Notes from the Backseat. Jody Gehrman

it escaped your attention: I’m in the backseat.

      Which was okay, at first. I mean you know, Dannika was driving and I was hardly going to ride shotgun anymore with her behind the wheel—the view from up there was just too terrifying. The passenger seat isn’t nicknamed “the death seat” for nothing. I was just about to volunteer when Coop beat me to it.

      “I’ll ride in back,” he said, tossing his duffel bag in the trunk and scooting in next to the surfboard. “Sweet!” he said. “You brought your board.”

      “Where’s yours?” Dannika asked.

      He hesitated. “You think there’s room?”

      “Well, Gwen did bring four suitcases.” She said it sort of jokingly, sort of not. It was like she was tattling but pretending not to tattle, which really ended up being more annoying than if she’d just tattled outright.

      I stared at her, unsmiling. “A hatbox is hardly a suitcase.”

      Coop laughed and slung his arm around me. “Gwen’s a good Girl Scout—always prepared.”

      Dannika flipped her hair over one shoulder. “Go get your board and suit—we’ll just shove it in somewhere. We haven’t surfed together in a million years! That’s half the reason I even agreed to come.”

      Coop, being amiable and, really, so in love with surfing I could see he was salivating at the very thought, did what he was told. In a few minutes, he returned with his board under one arm and his wet suit under the other.

      “I don’t know,” he said. “I grabbed my shortest board, but it’s going to make the backseat sort of cramped.”

      “Gwen’s got short legs,” Dannika said, eyeing me.

      Considering that she had long, lithe, slender legs, it seemed like a pointedly bitchy comment. When I looked her in the eye, though, she winked, like getting Coop to bring his board was this really fun mutual goal of ours—a sisterly effort—and her making me feel like a midget was all part of our coy, girlie plot.

      “Gwen?” Coop said. “You going to back me on this?” He nodded at his board. “It’ll be in the way, don’t you think?”

      I shrugged. “If you guys want to surf, bring it.” I’d be a sport. What was the big deal? I brought a trunk of shoes; he could bring his board if he wanted. “I don’t mind the back. That way you two can catch up.” There! I’d be generous. He’d think I was incredibly confident, not threatened in the least by the demonic blonde.

      “Great!” Dannika’s eyes gleamed with victory. “Thanks so much, Gwen. We haven’t seen each other since…that night in Malibu?”

      I felt my throat seize up. It was like a giant hand just reached over and closed my esophagus.

      “Uh-huh.” Coop looked at me. “Dannika’s mom lives there,” he said, sensing my discomfort. Maybe sensing my imminent death due to lack of oxygen would be more accurate.

      “That was so long ago,” Dannika continued, oblivious to my silent horror.

      Why do the words night in Malibu sound so ominous when placed side by side in this context? Why couldn’t Coop have a horrible, pockmarked, male, alcoholic best friend who wears vomit-stained corduroys and refers to women only in anatomical terms? Why, why, why, why, why?

      Coop let me into the backseat and took special care in arranging the boards in order to provide me with the maximum amount of legroom. Not that I needed any, according to Dannika. Yeah, don’t mind the Oompa-Loompa in the back; she’s just along for the ride.

      Look, I know what you would say. Relax, Gwen. Breathe. You remember—in and out. There you go.

      But do you realize I’ve been in the backseat for hours now and no one is paying any attention to me? Sure, every twenty minutes or so Coop glances back with one of his vaguely apologetic, sickeningly adorable grins. Once he asked me, “What are you writing?” to which I replied, “Just catching up on some correspondence.” That satisfied his curiosity a bit too readily. How does he know I’m not penning love letters to my six-foot-seven husband who currently resides in San Quentin? What does Coop care about that—he just listens to Dannika going on and on about the great times they’ve shared, careening wildly in and out of traffic. I can’t hear much of what they’re saying; random phrases drift back at me every now and then like bits of confetti, but I find little comfort in them. I hear Dannika calling out crazy night and that time in Seville and thought I’d die. I see her turning to him, her bright white teeth shining as she laughs, her profile so perfect and well-shaped it’s sculptural. They’re happily reminiscing, reliving their years of chummy intimacy, and I’m the recent acquisition, the girl-come-lately.

      Okay, we’re stopping. I’ve got to snap out of this. I’m working myself into a fuming little wad of rage back here. Smoke’s coming out of my ears. If I don’t regain control, Coop is going to see I’m a possessive, pint-sized freak with no sense of humor.

      More later…

      Hugs and kisses from the Furious Midget,

       Gwen

      Thursday, September 18

      10:23 a.m.

      

      Dear Marla,

      Since when is breakfast an organic banana, seven ounces of soy yogurt and a double shot of wheatgrass? This chick doesn’t eat enough to sustain a sparrow. God, I hope she develops a thyroid problem soon and becomes obscenely obese. Maybe then she’d know how the rest of us feel.

      Okay, that’s not nice of me. I should exercise a little compassion. But do Nordic supermodels who live on nondairy yogurt and wheatgrass really deserve my compassion?

      Here’s the thing: she hates me. I can tell.

      And she’s after Coop.

      Look, I know you said if they’ve been friends this long and they haven’t gotten together they obviously don’t have any chemistry. I knew at the time there was a gaping hole in your argument, but it took me this long to put my finger on it. You see, Coop’s never denied or confirmed the nature of their relationship history—he’s only referred to her as his “best friend.” He never sat me down and said, “Gwen, in case you’re wondering, Dannika and I never had sex.” Actually, come to think of it, I’ve barely heard any mention of Dannika at all in the three months we’ve been dating, except as an occasional character in the stories from his college days. I thought of her as a distant historical footnote, not as a rival worth considering. I was way more concerned about the cute blond barista with the crew cut who flirts with him at Café Europa.

      But now it’s clear to me: they’ve definitely had sex. Maybe not recently, maybe not on a regular basis, but they’ve slept together.

      I can’t decide what’s worse—knowing they’ve been intimate, or worrying that they’re dying to get intimate.

      Whatever. The point is, they’ve done the deed and now I’ll have to live with it. Every time he gets me naked, I’ll have to wonder how my hideous little pygmy body measures up to her smooth airbrushed curves. Okay, yes, so I have more curves than she does, actually, but my curves aren’t the miles-of-flawless-skin kind; my curves have dimples and…you know…texture issues.

      Is this productive in any way?

      God, how am I going to get through this weekend?

      Maybe if I just focus on the actual events, I’ll avoid a full-on panic attack.

      We’re back on the road now, headed along the coast. No I-5 for this crowd—way too sterile, according to Dannika. She’s all about the scenic route, even if it means extending our estimated time of arrival by at least three hours.

      The brief stop in Malibu was very enlightening. Satan was kind enough to yell over her shoulder that we’d be stopping soon for “breakfast.” I guess she was feeling guilty about shoving