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“Hey, hey, hey.” It was a Thursday afternoon in late July, hot as hell. Coming through the phone line, SondraBeth’s husky voice sent prickles of electricity down Pandy’s spine. “Whatcha doin’, sista?”
“I’m bored as hell, sista,” Pandy replied with giggle.
“Let’s get out of Dodge.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah.”
“How?” Pandy asked. “You wrangle some poor man’s limo?”
“Betta, Peege.” They’d spent enough time together to develop their own silly secret lingo. “I got wheels.”
“Pick me up.”
“You got it, baby.”
Half an hour later, there was a terrific honking on the street outside Pandy’s building. She leaned out the window to see SondraBeth getting out of a small, shiny black car, waving like a game show contestant.
Pandy grabbed her overnight bag and ran downstairs.
“What the hell?” she asked breathlessly, staring in awe at the brand-new car. It was only a Volkswagen Jetta, but to Pandy, who’d never owned a car, it might as well have been a Bentley.
“How’d you get it?”
SondraBeth tapped the palm of one hand with the back of the other. “Cold hard cash. I went to the dealership on Fifty-Seventh Street and bought this baby right off the floor. Thanks to you, baby.” She pointed at Pandy. “I just got my first check.”
“Nice.”
“Get in.” SondraBeth opened the passenger door for Pandy. “Inhale that new car smell.” SondraBeth got behind the wheel, adjusting the mirrors.
“Where are we headed?” Pandy asked.
“I’m sick of the Hamptons. Too many goddamned journalists, even on the beach. How about Martha’s Vineyard?”
“The Vineyard?” Pandy shrieked. “But it’s a five-hour drive to the ferry.”
“So?”
“Five hours in a car?”
“That’s nothing. Back in Montana, you have to drive five hours to get to a supermarket.” SondraBeth expertly steered the car into a tiny opening between a bus and a van. “Besides, it might be a good idea if we’re not seen together in public for a couple of days.”
“Are you breaking up with me?” Pandy chortled.
“Hardly.” SondraBeth reached into the backseat and dropped the New York Post onto Pandy’s lap. In the top corner was a blurry color photograph of Pandy, mouth wide open as she screamed into a mike. PANDABETH STRIKES AGAIN, read the caption.
“So?” Pandy said, pleased she’d made the cover.
“So read the story,” SondraBeth said ominously. “PP certainly did.”
“PP?” Pandy asked, aghast, as she quickly flipped the grimy pages to Page Six.
“The devilish duo known as PandaBeth caused Panda-monium at Joules on Tuesday night when they took to the stage to belt out their own rendition of ‘I Kissed a Girl,’” Pandy read aloud. She scanned the rest of the story, emitted a short, unimpressed laugh, and tossed the paper onto the backseat. “That’s nothing.”
“Of course it’s nothing. But…” SondraBeth frowned.
