fartsy.”
“Really?” I pushed a meatball that was trying to escape back into my sub with one finger. “I didn’t think I had any street cred at all as an artist. The art teachers only liked the kids who knew how to draw. You know, if it came out looking like it was done with paint-by-numbers, they must have talent.”
“Ugh,” B.J. said. “That’s how I felt about the English teachers. Remember, you couldn’t even get into a Creative Writing elective unless you were in Honors English? I had a lot to say—who the hell cared if I knew where the fuck to put my commas?”
I reached for my iced coffee. “They should have at least been impressed by your vocabulary.”
“Exactly,” B.J. said. “And Home Ec, don’t get me started on Home Ec. I had this purple jumpsuit I was dying to make. But nooooo, Miss McWhoosiface made me rip out the stitches on my apron three times until they fully satisfied her anal tendencies.”
“Miss McNally,” I said, “or maybe it was McNulty. I petitioned to take Shop instead, and they totally shot me down. And then the very next year, all the boys and girls had to take half a year of each. I couldn’t believe they took away my one chance for a Norma Rae moment. Wait, did Norma Rae come out before or after we graduated?”
B.J. shrugged. “Who knows. You have to admit, Home Ec got a lot more fun then. Remember when Michael Giacomo added a quarter of a cup of pot to those brownies and left them in the teachers’ lounge?”
I leaned back on my elbows and turned my face up to catch the sun. “I don’t think he ever got in trouble for that. I think the teachers were hoping if they let it go he might do it again. Rememberhow we all used to think Mr. Oswell looked like Davy Jones?”
A seagull hovered over us until I threw a piece of sub roll a few feet out. The gull nose-dived and caught it before it hit the ground.
“Ohmigod, how the hell did we get to be so freakin’ old?” B.J. yelled.
CHAPTER 14
B.J. shook her head to make sure her animal print scarf was tied on tight. “Okay, your choice. Do you want to be Romy or do you want to be Michele?”
“Do we have to?”
“Of course we have to. Romy and Michele’s High School Reunion is a classic chick flick.”
I rolled my red scarf into the shape of a headband and tied it in a knot on top of my head. The ends stuck out like little wings. I did have fashion flair when I focused.
I sighed. “I hate that term. And I think we’re too old for it anyway—it’s high time we moved on to hen flicks.”
“If we were men at least we could have dick flicks. It sounds a lot edgier.” B.J. put the Mustang into reverse and backed out of the parking space. “Okay, I’ll be Michele.”
“Was that Lisa Kudrow’s character or Mira Sorvino’s?”
“Lisa Kudrow’s.”
“See, you always do that. Why do I always have to be the sweet, innocent one?”
“Fine, you can be Michele. But I think we need to come up with something better for our reunion elevator speech than inventing Post-its.”
I reached for a tin of mints in my purse. “Ooh, I love that part. Do you think it’s human nature to be so insecure that we want people we haven’t seen in years and have no real interest in to believe we’re more successful than we really are?”
I took a mint and then held the tin out to B.J.
“Don’t be ridiculous,” she said, taking one. “We have nothing to prove. But just in case, I filled out your profile form for the reunion booklet, the one you never emailed back to the committee. I said you’re an internationally renowned sculptor currently working on an abstract series for an independent collector in Dubai.”
“You did not,” I said.
The traffic light ahead turned yellow. B.J. floored it. Once we’d made it through the intersection in one piece, B.J. turned to look at me. “And don’t worry, under Personal, I just said that after years of standing by Kurt through his many and myriad personal issues,
“Really?” I pushed a meatball that was trying to escape back into my sub with one finger. “I didn’t think I had any street cred at all as an artist. The art teachers only liked the kids who knew how to draw. You know, if it came out looking like it was done with paint-by-numbers, they must have talent.”
“Ugh,” B.J. said. “That’s how I felt about the English teachers. Remember, you couldn’t even get into a Creative Writing elective unless you were in Honors English? I had a lot to say—who the hell cared if I knew where the fuck to put my commas?”
I reached for my iced coffee. “They should have at least been impressed by your vocabulary.”
“Exactly,” B.J. said. “And Home Ec, don’t get me started on Home Ec. I had this purple jumpsuit I was dying to make. But nooooo, Miss McWhoosiface made me rip out the stitches on my apron three times until they fully satisfied her anal tendencies.”
“Miss McNally,” I said, “or maybe it was McNulty. I petitioned to take Shop instead, and they totally shot me down. And then the very next year, all the boys and girls had to take half a year of each. I couldn’t believe they took away my one chance for a Norma Rae moment. Wait, did Norma Rae come out before or after we graduated?”
B.J. shrugged. “Who knows. You have to admit, Home Ec got a lot more fun then. Remember when Michael Giacomo added a quarter of a cup of pot to those brownies and left them in the teachers’ lounge?”
I leaned back on my elbows and turned my face up to catch the sun. “I don’t think he ever got in trouble for that. I think the teachers were hoping if they let it go he might do it again. Rememberhow we all used to think Mr. Oswell looked like Davy Jones?”
A seagull hovered over us until I threw a piece of sub roll a few feet out. The gull nose-dived and caught it before it hit the ground.
“Ohmigod, how the hell did we get to be so freakin’ old?” B.J. yelled.
CHAPTER 14
B.J. shook her head to make sure her animal print scarf was tied on tight. “Okay, your choice. Do you want to be Romy or do you want to be Michele?”
“Do we have to?”
“Of course we have to. Romy and Michele’s High School Reunion is a classic chick flick.”
I rolled my red scarf into the shape of a headband and tied it in a knot on top of my head. The ends stuck out like little wings. I did have fashion flair when I focused.
I sighed. “I hate that term. And I think we’re too old for it anyway—it’s high time we moved on to hen flicks.”
“If we were men at least we could have dick flicks. It sounds a lot edgier.” B.J. put the Mustang into reverse and backed out of the parking space. “Okay, I’ll be Michele.”
“Was that Lisa Kudrow’s character or Mira Sorvino’s?”
“Lisa Kudrow’s.”
“See, you always do that. Why do I always have to be the sweet, innocent one?”
“Fine, you can be Michele. But I think we need to come up with something better for our reunion elevator speech than inventing Post-its.”
I reached for a tin of mints in my purse. “Ooh, I love that part. Do you think it’s human nature to be so insecure that we want people we haven’t seen in years and have no real interest in to believe we’re more successful than we really are?”
I took a mint and then held the tin out to B.J.
“Don’t be ridiculous,” she said, taking one. “We have nothing to prove. But just in case, I filled out your profile form for the reunion booklet, the one you never emailed back to the committee. I said you’re an internationally renowned sculptor currently working on an abstract series for an independent collector in Dubai.”
“You did not,” I said.
The traffic light ahead turned yellow. B.J. floored it. Once we’d made it through the intersection in one piece, B.J. turned to look at me. “And don’t worry, under Personal, I just said that after years of standing by Kurt through his many and myriad personal issues,
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