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Disguises by Kathleen Gerard February 14, 2007 After we cut seventh period study hall, we pooled our money and went downtown in search of the hippest-looking blonde wig we could afford at the resale shop. With a rat-tail comb, we teased the wig to death to make it look sort of punk, then we hunted for a hat with a wide-brim, which was sure to cast shadows across Rita's face. After that, we found the shortest mini-skirt we could find, a spaghetti-strapped, midriff top with the letters C-I-A-O scripted across the chest, and a pair of hexagonal, rose-tinted sunglasses. The next day, I opened our front door and spied an outstretched hand with long, press-on nails. A sultry-sounding voice said, "Hi, I'm Jasmine Dupree. I'm here to audition for the band." I almost didn't recognize that this heavily-lipsticked femme fatale was my best friend, Rita. Her brunette hair, always pulled back in a ponytail and her daily uniform of white blouse and plaid skirt from Our Lady of Perpetual Help, seemed a far cry. I grinned as I pretended not to know her and escorted her through our split level house, down to the basement, where my older brother and his rock band were practicing. Opening the door to their rehearsal space, I shouted, "Your next victim is here." Their wide, gaping eyes gave Jasmine Dupree a once-over as she strutted into the room. Years before, my brother had nicknamed Rita and me, Lucy and Ethel, and on some level, we were still trying to live up to that reputation - even though we were high school sophomores and my brother, a big-shot senior. But once again, Rita and I had put our masterminds together and connived our latest plot. Rita, always the front man, was eager for the chance to reinvent herself. She was probably the only girl in school who didn't have a crush on my brother, Mr. Super Rock Star. And while I knew that the only note Rita could carry was in her looseleaf binder, I also knew that my brother could easily fall for the likes of Jasmine Dupree - especially now that he and his steady had broken up, and he had taken to dragging his broken heart around like a soggy, old mop. I don't know how she pulled it off, but none of the guys in the band noticed that Jasmine was actually Rita -- if they did, they never let on -- though only the stone deaf wouldn't have noticed just how badly off-key she sang. Every day, Rita pestered me as to when the band would be calling her back for a second try-out. When she learned they were going with a male, lead singer instead, she was completely deflated. But a week later, my brother actually phoned Jasmine and asked her to a party after a Battle of The Bands gig. Rita and I bit our nails to the quick, but we never shied away from a challenge. The night of the party, my brother glanced across the room and seeing his ex snuggled up to a new beau, he moved in closer to Jasmine - so close that I feared he would see the woven stitching in the cap of her wig. This party was getting a little too crowded. So when Jasmine gave me the high sign, I quickly moved on to our previously-arranged Plan B. No one missed me when I stepped outside from the house party and slipped into the darkness. I wandered along a block full of parked cars, until I found my brother's. With a bright, red lipstick, I etched a big heart thickly upon his driver's side window. Within the heart I wrote the phrase, "I Love U Best." Then, I wandered away into the night and crossed my fingers, praying it wouldn't rain. I knew my brother couldn't take seeing his ex with someone else for long, so he and Jasmine left the party soon after my mission was complete. Rita told me later, hysterical in the retelling, that by the time they reached his car, my brother became flustered. Pointing to the lipstick, he apologized profusely to Jasmine, saying that it would never work out between them, as it was obvious his ex-girlfriend wasn't really over him - and vice-versa. That was the end of Jasmine Dupree. My self-inflated brother telephoned his ex the very next day. As he gushed over what he thought was her public display of unabashed affection for him, Rita and I held a mock funeral for the late-great, femme fatale. We dug a hole in the ground, said a few words about Jasmine Dupree's remarkable -- yet, short-lived -- existence, and then we buried the components of her identity in the backyard, laughing all the while. My brother and his girlfriend got back together shortly thereafter. Even though she denied it, he always believed that his ex wrote those words for him, and I never sought to change his mind. However, he did seem ridiculous - as weeks later, he still refused to roll down that window, even though his car didn't have air conditioning, and we were in the throes of a heat wave. He even went so far as to cover the window with a piece of plastic wrap, so he could preserve that lipstick message for as long as possible. I took secret pleasure in spying my brother's efforts -- not because I cleverly duped him or even helped to mend his broken heart -- but because in some way, by scribbling that silly sentiment, "I Love U Best," there was written more truth than he would ever recognize. About the author: It's been a long time since The Jasmine Dupree caper. My brother's been married to his "ex" for the past twenty years. Rita and I remain cherished friends and to this day, we've never divulged the "I Love U Best" secret. My fiction and nonfiction have appeared in various anthologies and literary journals including Primo, Calyx, Art Times, Italian Americana, Christianity and the Arts, and the Cup of Comfort series of books. In 2003, one of my short stories was nominated for "Best New American Voices," a national prize in literature. I am also the author of STILL LIFE, a spiritual memoir. | | | |
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