Triangles (21 page)

not reviewed in the same fashion—

their fashion hopefully better

suited to the bedroom

than the boardroom. And,

you

know, homosexuals not

really being “men,” cannot

be judged equivalent

to their stiffer-wristed brethren.

On religion, well, some Christians are willing

to make room for a Jew or two

in their inner circles. But Mecca-

facing prayer must be met

with flaming crosses. Close your eyes to

the details, the big picture

can still be viewed through

rose-colored glass. But

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go

any distance beyond

the rhetoric, truth

becomes a shadowed lens.

Andrea

All RHETORIC ASIDE

I’m kind of happy that little prick Chad tossed Harley’s affection

to one side.

I hate seeing her hurt. And I hope

she’ll find it in her heart to forgive Brianna,

who I’m really quite sure did nothing to encourage Chad’s interest in her.

Well, except

to let him kiss her. Harley thinks Bri led him on, but she is an innocent

thirteen.

Holly says she’s mortified, and I believe it. Just have to convince Harley to believe it

too. Meanwhile, she’s not dying to visit Steve every day. Hooray. And it’s all because of

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that little prick, Chad. Valuable lesson, learned before love plunged her into a sea of regret.

FIVE DAYS AFTER THE FACT

Harley is still fuming, however. That girl knows how to hold a grudge. Hmm.

She might have gotten that from me.

But unlike me, who scarfs everything in sight when I’m mad, Harley will

hardly eat a thing. I keep telling her I’ll have to take her in for intravenous fluids and she keeps telling me not to worry, and anyway, I’d probably pass out at the sight of that big hollow needle, poked into her skinny arm. When did she get so wise? Even worse than not eating is how she stays in her room, only coming out to exercise, pee,

and once in a while argue with me.

Thank God Mom talked her into

going with her, Dad, and Shane to

Tahoe tonight. Harley’s first rock

concert will be Bob Dylan. “Harley!

You almost ready? They’ll be here

soon.” Out of her dark dwelling

she comes. Too much of her legs—

summer-browned from the walking—

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poke out from beneath a very short

denim skirt, and the skimpy tank

top grips her, tight as skin. Yowza!

“Uh, wow. Where did you learn to

put on makeup like that? And where

did you get it?” Pink eye shadow. Black liner. Blue mascara. Cranberry gloss.

I actually know the answer before

she says,
Cassie bought them for
me, and she showed me how to

do my eyes. She says my skin

is flawless. I don’t need foundation.

I could tell her she, in fact, has

a small ribbon of freckles across

a face often pale, but now sun-tinted.

Instead I just say, “No, you don’t

need foundation. You look great.”

She looks like a child trying

too hard to look like an adult.

But had I said that, she wouldn’t

have rewarded me with her beautiful smile, the way she does now.
Thanks.

A horn honks, outside and near.

“That must be Gramps and Gram.

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You have fun. But be careful. You

never know what kind of …” Don’t

finish it. “Never mind. Go on, now.”
WHY DO I FEEL

Like she’s headed off on her first date or something? I watch her try to imitate a slink, but seductress she isn’t. Not yet.

Speaking of vamps, however, Holly

called and asked if I wanted to go

with her to Rumble from Down

Under tonight. Beefy guys, stripping to thongs, have never seemed all

that appealing. But Holly being Holly, she talked me into it.
It’s free! Sahara,
from my writing group, scored the tickets.

And guess what. She pulled some
strings and got us into the wrap
party.
Holly didn’t mention exactly what kind of strings, but if anyone could pull them, I’d expect it to be her. This Sahara must be a real piece of work. Whatever. I haven’t been

out in a while. I’m game. I guess.

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And only a smidgen worried.

WORRIED ABOUT WARDROBE

What does one wear to watch

overbuilt Australian men strip

down to their underwear? And

the bigger question. What does

one wear to party with those men

after they’re finished stripping?

Maybe I should have asked my

daughter to help me pick my outfit.

Maybe I should call up Cassie

to come over and teach me how

to line my eyes much too heavily.

Maybe I should call Holly and tell

her to forget the whole freaking

thing. On the other hand, maybe

I should take a lesson from Harley

and throw all caution to the wind.

I’ll never compete with Holly,

but I can take a page from her

handbook (
The Holly Handbook—

ha!) and wriggle into the smallest

dress I possibly can—a size eight.

Whoa. Diet and exercise
do
work.

Have to thank Harley for that too.

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Now, if I can just find shoes that go.

TEETERING

On heels that don’t quite work

for me, in a dress I can’t quite believe fits again, I meet up with Holly

and Sahara at the Atlantis. I’ve always liked this casino because it isn’t all the way downtown. Easy parking.

Easy-to-get-to restaurants. And now, an easy-on-the-eyes revue for girls.

At least, that’s what they promise.

I join the women—one friend,

one totally unfamiliar—at the bar.

Sahara assesses me like a real estate appraiser looking at a piece of aging property.
Holly has told me, like, everything about you. Hope none of it is true.

She laughs, but the joke is totally lost on me. Because, was it a joke?

“Cool. Holly hasn’t told me, like,

one little thing about you. Hope

it’s all true.” Wow. Did I just say that, alcohol-free? Instant dislike between 401/881

us, bad chemistry Holly doesn’t notice at all.
I didn’t know you wore makeup!

Let alone, a dress like that one. Brilliant!

Pretty sure that was not the right

adjective, but whatever. I almost

order my usual beer, reconsider.

This is supposed to be a let-your-

hair-down kind of night. “Mai tai,” I tell the bartender. We pay for our drinks and head for the showroom,

Sahara in the lead. Casinos are crazy.

This one has a tropical theme, with trees and waterfalls and palm fronds representing grass huts, all surrounding the usual flashing lights and coins clunking into slot machine trays

and people whooping through cigarette smog. At least the show will be smoke-free. A long chain of cackling, crowing women has already formed at the entrance.

Sahara opts for the invited guests line.

Apparently, we are that. She greets 402/881

the guy at the door like they’re old pals, and the next thing I know, we are whisked down the aisle, all the way to the front row. Figures. The seats fill and the room throbs with noise until the lights go down.

NOW THE ROOM THROBS

With music. Exceptionally

loud country. The crowd

claps and a few
Yee-haw,
and wouldn’t you just die being

with someone who did that?

Even Holly does not do that.

I suck my mai tai—strong!

Watch as a lineup of men

rodeos onstage in jeans and

cowboy boots. They are all

very different—long hair.

Spiked hair. Dark. Ice blond.

Slender. Thick. The one

thing they have in common

becomes clear as soon as the

shirts come open—six-packs.

Scratch that. Twelve-packs,

maybe. I’ve never seen abs

so sculpted. Not even on

those stupid exercise shows

Harley has been watching.

Holy crunches! These guys

really have spectacular bods.

They must live in the gym.

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Hey,
says Holly as the opening number ends.
How come their

pants are still on? I’m looking
for G-strings.
She slurps her mojito and signals to a cocktail

waitress, who makes her way

over.
No worries, mate,
says Sahara, imitating the [very hot]

host’s thick Australian accent.

Eventually, the pants do come

off.
And they do, with the very next number, a solo by a guy

with not much hair anywhere

and piercings that look like

they hurt. I turn to Holly to

ask if she would ever wear

a ring through her nipple,

despite knowing the obvious

answer—of course she would.

I find her leaning toward

Sahara, saying something into

her ear. Maybe it’s the mai tai,

or maybe it’s just selfish friend

me, but jealousy pokes viciously.

JEALOUSY

Is a rockslide—one pebble

of suspicion initiates

an avalanche, leaves sanity

buried beneath the slag.

Few

emotions attack with such

intensity and yet, with rare

exception, accomplish so little.

It can be difficult to

circumvent

the little green monster

who loiters, jaws snapping,

never far from view.

Decide to swim with him,

the undertow

will capture you, drag you

to deep, drowning places.

A word to the wise: never

underestimate the power

of envy.

Holly

THE POWER

Of connections is free tickets.

Front-row seats at sold-out shows.

Being called up onstage by men

with ripped torsos, who jerk off

their pants two inches from your

face, encourage you to touch

the bulge in their Speedos

before returning you to your

up-close seat. Andrea is currently

up onstage, on her knees in

front of a thong-clad Australian

hunk, who rocks toward her as if …

She looks half horrified,

half fascinated. She’ll either

kill me or kiss me when she gets

back. It was my idea to send

her up there, so I lied and told

the emcee that it’s her birthday.

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“Just play along with it,” I told

her. Okay, practically begged

her. I have to admit I was a little surprised when she said okay.

Then again, I’m pretty sure

it’s been a while since she’s had

anything quite like this guy

literally in her face. If ever.

I’ve never. But maybe that will

change later tonight. Only

for real. Only there is that

regular gossip about male dancers.

“So …,” I say, too loudly, but

how else will Sahara hear me?

“Is it true these guys are gay?”

Can’t speak for all of them,

but I know for a fact that at

least a couple are pure hetero.

Mr. Hunk pulls Andrea to her

feet, sends her offstage with

a slap to the ass. As she goes,

tilting a bit from the booze

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combined with skinny heels,

the music changes to
Happy Birthday
.

THE AUDIENCE SINGS ALONG