And I’d be all, “Nope. I did a new weight loss program.”
Then they’d ask, “What’s it called?”
“The Prison Diet.” Not!
Ugh. No effin’ candy. This was torture.
“I cannot believe we’re wearing these get-ups again.” My attempt to loosen the bunching of the pants which collected between my thighs and somewhat up my bum…failed. I didn’t need a yeast infection. I could only imagine what the infirmary here was like.
“What is this color called? Safety Orange? Does it have a name?” Taddy sighed.
I made one up. “Neon nectarine.”
Poor Vive, her body had nearly gone into convulsions when we’d changed. I could see why. It was the exact same color and scratchy fabric we’d worn for six solid months while in juvie. Gawd, now my skin started to itch.
Taddy grabbed at my arm, and we tried to make eye contact with Vive. She’d been ignoring me since we’d arrived. “Let’s watch some TV.”
Together we walked up to the edge of our cell and faced out through the bars. There were two cell blocks on the left and one on the right. I held my breath for a second waiting to see if any of the other inmates would shout at us.
No oink-oink noises. They were all glued to the TV. The evening news played on the monitor in the hall across from us. Guess who was the main lead-in story? Moi.
I almost got ill just from watching. But I, along with everyone else in their cells, remained in full attention as if it was nothing shy of a reality show gone amuck.
“So much for Daddy avoiding having the Easton’s appear as freaks on TV.”
“Oh Jesus. This is worse than I thought—” Taddy covered her mouth.
Not only was the news cray-cray, possibly nuttier than that reality program Taddy and I had watched last week called The Anna Nicole Show on E! Entertainment, we just looked simply insane.
“Seems the camera caught everything on video, except for Kelle buffin’ Mom.”
“Do the police know about that?” Taddy asked.
“No. Just you and Vive. Let’s keep it that way.”
“Yeah. It’s one thing to be accused of blowing up a house. You can live that down. But your high school sweetheart screwing your mom? Not so much.”
“Exactly.” I nodded. I’d already lived my childhood in Birdie’s shadow. I didn’t need to go into my adulthood in the same fashion.
I rested my head on Taddy’s shoulder and watched.
According to the news reporter, a helicopter had shot an aerial view of the accident.
“How on earth did they record this?” Taddy asked.
“The reporter just said that a TV crew was nearby covering a traffic jam by the Holland Tunnel. The pilot reported seeing a fire from Birdie’s terrace, and they panned their cameras over. Just my flippin’ luck. Right?”
The network featured the explosion in slow-motion, freeze-frame and my personal favorite…pause. They kept playing it over and over again.
Wrapped in a Mylar spa robe, Birdie had stood on her balcony, lighting a cigarette.
“Is that a joint?” Taddy asked in an ironic tone.
“Probably.”
Birdie had puffed for maybe four to five seconds then—poof.
“No. Ohhh no!” Taddy shouted at the TV.
A massive fireball had blasted Birdie from behind, sending her svelte figure across the street.
“Watching this is so surreal,” I said faintly. An all-too familiar feeling of humiliation seeped in to haunt me from my past.
My fears turned to annoyance when the inmates laughed and sang the lyrics to Birdie’s hit song, “Lucifer’s Mistress.”
“I can’t watch anymore.” Grabbing at me, Taddy buried her face.
Mom had landed on a patio table on the next building over. From the looks of it, the neighbors had a lush garden terrace to help break her fall.
“Lord, that must’ve hurt like hell,” Taddy said.
“Especially for Mom, she’s nothin’ more than skin and bones. She doesn’t have my caboose to land on.” I rubbed my bum trying to find the humor in this. Birdie would be fine. At least that’s what we’d been told.
Taddy glared sternly. She hated when I poked fat jokes at myself, never mind the fact that I always found a “funny” at the most inappropriate moments.
It was my way of coping. Humor, candy, and motorcycles had become my anti-depressant concoction over the years.
On the TV, all of the penthouse’s windows blew out.
The video footage cut to the highway with the headline, “Alexandra Easton Flees.” And there we were—Vamp and me behind the Farnworth Firewater company limo, heading north toward the Upper East Side.
“We’ll never live this down.” I started to understand the severity of it all. It’s one thing to hear you blew up a building, it’s another to watch your mother fly across the street as Linda Carter in Wonder Woman.
“Not in this town.” Taddy cried. “We should’ve enrolled at Pepperdine. Imagine, we could be unpacking our Malibu apartment right now.”
I clapped my hands together.
“What in the heck are you doing?” Taddy asked.
“Prayin’.”
Dear God- Jesus- Buddha-Universe-etcetera,
Let me start by giving praise. Thank you for letting Birdie live. To say I feel like crap would be a gross understatement.
I know everything happens for a reason, but you’ve stumped me on this one. I can’t for the life of me figure out what’s your master plan. Tell me already!
Was it because you didn’t want Kelle to have my Lady V? That’s gotta be it.
Well, I hope you have someone better in mind. Scratch that. Kelle set the bar too low. Anyone would be better than Kelle Sterling Dolley.
Except for maybe Mr. Malhon, the homeless man who’d been booked for lifting a shopping-cart from K-Mart right before Judge Calabrese saw our case.
Don’t get me wrong, I have nothing against street people. It’s just Mr. Malhon had defended that the buggy was his late wife reincarnated. Apparently she’d come back from the dead taking the shape of a steel frame with four wheels.
Please no one mental for me the next time around, okay?
Let’s forget my Lady V for a second. We need to discuss more important matters, such as my friends. This summer as you know, the girls had returned to New York to start over.