The Dirty Girls Social Club Read online

  I read my way through the newscast, do what I can to steel myself. Make myself a woman of steel. I cannot care right now. Maybe they won’t say a word, maybe they won’t honor the venom at all. Maybe I will wake up from this dream and all will be as it was. There is nothing in the newscast about me.

  The newscast ends. I head to the dressing room to remove my makeup. I do not change out of my bright blue suit jacket and pearls. I wear jeans because no one ever sees what newscasters wear below the waist. I usually change into sweats or something more comfortable, but not today. Today I do not want to feel the chill of the WRUT air on my body. I do not want to be exposed.

  The news director, John Yardly, knocks on my door, then comes in and sighs three distinct times and shuts the door behind him. It is only morning, but already this heavy-footed man with large glasses glistens with sweat and smells of onions. I can’t imagine what it is he eats for breakfast.

  “You okay?” he asks. His fingers tap nervously across his thighs. He’s always flinchy as a sparrow, but today more so than usual. I manage a smile and tell him that I am. “That’s good,” he says. “Because we’re all concerned for you. You know that.”

  I continue to remove my makeup, and look at him only momentarily in the mirror. His eyes lie. It is the first time he has mentioned the—how do you say?—hoopla about me. I can see it pains him.

  “I’m just going to ask you straight out,” he says. He looks embarrassed. “I mean, directly.”

  “It’s okay,” I say. “The word ‘straight’ doesn’t offend me, John.”

  He chokes out a laugh.

  “Is it true, Liz?”

  Anger washes over me. Under me. Washes all around me. I want to float away. I need Selwyn here. She would know what to say. She would not hurt like this. She has been steeled for many years. This city, this life here, so cold. All coldness.

  “Why?” I ask. “Would it make a difference?”

  John shakes his head vigorously and laughs uncomfortably. “No, of course it wouldn’t,” he says. “I’m your friend. We’re friends, right? I just wanted to talk to you about it and let you know that if it’s true all of us here at WRUT will support you and stand behind you. If you need to talk, I’m here.”

  “Have you all talked about it behind my back then?”

  “No, of course not. But as news director I am going to make it clear that everyone is to be supportive. Nothing will change, in other words.”

  “Change? Like what?”

  “I mean, you’re still our favorite morning anchor.”

  “Oh, you mean like demote or fire me?”

  “I didn’t say that. I said things wouldn’t change.”

  “It wouldn’t be legal if they did,” I say. “Right?” Massachusetts is one of the states where it is illegal to discriminate against someone for being gay or lesbian.

  “No, it wouldn’t,” he says with a bitter smile. “But that’s beside the point. My point is that even though we’re getting more and more calls and E-mails every day—hundreds of them, Liz, from around the country and the world—asking us to get rid of you, we’re not going to do that.”

  Hundreds of calls. They’ve gotten hundreds of calls.

  “We could release a statement,” he says. “Try to fix things.”

  “What kind of statement?”

  “Denying it. We could discredit O’Donnell. Everyone hates her anyway.”

  “Is that why you program her on the show every week? Because everyone hates her?”

  “Honestly, yes. People want to see what she says just so they can disagree with it. She’s ruthless and tacky. You have a great advantage over her, Liz. People think you’re pretty and nice. They think Eileen is a bitch.”

  “Let me think about the statement,” I say. I have to admit, it would be nice to go back to the anonymity of before. At the same time, however, there’s something liberating about having everyone, even Sara, finally know the truth. Whatever the consequences. And the truth will still be the truth. If we wage war against Eileen O’Donnell and the Herald, there will just be more people following me, more hiding, more of the real Elizabeth Cruz sneaking around the edges of my life with a flashlight and a compass, like I don’t belong there, like I have no right to be me.

  “We don’t have a lot of time, if that’s what you want to do. I’d like to get something out to the media in the next few hours at the latest. Thing like this, you can’t let it go without acting for too long. I think we already waited too much, but I wanted to see where the public would go on it, and now we know. They’re not losing interest. We have to protect ourselves. Better to be up front.”

  “I know. I’ll let you know by the end of today, okay?”

  “Fine. Nice work this morning, as always.”

  He gets up and opens the door. I start to walk past him, but he stops me.

  “Before you take the elevator down to the garage, I think you should see something. Come with me.”

  He leads me to his office, which looks down six floors at the street below. It’s midmorning. The usual Government Center bustle bustles, office workers rushing to their jobs. But down below, directly in front of the entrance to WRUT, are six people, bundled in their coats and hats, some holding signs, others burning candles, most chanting together. A couple hold children, or crosses. I can’t hear exactly what they are saying, but I can guess. I have seen them as I drive in and out of the building for the past eight weeks. The wicked fire in their eyes says it. The signs say it. THINK OF THE CHILDREN, one says. OUR STATION, OUR VALUES, screams another. Parked along the curb are news trucks from the other stations in town. Reporters are interviewing the protesters.

  “They’ve all been asking to come up and interview you,” John tells me, jutting his jaw toward the reporters swarming around. “It’s just the news they’ve been waiting for. Fucking lowlifes.”

  “I know,” I say.

  “Right.”

  “Why do they care? It’s so medieval.”

  John doesn’t answer at first. He stares at the people. I stare at the people. Together we stare for a full minute. Then, he says, “They care because they all wanted you, all the men in town. All the women wanted to be like you.”

  “That can’t be true,” I say.

  “Sure it is. TV news isn’t about news, Liz. It’s about entertainment. It’s about sex appeal. If you’re gay, or lesbian, whatever, they can’t fantasize the way they used to.”

  “Is that what you think?”

  “It’s what I know. Look at George Michael. When’s the last time you heard one of his songs on the radio? We got to number one because of you, Liz,” he says. “Because you’re beautiful and charming and sweet. Because you were the perfect woman for this town. A beautiful black woman who talks like a white woman but is actually Hispanic. It was a goddamned coup. We got all the advocates off our asses when we hired you. We’ll fight this thing. Right?”

  His last statement was so offensive I’m not sure what to do. “I don’t know.”

  “Think about it,” he says with a worried sigh. “Just think about it.”

  “I will. Can I go now?”

  He nods. “Be careful out there,” he says. “People are crazy. You want security to go with you to your car?”

  I nod.

  The guard, a fat, masculine woman, gives me a sympathetic look. “Don’t let them get to you,” she says as I get into the truck. “They don’t represent most Americans.”

  I put on my hat and sunglasses before I press the button to open the garage door and pull out into the bright light of the day.

  Flashes pop and I am blinded.

  “Jesus, Maria y Jose,” I say. I floor the gas and pull away from the cameras, run the first red light just to put some distance between us. The reporters are worse than the protesters, making something out of nothing to boost their own ratings. I have the dizzy sense I’m being cannibalized. I take narrow back streets through the winding hills of the North End, and get on the freeway at
an unpredictable entrance far from the station.

  I’ve gotten so good at driving to throw people off I feel like a criminal. Why should I feel like this, just for being who I am? Why should I have to hide and run? I exhale deeply once I’m on the freeway, moving too fast to be caught.

  But where am I headed? I don’t want to go home or to Selwyn’s. I can’t call Lauren or Usnavys or Rebecca because they’re all at work. That just leaves Sara. I need to talk to someone, get all this out and decide how to handle it. Will she talk to me? I have to figure out what I’m doing.

  I use the cell phone to call Selwyn at her office.

  “Don’t go home,” I say. “The reporters are swarming today.”

  “Jesus.”

  “Pretty much.”

  “We have dinner at Ron’s tonight anyway,” she says. Ron is her co-worker, a soft-spoken professor who teaches a course on the literature of hate. He and his wife have offered their home to us.

  “Okay,” I say. “But where do I go until then?”

  “Somewhere safe, somewhere they’ve never seen you before.”

  Sara.

  I dial Sara’s number, and she answers, sounding tired and

  groggy.

  She doesn’t hang up on me, but she doesn’t talk.

  “Please,” I beg her. “I miss you. I need to talk to you.”

  “I’m sorry, Liz,” she says. “I can’t. I’m planning my trip next week with Roberto. I’m sorry. I’m busy.”

  “Sara! They’re out to crucify me!” I start to cry. “I don’t know what else to do. I know you don’t approve of me, but do you honestly hate me enough to see my career ruined by a bunch of jackass reporters?”

  After a few moments of silence, she relents. “Okay, you can come here. But only for a little while. Until we figure out what to do. But you can’t be here when Roberto gets home. He’d kill me.”

  sara

  OYE, CHICA, WHAT have I done? Elizabeth should not be here. Mira, I know that. But she sounded like she was desperate. And she needs me right now. You don’t turn your back on ten years of friendship because your husband wants you to. I don’t. But still, I need time to talk to Roberto about all of this, to make sure he’s not going to do anything really stupid. With him, you never know. Now she’s here, in my house, and school’s letting out. I don’t want the boys to see her here when they get home and tell their dad. I’ll have to find a new way to bribe their mouths shut. Candy doesn’t do it anymore.

  Vilma keeps dusting the same spot on the boys’ videogame TV, listening to the conversation I’m having with Elizabeth. She’s nosy, but won’t betray me. I know her. She is loyal to me, not Roberto.

  Elizabeth sits on the overstuffed armchair in our media room, sipping the coffee Vilma brought her. When she brings the small white cup to her lips, her once-graceful hand with the long, thin fingers trembles; it makes a racket every time she puts it back in the saucer. She stares at the spotless beige carpet, clears her throat as if to speak, then freezes.

  “Liz,” I say. She looks at me, her face like a mask. “Fíjate. I don’t care who you sleep with. I really don’t.”

  “Really?”

  “Yes, really. What do you think I am, an idiot? It makes no difference to me. But Roberto doesn’t want me to see you anymore. He thinks—he thinks …” I can’t finish the thought. I look down and mumble, stir an imaginary drink in the air. “Me and you, you and me. You know.”

  Across the room, Vilma trips on her own feet, gasps.

  “He thinks we’re lovers?” Elizabeth asks with a laugh. I can see Vilma’s shoulders rise up, tense. She moves to dust the CD rack, letting out a sigh as she goes. Eavesdropper.

  “Yes,” I say. “That’s what he thinks.” Vilma shakes her head. Elizabeth keeps laughing. “Hey,” I say. “Why is that so funny? You think I’m ugly or something? I’d be an okay lover. I’d be a great lover, tu sabes.”

  “No, no,” Elizabeth says. “I don’t doubt that. But I’ve honestly never seen you that way. I’ve never—” she cuts herself off.

  I hear Vilma whisper “Oh, my God” to herself in Spanish. She gives me a look.

  “You’ve never been attracted to me?” I hear the surprise in my voice. I have to admit, I’m a little disappointed, chica. I mean, why wouldn’t she find me attractive? I’m some kind of monster now? I should tell Vilma to beat it, but it’s sort of fun to shock her like this.

  “I’m sorry, Sarita,” Liz says affectionately. “You’re not … my type.”

  I frown, hurt. “Who is?” I ask her, not sure I want to know the answer. She smiles shyly, one eyebrow arched. “One of the sucias?” I ask. She nods weakly. “No way!” I shout. “Okay, okay, déjame ver, let me guess.” I think for a moment. Rebecca has the shortest hair. Lesbians like women with short hair, don’t they?

  “Rebecca,” I say.

  “Not in a million years,” answers Liz.

  “Then who?”

  “Lauren.”

  This time, I laugh. “Lauren? Crazy Lauren? Writing about being a blooming seed in the paper Lauren? Coño, chica, pero ‘tas loca. I’m way better-looking than Lauren. Soy la más bellísima de las sucias.”

  Liz laughs. “Okay, if you say so.”

  “Olvídate, chica. You know I’m kidding. Lauren’s pretty. She’s crazy, but she’s pretty. She’s just weird enough that she might—oh,” I stop, realizing I’ve just insulted Elizabeth.

  “Don’t worry about it,” she says.

  “How long have you felt this way about her?”

  Elizabeth blushes, or what passes for a blush on her. She looks like a schoolgirl, knees pressed together, mouth pouty. “Years.”

  “Ay, Dios mío,” I say, and we share a good chuckle. I notice Vilma looking at me with a warning in her eyes, so I address her, in Spanish. “I know you claim not to speak English, ma’am, but if this is all too much for your delicate constitution, I’m sure there are other rooms you can dust.”

  Vilma scowls and leaves the room without a word.

  “Have you told her?” I ask Elizabeth, feeling like a gossipy girl.

  “Vilma?” Liz asks, incredulous.

  “No, stupid. La Lauren.”

  “No no no no no. Never.”

  “Can I tell her?” God, I’d love to see Lauren’s face when she heard this one. The girl feels everything way too much, lets everything eat her up inside. This would throw her for a major loop. It’d be fun.

  “I’d appreciate it if you didn’t.”

  “Please? You never know. She might, you know.”

  “She won’t. Don’t. I’m serious.”

  “Fine. Ruin all the fun.”

  “Oh, sure. This is fun. I’m not going to get the national job because Rupert hates gays. Running for my life from a bunch of insane reporters. So fun.”

  “Hey,” I say, “what goes around comes around. It’s poetic justice, don’t you think? The famous anchor and reporter all of a sudden the subject of news?”

  “Good point,” Liz says. “I hadn’t thought about it like that.”

  The smell of the coffee makes me want to throw up. Dr. Fisk says the morning sickness should have subsided by now, the fourth month, but it hasn’t. I’m hungry all the time, but nothing looks good except frozen waffles and peanut butter. The nausea has gotten worse. The good thing about it is this means I’m going to have a girl. My eyes want to close. I want to curl up and sleep for a thousand years. I don’t have the energy for this situation. Or the patience.

  “Coño, mujer, que lo que tu ‘tás pensando, eh?” I finally shout at Elizabeth. She bucks up, startles, spills coffee on the colorful floral pattern in the chair’s fabric. “You should just quit Christians for Kids and get on with your life. Let them have those ladies with all the makeup and the fake eyelashes. I don’t know why you haven’t quit yet, honestly. Do yourself a favor and find another charity.”

  “I can’t,” she says, dabbing at the spill with her sleeve.

  “What do you mea
n you ‘can’t’? You have to! Get off the crazy Christian radar. Wait for this whole stupid thing to blow over. No big deal.”

  “If I quit, then they win, Sara. Don’t you see? If I quit then it’s like I admit that you can’t be a good Christian and be a lesbian. And I don’t believe that. I don’t believe that at all. I believe God makes no mistakes, and that I’m an earthly expression of His perfection.”

  “Ever considered becoming a Jew?” I ask. “We have lesbian rabbis.”

  “I was raised with Jesus,” she says. “You know that. I can’t just go and be a Jew.”

  “Jesus was a Jew.”

  “Let’s not go there,” Liz says in English.

  “Probably shouldn’t.”

  “No. Probably not.”

  “Vilma,” I call. “We’ve got a spill in here, mi amor. Can you help us?”

  Vilma returns from her gossipmonger exile with a wet rag, bucket, and cleaning solution, ears ready for more. Elizabeth gets up, sits cross-legged on the floor next to the coffee table.

  “You’re going to ruin your health obsessing on this stupidity,” I tell her, finally lapsing into the Spanish we most often use with each other. She stares at her tennis shoes. Vilma pretends to hear nothing, her face impassive. Nosy woman. I continue, “The best thing you can do is distance yourself from these people who want to hurt you. Remember, they don’t know you like your friends do. They’re just writing crap because that’s all they know how to do. They’ve all probably been jealous of you for years, and now they’re gloating because you probably won’t get the big national break they all dream of. Reporters are hateful little people a lot of the time. Don’t let it get to you. Worry about your happiness.”

  Liz looks at me for a moment, frowning, then says, “You’re not one to talk, I think.”

  “Ella tiene razón,” Vilma says, without looking up from her task. “Listen to her, Sarita.”

  It hurts. They’re right, of course. But this isn’t supposed to be about me. It’s supposed to be about Liz. “I wish I never told you all that,” I say. “It’s not as bad as you think.”

  Vilma glares at me for a split second, then resumes scrubbing.