Chapter 13
HARLEY
Rich bitches.
That’s what I keep calling these women in my head. I’ve been chanting it over and over again, especially when Rochelle starts pontificating about this stupid boring book that I didn’t actually manage to read.
Rich bitches, rich bitches, rich bitches.
It helps that the words rhyme.
“I just think Velvet Moon is so clearly a takeoff on King Lear,” Rochelle says. “There is the elderly father and the three daughters vying for his favor. It’s such an obvious retelling.”
Rich bitches, rich bitches, rich bitches, rich bitches.
“I mean,” Rochelle continues, “I don’t even know how you can appreciate it without having read the play.”
Sloane and Tabitha nod in solemn agreement. It’s only Debbie who says stoutly, “I liked the book, and I never read King Lear.”
“Well, of course not,” Rochelle says. “You never went to college, and that’s the sort of book that you need to read on a collegiate level.”
Debbie’s face turns slightly pink. I don’t even know why she is at this book club, because she doesn’t seem to like any of these women very much. Unlike the three of them, Debbie is actually nice. Sometimes it seems like she doesn’t have much going on upstairs, but she tries her best.
And her house isn’t as big as this one, but it’s still beautiful. The sort of house I’ve always wanted. The sort of house I will have one day.
I still don’t know how she forgot about my avocado allergy though, considering we talked about it only a couple of hours ago. Even though the charcuterie board is something else, Debbie’s sandwiches look really good, and I wish I could have one. Debbie is flighty, but this is next level.
“It feels like this one might have gone over your head a bit.” Rochelle flashes Debbie a sympathetic look. “It was a very complicated book, and the writing was very literary. And I imagine it was a bit long for some readers.”
A bit long? Velvet Moon was nearly six hundred pages, and I had to read every sentence twice before it made sense.
If I ever come back to book club, I wouldn’t mind a book that isn’t written for people who have doctoral degrees.
I told Debbie that I read Velvet Moon, but there was no way that was going to happen.
It felt like I was back in high school again, struggling through an impossible book assigned by the teacher.
But I still wanted to come. So I did what I did in high school—I bought the CliffsNotes version of Velvet Moon.
Those things are incredible, you know. They summarize every chapter and then interpret it.
It even mentioned the thing about King Lear, although it said that it was a common misinterpretation.
Anyway, there’s nothing wrong with CliffsNotes. I wouldn’t have gotten through high school without them, although it’s slightly mortifying to need to cheat for a book club. But nobody has to know.
Debbie actually read the book though. Not only that, but she genuinely enjoyed it, and based on the comments she’s made so far, she seemed to understand it better than any of these other women. But now she just sits there, like she’s not quite sure what to say.
“I wouldn’t mind reading something…shorter,” I speak up. I don’t want to admit that the book was much too hard to get through, risking Rochelle’s snide comments being directed at me instead of Debbie. “More like…three hundred pages.”
“But five hundred and eighty-nine pages go by in a flash with a brilliant author like Barbara Fanning!” Sloane protests. “It’s like drinking a fine wine. And if you can’t make it through six hundred pages, you won’t be able to get through three hundred pages either.”
I may not have been much better in math than I was in English, but that one doesn’t quite add up for me. I have to admit though, I’m not sure I could have made it through even twenty pages of Velvet Moon.
“I just think it’s not worth discussing any book that hasn’t won a Pulitzer,” Sloane continues. “We shouldn’t have to dumb down our book choices for the people with less education. If Debbie can’t participate, we can meet separately.”
“I can participate,” Debbie protests weakly.
At that comment, the three women exchange meaningful looks. I know what that look means. These three women are gearing up to kick Debbie out of their little club. I shift uncomfortably on the sofa, wishing I could make up an excuse and get out of here.
“Debbie,” Rochelle begins in an authoritative voice, “I just think that this book club might not be right for…” She stops speaking abruptly, as if her train of thought was interrupted by something. Her long, dark eyelashes flutter, and she takes a deep breath. “Is it hot in here?”
That ass kisser Tabitha looks like she’s about to protest that the temperature is a perfect seventy-four degrees, but then something changes in her expression. “Yes. It is a bit hot.”
“I don’t feel hot,” Debbie says helpfully.
“Maybe it’s menopause?” I suggest.
Rochelle shoots me a look, but there isn’t much conviction behind it. She looks very pale all of a sudden. I mean, she did have perfect alabaster skin, but it’s changed color in the last few minutes. It looks…
Actually, she looks a bit green.
Abruptly, Rochelle clamps a hand over her mouth.
She makes a mad dash out of the room, bumping the side table in her haste to get to the bathroom.
Multiple bottles of champagne tip over like pins in a bowling alley, shattering as they crash to the floor.
The champagne that spills out of the bottle is probably worth more than my car, but Rochelle is past caring.
The sound of her retching echoes through the entire first floor of the house.
Sloane and Tabitha exchange looks, and that’s when I notice that the two of them look a bit green as well. “I think I might head out,” Tabitha murmurs. “I…I’m not feeling that hot.”
“I’ve heard there’s a bug going around,” Debbie says sympathetically, although she doesn’t look green in the slightest. In fact, she’s got a big smile on her face.
Tabitha and Sloane seem quite eager to get out of the house. Sloane makes it entirely down the walkway, but Tabitha isn’t so lucky. As we exit Rochelle’s property, I catch a glimpse of her vomiting in the pristine front yard. Debbie doesn’t so much as pause to make sure her friend is okay.
“As you can see, there’s a bad bug going around,” she tells me as we head down the block back to her own house. “I hope Rochelle doesn’t have to cancel her lovely party tonight with the mayor.”
“Debbie,” I say quietly. “It seems like they have…you know, food poisoning…”
She blinks at me, her wide-eyed stare completely blank. “Gee,” she says, “you think so?”
I almost ask if there’s any chance it could have been something in the sandwiches she made.
I didn’t eat any, and I didn’t get sick, and I happened to notice Debbie didn’t have one either.
Then again, it would be rude to imply to my friend that something she made with her own two hands caused three women to go into fits of vomiting, even if it could be true.
I’m just grateful Debbie forgot about my avocado allergy. Things could’ve been much worse.