Page 2 of Power Play

Jenny concedes with a theatrical sigh, and I grin as I grab my car keys from the entryway table. It’s not my fault that she’s a stickler for certain things: timeliness, cleanliness, and a whole lot of other words that end with –iness suffixes that I can’t bother to think of right now.

We take the stairs—no elevator in my Cambridge triple-decker—and make our way to my car. It’s a cute, white Prius, a twenty-sixth birthday present to myself from a few months ago. I say this as though I regularly buy myself expensive gifts.

Not true.

My last car was fifteen years old and counting, a total death trap, and to get it to start I had to spend five to seven minutes shoving a butter knife into its gear shift as I whispered sweet nothings against the steering wheel.

We parted quite amicably after she died and left me stranded on the side of the road in Middle-of-Nowhere, western Massachusetts.

I slide into my new baby, patting the dashboard with a happy sigh, and tap the start button to the left of the wheel. The engine hums to life on cue.

God, life is good sometimes.

“We’re not that late,” I tell Jenny as we turn off my street. A car honks behind me when I cut it off, but this is Boston, and I am nothing less than the driver my dad taught me to be: aggressively dickish. “In fact,” I add, “some might say that we’reearly.”

Jenny grumbles into her thick, floral scarf. “We’re late.”

“Girl, we aren’t Mel’s maids of honor. We don’t actually have to show up an hour early to this thing.”

We’re on our way to our friend’s bachelorette party, though the wedding isn’t taking place for another month. We met Mel during our sophomore year at Boston University, and have been thick as thieves ever since. Alas, Mel is one of six sisters, leaving Jenny and I to serve as mere guests at her wedding.

This upsets Jenny way more than it ever bothered me. Despite having a more subdued personality, Jenny strangely lives for the moments when she becomes the center of attention.

I, on the other hand, live for the moments when I can hug a wall and pretend I’m wearing my PJs and reading a book. When Mel informed me that she didn’t have room for me in her bridal party, it took everything in my power to not fist pump the air.

Thankfully, my responsibilities now languish among the Just Show Up variety.

Knowing that Jenny is wallowing in self-imposed guilt over our “tardiness,” I bring up a topic that I know will infuse the color back into her cheeks. “Do you think Gwen will be there today?”

Jenny gives a little growl. “I hope not.”

I bang a U-ey and head for Harvard Square, where TeaLicious (the start of our day) is located. “Still feeling sour about it?”

“She flirted with myhusband. Of course I’m sour about it.”

Mel’s cousin, Gwen, is nothing if not classy.

“Ty put her in her place, though. Hell, one more second and I really thought he would Heisman her.”

There’s another growl from Jenny in the passenger’s seat. “First,” she says, holding up a finger, “No more sports analogies outside of work. We’ve talked about this. Second”—another finger goes up—“I know that Ty wouldnevercheat on me, especially not with that . . . ”

Jenny trails off and I help her out. “Evil witch? Crazy nut-job? Home-wrecker? Let me know when I’ve reached the magnitude of your hatred for her.”

“We’ll be here all day,” she sniffs, and I can’t help but laugh because it’s true.

Over the years, I’ve been forced to hang out with Mel’s cousin frequently enough. At first I didn’t mind so much. We were in college and she’s one of those girls who possesses so much confidence that you can’t help but hope just a little bit of it will superglue itself to you. Permanently.

For a girl like me—a former hockey player and a young lady with no skill for flirtation—Gwen was like a shiny, redheaded beacon of inspiration.

It wasn’t so much that I liked her, but rather, I wanted to emulate her feminine confidence, a feminine confidence which I myself lacked in droves.

Sleek hair? Well, there wasn’t much that I could do to my kinky blonde hair, but I certainly did my best with the inexpensive flat iron I purchased from the convenient store.

Leafy greens for breakfast, lunch, and dinner? I lasted only two weeks before realizing that my extreme level of activity demanded a high-protein diet, andno,I could not subsist on spinach and cottage cheese for every meal.

Glamorous make up? My winged liner looked a bit savage, but if I tilted my headjust rightboth my right and left eyes looked even enough, I suppose.

It took all of three weeks for me to realize that Gwen existed on an unachievable ethereal plane. Subsequently allowing me to see that . . . Well, she wasn’t all that kind. A five-letter word that rhymes with “itch” would be a more appropriate description of Gwen James.

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