Bad Boy. Olivia Goldsmith
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“Peter, Peter Woman-eater. Hadda neighbor, hadda eat her,” Laura sang.
“Was that really what he was doing when you walked in on them?” Tracie gasped.
“Sure was. Somehow, it was a lot worse than if they’d been fucking,” Laura said. She stopped unpacking and sat down on the edge of Tracie’s bed. “A guy can fuck a girl he doesn’t even like, but he doesn’t …” She paused and then shook her head. “Jesus, he hardly ever went down on me” She sighed, diving back into her bag to take out yet another perfectly folded T-shirt.
“Well, it doesn’t matter,” Tracie told her. “You’re just never going to see him again. He’s going to miss you.”
“I don’t know about me, but I do know he’s going to miss my short ribs with braised cabbage and mango-apple-cranberry coulis.” Laura laughed. “But enough about Peter. I can’t wait to meet the famous Phil.”
Tracie waggled her eyebrows in a poor imitation of Groucho Marx. “Well, you’re not going to have to wait long. You finish unpacking while I work on this stupid feature. Then we’ll get something to eat. After that, I’ll take you to meet Phil at Cosmo.”
“What’s Cosmo?”
“It’s easier to take you there than to explain it,” Tracie told her friend. “You’ll see tonight.”
Cosmo was jammed by the time Tracie and Laura walked through its black glass double doors. It was enormous—three separate dance floors—with neon lights running along the black-painted walls and strobes and black lights picking up the slack, as if there was any. Laura eyed the scene. “An epileptic’s nightmare,” she quipped as they made their way to the crowded bar.
“Wait till you see the computerized light show,” Tracie yelled above the din.
“They make it snow in here?” Laura yelled back.
“Light show—SHOW!” Tracie yelled, then saw by Laura’s grin that she’d gotten her. “Yeah, yeah.” Tracie grinned back.
Cosmo was bustling with habitués, all under thirty, thinking they were terminally hep. Personally, Tracie always thought there was something weird about the jeunesse dorée of Seattle. They had a lot more money and a lot less style than people in L.A. or other places Tracie had been, but she liked them for it. They either looked like they had forgotten to dress up before they went out or as if they’d put themselves together for some convention. In fact, the majority of Seattle young people seemed like Trekkies who had recently transferred their manic interest to some other sphere. Now a swing band was playing and couples danced, many of them in forties zoot suits and period dresses. Tracie thought the dresses were kind of cool actually, but otherwise, she just didn’t get it.
“Me, neither,” Laura said, as if Tracie had spoken her thoughts aloud.
Tracie picked up her drink, tossed it back, and tried to order another. Phil was late, as usual.
“Hey, how many of those did you have? And it’s not even midnight yet,” Laura commented.
“I’m just … uptight. You know, Mother’s Day weekend always bothers me,” Tracie admitted. And the story. And Marcus. And Phil being late. And …
“Look, take it from me: Having a mother can suck, too,” Laura told her, and put her arm around Tracie’s shoulder.
Tracie stood on a rung of the bar stool to look over the crowd. Her hair fell in her eyes and that, along with the lights, made it impossible to see. No Phil. Instead, Tracie motioned for another drink, and this time the bartender saw her. “I’d just like to know that I’m going to go home with Phil tonight and cocoon tomorrow in bed.”
“While I quietly weep on my cot,” Laura said, then added, “Hey, you deserve it, working so hard on that Mother’s Day story. Marcus shouldn’t have assigned it to you. It’s totally harshed your buzz.”
“Newspaper editors are rarely noted for their sensitivity. And my roommates always have big mouths.”
“I’m not a roommate,” Laura interjected. “I’m only visiting till I get over Peter.”
“God! That’ll take years.”
“No. It took years to get over Ben.” Laura stopped, considered, and continued. “It’ll just be months to get over Peter. Unless he calls and begs.”
“Tell him to drop dead.”
“What?”
“Tell him to forget it.”
“Regret it?” Laura yelled.
Tracie pulled out a Post-it notepad—she was never without one—and scribbled on it. She slapped it on the bar. It read “Just Say No.” In a corner, a group of die-hard punk rock musicians sat in a booth. They were sucking down beers. “The Swollen Glands,” Tracie said, and indicated to Laura. “Phil’s band.”
“Well, they don’t look like my type, but it’s better than sitting here. Let’s join ’em,” Laura suggested. “Maybe they’ll buy us a drink.”
“Yeah, maybe they’ll win a Congressional Medal of Honor, too.” The two girls made their way through the crowd and over to the group in the corner.
“Hi, guys,” Tracie said. “Glands, this is Laura. Laura, the Glands.” Tracie sat down next to Jeff.
“This music sucks,” Jeff, the regular Glands bass player, said.
“Yo, Tracie. Doesn’t this suck?” Frank, the drummer, asked as Laura took the seat beside him. There was a silence until a beautiful blonde walked by.
“Yum, yum. Come to papa. I’ve got something for ya,” Jeff said.
“Forget her. She works with me at the Times. She’s a barracuda.”
“Well, I’ve got something I’d like to hook her with,” Jeff said.
“Now I know which Gland you are,” Laura said. She turned to Frank. “And you? Lymph, perhaps?”
There was a commotion at the door. Tracie brightened as Phil entered. She gave Laura a look, and Laura turned her head. “God. He is tall. And good-looking.” Tracie nodded. Her guy had a lot of grace and charm—when he wanted to use it. In his hand was a bass guitar, but she was disturbed to see that beside him was an extremely thin, pretty woman. The two made their way through the crowd and approached the corner table. “He doesn’t walk,” Laura said. “He swaggers. And who’s the skank? Heavenly Host, he’s worse than Peter.”
“You haven’t even met him yet,” Tracie protested, though she was already nervous about the so-called skank herself. “Give me a break.”
“Hey, girl. I got out late from rehearsal.” Phil put his arm around Tracie.
“Phil, this is Laura,” Tracie said, introducing them. Uh-oh, one look at Laura’s face and Tracie recognized her mood. It was overly protective. She was staring at Phil as if instead of being late and accompanied by this nobody he had thrown acid on her face. Laura tended to overreact in situations like this. On the other hand, Tracie had the same tendency when Laura was being mistreated.
“Hi, Phil. Nice to meet you, too. Oh! And what have you brought us? Your tuning fork?” Laura asked. Tracie gave Laura a discreet kick in the ankle. When Laura had gone too far with Tracie’s wicked stepmother (known to them always as W.S.M. and never Thelma), Tracie had used the same editing system. No one had hated her stepmother as much as Laura—not even Tracie herself.
As if dealing with Laura, Phil, and the skank wasn’t enough, Allison drifted over, too. Just because she had to work with Allison at the Times didn’t mean she had to introduce her to anyone.
“Hi, Tracie,” Allison said.
It was the first time Tracie could remember