Miss Adventure Read online

  “You got me a wedding present?” I chirp. “Thanks. I didn’t even get married.”

  Mags takes a deep breath, then bats her lashes. Method faker, that Mags. “Look,” she coos, opening her purse and spreading some internet printouts on the counter. “These are my registry pages and I came over to help you pick out some nice gifts for me. The things I really want from what’s left on the lists.”

  “I already got you something.”

  I know I told Jack I wanted to sever ties with my family completely, but sentimentality or compassion or nostalgia or something got hold of me and shook me until I turned stupid. “It’s up here.” I climb onto the counter and reach into one of the highest cupboards.

  I actually wrapped the thing and stored it for safekeeping. I didn’t pack it into the garage with everything else because I was so pleased with it that I didn’t want to risk damaging it.

  “Here,” I say, handing Maggie a box about the size of See’s Candy Sampler. “Happy…uh…wedding.”

  She slides off the wrapping without reading the card. I wrote, “To Maggie from Lisa.”

  “A picture,” she says, staring down at it.

  “Remember how we used to play Bride when Mom would take down all the curtains to wash?”

  “I remember.” She stares at the framed snapshot of four year-old Magnolia and nine year-old Lisa swathed in the gauzy sheer panels taken from the dining room windows. “My actual wedding dress looked nothing like this,” she says dully.

  “Hmmm.”

  “Is that why you got this?” she demands. “To make me feel guilty for getting married in Italy without you?”

  “What?” I squawk. “I didn’t get it. I made it. I made it to…to…” I can feel hot tears throb behind my eyes. “To remember that…we used to get along. We used to… things used to be different. I thought it would be something nice to remember.”

  She puts the picture back in its box and slams the lid on. “Lisa, this is just like you. You have to be different. You have to be weird. You can’t get something from the registry because it’s what everyone else is doing.”

  “What are you talking about? I thought this picture—”

  “You’re just so weird, Lisa.” She pronounces this with disgust. “Skipping through life, not giving a damn what anyone else thinks.”

  “So?”

  “Don’t we matter at all? Your family? You’re always making us wonder what insane, embarrassing thing you’ll do next. Your goofy clothes and dumb hair. Sawing away at that stupid viola and driving us all crazy. Who ever even heard of a viola? God!”

  “Mags—”

  “You got to be this total joke between me and Mom. For your birthdays and Christmas, we would buy the ugliest, weirdest clothes for you we could find, just to see if you’d wear them. And you always did! You didn’t care! Do you know how embarrassing it was growing up with Napoleon Dynamite for my sister?”

  “Napoleon Dynamite didn’t even exist when we were kids!” I scream at her. “I can’t believe you bought me those stupid clothes on purpose! Mags, I wore them because they were gifts. The one time I returned that purple mini skirt with the fringe, Mom cried.”

  Mags gives a giddy laugh. “That’s right,” she says, remembering. “She was good.”

  “I can’t believe it!” I cry. “My whole life you’ve conspired to make me look ridiculous. And you did it again. When I was in a coma!” My heart slams into my breastbone. “With that awful story. You made me look terrible on the cover on purpose.”

  “That cover made you famous.”

  “For being pathetic. Why? Why did you all do that to me? Were you that afraid your plan to swindle me might not work?”

  Mags storms dramatically across the kitchen, as if shocked, wounded. Then she spins. “Lisa, we deserve that money. You were out of it. We were the ones who were awake, who had to deal with everything. We’re the ones who suffered.”

  “You couldn’t have discussed this with me?”

  “You mean you wanted us all to come crawling and ask you for the money. Money that was rightfully ours.”

  “If it was so rightful, Burger Barn would have given it to you in the first place. Or the courts would have. Or I would have. You didn’t have to swindle me. My own family.”

  “What do you want, Lisa? The money? Will that make you happy?” Mags gestures at the empty room. “You have no clue what to do with the money you have.”

  I snuffle for a few seconds. “I w-w-want…I w-want….”

  “You don’t know what you want,” Mags says. “But I’ll tell you what you need. You need to find a man.”

  I blink. “A man?”

  “You're the older sister," she sneers, "and you're still alone.” She looks around the kitchen. “It breaks my heart to see that you've given up.”

  “Given up what?”

  “Lisa, look at your life. You bought a house. You're fixing it up, furnishing it, I hope.” She looks at me with puppy dog eyes. “All when you're not married.”

  I stare at her, wondering what planet she comes from.

  She shakes her head. “You can't expect me to believe that you're happy living alone in some dumpy house in the Valley.” Her voice hisses with such desperate insistence you’d think she was doing a crack intervention. “It's like telling the world that you've accepted that you're going to be alone forever.” She shakes her head again. “You need to find someone. I know it didn’t work out with Keith, but you can find someone if you try. Then maybe you can stop blaming your family for every little thing.”

  “Like stealing four million dollars from me?”

  “Lisa….”

  “Mags,” I say, “take your picture, and get out of my house. Now.”

  “Lisa….”

  “NOW.”

  Mags crosses her arms and lifts her chin. She’s not budging until she’s good and ready.

  Great.

  I can jump out of planes and swim with sharks, but I cannot get my own bitch-face sister out of my kitchen.

  All the air gushes out of me and my shoulders slump. I’m not Jack or Edgar or Mr. Bennet or even Ethel. The force of my personality is not enough to expel my sister.

  “All right, Mags,” I finally say. “You want to stay in my kitchen? Fine.”

  I walk back to the bedroom to resume work on the wood trim. I’m juiced with bitter anger and my eyes tear up, but I get to work and hammer away.

  I could’ve told Mags there was no way that “finding a man” would ever be on my list of Things To Do. But what would be the point? The woman takes umbrage at the existence of the viola, and I’m supposed to talk to her as if she’s capable of processing a rational thought?

  We don’t live in the same worlds. But at least I don’t go barging into her world just to belittle everything I see and hear.

  Mean Mags! Mean Mags! Mean Mags!

  I just get done hammering in another nail when I hear the front door slam shut. Mags is gone. I feel like someone finally cut the current to the electrodes spiked into my gut.

  Mags is gone. I bet she didn’t even take the picture.

  My cell phone rings. “Hello?” I say it like a generic question, all casual-like, even though I know it’s Jack.

  He pauses then says, “Are you okay?”

  Oh, God. A one word greeting and he can tell I’m about to cry. I don’t answer him for a sec, not trusting my voice.

  “Lisa?”

  Swallow. “What’s up?” Too desperately chipper. Damn.

  Another pause. “Can you test tomorrow?”

  “What time?”

  “Ten.”

  “Ok-kay.” Damn! My voice cracked.

  “Lisa, what’s wrong?”

  “Nothing. I’m definitely okay.”

  But then I start crying. I don’t say anything more because I really don’t want to sob into the phone Mags was mean to me!

  Jack told me to take a stand with my family but here I am, dissolving into a pathetic dishrag. I have t
o get a grip.

  “Thanks for calling Jack. I’m really glad you called.” But I tumble back into crying by the word “called.”

  “Lisa…”

  “Gotta go,” I say quickly. “See ya tomorrow.”

  I hang up and snuffle my way back to the kitchen to find some ice cream.

  * * * * *

  Can’t test today. Sorry.

  From: Jack

  9:27 am

  I blink at my phone.

  Jack texted me. He TEXTED me.

  He's NEVER texted me before. Are we BFF's now, and nobody told me? As if.

  He’s canceling on me, and he doesn’t have the balls to tell me himself. I punch in his speed dial. No answer.

  I punch it in again. No answer.

  Damn! This is because of that STUPID phone call. Why did I have to cry? And then thank him for calling? He must so think I was crying from sheer relief that he finally called me after our last bout of sex. He thinks I was crying over him. I knew I should have called him back to explain. I knew it!

  Still no answer!

  * * * * *

  Ten hours since the text. Still no answer.

  I know he went testing without me.

  WITHOUT ME.

  He must have. Jack wouldn’t just do nothing all day. And even if he didn’t test without me, which I’m sure he did, he still just plain cancelled on me. Where does he get off treating me this way?

  I look out the kitchen window to watch the encroaching night get darker. He’s bound to be back by now, fiddling with his gear.

  I grab my keys and bolt out the door. Fifteen minutes later, I turn onto Jack’s street. The pick-up is in the drive. I park and slam myself out of Dalton.

  I’m so mad I feel righteous anger throb through my thighs with every step I take. I’m so glad I'm wearing my black booty shoes with the scrap of heel. They sound much more impressive than sneakers or Sketchers would. But Jack’s driveway is far too short and my satisfying clickety-strides end way too soon.

  I ring the doorbell and wait. Where the hell was he all day? And how dare he force me into the role of a shrew, demanding to know where he was?

  How DARE he. If he wants to end our deal, he can TELL ME TO MY FACE.

  The door swings open.

  “Jack.”

  He hasn’t even turned on a porch or foyer light, but I can see him from the glow of streetlights. Just one look at him tells me I have to switch gears.

  Fast.

  Jack is hurt. His face alone is so bruised and scraped he looks like he’s spent the day using his head to play the washboard in a hillbilly jug band.

  “What are you doing here?” He looks grumpy and I don’t blame him.

  I decide in the space of a mini-second that I will NOT be girly. I push past him and walk right into his house, without insulting him with a coo or “poor baby” of any kind.

  “Lisa—”

  “Jack,” I say, turning to face him, cutting short his growl. “I’m here, and I’m staying.” I give him a confident smile as I push up my sleeves.

  “I don’t want you here.”

  I look at the careful way he’s moving and the ice pack he’s holding in one cut up hand, and then I notice his scraped arm. I’m betting one whole side of his body took quite a beating. I swallow down my worry. I cannot be wimpy. Not with Jack.

  “Maybe not,” I say in brisk agreement. “But I’m going to pamper you anyway.” With a wink, I turn on my way-cool heel and head toward the kitchen.

  “What? Ow!” He says the two words almost on top of one another as he makes too sudden a move to follow me.

  I have to do it. What choice is there? Jack is hurt, so I have to be nice to him first if I want answers. I cannot be a bitch. Not yet.

  “Just lay down on the couch over there or whatever makes you most comfortable.” I call over my shoulder, “I’ll get started in here.”

  Jack follows me to the kitchen in a slow but clearly pissed-off gait that has me biting back a laugh. He just looks so un-him, trying to chase me down like he’s any sort of threat.

  When he steps into the fullness of the kitchen light, I get a good look at him in his faded navy sweats, a ratty T-shirt, and clean white socks. He’s got just-out-of-the-shower wet hair and a soapy smell. I swear I’m about to tackle him while he’s defenseless.

  But I’ve got to concentrate. “I’ve never really done the pampering thing before,” I explain as I wash my hands at the sink. “Keith never got sick or hurt or anything.” I dry my hands on a paper towel then walk up to Jack. “I’ll help you get settled. Just tell me where.”

  Jack sucks in a deep breath, probably to yell at me, then winces. “I don’t need to be pampered, and—I hope you’re listening this time—I don’t want you here.”

  A nasty shock zaps through me.

  What if there’s already someone here? Like a woman? A tall, built, in-shape woman with thighs of iron who can climb mountains in a porno nurse’s uniform? I’m ready to apologize and run for the door when instead I hear myself ask to use the bathroom.

  “What?” Jack squawks. “No. Get out.”

  “I gotta go.” I dart around him and head past the stairs toward the back hallway.

  “Where do you think you’re going?”

  “Looking for a bathroom,” I explain with mounting impatience, pretending like I’ve never been in his bathroom before and have no idea exactly where it is.

  I start opening doors, any door behind which a sexpot might be stashed. Not in the laundry room where I find a dusty pile of shredded motorcycle leathers on the floor. Not in a small downstairs office. I get to the garage but can’t find the light switch. I step down and hit a button I find on the wall. The whirring noise startles me as the garage door scrolls up.

  “What the hell are you doing?”

  “I told you,” I call back, lowering the door and flicking another switch.

  The empty garage bursts into fluorescent light as Jack yells at me again. “The bathroom is right here, you lunatic! You walked right past it!”

  No woman in the garage. I rush to the bathroom – no woman, not even in the tub. Jack stands right in the doorway, blocking my path with his sheer malevolence.

  “What’s the matter?” I ask innocently. I try to slide past him but he grabs my shirt.

  “Listen, Lisa. Ow!”

  I poked him the ribs to make good my escape.

  “Jesus!” Jack slumps against the wall. “I thought you said you were going to pamper me! You SUCK at pampering!”

  I race up the stairs. Three bedrooms. I head toward the one at the end of the hall, sure to be the master since it’s over the garage and must be the biggest. But nobody’s in there or in the master bathroom. I get out quick, not wanting to be suspected of scoping out Jack’s bedroom. Way too embarrassing to be the chick who commits to memory the color of his comforter (white with grayish-blue seer-suckery stripes) and the number of throw rugs in his bathroom (two.)

  I check the other two bedrooms lickety split but what I find is…um…weird.

  Regardless, nobody seems to be lurking. Unless said woman, or man, I suppose, is hiding in a closet or under a bed.

  But why hide from me?

  I walk slowly back down the stairs toward Jack who waits, looking up at me.

  “You are a whacked-out freak.” His unassailable pronouncement.

  “Just wanted to make sure nobody else was here and I wasn’t interrupting anything.”

  “You could’ve asked.”

  “You could’ve lied.”

  He huffs out a breath. “Satisfied?”

  I look at him. “Puzzled.”

  He chucks the melted ice pack at me then heads toward the couch. “Too damn bad.”

  Deciding to ignore his surly temper, I walk into the kitchen to re-freeze the pack and make us something to eat. Luckily, the kitchen opens onto the family room in a very homey kind of way so I can keep an eye on Jack as I cook.

  “Can I get you anything?”
I call as I open every cupboard in the kitchen.

  “Lisa, you’re not welcome.” He’s super-serious, or trying to be.

  “That hurts, Jack. But I’m going to push past the pain, as I’m sure you might instruct me to do in other circumstances.”

  “Why are you even here?”

  “I came to rip you a new one because you cancelled on me.”

  Jack stretches out on the couch and closes his eyes. “Lisa, the Blackhawk brothers finished making some bike gear we’ve been working on.” He sinks more deeply into the cushions. “What I’d usually do is I’d test it right away. So, I had to test it today, or else the staff might’ve suspected something.”

  I set my palms on the counter and stare at him. “That better be the truth,” I say. “I will not put up with you just unilaterally deciding to end our deal without so much as a rational conversation.”

  “You mean rational like this one?”

  I start slamming items I choose for dinner onto the counter. “I’m not ending the deal,” I point out. “We’re in this together, whether you like it or not.”

  He scowls at me. “So…what? We’re in this thing for life? I can never get out?”

  I close the freezer with a thwack. “Of course you can. But you could talk to me when you’re having misgivings. Give me a goddamn heads-up before the decision is made. I’m just so sick of others making these decisions and– wham! My life is changed forever and there’s not a damn thing I can do about it. Now, can I get you anything, or what?”

  He just looks at me for a few seconds. “Scotch,” he says. “Top shelf, over the toaster.”

  I take down the Glendronach and a glass. “How much?”

  “The bottle should just about do it.”

  * * * * *

  Forty minutes later, I’m nestling myself into the big comfy chair next to the sofa, ready to tuck into the supper I’ve whipped together.

  Jack is looking at his plate. “You cut up all my food.”

  “I know,” I mumble around a mouthful of the best steak ever. I know, I know. I’m trying to be a vegetarian, but sometimes, I just jump right off the wagon.

  He’s still looking at his plate as though his food has been cooked in a language he doesn’t understand. “Why?” he asks.