My Best Friend's Exorcism(7)

But mostly, for six years, they stayed in Gretchen’s room. They made endless lists: their best friends, their okay friends, their worst enemies, the best teachers and the meanest teachers, which teachers should get married to each other, which school bathroom was their favorite, where they would be living in six years, in six months, in six weeks, where they’d live when they were married, how many babies their cats would have together, what their wedding colors would be, whether Adaire Griffin was a total slut or just misunderstood, whether Hunter Prioleaux’s parents knew their son was the spawn of Satan or if he fooled them, too.

It was an endless Seventeen quiz, an eternal process of self-classification. They traded scrunchies, they pored over YM and Teen and European Travel and Life. They fantasized about Italian counts, and German duchesses, and Diana, Princess of Wales, and summers in Capri, and skiing in the Alps. In their shared fantasies, dark European men were constantly escorting them into helicopters and flying them to hidden mansions where they tamed wild horses.

After they snuck into Flashdance, Abby and Gretchen would slip off their shoes at the dinner table and grab each other’s crotches with sock-covered feet. Abby would wait until Gretchen was lifting a forkful of peas, then stick her foot in Gretchen’s crotch, making her fling food everywhere and sending her dad into a tirade.

“Wasting food is no joke!” he’d shout. “That’s how Karen Carpenter died!”

Gretchen’s parents were uptight Reagan Republicans who spent every Sunday at St. Michael’s downtown, praising God and social climbing. When The Thorn Birds came on, Abby and Gretchen were dying to watch it on the big TV, but Mr. Lang was dubious. He’d heard that the content was questionable.

“Dad,” Gretchen said. “It’s just like The Winds of War. It’s basically a sequel.”

Herman Wouk’s dry-as-dust, fourteen-hour miniseries about World War II was Mr. Lang’s favorite television event of all time, so invoking its name meant they automatically received his blessing. While they were watching episode one of The Thorn Birds, he came home and stood in the door of the TV room long enough to realize that this was no Winds of War. His face turned dark red. Abby and Gretchen were too caught up in the steamy Outback love scenes to notice, but sixty seconds after he left the room, Mrs. Lang came in and turned off the TV. Then she marched them into the living room for a lecture.

“The Roman church can glorify foul language and half-naked priests rutting like animals,” Mr. Lang told them. “But not in this house. Now, there’s no more television tonight and I want you girls to go upstairs and wash your hands. Your mother’s got supper in the oven.”

Halfway up the stairs, they couldn’t hold it in anymore and Abby laughed so hard she peed.



Sixth grade was the bad year. After he’d gone on strike back in ’81, Abby’s dad had lost his job as an air traffic controller and been hired as assistant manager at a carpet cleaner. Eventually they had cutbacks, too. The Rivers family had to sell their place in Creekside and move into a sagging house on Rifle Range Road. Four giant pine trees loomed over their brick shoebox and showered it with spider webs and sap while completely blocking out the sun.

That was when Abby stopped inviting Gretchen over to spend the night and started inviting herself over to the Langs’ house every weekend. Then she started showing up on weeknights, too.

“You’re always welcome here,” Mr. Lang said. “We think of you as our other daughter.”

Abby had never felt so safe. She started leaving her pajamas and a toothbrush in Gretchen’s room. She would have moved in if they’d let her. Their house always smelled like air-conditioning and carpet shampoo. Her house had gotten wet a long time ago and never dried. Winter or summer, it stank of mold.

In 1984, Gretchen got braces, and Abby got politics when Walter Mondale declared Geraldine Ferraro his running mate. It never occurred to Abby that anyone could possibly object to electing the first female vice president, and her parents were too caught up in their own economic drama to notice when she put a Mondale/Ferraro bumper sticker on their car. Then she put one on Mrs. Lang’s Volvo.

She and Gretchen were in the TV room watching Silver Spoons when Mr. Lang came in after work shaking with rage, the shreds of the bumper sticker waving from one hand. He tried to throw the pieces on the floor, but they stuck to his fingers.

“Who did this?” he demanded, voice tight, face red behind his beard. “Who? Who?”

That’s when Abby knew she was going to get expelled from the Langs’ house forever. Without even realizing it, she’d committed the greatest sin of all and made Mr. Lang look like a Democrat. But before Abby could confess and accept her exile, Gretchen spun around on the couch and drew herself up onto her knees.

“She’ll be the first female vice president ever,” Gretchen said, gripping the back of the sofa with both hands. “Don’t you want me to feel proud of being a woman?”

“This family is loyal to the president,” Mr. Lang said. “You’d better hope no one saw that . . . thing on your mother’s car. You’re too young for politics.”

He made Gretchen take a razor blade and peel off the rest of the sticker while Abby watched, terrified she was going to get in trouble. But Gretchen never told. It was the first time Abby had ever seen her fight with her parents.

Then came the Madonna Incident.