In Her Shoes Read Free Page A

added. "Before she passed out." Rose c ould hear her sister shouting, "I'm King of the World!" "How nice of her," she said, throwing her prescription zit cream and a box of pantyliners in after the shampoo. "Why don't you just take her home?" "I don't want to really get involved. . . ." "Tell me, Todd," Rose began pleasantly, in the voice she'd practiced in law school, the one she imagined using to sucker witnesses into telling her what she needed to know. "When you and my sister were hanging out in the bathroom, what exactly was going on?" There was silence on the other end. "Now, I don't need to know specifics," said Rose, "but I'm inferring that you and my sister are already, to use your word, 'involved.' So why don't you be a stand-up guy about it and take her home?" "Look, I think she needs help, and I've really got to go. ... I borrowed my brother's car, I've got to get it back ..." "Todd ..." "Well, is there someone else I should call?" he asked. "Your parents? Your mother or something?" Rose felt her heart stop. She closed her eyes. "Where are you?" "The Cherry Hill Hilton. The high school reunion." Click. Todd was no more. Rose leaned against the bathroom door. Here it was—her real
     
In Her Shoes 13
     
life, the truth of who she was, barreling down on her like a bus with bad brakes. Here was the truth—she wasn't the kind of person Jim could fall in love with. She wasn't what she'd made herself out to be—a cheerful, uncomplicated girl, a normal girl with a happy, orderly life, a girl who wore pretty shoes and had nothing more pressing on her mind than whether ER was a rerun this week. The truth was in the exercise tape she didn't have time to unwrap, let alone exercise to; the truth was her hairy legs and ugly underwear. Most of all, the truth was her sister, her gorgeous, messed-up, fantastically unhappy and astonishingly irresponsible sister. Only why tonight? Why couldn't Maggie have let her enjoy this one night? "Fuck," she groaned softly. "Fuck, fuck, fuck." And then Rose padded back into her bedroom, groping for her glasses, sweatpants, boots, and car keys. She scribbled a quick note for Jim ("Family emergency, be back soon") and hurried to the elevator, steeling herself to drive off into the night and pull her sister's chestnuts out of the fire yet again.
     
The hotel had a "Welcome! Class of "89" banner still drooping from the front door. Rose stomped through the lobby—all faux marble and crimson carpet—and into the deserted lounge, which smelled of cigarette smoke and beer. There were tables covered in cheap red-and-white paper tablecloths with plastic pom-poms as centerpieces. In the corner, a guy and a girl were making out, leaning drunkenly against the wall. Rose squinted toward them. Not Maggie. She walked to the bar, where a man in a stained white shirt was putting away glasses and where her sister, in a tiny dress that was inappropriate for November—or, really, for any appearance in public—was slumped on a barstool. Rose paused for a minute, considering her strategy. From a distance, Maggie looked just fine. You didn't notice the smeared makeup, the reek of booze and barf that surrounded her like a thick cloud, until you got up close. The bartender gave Rose a sympathetic look. "She's been here
     
14 Jennifer weiner
     
for half an hour," he said. "I've been watching out for her. She's just had water to drink." Terrific, Rose thought. Where were you when she was probably getting gang-banged in the bathroom? "Thanks," she said instead, and shook her sister's shoulder. Not gently. "Maggie?" Maggie opened one eye and scowled. "Leame lone," she said. Rose gathered the straps of her sister's black dress and lifted. Maggie's butt rose six inches off the seat. "Party's over." Maggie tottered to her feet and kicked Rose sharply in the shin with one silver sandal. Make that one Christian Louboutin silver stiletto sandal, Rose noticed as she looked down, one silver sandal coveted for three