps Seb on the lean side.) My point is there’s something decidedly rugged and outdoorsy about him, and I wouldn’t be surprised to find, say, a kayak strapped to the roof of his car. I bet he owns one of those sloppy, friendly breeds of dog, too. Maybe a Lab or a retriever. There’s something vaguely familiar about him, but I can’t quite place my finger on what it is.

  I’m distracted by admiring the cut of his blue gingham shirt with the cuffs rolled up just so (is it possible to be attracted to someone’s wrists? Because his are prime specimens; I suspect he could dig a well or smack a tennis ball like no one’s business) when what he’s said sinks in and I snap to. “But that’s ridiculous,” I argue. “Wendy’s a fanatic about making sure snacks are available. She grew up poor and that forever changed her view on hunger—that’s a big part of her story. In fact, combating hunger is her battle cry. Over the years, she’s done dozens of shows on food insecurity and the chronic link between malnutrition and obesity. Surely you’re familiar?” Huh. That is one square jaw he has there. Not quite as magnificent as the wrists, but fine all the same.

  Sebastian’s wrists are the tiniest bit dainty for my liking. You’d think they’d be, I don’t know, meatier maybe, from playing volleyball, but they’re not. He wears a couple of bracelets, too. Not a fan. Sometimes I think, “Hey, nice arm party you’ve got going on there, Johnny Depp.” Of course, the last time I teased him about something innocuous—maybe the Drakkar Noir in his bathroom?—he went off the grid for a solid three weeks. Sensitive, that one.

  “People are fat
and malnourished? That dog don’t hunt.”

  Is he flirting with me or is he actually dense? I’m generally attracted to intellect, so clearly this would rule him out. Clearly. Is he one of those guys who isn’t aware of his looks or their impact on people?

  “I assure you, I’m right. Are you at all acquainted with the concept of food deserts? People in low-income areas don’t have ready access to many unprocessed foods, so even though their caloric needs are being met, their nutritional needs aren’t.”

  He merely shrugs in a manner I find intensely annoying, so I press on. “Wendy’s been a board member for a number of hunger-fighting charities and she’s a tireless advocate for SNAP—Supplemental Nutrition Assistance Programs. The—let’s face it—convenient by-product of her passion is that no one here has to buy his or her own lunch ever, and not just on the days we film.”

  He smiles and I’d be blind not to notice how straight and white his teeth are. Somebody’s parents invested in orthodontia. Did I already award bonus points for not wearing bracelets? Then he says, “I don’t believe in free lunch.”

  And like that, any charm this man could potentially have held suddenly dissipates.

  I give him a tight smile. “I guess we’ll leave that up to the new executive producer.”

  “Guess we will.” Then he ambles off, presumably to annoy someone else.

  Deva arrives moments later and settles in next to me. “Salutations, Reagan Bishop.”

  I quickly air-kiss her cheek. “Hey, Deva, I’m glad you’re here. We’ve apparently hired yet another obnoxious staffer and I already hate him.”

  She studies my face and then looks me up and down. “Are you sure? Your aura is radiating clear red right now, which is more indicative of passion.”

  As if! “Then you’re reading me wrong.”

  “If you were a murky red, I’d sense anger and . . .” Then she takes in the set of my mouth and my crossed arms and decides not to pursue the reading. “Okay, Reagan Bishop. I’m sure you know what’s in your own heart. Let it be full of hate if that’s your preference.”