Fourth Comings_ A Jessica Darling Novel - Megan McCafferty [106]
I almost shared this all with Dexy because she truly believes, and has told me on several occasions, that she has been tapped by the Gods of Starfucking to be worshipped and adored by the untapped masses.
“Worshipped and adored for what?”
“For being Dexy!”
Well, no duh.
Dexy relishes any real or bullshitted connection to Fame, Fortune, and Fabulosity because it brings her that much closer to her Fate. In fact, if I had told her this story about Bridget and Hum-V, I don’t doubt that she would have appropriated it for her blog, turning herself into the lifelong best friend of the former model/actress/video babyho’ who so recklessly and foolishly abandoned the road to stardom for—can you imagine?—college. College! How common.
But I didn’t mention any of this. Instead I said, “That’s not funny.”
“Sorry,” she said dejectedly. Then she cued up her playlist, designed to get me in a party state of mind. She clicked through her selections until she found what she was looking for. I wasn’t sure my speakers could handle the disco that burst forth in a frenzy of horns, frantic Latin percussion, and a foursome of female vocalists panting with lust.
“Push push in the bush,” Dexy gasped along with the song. “You know you want me toniiiiiiight!” Dexy shimmied with pornographic abandon, the twins’ three-by-five daisy garden rug becoming a dance floor for one.
I cut the disco. “Dexy, I have to ask you something.”
“I have to ask you something first,” she said. “Is Paulie What’s-his-name going to be there tonight?”
“Parlipiano.” When we were at Columbia, I had told Dexy all about my hopeless high school crush-to-end-all-crushes on Paul Parlipiano, but she had only met him in person at my early-graduation brunch last December. “Uh, I don’t think so. He started grad school this week….”
“Oh, thank God,” she said, raising her palms to the heavens. “We need to find you a fun new fag!” She turned the volume way up and started galloping and swinging an imaginary lasso in time with the beat.
“Dexy!” I covered my ears.
“He can’t dress, doesn’t gossip, and hates musical theater!” She did a sign of the cross in 4/4 time to counteract this last blaspheme. “What homo hates Broadway? He’s the worst gay sidekick ever!”
I switched down the volume yet again and looked deep into her eyes, trying to determine if her pupils were dilated or what. “Can I ask you a question now?”
“Ask me, ask me, ask me,” she sang, mangling Morissey. “Ask me, ask me, ask me.”
“Are you on drugs?”
“Of course I am!” She turned the volume way, way up. “Are you ready? Are you ready for this?/Do you like it? Do you like it like this?”
“Dexy!” I turned it down again. “I’m serious.”
She pinched her lips together, the imitation of a shrewish school-marm, albeit one wearing gold lamé. “Of course I’m on drugs. I’ve been taking the best prescription-only psychotropics since I was twelve.”
“I thought you started taking them when you were fifteen….”
“Whatever,” she said, waving away such a minor detail. “Can we put the music back on now?”
“Are you on anything that has not been specifically prescribed by your psychiatrist, and in the appropriate doses?”
“Why are you asking me this?” she asked. “Let’s have fun!” She turned back to the Mp3 Player and clicked on a new song.
“We were born to be…A-LI-YI-YI-YIIIVE!” Dexy was doing a variation on Travolta