Sandy searched her memory, from earliest childhood to present day, contemplating virtually every year of her life, and came up with one inescapable conclusion: This was the worst cold she’d ever had.
“This is no ordinary cold,” she told Tim, her head resting on her desk.
Tim stood in her cubicle doorway and pondered the mess before him.
“Are you running a fever? Any unusual symptoms?” he asked.
“I’m too weak to take my temperature. I’ve never been this sick in my life.”
“You said that last month, remember? You were sick when we went shopping.”
“This is different. I’ve been sick too long for this to be a cold. It’s something worse, I just know it.”
“What do you mean, you’ve been sick too long? You were well yesterday.”
“You don’t understand.”
“Why don’t you go home? We can cancel tomorrow night. That will give you the whole weekend to get better.”
“We can’t cancel tomorrow night. I bought food. It’ll go bad.”
“But you’re too sick to cook it.”
“It’s already cooked. All it needs is reheating. Even you could do it.”
Great, thought Tim. Just what I need. Out of kindness to a friend, I cancel a date with the best-looking man in Los Angeles, agree to sit in her dainty miniature Martha Stewart apartment to watch the Miss America Pageant, twist my brother’s arm to join us, and now she tells me I have to serve dinner, too? Of course, Sandy would have done it for him, and that left him little choice.
It actually wasn’t that hard, when it came right down to it. Most of the take-out food was microwavable, and since Sandy’s taste buds were out of commission, he only had to worry about Perry’s complaints.
“Someone’s at the door,” Sandy moaned, resting Camille-like on her sofa, kept warm by a brown afghan and hugging a box of Kleenex Cold Care. “It’s probably your brother.”
“This is a very nice apartment,” said Perry, looking around and taking off his jacket.
“It’s been in a book,” said Tim, responding on Sandy’s behalf. “One of those interior design books you can buy at the car wash.”
“The car wash on Sepulveda?” asked Perry. “I thought they only sold those weird self-actualization books. And Junior Mints and Velcro visor organizers.”
“Sepulveda West Car Wash has its finger on the public’s pulse. We want to be happy, and we can be happier in pretty surroundings. It’s the inner and outer approach to contentment.”
“Hello?” said Sandy feebly, tired of being ignored. “Helloooooo? Sick girl here. Attention must be paid.”
“You’re looking very … terminal tonight,” offered Perry.
“I feel terminal. But if I have to die, I want to die watching Miss America. Then you can both tell the press I died doing what I loved best.”
There are few things in life more frightening than a beauty pageant. The trio sat riveted to the bizarre sight of eighteen-year-olds who looked like they were forty-four, of truly ugly women in a contest about beauty, of hair and teeth and smiles that were so unnatural, household pets would growl at the TV.
“Miss Kentucky is an advocate for sexual abstinence,” announced Donny Osmond.
“I was just like Miss Kentucky for two years,” offered Tim, “except for me, it was unintentional and I tried to keep it quiet.”
“Miss Indiana’s personal commitment is to asthma awareness,” said Donny.
“Does anyone here have asthma?” asked Tim.
“Not that I’m aware of,” answered Perry on cue. They laughed hysterically.
“I don’t want you two to think that I’m not laughing because I’m sick,” said Sandy. “I’m not laughing because you’re not funny.”
That made them laugh even more.
As the judges readied to narrow the field to ten semifinalists, Tim stretched. “Is there any way I could check my E-mail?” he asked.
“I have AOL on the computer in my bedroom,” said Sandy.
Tim headed for the bedroom and Perry again raved about
the apartment. “I’m not surprised it was in a book; you have a real eye.”
“Thank you,” said Sandy. “And remember, I’m responsible for Tim’s new look, and we’ve seen how well that worked.”
“I know. Young Timothy has landed a semifamous actor boyfriend. I didn’t think I’d ever see something like that. You must have a real talent when it comes to makeovers.”
“That’s mean,” said an indignant Sandy. “Tim’s a wonderful person.”
“I know, I know,” said Perry, backpedaling. “He is totally wonderful. It’s just that we won’t see him in a Calvin Klein ad anytime soon.”
“That’s ironic, coming from his identical twin.”
“Who would know better? Anyway, he’s got a boyfriend who could be a Calvin Klein model—that’s the next best thing,” said Perry.
“Have you seen those pictures of him?” Sandy sighed. “He must spend six hours a day at the gym.”
“It’s just genes,” said Perry. “It’s always genes.”
“Great genes,” agreed Sandy. “At least on the outside. But bad brain genes. It’s not like he has it all.”
There was an awkward pause. Perry leaned forward to break the silence. “I know you think I’m a jerk,” he said softly.
“I can’t believe Tim told you I said that,” said Sandy indignantly. “I’ll kill him.”
Perry laughed. “So it’s true. Tim never said a word, but I could tell.”
Sandy suddenly felt her temperature spike well into the triple digits, but before she could dig herself out of the hole she was in, Tim returned.
“Who wants to bet on the semifinalists?” he asked.
“Miss Hawaii, definitely,” said Sandy. “And New York and California always make it. Texas, too.”
“I’ll say Arizona, Maryland, Texas, Florida, Maine, Illinois, Wyoming, New Mexico, Indiana, and Pennsylvania,” insisted Tim.
“You are so crazy,” countered Sandy. “They’re all dogs. You’re out of your mind.”
“I think Tim is pretty close,” agreed Perry. “I say he gets eight of ten at least—maybe more.”
“You’re crazy, too. I may have a fever, but you two are delirious.”
“Texas will win,” said Tim smugly.
“Oh, absolutely,” said Perry. “No doubt. None at all.”
“She weighs a hundred and eighty pounds if she weighs an ounce,” yelled Sandy, exhausting herself. “You two know nothing about beauty pageants.”
“We’ll see,” said Tim.
When all ten of Tim’s predictions made the semifinals, Sandy began to feel taken advantage of. When Miss Texas walked down the runway, tears streaming, crown askew, she knew she had been had.
“How did you do that?” she asked.
“He checked it on AOL,” said Perry. “The pageant was live in the East, but on tape for us. He ruins the Emmys, too. You know Tim—he has to know everything first.”
“I hate you both,” said Sandy firmly. “I really hate you.”
Perry and Tim made a stab at cleaning up. It wasn’t the greatest job, but it was well intentioned. Then they said good night and left together.
Outside, under a streetlight, Perry took a small squeeze bottle of Purelle hand sanitizer from his jacket.
“Want some?” he asked, quickly disinfecting his hands.
“You bet,” said Tim. “I was going crazy in there.”
Perry took out a small jar and unscrewed the lid. “How about some C?”
“How powerful are they?” asked Tim.
“A thousand.”
“Give me three,” Tim said, hand outstretched.
“You want echinacea, too?” offered Perry, pulling out another jar.
“Vitamin C and echinacea?” marveled Tim. “What are you, a GNC franchise?”
“I can’t afford to miss work,” said Perry. “I’ve been taking them all day to ward off Sandy’s germs.”
“I’m very impressed,” said Tim. “But I’d be more impressed if you’d also brought zinc.”
Perry laughed. “It’s in the car. Honest.”
“Sometimes, you’re just the best brother in the world,” said Tim. “The absolute best.”