Old Boyfriends. Rexanne Becnel
that none of us are homosexual. Are we?” I added.
“Oh, no,” Cat said. “I like men. They’re usually lousy men, but nevertheless, they’re men.”
“But if I did like women,” M.J. said as she pulled back onto the interstate, “I would have liked her. She had the prettiest complexion and a cupid’s bow mouth. Did you notice?”
“Especially when she said ‘I’ll let it go this time,’” Cat added from the front passenger seat. “You know, I wonder why we get turned on by the people we do. I mean, not just straight or gay, but why one guy and not another? Why do I always pick charming jerks? Why does M.J. like sugar daddies, and Bitsey like…” She swiveled around to look at me. “Come to think of it, I don’t know what your type is, Bits. I mean, Jack is such a regular hardworking kind of guy.”
“Whom you do not like,” I reminded her.
“Only when he takes you for granted. So Bits, what is your type?”
I put on my cat-eyed glasses. “I don’t know. Maybe I don’t have a type.”
“What about that old boyfriend you mentioned? He was your type in high school. Was he like Jack?”
No. Eddie was nothing like Jack. In many ways he was the exact opposite. He’d been the boy from the wrong side of the tracks, the public school hood who had fascinated the good little Catholic schoolgirl I’d once been.
“Eddie was wild,” I said, mainly to placate Cat. “And I was a good girl.”
She laughed. “You still are.”
There was nothing wrong with being good, with doing the responsible thing. Even so, her words hurt. “I’m sorry I’m so boring.” I looked out the window, at the fields of citrus trees in rigid green rows.
“I didn’t say you were boring.” She turned around to look at me. “Bits, that’s not what I said or what I meant.”
“It doesn’t matter.”
“Obviously it does.” She reached back and tugged on my skirt. “Is that what this Eddie said when y’all broke up? That you were too boring for a hotshot like him?”
That fast my anger bled away. How could I be angry with Cat? She was my friend, and I knew she loved me. In some ways she even envied me. Stylish, successful, career-woman Cat envied plump mother and housefrau Bitsey. I looked at her and smiled. “He didn’t say those exact words, but I knew that’s what he meant. I think maybe by then the novelty of dating a rich society girl had worn off.”
M.J. glanced back at me. “I knew you went to private schools. But you were a rich society girl?”
Shoot. I hadn’t meant to say that. On the other hand, they’d figure it out the minute they saw Daddy’s three-story cottage. So I told them my story, all except for the part about Mother committing suicide because no matter how many accolades she received for her work, it was never enough.
“You were queen of a Mardi Gras ball?”
“Proteus,” I admitted. “And a maid for two others. But it was a big pain and I wouldn’t wish it on any of my girls.”
“Wow,” Cat said. “And you’re so not a snob.”
“Debutante does not mean snob,” I said. “Check your Funk & Wagnall’s.”
M.J. hadn’t said much, but I could tell she wasn’t just concentrating on her driving. We were in a dry stretch of land now, all sand and dried-out everything
“Would you like some water?” I asked her.
“That would be nice.”
“You know, although we’ve been friends for a long time, we never really told each other about our growing-up years. I know why I never said too much about it, because I didn’t want y’all to think I was some rich snob. But why don’t either of you talk about your childhoods?”
“Because mine was lousy,” Cat said. “And I don’t want to relive it.”
“You already know about mine. I was the beauty queen, from about age two to twenty-one. Then I came to California.”
I stared at the back of their heads, M.J.’s dark shiny ponytail and Cat’s impeccable blond bob. “This isn’t fair. There’s a reason y’all decided to go back to New Orleans now, and it has nothing to do with my high school reunion. So tell the truth.” I crossed my arms. “We’re in this together, aren’t we?”
M.J. glanced at Cat, then back at the road. Finally she caught my eye in the rearview mirror. “Okay. I mean, it’s no secret. I need to get away from Frank’s kids and hide the money and car from their greedy hands. I have a few friends I can visit, and…I need time to think about what I’m going to do next.”
Cat laughed at her. “What Bitsey wants to know—what we both want to know, is who’s the first guy you plan to look up? An old boyfriend. Who’s your Eddie? That football guy you told me about?”
A smile brought out M.J.’s dimples. “I suppose he is. My Eddie is a guy named Jeff. Jeff Cole, star running back for the John Curtis Patriots.”
I shifted to the side and pulled my feet up under me. “Now we’re getting somewhere.”
“Don’t get all excited,” M.J. said. “I doubt he’s in New Orleans anymore. He got a football scholarship to Ole Miss and then played pro ball for a few years. I don’t know where he is now.”
“Is that who you lost your virginity to?” Cat asked.
“Yes,” M.J. admitted.
Then Cat looked at me. “And Eddie was your first?”
Slowly I nodded. Then M.J. and I both looked expectantly at Cat.
“Okay, okay,” she said. “If you must know, I sacrificed my cherry to Matt Blanchard.” She twisted the top off her bottle and took a long drink. “On a picnic blanket on the banks of Bayou Segnette with mosquitoes biting our asses. Classic, don’t you think?”
M.J. laughed. “So why did you two break up?”
Cat shrugged. “Because I couldn’t wait to blow town, and he was planning to stay forever.”
“Who’s the first person you’re going to call when we get there?” I asked her. “Matt?”
She took a long time answering. The tires hummed along the road.
“No. Not Matt. For all I know, he’s married with a houseful of kids. I’ll probably call my sister first.”
“Not your mom?” M.J. asked.
“No. Not my mom.”
“Why not?” I saw Cat’s jaw tense and release. Her mom is a sore point with her, but I wasn’t letting her get away with being evasive anymore.
She let out a long whoosh of a breath. “Okay. If you can admit you were once a debutante, I guess I can admit that I was born trailer trash.”
For a moment I was struck dumb, not from what she said, but how she said it. There was such contempt in her voice. Loathing, even.
“Trailer trash,” M.J. repeated. “You know, I hate that term. It’s like people always have to find a shorthand way to categorize people. Dumb blonde. Trailer trash. Beauty queen. Trophy wife. They categorize you because it makes it easier to dismiss you. Debutante, too,” she added. “Society deb.”
All of a sudden she laid on the horn, I mean mashed it over and over, all the while tearing southeast on the interstate doing at least eighty-five. “Make way for the Trophy Wife, Trailer Trash, Debutante Express! Look out world, ’cause ready or not, here we come!”
We squealed and cheered and laughed until our sides ached. It was a good thing our butch C.H.I.P.