Why do I always forget Keiko is a human computer who not only knows everything, but remembers everything as well?
“That’s different,” I answer as we follow signs for the restaurant. “That’s after dinner, when we really let loose and have a night of debauchery, the whole reason we’re out here.”
“And where do you plan on acquiring a gentleman who would acquiesce to such behavior as inhaling ribbons of blanched dough off his chest?”
“Thunder From Down Under, of course.”
“Do pray tell, what’s a Thunder From Down Under?” Keiko asks as we turn toward the restaurant and fall into a small line at the hostess stand.
“Oh, Keiko,” Stella says. “You still have so much to learn.”
“Are we really going to Thunder From Down Under?” Greer asks, looking all too nervous.
“Uh . . . yeah,” I say. “All of us. I don’t care that all three of you are either married or in solid relationships. I’m the single one, this is my divorce party, and I get to say what we do, when we do it.” Greer tugs on my arm and nods toward Keiko, reminding me of what I need to ask her. “Oh, uh, Keiko, since you’re not much of a drinker anyway, I was hoping that you could be our drunk liaison, you know, kind of like a DD. We won’t be driving, so maybe you can usher us where we need to go—as long as you stick to the itinerary.”
“Drunk liaison, does that entail no drinks at all?”
Ugh, I feel bad, but . . .
You see, Greer, Stella, and I have all noticed a certain change in Keiko lately. She’s irritable. Hungry. And did I mention irritable? Her mood swings are flinging around like my bra this weekend, and she seems to have frequent bouts of stuffing her face with food. She’s currently in a relationship with Kelvin, a math teacher at Forest Heights, and they tend to do a lot of “experimenting” in the bedroom. Since Keiko is a scientist, she puts Kelvin through the wringer when it comes to these experiments, and no test has gone untouched . . . including the pull-out method.
See where I’m going with this?
We’re all pretty sure our dear friend Keiko is pregnant. How she hasn’t noticed already is beyond me, given her ability to take in every last ounce of information, but we aren’t going to be the ones to tell her. She’s going to have to come to that conclusion herself. But we can protect her.
It’s why we’re going to have her be the drunk liaison.
And it’s why I slapped a cold cuts sandwich out of her hand earlier, saying I saw a hair on it. She was grateful for the save.
“Unfortunately, that means no drinks at all,” I say, feeling slightly bad. Keiko has really come out of her shell since our little girl gang formed. Once stuck in her lab day in and day out, she now participates in our Ladies in Heat book club, she has a boyfriend, and she lets loose with a drink here and there. And let me tell you, drunk Keiko is a sight to behold.
“I see. And how was I awarded such an honor?”
“We’re all lushes,” I answer. “We need booze in order to let loose and have a good time. We’re not programmed like you, being able to enjoy yourself without alcoholic assistance.” It’s a lie, but anything to make her feel better about herself.
“Ah, yes, that is true. Your threesome tends to lean on the formal side.”
Ha, did you see that? A direct representation of the pot calling the kettle black.
“Well, we’re grateful for your assistance this evening,” Stella says, looping her arm through Keiko’s. “I don’t know what we’d do without you.”
“After this morning’s expedition of scouring the hotel for the pool, I would say misplaced in an alcove with an ice machine.”
True. For the life of us, we couldn’t find the pool, despite Keiko constantly telling us where it was.
“It’s one of the many reasons why we love you,” I say, just as we make it to the hostess stand.
“Good evening, ladies. Do you have a reservation?”
“Yes,” Greer says, stepping up. “It’s under Mrs. Cardigan. Party of four.”
I snort. Mrs. Cardigan. Greer is that girl who never uses her name when making a reservation, but instead uses an alias. Mrs. Cardigan has been her recent namesake, given to her by me, after constantly seeing her in nothing but one of my brother’s cardigans whenever I visit.
Yeah, she married my brother, the cardigan-wearing, stuck-up Arlo Turner. I’m equally happy, equally nauseated over it—you know, because of the cardigan thing. They know I’m coming over and yet, they still forget decent etiquette of putting clothes on.