Disclaimer: That '70s Show copyright The Carsey-Werner Company, LLC and Twentieth Century Fox Home Entertainment, LLC. The fictional band Degenerate Matter, their albums Vagabondage, Ultrarelativistic, WIMPs and MACHOs, Frozen Stars, the songs "Interplanetary Dust," "Farther and Further," and all the lyrics contained therein copyright to the author of this story (username: MistyMountainHop, maker of Those '70s Comics).

CHAPTER 31
BETA DECAY

November 28, 1994

Foster City, California

Jackie's House
 …

Jackie had come home from Beverly Hills yesterday to a command on her answering machine: "You are to have cocktails and food ready by one p.m. on November twenty-eighth." The message was from Ann-Marie, informing her of Jackie's turn to host the biweekly Blonde Brigade party. Their gatherings usually happened on the weekend, but this one was for a Monday.

Normally, Jackie wouldn't question such an order. She'd make sure not to displease the friends she desperately needed to keep. But yesterday she'd called Ann-Marie for a confirmation: "This Monday, as in tomorrow?"

"Of course, dear. I've taken Monday off for the holiday, as has Brie. June's next audition is later in the week, and Deborah's always ready for a party. Tomorrow's a perfect day for it—oh, and be sure to dig out your high school year books. Ta!"

Ann-Marie's tone lacked any discernible annoyance. Her Thanksgiving must've been spectacular to inspire such patience. One bad word from her, and Jackie would have to leave the state, such was her influence. The Wintry name carried the same prestige in California as Burkhart had in Wisconsin during the '60s and '70s.

So Jackie hired a bartender for double the price, due to the short notice. Her housekeeper, Patricia, spent the morning making hors d'oeuvres. The smell of Spanish ham, lemon, and parsley wafted through the house as Jackie prepared the living room. The sophisticated Blonde Brigade section was close to the bar. It consisted of accent chairs with quilted backing, a contemporary two-level coffee table, and was set apart from her casual TV area.

Two hours before the Blonde Brigade was set to arrive, Jackie gutted a living room closet. Her high-school keepsakes were kept in a cardboard box, buried beneath other boxes full of history. Degenerate Matter played on the sound system while she did this task. The music helped her stay present. Disconnecting from feelings other than fear and self-loathing again would be unbearable. Thanksgiving had worn down her psychological defenses. They needed time to replenish, but Ann-Marie wasn't giving her that time.

Trophies from cheerleading competitions crowded gifts from Steven—his favorite Led Zeppelin shirt, her keys to both the Formans' basement and what used to be Steven's room. These mementos belonged to another person, a butterfly-Jackie whose parts had liquefied and devolved into a grubbing, larval state. She'd done the transformation in reverse, starting out beautiful and flying free to becoming ugly and crawling through muck in search for sustenance.

Her four Point Place High yearbooks were at the bottom of the box. She pulled them out as Ro Skirving sang Steven's words in "Interplanetary Dust". Over an hour was left until the cocktail party. She'd have plenty of time to cobble herself together, and she opened the '77-'78 yearbook to the Candids section.

Someone had snapped a picture of Steven embracing her by the lockers. She'd almost ripped out the page her first time seeing it. Steven had broken her heart by then. Slept with that nurse in retaliation for a betrayal Jackie hadn't committed. But beneath the picture, he'd written her a haiku:

The summer has come.
I thought the sun would burn me,
But I burnt the sun.

In seventeen syllables, he'd captured the turmoil behind their second breakup. She still wasn't sure after all these years how he'd gotten her yearbook, but his remorse was palpable. He'd understood what he'd done and why he'd done it. He cared enough to analyze himself and confront his insecurities, restoring her trust and their relationship.

"This dust I carry ain't nothin'. It came from death," Ro sang through the living room speakers, "but it reforms into new life, stars and planets I call home, a solar system of my own."

Jackie closed the yearbook and piled it on top of the other three. Steven was a born lyricist, had a poet's soul. He'd built a good life for himself and wanted her to be part of it, yet she spent her days treading a dark sea, unsure whether to let herself drown. Starlight was absorbed by the water, not reflected back. He'd be better off without her.

The living room was as immaculate as her makeup by party-time. Her history was safely hidden away except for the yearbooks. Ray, the bartender, had mixed the first set of cocktails. Patricia put out the first hors d'oeuvres, a plate of Spanish ham with olives and oranges The Blonde Brigade arrived shortly afterward, each woman with a designer tote bag and an unexpected demeanor. Air-kisses were exchanged with Jackie as well as compliments.

"Is that a new blouse?" Brie said. "Looks fabulous."

"The view of the lagoon from here really is so lovely," Ann-Marie said.

"I'm impressed you could pull this off." Deborah said, heading for the bar. "I hope the drinks taste as good as the bartender looks."

June adjusted the folded collar of her own blouse and said, "Nice choice in music."

That last statement smacked Jackie in the forehead. June despised Degenerate Matter. She'd never hidden her contempt of the band before, and Jackie stood back as the women collected their first drinks. The Blonde Brigade's positivity was artificial, manufactured, but its purpose wasn't clear.

Ann-Marie, June, Deborah, and Brie sat at the coffee table with their drinks. Jackie grabbed her own from the bar, but her first sip of it was too sweet. "Ray," she said, "what is this?"

"A pumpkin pie martini," he said.

"Oh, no..." She put the glass back on the bar. That cocktail was desert in disguise. "Could you pour me some sparkling water, please?"

Ray did as she asked, and Deborah said, "How can you be worried about your waistline? This is a party!"

Jackie was concerned—but about much more than her weight. She'd told Ray to make autumn-themed drinks, but she hadn't considered the sugar factor. "Party or no," she said and brought her glass of water to the cofee table, "I don't do sweets."

"Neither do I." June swallowed a gulp of pumpkin martini. "I'll be paying for this at the gym … and for this." She bit into an hors d'oeuvre and shut her eyes. She seemed to savor the taste of the Spanish ham. "Sometimes I hate being a model-actress."

"Oh, shut up," Deborah said. "You love it—and you're seven-feet tall. Any calories you eat fall into a black hole."

The conversation bounced from one woman to another, seguing from weight to fashion, but Jackie leaned back in her chair, barely listening. She'd put on a new concert tape Steven had sent her, of Degenerate Matter's show in Edinburgh, Scotland from the summer. The band taped all its shows for posterity and potential official release to the fan club. .

"This song is incredibly moving, Jacqueline," Ann-Marie said, and Jackie kicked the coffee table. It was an accident. She'd uncrossed her legs without paying attention, but she hadn't knocked over any drinks.

"I'm sorry, what?"

"This song," Ann-Marie repeated. "It's beautiful. What's the name of it?"

Jackie's pulse tightened. "'Farther and Further,' but you've heard it before."

"Not like this." Ann-Marie gestured to Patricia, who was standing by the kitchen door. The first plate of hors d'oeuvres was empty, and Patricia replaced it with one full of taleggio flatbread, seasoned with rosemary. "Ray, the second round of cocktails, please!" Ann-Marie said. She'd taken over the party, as she so often did, regardless of who was hosting it.

Ray brought over a tray of bright-orange drinks. "These are Fennel Crushes," he said before returning to the bar. Jackie sipped her drink. It tasted like a mixture of licorice and orange juice, and the flavors worked surprisingly well together. The sweetness was subtle, too, enough for her to enjoy.

"Who wrote it," Ann-Marie said, "a hired songwriter or the band itself?"

"The shitty band wrote it," Deborah said. "Who else?"

Brie waved at Deborah dismissively with a napkin then wiped crumbs off her fingers. "The band isn't shitty. Ro Skirving is the '90s rock it girl—"

"Shit girl, you mean," Deborah said with a laugh, but Brie talked over her.

"Cosette keeps calling Degenerate Matter's people with no luck. If we could score that interview, we'd be the magazine of the decade." Brie picked up her glass of Fennel Crush but didn't drink from it. "To answer your question, Ann-Marie, Ro's the composer."

"No," Jackie said. "O. MacNeil co-wrote the music with Ro Skirving, and the lyrics are his."

"O. MacNeil?" Ann-Marie's over-plucked brows creased. "Is that a man or a woman?"

"Lee Turnbull," June said quietly and counted off her fingers, "Sherry Chambers, Nate Stack, Ro Skirving … oh, God, wait until I tell Trevor!" She covered her mouth and laughed into her hand. "Degenerate Matter doesn't write its own music."

Jackie put down her glass of Fennel Crush, loud enough to clink on the coffee table. "Okay, June, since when do you know the name of Degenerate Matter's band members?"

"Since my husband loves the band. He's into all that grunge music, and whenever he's home, that's what we listen to. It''s—" June gazed at the ceiling, as if she were embarrassed—"grown on me."

"Not enough to be informed about it," Jackie said. She crossed her arms over her chest and recrossed her legs. Her foot was shaking in the air. She likely resembled an incensed guest on The Ricki Lake Show, being confronted by an ex-lover. "O. MacNeil is part of the band. He's essentially the fifth member. He even sings and performs one of the songs on their latest album."

"Is he a personal friend of yours," Deborah said, "because—"

"No."

"Because you sound very protective of him." Debora lifted her glass to her lips. She was looking at Jackie with a glint of deviousness, and as she drank, she continued to stare. "Aren't we supposed to outgrow our devotion to shitty music once we graduate high school? I mean, 'The further into space you look, the farther back in time you see'? Clichéd lyrics if I've ever heard any."

"You've obviously never heard any," Brie said.

"Yeah," June said. "With your hundred-year-old husband, I'm sure you listen to Sinatra all day."

"I listen to cool music! I like Celine Dion—"

"Deborah, darling, do be quiet," Ann-Marie said. "Jacqueline, if you'd be so kind to send me a copy of this album?"

"Sure," Jackie said, but she had no intention of copying this particular concert for her. It was special from Steven and not a recording he wanted spread around. She'd copy a different bootleg with a live version of "Farther and Further" on it. Ann-Marie would never know the difference.

"Thank you, and now..." Ann-Marie bent over in her chair and rummaged in her tote bag. It was the least graceful Jackie had ever seen her, and when Ann-Marie laid her yearbooks to her lap, a giddy expression seized her face. "Shall we?"

The rest of the Blonde Brigade brought out their yearbooks. Jackie's rested on the lower level of the coffee table, and she hesitantly picked them up. Her greatest wish for today was that they'd stay closed. They contained her past, and the last six years of her life was all these women were allowed to have.

Hyde woke in one of his guest bedrooms, alone. The air smelled of tobacco, and displayed on the nightstand was the cause: an ashtray overflowing with stubbed-out cigarettes. He'd smoked over a pack of American Spirits last night. His throat was paying for it, burning, phlegmy. He coughed painfully into a wad of tissues and checked the result. No blood … this time. But one day that would change unless he did.

He'd come home to Minneapolis from Chicago yesterday, incommunicable. A decade ago, his turmoil would've led him to drinking, but he'd grown past that, choosing instead to isolate. Ro had spat every curse she knew at him, her attempt to draw him out. She'd banged on the door, maybe even kicked it, but didn't use the key. She wouldn't force his parole.

The morning light streamed in through the windows, and he shivered. Its warmth felt cold to him, despite the radiator heating the room. A hot shower would be the same., wet drops pounding into his skin like icy hail stones. Water could slough off the surface grime but not what was inside.

He sat on the edge of the bed, bent over his knees, and his fingers laced together at the back of his head. He'd slept above the sheets, in his day clothes. It was an old survival habit from childhood, one that let him flee when Edna—or whoever she'd brought home—was too dangerous.

His rough breathing filled his ears, and he coughed to break up more phlegm. He was waiting for his isolation to end. Ro had to knock on the door and ask if he was all right, but that wouldn't happen. He needed to go to her, to release himself.

The main riff from the Beatles' "I Feel Fine" met him when he left the guest room. Ro was playing guitar, and he followed the music down the hall. The jam room's door was open a crack. He pushed it open all the way and found Ro on the faux-leather sofa with her '87 Rickenbacker. She was dressed in a flimsy tank top, no bra. A pair of loose-fitting lounge pants had slipped halfway off her hips.

She didn't look at him as he entered, but she quit playing the guitar. A mug of coffee sat on the coffee table. She picked it up and took a sip. He'd have to speak first.

"Mornin'," he croaked. His vocal cords were shot. He coughed, breaking up the last bit of phlegm, but his throat would need a day to recover.

"Smoked yourself out of a voice, did you?" she said. "Convenient."

He maintained his distance, standing by the Runaways poster on the wall. "You don't want to hear what I got to say anyway."

She strummed the Beatles' riff again. "Turn that around."

"Sometimes the story's important."

"You repeat it enough to yourself, love. You imprison yourself with it. Not going to be your warden."

He cleared his throat. It was empty of phlegm, but speaking was physically difficult. Couldn't get enough air into his lungs. He needed water or a soft place for his brain to lay. "Should've gone to prison."

Ro set the guitar aside and stood. Her lounge pants slipped lower on her hips, but she pulled them up. The front tie was undone. She yanked both ends tightly and knotted them together. No more easy access.

"I—" he began, but she shook her head, shutting him up.

A bookcase across from the sofa was crammed with notebooks. She plucked one out and grabbed a pen from the desk beside it. Then she shoved both pen and notebook at his chest. "Write it down."

He let the notebook and pen drop to the floor. "Fuck that."

"Or we could fuck—after you brush your teeth."

His tongue tasted like garbage. His breath must've smelled the same. "You and I shouldn't have happened."

"Okay, you've got my attention." She reached toward him, and he grasped her hand. Her touch, their physical connection, was grounding.

"Been livin' a life that isn't mine to live," he said hoarsely. "Committed a class E felony battery in Wisconsin. Carries a max sentence of fifteen years."

She nodded, and he hardly believed it. He'd finally smuggled that detail past her defenses. "You've been living that sentence out," she said, echoing what Forman had told him. "I've witnessed it firsthand."

"Other people who do what I did , they don't get out of going to prison." He let go of her hand and drank from her mug of coffee. His throat needed lubrication. "My uncle Chet beat the crap out of the guy who slept with his chick. Guy's kidney ruptured, had to be removed, and Chet was sentenced with a Class H felony battery." He ran his thumb over the scar on his left arm, the one Ro had given him. "Six years in prison, man … and he got one year of freedom before death nabbed him."

"He's not you." She gripped his hand again, tighter this time. Her bare foot brushed aside the notebook he let fall to the floor, and she risked stepping closer to him. "Other people aren't you. The universe had other plans, has other plans for you."

That was a convenient rationalization, one he wished he could buy. "What if the cosmos is waitin' for me to do the right thing? To give up voluntarily all I got?"

"What's the statute of limitations on what you did?"

"Six years."

She smirked, and under other circumstances, he'd have kissed the smugness off her face. "Knew you'd know that," she said. "Your incarceration would've been a waste. Done nothing good for the world."

"Other people are still paying for my mistake."

"So destroying your life is—what, recompense? Justice? Punishment?"

"Don't care about mine. It's theirs I'm worried about."

She thrust his hand away from her. "Fuck you."

"What?"

"Fuck. You."

"Ro." He stepped forward. She'd gone to the window, which overlooked the Mississippi River. "A kid lost her dad 'cause of what I did. If he'd gone to prison instead, like he should have ... hell, he probably wouldn't have, and that shit—" provoked a desire to demolish Kelso's face all over again, but he stopped talking. Ro didn't know what Kelso had done to Jackie. That wasn't for him to share, but—"His mind would be intact if he'd gone to prison."

She clutched the window sill. "Stories only make things worse. They're usually told by unreliable narrators. That kid has her da, has two. It's up to her and that Kelso bampot to figure their rubbish out."

"That's the point, man! They'd have nothin' to work out if I hadn't worked out my garbage on his skull."

"But you did, and so what?" She released the sill and faced him. "Rehabilitation is better than punishment, and you rehabilitated yourself more than the prison system ever could. Society doesn't always get it right. Locking you away would have deprived..." Her hands clenched into fists. "You don't care about your life being destroyed? What about mine?"

"You'd get along without me—"

"Leave."

He stayed put. "I'm just—"

"Get the hell out of here!" She tossed a sofa pillow at him. He didn't duck, and it smacked him in the neck. "I'm not coddling your guilt, so if that's what you're after, you can go elsewhere." She marched up to him and shoved his shoulders. "Go on, you asshole!"

"Not looking for coddling. Just a way to fix what I've done."

"You leave it behind! That's how you fix it." She shoved his shoulders again, hard enough to push him back a step. "If seeing the kid brings you this kind of pain, stop seeing her—"

"Can't do that."

"Then kill yourself already. Why prolong it?"

"Well, that's just swell advice." He strode past her and bolted from the jam room. She didn't chase after him.

He was on the road a short while later, riding his '76 Honda CB750K across the Franklin Avenue Bridge. Minneapolis's warm spell had finally ended, and frigid air sliced through his wool coat. The cold didn't bother him. It felt natural, as if his skin were made of frost.

His helmet protected his skull—the outside, at least—and kept his long hair from being a nuisance. He could see well enough, not that the Franklin Avenue Bridge was much to look at. Neither was the sky. Dense clouds blocked the sun and painted the city with monochrome colors. Gray roads, gray buildings, and a gray Mississippi River, all reflecting the sky above.

Beyond the bridge, on the river's other side, was the Witch's Hat Water Tower. It rose above Prospect Park and supposedly inspired Bob Dylan's "All Along the Watchtower". It was an apt song to have in mind. He was the joker, and Ro had tried to be the thief, but they couldn't ride together today. She'd done what she usually did when her tactics failed: pushed him out.

Her arguments were sound, but they hadn't caused an emotional shift. He was imprisoned in an infernal place with no path for her to travel. She needed to forge one, but she had neither the tools nor the patience. Or, maybe, she was simply frightened; but on days like these, so was he.

The Blonde Brigade had become loud and giggly after a third cocktail. Each member was more than buzzed, except for Jackie. She was sober. Thanks to the sugar content in the drinks, she'd stuck mostly to club soda. Her friends, though, were so wrapped up in their past that they didn't notice. Pictures of '70s fashions, hairstyles, and old boyfriends had them shrieking with laughter.

Exchanged yearbooks lay on laps, and Jackie worried about grease getting on hers. Patricia had brought out a plate of spicy tuna tartare, and the Blonde Brigade's fingers were less than immaculate. Jackie's '77 yearbook sat open on Brie's lap. A waffle-chip crumb fell onto the current page, and Jackie swiped it away with a napkin.

"I can't believe how brunette you were!" Brie said. "And the feathering is perfect!" She combed fingers through her blond pixie cut. "Maybe I should go brown."

"Don't you dare," June and Debora said together.

"Yes, brown is out," Ann-Marie said. "The color should be flushed from people's hair like sewer water."

Alcohol had purged any pretense of graciousness she had, and Jackie swallowed an insult with a large gulp of soda water. Ann-Marie sounded like the cheerleaders on Jackie's old squad, like Jackie herself used to. She once believed brunette hair was superior to all others, but hair was just hair. It didn't determine a person's value, not even hair as red as Donna's.

Even so, whenever Jackie was forced to look in a mirror—to ensure her appearance was acceptable—her blond hair seemed like a wig. Sometimes she imagined shaving it all off.

"Confession-time, Jackie," Brie said and clutched Jackie's yearbook with both hands. She was pressing it down hard on her lap, probably weakening the spine. "You've seen all our boyfriends. Show us who you dated."

"Fine." Jackie took her yearbook back, if only to protect it from further damage. "My first boyfriend..." She flipped through the pages until she found a candid picture of Michael at his peak. He was sitting on the hood of Eric's first car, the Vista Cruiser, in the school parking lot. His model-perfect face hadn't yet been pulverized by a mugger. He was tall, broad-shouldered, and a bit too thin, but his T-shirt showed off the muscles in his arms. "There." She held up the yearbook. "Michael Kelso."

"Ooh, a pretty-boy," Deborah said.

"God, he's gorgeous!" June put down her flute of Cinnamon Snap on the coffee table. "Did he become an actor? I swear, I've seen that face on a soap."

"No." Jackie shut the yearbook and put it on the floor, hoping that would deter any more questions.

It didn't. The expected interrogation began: how good a kisser was he? How was he in bed? Why did they break up?

"He's a loving father and a hard worker," Jackie said, and that was all she'd share. Her history with Michael was as complicated as it was sad. His cheating, his rape of her, his near-death beating, his alcoholism, his pleas for help to see his child—none of that was fodder for gossip.

Ann-Marie sipped her Cinnamon Snap. "So you keep in touch?"

"I'm godmother to his daughter, so yes. And I'm friends with his girlfriend."

A disappointed, "Oh," rose into the air from all but Brie, who sang impishly, "Jackie has a type..."

"I do not," Jackie said, unless Brie meant assholes.

"You like androgynous men," Brie said. "Your first boyfriend was more than a pretty-boy. He could've played Jaclyn Smith's part on Charlie's Angels. And your ex-husband—"

"Was prettier than Deborah!" June cackled and stuffed a waffle chip of tuna tartare into her mouth. "Oh, God … all that makeup! The music was great, but the look? I can't believe we were into straight guys who dressed in drag."

"You know what I think?" Deborah patted Ann-Marie's arm, and Ann-Marie brushed her off forcefully, as if Deborah were made from feces. Deborah was too sloshed too notice, however, and said, "I think Jackie might be les … les … Lebanese!"

June scowled. "Enough, Deborah! Just because she dated men with some feminine features doesn't make her gay."

"Maybe it does!" Deborah shouted and grabbed her cocktail flute. "We've got no proof otherwise. She rejected each of the men we offered her—" She swallowed the last of her drink. "Mm, this one's really good. Ray, I'll have another!"

"You've got to tell your hair stylist to lay off the bleach," June said. "The chemicals are getting to your brain."

"She didn't reject all of them," Brie said. "She fucked my friend Rod."

Deborah chuckled derisively. "One time."

Jackie turned in her chair and looked away. A picture window occupied a sizable portion of the wall behind her. Outside, the lagoon was calm, flat. Months ago, she would've been the same. But the emotions roiling inside her disturbed her surface. She breathed deeply while waiting for further exposure. Brie had to know about her second dismal night with Rod, but the reveal never came.

"Being bi-curious is hip right now," Brie said to Deborah. "On trend. You'd know that if you read Cosette more often. Expand your—"

"Jacqueline, darling," Ann-Marie said, and Jackie's gaze locked onto to her, "were you and this Michael together all throughout high school?"

Jackie picked up the last of the tuna tartare hors d'oeuvres. "No."

"Did you date anyone else?" Ann-Marie said.

"Yes." Jackie bit into the waffle chip, and the spiced tuna burned her tongue.

"Was it a girl?" Deborah said and snorted with laughter. Ray had brought her another Cinnamon Snap.

June's scowl reappeared. "Shut her up already, Jackie. Look at how she's making me frown. I can't afford to have lines in my face. I'm a goddamn model!"

Jackie picked up her '78 yearbook. If she'd actually been gay or bisexual, none of these women would be on her date list. "I wish I could've gone out with the hottest girl in my high school."

All four women stared at her, and June said, "You do?"

Deborah smacked June's arm. "Told you!"

"But that was impossible," Jackie said, "considering I was the hottest girl in my high school."

June smirked triumphantly. Brie laughed into her hand, and even Ann-Marie let out a silent chuckle. Deborah, though, rolled her eyes like a teenager.

"Sorry to dash your dreams," Jackie said, looking at Deborah, "but we won't be having a secret affair. If I do have a type, it's the opposite of you."

June burst into laughter, and Brie said, "Wow!" with her mouth agape. "Cocktails make you bold! I like it."

Deborah snatched Jackie's glass. "What's in this, vodka?" She took a sip. "Ugh! It's just water."

"I do believe a new Jacqueline is emerging," Ann-Marie said, but Jackie couldn't read her intention. "Let's not delay this any further, shall we? Show us boyfriend number two."

Jackie paged through the yearbook. Perhaps this gathering had no ulterior motive after all. The Blonde Brigade's brighter attitude could've been a fluke, like her mom's newfound respect had to be a fluke. Then again, for all the emotional and social malfunction Jackie still suffered, a shift had occurred. If people were responding positively to it, maybe the change had been a good one.

"This is him," she said and pointed to a senior candid of Steven. He was learning against a row of lockers, clutching his belt buckle. Sunglasses covered his eyes, and his face was impassive.

"You did not date him." Brie grabbed the yearbook from her and studied the picture closely. "Holy shit, Jackie. He's hot!"

Ann-Marie scooted her chair closer to Brie's and peered at the picture. "He's scruffy. Look at that hair, those pork-chop sideburns."

Deborah and June both called for the yearbook to be passed to them, but Brie wouldn't relinquish her hold. So Deborah and June got out of their chairs and stood behind hers.

"Was he poor?" Deborah said. "Poor people work harder to please in bed. They have so much to prove, and he looks like a good fuck."

"Stop being so crude already," June said. "Led Zeppelin T-shirt, sunglasses indoors … he had to be a pothead."

"I'd fuck him in a minute," Brie said in a lusty tone Jackie didn't like, but the rest of the Blonde Brigade teased Brie—that she'd revealed how short sex with her lasted, that her divorce made sense now. "Wait, wait!" Brie shouted "The sex itself would last two hours at least. I meant I'd go for it after introductions. No dating necessary. The things I'd do..."

One of her hands finally let go of Jackie's yearbook, and she primped her short hair, as if Steven were present to see it. "Guys didn't look like this in my high school. He's so rock-star chic. … Of course, he can't look like that anymore."

"He doesn't," Jackie said, and a collective, "Ooh!" slammed her ears. She'd spoken before she'd thought. It was a mistake she had to undo.

Brie's foot nudged Jackie's. "Details, lady! When did you last see him?"

"A funeral," not the truth but close enough. It was the first time Jackie had seen him since they were teenagers. "You know, the one Deborah thought was a baby shower and June thought was my goddaughter's birthday party?"

"Michael Kelso's daughter?" June said. Michael's former good looks must have enhanced her memory. Next time Jackie told her information about herself, she'd have to hold up an old photo of him while spoke.

"Did he lose all that hair?" Deborah said. "Is he fat? My high-school ex went bald and gained a bunch of weight. My Robby's ten years older than him and looks ten years younger."

"Thanks to Hair Club for Men," June whispered.

"Not bald, not fat." Jackie used all her self-control not to rip her yearbook from Brie. Brie was searching for more of Steven's pictures, and she let out a squeal. She'd reached the page Jackie had prayed she wouldn't find.

"You two are adorable together!" Brie said. She was pointing at the picture where Jackie and Steven had been captured mid-embrace. "And his ass is fine! Tell me you didn't squeeze that every chance you got."

Jackie pressed herself against her chair until every bump of its quilted backing dug into her spine. "It was a squeezable butt," she said, if only to distract Brie from the haiku beneath the picture. But Brie's gaze lingered on the candid longer than Jackie could tolerate. "Go to the Homeroom section. He flipped off the photographer, and they kept it in."

"I have to see that." Brie turned to the correct section of the yearbook, and her cheeks flushed, adding more color to them than her rouge. "I think I'm falling in love with this guy."

"You're just drunk," June said and returned to her chair.

Deborah tutted at the picture. "The things one could get away with in the '70s." She returned o her chair, too.

"Was his hair soft?" Brie said. "Oh, God, tell me he kept all of it."

"Every strand," Jackie said.

"Yeah, right." June snapped her fingers at Ray, who was making the final set of cocktails at the bar. He glanced up, and she said, "You believe her ex still has all his hair?"

Ray filled a cocktail shaker with ice cubes. "She's the one paying me, so yup."

June blew out a scornful breath. "It's got to be receding."

"His hairline's intact," Jackie said.

"Then it thinned," June said.

Jackie recognized this game. The Blonde Brigade hadn't paid this much attention to June's high school boyfriends. Her ego was bruised, and she tried to boost it by putting Jackie down through Steven. Not that long ago, Jackie would've let her succeed.

"Thick as ever," Jackie said, with a smile from her dusty arsenal of confidence. "In fact, he grew it long."

Pity seized Deborah's face. "So he's gay."

"Darling, please drop it," Ann-Marie said. Hearing her voice was jarring. She'd been silent the last few minutes, but she'd given Jackie's yearbook the same attention the rest of the Blonde Brigade had. "Your homophobia's grown tiresome."

"Homo-what?" Deborah said.

June put up a hand, as if to block Deborah's voice, and Jackie said, "He's in the music scene."

"Of course he is!" Brie shut the yearbook and hugged it to her chest. "Rock freakin' god!" She reopened the yearbook to Steven's senior candid shot. "What does he play?"

"Guitar—" Jackie's jaw clenched. She had to stop talking about him.

"His body," Brie said breathlessly. "What about his body?"

Jackie shook her head, and June, Deborah, and Ann-Marie all said together, "He's fat."

"He's got a better body than Trevor," Jackie said, referencing June's star-pitcher husband.

"Oh, screw you," June said, and Jackie cursed herself for falling into her old ways, for being so verbally careless.

Deborah clapped excitedly. "I love the new Jackie!"

Brie, meanwhile, shut her eyes in some kind of reverie, and Ann-Marie barked orders to Patricia and Ray as they brought the last round of food and drinks. These women really were quite drunk. They were also lucky they could afford drivers to get them home safely.

June swiped a lemon-parsley gougère, a type of choux pastry, from Patricia's plate. "Is he on steroids?"

"He'd never do that," Jackie said, despite not knowing if it was the truth. Regardless, her friends could keep their bad impressions of her but not of him. "He does a lot of heavy lifting when he's on the road with his band. It keeps him in shape."

"And you learned all this at the funeral," Ann-Marie said. The final cocktail was called a Maple Clove Twist. Ray had poured it into brandy snifters, and she swirled the russet liquid around hers. "You must not have been well-connected to the deceased—or the deceased's family—to talk throughout the service."

Jackie risked a sip of the cocktail, but as the sweet liquid heated her throat, she envisioned every cell in her body bloating. "We spent time catching up," she said and put the brandy snifter down. "We hadn't seen each other in almost fifteen years."

"Was it a tawdry affair you had?" Ann-Marie popped a gougère into her mouth, and no one else spoke as she chewed and swallowed. "A fling with a bad boy to piss off your father? Or was the relationship more serious?"

"Who cares about that?" Brie slapped Jackie's knee with the yearbook, and Jackie blocked a subsequent strike. "The sex! Tell us how the sex was."

"Oh, do tell!" Deborah said, and the phone rang. "It was hot and dirty, wasn't it?"

The phone rang again, and Jackie rose to her feet. She always screened her phone calls, but this call was her means of escape.

The nearest phone was located in her casual TV area, and she dashed across the living room. Whoever was on the other end of the call would get a mental kiss from her, whether it was a charity, a credit card company, or her mom.

"What band is he in?" June shouted after her.

"I need a current picture of this guy!" Brie shouted next.

"What about Antonio?" Ann-Marie said. "I thought he was a contender for husband number two."

"We're going south," Brie said as Jackie reached the phone. It was in the middle of the fourth ring, and she grabbed the receiver.

"Hello?" Jackie said.

A phone operator's nasal voice answered. "This is a collect call from..."

"Steven Hyde," a man said hoarsely through the receiver, and Jackie's grip on the phone tightened.