Page 31 of Best Woman
When he’s distracted by some kind of zombie shooting game, I slip Brody and Brian sips of my beer as we munch on leftover pizza. We’re the only ones at the table, and I’m reminded of the countless birthdays I spent seated at this same table with this same red-checkered tablecloth. I always managed to end up sitting by myself while the other kids played, even at my own parties.
“Just pour us our own,” one of the twins begs.
“It’s not as illegal if you sip from mine,” I shoot back, watching Aiden pump his fist in victory across the room. He proceeds to give David, one of the groomsmen, a noogie.
“Comeon,” pleads the other. “Aiden is so lame, you’re ourcoolsibling.”
“You really think I’m that easy?” I shoot back, shaking my head. Kids today. “Besides, we’re in Florida. I don’t need some concerned mother looking over here and seeing me getting you drunk.” As I say it, I’m struck by how real that statement is.While Boca Raton is a little bubble of quasi liberalism, this state is about as regressively conservative as it’s possible to be. It’s always in the back of my mind, the need to be more careful here than I would be in New York. But now I can’t help looking around, making sure no one is watching me corrupting my teenage siblings. The best woman getting arrested would put quite a damper on the wedding festivities.
Satisfied we’re not being surveilled, I look back at the twins, surprised to find them looking at me with more thoughtfulness and, dare I say it, concern than I’ve ever seen.
“You don’t have to worry, Jules, we’d never let anything happen to you,” one of them says, rather fiercely.
“We could easily cause a distraction and get you out of here,” says the other. “I’m pretty sure a small-scale explosion would do it.”
“Aw, you’d commit arson for me?” I joke, even though it doesn’t feel very funny. I’m touched.
“It’s so stupid how people are here about stuff like that,” says a twin.
“Property damage?”
“No, the whole trans thing. Like, who even cares. It’s not like you were ever really a boy.”
“Right,” chimes in the other. “You were just pretending.”
“You were always Julia,” says Brian, and for some reason, I can finally tell that it’s him. One of his eyebrows arches a little higher than Brody’s. And Brody’s freckles are a little more dense around his nose. I know them, in some deep, intrinsic way. And they know me too.
“Fuck it,” I say, pouring them each a glass of beer. “Don’t tell Mom.”
Leaving Brody and Brian to get tipsy and wreak havoc, I leave the table in search of my other brother. I hear shouting in the distance and know immediately where I’ll find him.
Steps away from the giant glass display case full of prizes, Aiden is locked in a heated air hockey battle. There are two empty pitchers of beer next to him and the rest of the groomsmen are cheering him on as he whacks his puck in the direction of his opponent: a tween girl in overalls who grins cruelly at my brother through a mouth full of braces. I check the electronic scoreboard over their heads and confirm my suspicion that she’s winning.
“You know what rhymes with puck?” she shouts at my brother, her hand a blur as she defends her goal. “Suck. Which is what you do at this game.”
Not quite a devastating read, but when you’re getting your ass kicked at an arcade game by a pimply teenager, it probably cuts deep. Across the table my brother’s face twists into a grimace. His usually perfectly polished exterior is gone: hair a mess, red-faced, and sweating. He’s always been competitive, and alcohol only exacerbates the problem. It doesn’t help that the groomsmen are egging him on.
“You can take her, man,” Derek yells, punching Aiden’s shoulder.
“Victory is yours,” shouts Martin, a friend from Aiden’s job. He was very buttoned-up when we arrived, but now he looks positively prehistoric. The energy feels distinctly locker-room, and I’d feel bad for the girl if she wasn’t kicking Aiden’s ass so masterfully and looking unruffled while doing it. She even pauses for a fake yawn, as if the game is boring her, tossing along braid over her shoulder. She can’t be older than thirteen. She’s terrifying.
“You’ve got this,” I say, patting Aiden’s shoulder, even though I’m sure he doesn’t. I’m the best woman and it’s my role to be supportive—literally supportive, in fact, because Aiden slumps against me.
“Jules, I’m soooooooo drunk,” he groans into my hair. Aiden is such a lightweight. “You’ve got to take over for me.” He pulls away and grips my shoulders with his hands, more for support than emphasis. “Our family’s honor is on the line.”
“Are we finishing this or not?” asks his opponent, inspecting the chunky glitter polish on her nails.
I nudge Aiden aside and take his disc, squaring my shoulders and facing my new nemesis. Underneath her overalls, she’s wearing a tie-dye T-shirt featuring a galloping horse that I’m kind of jealous of. I must destroy her.
The room dims around me as we start to play. My arm moves without conscious thought, blocking off my goal and knocking the puck across the table toward hers. As if from a great distance I can hear our party chanting my name. The girl no longer looks bored, she’s almost feral, hunched over the table with her face twisted into a snarling grimace. My face is probably doing the same.
“Your boyfriend is gonna cry when I beat you,” she says, whipping the puck toward me and scoring a goal.
“Gross, he’s my brother.” I score a goal back.
“I guess being ass at air hockey runs in the family.” She’s a blur of speed, blocking my shots and sending them back at me with the furious energy of youth. My arm is starting to get tired andmy back hurts from leaning over the table. I check the scoreboard; after picking up Aiden’s slack, we’re now tied. Whoever scores the next point wins the game.
I decide to beat her at her own game. Not air hockey: being an annoying little cunt.
