dismay. “Grace Kassner, twenty-four-year-old Maryland schoolteacher and
Belle of Georgia
bad girl—”
“Mom,
stop
. She had a really short part in a
Playboy
video, like thirteen seconds, but she wasn’t even naked. She had everything, uh, covered.”
“It says right here that she was a Playmate.”
“In the
Star
. Yeah. It also says she’s a school teacher, right? None of these people seem to do a lot of fact-checking.”
“Honestly, Phoebe. This is not the way I raised you girls. Every
week
I brought you to church.
Every
week. Even during that horrible divorce when I didn’t even want to get out of bed. And this is what I have to show for it. My own daughter in the
Star
. In
Playboy
. I’m beside myself. I don’t even know what to say to you.”
“Well, nothing, I hope. I’m just her twin, remember? I didn’t pose for
Playboy
, Mom, I swear. Neither did Madison, actually, but—”
“A
video
. My daughter, the actress. Nobody ever told me she was doing pornography. Oh, just wait until you have children of your own. Then you’ll understand what it’s like to have Rosalie Welsh of all people, with her daughter pregnant at seventeen, apologizing to me about
my
daughter. I could
die.”
“Look, save it for Madison, okay? It wasn’t my idea. You chewing me out about what
she
did isn’t going to do any of us any—”
“When was this, if I may ask? This video of hers?”
“About six years ago, I think. Right after her, uh, surgery.”
“Oh, for goodness’ sake. You know, I blame your father. There’s only so much I can do when he takes off with some oversexed secretary and sets such a lovely example for his pre-teen daughters. I’m sorry, Phoebe, I can’t take any more of this conversation. I’ll call you in a few days when my nerves aren’t so much on edge.”
I turned off my phone and let my head drop back to rest against the back of the sofa. The college student at the copy machine turned around and smiled at me shyly. “You’re her sister?” she asked.
“Really?”
Lauren was on a date the next time Thursday rolled around, and so Jerry and I decided to watch
Belle of Georgia
at my place again. It was the first time I’d seen him since our Aquarium trip, and just seeing him through the peephole made my pulse go up to about three hundred and forty beats a minute. I had it bad. Radio songs had taken on an eerie significance. I was suddenly aware of the shoddiness of my underwear collection. And the night before, while I was supposed to be typing up “Ms. Kassner’s All-Star Class Report” to send home in my students’ folders, I’d ended up typing nineteen variations on “Mrs. Phoebe Sullivan,” each in a different font, color, or style. My fifteen-year-old sister would have rolled her eyes and told me I was acting juvenile.
Jerry hadn’t brought any flowers this time, but he did bring a half gallon of cookie-dough ice cream and a bottle of whipped cream. I took both from him and headed for the kitchen.
“The whipped cream’s for the ice cream, right?” I grinned.
He blushed. “That was the idea.”
“Just checking.”
“My dad used to have that on an album cover,” he said, folding his arms against the breakfast bar and leaning his weight against them.
“Had what on an album cover?”
“A woman covered in whipped cream. She had brown hair. The album cover was, like, mint-green. The Tijuana Brass, that was the name of it.” He paused, his eyes up toward the ceiling like he was remembering. “And I mean, she was
really
covered. I guess they meant it to be sexy, but it looked more like she was about to drown in the stuff.”
“Not very erotic.”
“Not really. Do I still have any of that root beer around?”
I handed him one from the fridge. “I hope you appreciate it,” I said. “Lauren gave me a hard time about you leaving it over here.”
“Sorry. I can take it home if you want.”
“No, it’s fine with me. Lauren’s funny about her rules.
Belle of Georgia
bad girl—”
“Mom,
stop
. She had a really short part in a
Playboy
video, like thirteen seconds, but she wasn’t even naked. She had everything, uh, covered.”
“It says right here that she was a Playmate.”
“In the
Star
. Yeah. It also says she’s a school teacher, right? None of these people seem to do a lot of fact-checking.”
“Honestly, Phoebe. This is not the way I raised you girls. Every
week
I brought you to church.
Every
week. Even during that horrible divorce when I didn’t even want to get out of bed. And this is what I have to show for it. My own daughter in the
Star
. In
Playboy
. I’m beside myself. I don’t even know what to say to you.”
“Well, nothing, I hope. I’m just her twin, remember? I didn’t pose for
Playboy
, Mom, I swear. Neither did Madison, actually, but—”
“A
video
. My daughter, the actress. Nobody ever told me she was doing pornography. Oh, just wait until you have children of your own. Then you’ll understand what it’s like to have Rosalie Welsh of all people, with her daughter pregnant at seventeen, apologizing to me about
my
daughter. I could
die.”
“Look, save it for Madison, okay? It wasn’t my idea. You chewing me out about what
she
did isn’t going to do any of us any—”
“When was this, if I may ask? This video of hers?”
“About six years ago, I think. Right after her, uh, surgery.”
“Oh, for goodness’ sake. You know, I blame your father. There’s only so much I can do when he takes off with some oversexed secretary and sets such a lovely example for his pre-teen daughters. I’m sorry, Phoebe, I can’t take any more of this conversation. I’ll call you in a few days when my nerves aren’t so much on edge.”
I turned off my phone and let my head drop back to rest against the back of the sofa. The college student at the copy machine turned around and smiled at me shyly. “You’re her sister?” she asked.
“Really?”
Lauren was on a date the next time Thursday rolled around, and so Jerry and I decided to watch
Belle of Georgia
at my place again. It was the first time I’d seen him since our Aquarium trip, and just seeing him through the peephole made my pulse go up to about three hundred and forty beats a minute. I had it bad. Radio songs had taken on an eerie significance. I was suddenly aware of the shoddiness of my underwear collection. And the night before, while I was supposed to be typing up “Ms. Kassner’s All-Star Class Report” to send home in my students’ folders, I’d ended up typing nineteen variations on “Mrs. Phoebe Sullivan,” each in a different font, color, or style. My fifteen-year-old sister would have rolled her eyes and told me I was acting juvenile.
Jerry hadn’t brought any flowers this time, but he did bring a half gallon of cookie-dough ice cream and a bottle of whipped cream. I took both from him and headed for the kitchen.
“The whipped cream’s for the ice cream, right?” I grinned.
He blushed. “That was the idea.”
“Just checking.”
“My dad used to have that on an album cover,” he said, folding his arms against the breakfast bar and leaning his weight against them.
“Had what on an album cover?”
“A woman covered in whipped cream. She had brown hair. The album cover was, like, mint-green. The Tijuana Brass, that was the name of it.” He paused, his eyes up toward the ceiling like he was remembering. “And I mean, she was
really
covered. I guess they meant it to be sexy, but it looked more like she was about to drown in the stuff.”
“Not very erotic.”
“Not really. Do I still have any of that root beer around?”
I handed him one from the fridge. “I hope you appreciate it,” I said. “Lauren gave me a hard time about you leaving it over here.”
“Sorry. I can take it home if you want.”
“No, it’s fine with me. Lauren’s funny about her rules.
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