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By Darren Kaminsky

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Darren Kaminsky's novel, Sugar Spun Sisters, appears in serialized form every Monday right here on Me Three.  The story follows the lives of five twenty-somethings living in Washington D.C.  As far as the editors are currently aware, none of these characters work in politics.

Click here for a Chapter Index.

Chapter Thirteen

Journal Entry Fragment from Late Last Year

It was about 9 p.m. Imogen and Bella drank some vodka, put on some make-up and danced around Bell’s apt. in their underwear, not really caring that I was there.

Imogen’s nickname, given to her by Bell, is “Little Scamp,” or just “Scamp,” and she, The Scamp, continually earns the nickname by never being serious with a guy, a job, a career, or any type of pursuit or hobby.

Her father owns, is the president of, or is somehow involved with profiting from some sort of insurance company (or I think it’s insurance -- she doesn’t talk about it much) and pays for Imogen to do almost whatever she wants. Occasionally, she’ll complain, “My father wants me to go to business school...My father wants me to pay more of my own bills...My father wants me to represent him at some benefit,” but mostly her father wants to pay for her to do whatever she’d like, so she goes out every night and drinks, dances, occasionally does drugs, chain-dates guys who she doesn’t care about, and the most effort she ever makes is to have brunch every weekend. Sometimes, she even has to make the reservations, which she complains about in the same way that I would complain if I had to work in a coal mine.

Imogen spilled some sort of blue powder all over her slinky, silver iridescent top and spent 20 minutes standing in her bra and skirt patting at the silver with a wet towel trying to remove it. They’d half-heartedly asked me if I wanted to go, but I’d said “no.” The invitation had felt like it was just for show.

At 4 a.m., crashing noises: they were back, several friends in tow; Thomas, who has wide cheekbones and a cat-shaped eyes and nose; Ray, who is tiny and bald with eyes shaped like little minnows and the most pronounced and delicate cheek and jaw bones; Judy, with lots of curly blond hair; and Brian, who has hair dyed in Roy G. Biv stripes. It’s a wonder that each color can be distinguished, yet each strip is just that precise...

* * *

June 17

A heavy muggy haze gave the sunlit day a brownish cast. Weren’t we supposed to be free of this until August?

Looking back from the 18th Street hill, I could see the bone white skull of the Capitol dome and the high white finger-bone of the Washington Monument poking at the sky and reminding me of Tiny.

Bell was hungover and hung back a bit as we walked, like she didn't want to get where we were going. I kept having to slow down for her.

We were silent, which normally, back when things were normal, back when Bella and I looking for breakfast together was normal, might have been OK, but now it wasn’t OK. I had this itchy feeling, nervous and unsure. It was like I was confined, surrounded by some invisible wall made of equal parts humidity and cowardice. I was attached to her. I was obligated to her. Now, I was indebted to her. Indebtedness encircled me, mortar in the invisible wall.

We finally settled on a coffee shop that served rock-hard bagels and stale croissants. I would have been happier with eggs or French toast, but Bella never liked cooked breakfasts or even the places that served them.

We sat at a little iron table on their tiny outdoor patio in front. I faced downhill; she faced uphill; the table rocked in the middle. A contingent of bike messengers loafed at the table next to us, all of them -- even the two women -- with dreadlocks and bike shorts that showed off their stick legs and bony little asses. The one who looked like the Bad Brains lead singer wore a Bad Brains t-shirt with the lead singer’s photo.

"Imogen picked up this whole group of Brazilians last night," Bella said. "I didn't even know you could rub up against that many men at the same time.”

If Imogen were rubbing against a bevy of Brazilians then who was Bella rubbing herself against?

"At the end of the night, they all wanted her number and none of them could figure out who she actually was interested in."

"Who was she interested in?" I asked.

"All of them," Bella said and gave the deep, throaty, usually reassuring laugh that always reminded me of the Good Witch Glenda or a female incarnation of PT Barnum. Someone who was trying to convince you that the improbable and extraordinary in front of you was true, worth-your-money and not-so-world-changing that you couldn’t click your heels three times afterwards and just go home.

Of course, my home was currently considered a crime scene.

"The whole night these guys were telling us in their cute accents about how they were friends from birth and had all been to school together. They were buying us shots and toasting each other's parents -- all their parents are diplomats or Brazilian government officials -- and by the end of the night I thought they were going to kill each other for her number,” she paused and looked up at me, “Have you ever noticed how you’ll have a really fun night and remember everyone talking and laughing, then the next day it’s hard to remember what anyone said? I could swear that there was this whole conversation about Carnival, about the Brazilian government but it has all gone away,” she finished and scrunched her face up. “So how was jail?" she asked.

“They let me make more than one phone call and I didn’t have to share a cell.”

“What happens if they convict you?”

“The lawyer says I could get five years in prison, but, he also said that most of the charges won’t stick. He thinks that they’re charging me with all this stuff so I’ll testify that Nell was the instigator of the violence.”

“She wasn’t, right?”

“Nell? You’re kidding... When she was nine, she drew up a treaty to stop the kids in her neighborhood from having a snowball fight. That’s at nine.”

“Did she stop the snowball fight?”

“Yes, the kids stopped the snowball fight long enough to unite in the effort to chase her down and put a bunch of ice down her pants.”

“Kids are cruel.”

“I’m sure she suffered stoically.”

“Maybe even willingly?” she said and I nodded. After chewing for a few seconds she went on, “This croissant isn’t stale enough.”

“I’ve never understood why you like stale bread.”

She shrugged and crouched low over the table to eat the rest of it.

I knew I had to start the next part of the conversation, but it was tough and my mouth almost didn’t want to form the words. I had to look away while saying them. “Thanks, you know, for putting up bail for me. I don’t really know how I would have gotten out otherwise.”

“You have to thank Imogen, too.”

“I will. It was nice of her.”

“She’s never thought much of keeping things in cages.”

“I didn’t know if...maybe that didn’t apply to me?”

“Why’s that?”

“She is your best friend and things between, you know, things are confused and...” I tried to continue, but the words wouldn’t come out. Her face contorted in horror and I almost stopped, but now I couldn’t stop.

“...I haven’t actually been very open about what’s going on, um, you know, that I’ve been, um, ‘dating’ Dani.”

She looked at me for a while and said nothing and I, of course, wished she would say something, anything, but she just sat there staring.

“I should have told you before,” I said and she remained silent and I wished she would say something so I looked away. The Bad Brains lead singer look-a-like was standing and I stared at him and he turned his bony ass to me.

Finally, she said, “It’s not like I didn’t know...I mean, I didn’t want to know, but you’re not as good at being sneaky as you think.”

“I never thought I was good at it.”

Now, her eyes started to fill with tears and I had to look away again. The bike messengers were gone; there was nothing to stare at. I hated being made to say something so uncomfortable more than I hated hurting her. Actually, I was afraid that I didn’t actually care about hurting her. Wasn’t I getting what I wanted?

I looked back at her and, through the tears in her eyes she smiled her contagiously peaceful smile and, once more, reminded me why it was so difficult to have broken up with her. “You know,” she said. “I’d give you away if it meant I could keep you.”

“And I’d stay with you,” I answered her, “if I could go be someone else, too.”

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Darren Kaminsky is a writer living in Brooklyn.  He can be contacted at sugarspun @ bigbagoftricks dot com.

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