Notoriously Beautiful

23/24/25/26

Drunk In Love

3-4-7-5-4-4-0-0-0-9 I type into my phone. Nicole Sturwert comes up. Yes, I'm aware—phone—that the number I want to dial is Nicole Sturwert, but thanks anyway.
(thrrrrrr, buzzzzzzz, thrrrrrrr, buzzzzzz)
Nicole always makes the phone ring before she answers, even if the phone in her lap and her ten fingers are not busy. Once I asked her why, I don't remember what her answer was, I wish I did.
The numbers start 0:0, 0:1, 0:2 I love that my phone tells me how many seconds, minutes, hours I'm on call for. I get carried away with my long winded, never ending accounts of past, present, and future concepts, feelings, tangible things.
"Nicole, should I just come now? You want me to order some sushi or something first? Hey, Nicole you there?" There's no answer.
"Heyyyyyyyy Katerina, Baterina," I hear her say. She's drunk, oh gosh darn it, she's drunk. That's never good.
"Had to chug your booz today Nicole, not cool" I say, disappointed.
"Are you sure Mr.Taxi man, Mr.Pizza man, likes sushi," she cracks up laughing, through the phone it sounds really loud and I want to hang up, but I don't. I pull the phone away from my face until I think she's done laughing.
"Wash your face, drink a shot of vinegar, slap your face left to right with a cold fish. Do something, we will be there in thirty minutes." I say.
I can only hear a vaguely aggressive grunt, I'm not sure if she stubbed her toe, or...?
"Okay, bye" Nicole finally answers.
Marco, Rebecca, mom, and I have made our way to the front of the airport, passed the baggage claim, and through the loads of people.
"Are you ready for this?" I say.
I get blank stares.
"Tax-A," in New York THAT'S how we haul a cab. Not taxi, it's tax-A.
I wave my hand up and down and shout it once more,
"Tax-A."
The cab stops right in front of us,
"Load it up," I put my hand down, and drop my two bags on to Marco.
"Lo prenderò per lei, signora" (I will get that for you, Mrs.) I say to Rebecca, as I take her bag.
"Grazie, grazie Katerina sei così gentile." (Thank you, thank you Katerina you are so kind) Rebecca tells me. Her voice is dry, and rough, but so honest.
Marco takes my moms luggage and puts it in the trunk of the cab.
"Sir, sir, can I put these in the back?" Marco says.
The taxi driver obviously didn't hear him.
"Boss, can we use the trunk?" I shout as I open the front door.
The driver looks at me and nods, I haven't been gone that long. I haven't forgotten how to do things the 'New York way.'
We all get it, it's tight but Rebecca sits in the front next to the driver, he let her because of her age.
I feel the small bumps in the road, but even more prevalent, I hear honks, I see flashing lights, and traffic. I breathe in, we all have jackets on, and I'm completely fine but I can tell Marco is freezing, frost bitten freezing.
"Zip up silly!" I say.
Someone who isn't Sicilian would not understand this. Marco bites his finger and wrinkles his nose and then rips his finger out of his front teeth's grip. This is a hand gesture to sort of say,
"Oh my gosh I understand, stop hounding me like a mother to her child."
"Fine, don't zip up. Freeze."
My mom is sitting in the middle of us, and my legs don't fit underneath me, right, or left of where my torso is turned.
"Ma, can I just— wait, maybe I can just—" I say, twisting to find a comfortable spot.
"I'm not waiting, and no you can't," she says.
I look at her confused at her attitude
"Kidding," she speaks, jaw dropped more than usual.
"We are almost here, the address you gave me," the driver says, and he turns around and glances at my mother.
He continues "the address, is it a house, apartment complex, store?"
"House," I cut in. "A big house."
Automatic windows, below 40 degrees Ferhenhiet weather, honking, traffic, cabs, Nicole, everything seems normal.
"Up ahead, there the white one with blue shingles, and a giant red door" I say.
It wasn't necessary to describe the house, all the driver really needed was the "up ahead."
The driver slows down, I stick to my promise to Nonna Katerina.
"What's your name Sir?"
"Hernando Mende, fifty dollars senortia," he says.
I pull out my wallet that's in my back pocket,
"I'll pay you back once I transfer my euros to dollars bella," Marco takes my right hand, and kisses it.
"Don't worry."
Fifty dollars. I have two twenties, one ten, four singles, and a fifty. I only need the fifty.
"Thanks Hernando, Merry Christmas." I say.
"Merry Christmas, to all of you, even your husband, the one with the euros," he laughs.
"We're not married," I say, getting red.
"Yet," Marco whispers, but I hear it loud and clear.
Hernando takes the money, smiles, and sighs.
"Take the bags for the ladies, muchacho. Trátalos bien" Hernando says.
I want to smile, but I look over to the giant fourteen foot red door and I see Nicole. I don't smile, she's wearing short shorts, and a crop top that says spoiled babe, what was I really expecting though.
"Go change idiot," I shout.
"Nicole don't embarrass yourself," my mom says.
"Hi sis. Hi mom. Hi Marco. Hi Mrs. Marco's mom." Nicole says blandly, as if she is being forced to say it.
This is going to be very...fun.
"Andiamo dentro, c è troppo freddo" (Let's go inside, it's too cold) Rebecca says.
I nod, we walk in all together. I'm walking slowly because I'm scared. Is staying with Nicole a bad idea? She's my little sister, even though she's a month older than me, and she's not my sister.
I hold the unlocked door open for Rebecca and my mom.
"Wow," Rebecca says.
"Mom is a surgeon and dad is a prosecution attorney, just in case you were wondering how I got this place," Nicole says while walking down the spiral staircase.
I hear Marco quietly translate that to his mother.
"Can we talk for a second, Nicole?" I ask politely.
"Sure, you guys take a seat on the couch, to your right," Nicole gestures to her right, not ours.
I'm practically marching up the staircase, that I have been up millions of times before. We used to live at each other's houses. That seems like so long ago. I venture into the second floor, last room down the hallway. I'm scrimmaging though her white-ish, ivory drawers, and matching colored armoire. Pink shirt, red shirt, blue shirt.
"Red is festive, here." I throw the shirt across the room and it lands in Nicole's arms.
"Let's see, ripped jeans, no. Leggings, no. Work pants, maybe. Bell bottoms, that'll work. And tuck in the shirt, Nicky," I say.
I turn my back to her so she can change, and look for some lip gloss. Is there any? She used to have tubs, and tubs of these little lip glosses. Avon, Sephora, Mac, Ulta, you name it.
"I'm heading down to get my luggage. I have to unpack," I utter..
"How do I look?" Nicole inquires.
I turn around, lip gloss-less.
"Good, really good, okay? Let's go, at least try to make a good impression. For me?" I say, hands under my chin like an eight year old pageant girl.
She nods, she might make a fool of herself more often than she should, but I love her. She's my best friend, we went through so much together. Nights of crying, laughing, telling each other things we'd never tell anyone else. Best friends, the type that can call each other an idiot, the type that can totally each from each other's plate. That's a given. I mean, college, Nicole sure made that interesting. Will her pleads, "Alyssa's party is tonight. Be there or I'll have two shots instead of one, and you know that's never good," I remember her saying.
I remember another time, it was my twenty first birthday and since I'm a little younger than Nicole, she had been waiting for me to go to Atlantic City, New Jersey. Just a place full of nightclubs and casinos. Where we really wanted to go was Las Vegas, Nevada, there was no chance though.
"Of course, I'll try my best. Marco is kinda hot, not gonna lie," she says, elongating the word hot but especially the o vowel.
"I know," I say, as I'm about to shut her bedroom door.
"Be down in a minute Kat."
"Okay," I say, stretching the word from the beginning of the staircase to the bottom where I can see the kitchen, fireplace, TV, dining room table, twelve chairs, two couches, two lamps, and what seems to be billions of picture frames.
I go over to the couch, Rebecca's sleeping the flight really got to us.
"Marco bring your mom upstairs, the sheets are clean, and the bedroom is cleared out. She will wake up with neck pain if she sleeps on the couch. Trust me, I know from experience," I say. I really do know from experience.
He picks her up, and goes up the stairs.
"Marco, just ask Nicole which room you should put her in," I whisper, in an attempt not to wake Rebecca.
I take the opportunity to sit down next to my mom. I stroke her hair, but only the bottom pieces.
"Stop that," she says.
And we laugh. But I do stop.
I grab my mom's luggage first and then mine, the big ones have wheels so I roll them along and then pull, one, two, one, two, up the stairs.
I'll be staying in "my room" it's not really my room, but whenever
I'd sleepover at Nicole's, I had a room to myself. It's really a guest room, but I'm less of a guest, more of a first cousin type situation.
I set my things down, unpacking my dress, shirts, pants, and jacket in that order. I can't forget about my underwear. I brought a red one for Christmas Day.
"Ahh," I turn around, spooked and surprised. Someone touched my shoulder.
"Boo! Sono io, ti ho spaventato?"(Boo! It's me, did I scare you?) Marco says, with a big, red Rudolph toy nose on.
"Where did you find that?" I ask, hysterically laughing.
"Nicole gave it to me," he says.
Figures.
"I know you and your mom are going to stay at your cousin Dominick's house, but since you're here you might as well stay tonight. You don't need to unpack, we can just eat dinner, watch a movie, and go to sleep. That's all," I propose.
"I'll see how dinner goes, and if mamma wakes up. Thank you bella."
I have to start planning. Oh my, I need to. Rebecca is the one who wanted to come, not Marco. I want to make this trip spectacular, a vacation to forever remember, to take with, to the grave.
Ellis Island, Statue of Liberty, Central Park, Times Square, the golden bull, Natural History Museum. Those are mandatory.
Now back downstairs.
"It's about time we'd get to know each other, buddy," Nicole spits as she talks.
Marco looks around the room, he's confused and wrinkles his nose, just a little.
"Buddy? Who?" He asks, his left hand's fingers all in a bunch and wrist shaking up and down.
"You, you, you. Aha, aha, aha" Nicole laughs.
"What happened girl?" I ask, finally revealing that I'm concerned.
"I'm drunk in lo-o-o-oveee," she sings, even though that's not a song.
"Is it Ethan, what happened? Did he come back?" I probe.
She nods, and brakes down in tears. She went from laughing to crying real quick, real quick.
"That dirty, good-for-nothing, lying scum of the universe," my mom clenches her teeth.
My moms in the loop on all things Nicole.
"What did he do," I roar, smacking the couch. Even though it doesn't make a loud noise everyone notices.
"He's back in town, told me he wants to make things right. Why the hell does he have to have that look." Nicole pouts.
"He's not a good man. He won't make things right. Delete his number. Do you not remember what he used to do, when you were engaged," my mom snaps.
"Oh man, I know. I know he used to scream, and throw plates, and pull my hair. I know, but I love him," Nicole thundered.
"You're not well Nicky. You're drunk. You're not well," I say solemnly.
She doesn't mean it. She hates him. When Nicole is drunk though, hate and love are one in the same. Two peas in a pod, except there are usually three peas in a pod. I remember how bad things got. How had she almost married that demon. Ethan, seems like a nice guy. Looks can be deceiving. A cliche truth, but nevertheless, it's a truth.
"I had a friend like that once. He was a bad man to his wife. I'm not that mans friend anymore," Marco stutters.
That must have been ages ago. Marco's eye twitched when he said that. I wonder why. Anyways, Nicole has the illusion of something that isn't. It just isn't.
"You are right. Delete his number, aha aha. That's what I'll do," Nicole laughs again, aha aha.
"So?" Marco says, scratching the back of his neck in confusion, and awkwardness.
"We should get a New York pizza pie, it's something special." I try to change the lingering atmosphere.
"A New York pizza pie. Sounds good," Marco hugs me, but it's an unsettling hug.
Ethan, that good-for-nothing. Poor Nicole.