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Pandy scratched her arm. “You want me to perform? In front of you? I’d rather show you my vagina,” she joked.
“Come on, Peege,” SondraBeth wheedled.
Pandy sighed. SondraBeth knew her too well. Or at least knew her well enough to know that given the chance to show off, Pandy needed little encouragement.
“All right,” Pandy said as she quickly cleared away some of the deck furniture to make a small stage.
Getting into the spirit of things, SondraBeth took a seat behind a table as if they were at an actual audition. “We’ll pretend that you’re the actress and I’m the writer.” She cleared her throat and, squinting at an imaginary piece of paper, asked, “Pandemonia James Wallis?”
“I go by PJ,” Pandy said.
“And what are you going to do for us today?” SondraBeth gave her the sort of fake smile Pandy had no doubt worn when she was auditioning actresses for Monica.
“Gwendolen’s monologue from The Importance of Being Earnest,” Pandy said.
SondraBeth shrieked with laughter. “That old thing? That’s what every rookie chooses. Well, go ahead.”
Pandy gave her a dirty look. She took a deep breath and began: “You have admired me? Yes, I am quite well aware of the fact. And I often wish that in public, at any rate, you had been more demonstrative. For me, you have always had an irresistible fascination—”
“Stop!” SondraBeth howled. “It’s too awful. If you continue, I shall burst apart with laughter.”
“I told you I couldn’t act,” Pandy grumbled good-naturedly.
“Oh, Peege.” SondraBeth grinned. “You’re hilarious. I’ve never seen anyone be so squishy and so elbow-y at the same time.”
“And what, exactly, is that supposed to mean?”
“You keep wriggling around. Like a worm. Acting is all about being still.”
* * *
Pandy awoke early the next morning to find that SondraBeth had already left the house. Pandy hadn’t slept well, thanks to Doug Stone and Lala Grinada. She kept picturing them together, wondering what Lala had that she didn’t.
Goddamned Squeege, she thought.
Wondering vaguely where SondraBeth had gone, Pandy made tea and perused a guidebook to the island’s flora and fauna. There was a rare silver heron that could be found in one of the island’s marshy coves just after sunrise.
Why not? Pandy thought, changing into a bathing suit. Why not chase down this elusive heron? After all, as SondraBeth kept pointing out last night before each shot of tequila, they didn’t have anything better to do.
She winced slightly as she clapped a canvas safari hat onto her head. She picked up a towel from the floor, found her cell phone, and set off on the golf cart.
The air was warm but soothingly dry. The golf cart kicked up a small cloud of sparkly white dust on the pretty manicured roads made of ground shells. She passed several iguanas, the island’s main residents, and a few wild chickens that had escaped from the workers who came to the island by small planes. The island felt blissfully deserted. This was twenty-first-century luxury, Pandy thought: no people.
She sped quietly past the airstrip and through a low, thick forest of scrub bushes and cacti, which she’d been cautioned not to attempt to cross on foot. The road curved along a point of land that sheltered a shallow inlet, where the rare heron could supposedly be found. Pandy parked the golf cart and made her way along a small path to the rocky beach. The vegetation was sparse, and she situated herself between two bushes to wait.
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She heard a crisp snap, like laundry flapping in a breeze, and looked up to see two enormous herons navigating a landing in the shallow water in front of her. Pandy picked up her cell phone and took a few hasty shots. The birds stood stock-still in the water, their heads slightly cocked, waiting for the bonefish fry on which they survived. Finding the pickings slim, they began to move around the rocky point.
Determined to get a picture, Pandy crept along the path next to the shore. She peered through the tall grass and nearly gasped aloud. The herons weren’t alone. Standing nude in the middle of the inlet, balanced on one leg, arms stretched overhead and palms together in a classic yoga pose, was SondraBeth. She was now so slim and her skin so white, Pandy at first mistook her for some kind of large, exotic bird and nearly dropped her phone in excitement. But birds didn’t have mature female breasts.
Pandy let out a long, slow breath and began to creep closer. SondraBeth continued to stare straight ahead, the pose rock-steady even as the herons began to approach. She was so still, the herons must have mistaken her for one of their own, for they hardly glanced in her direction. Moving one careful, silent inch at a time, Pandy slunk through the bushes until she was a mere twenty feet away.
Staring at SondraBeth, Pandy suddenly understood what her friend had meant when she said that acting was about being still. Pandy wondered how it must feel to be able to stand perfectly motionless like a statue; so much a part of nature that even nature took you for granted. She considered making her presence known, but then thought better of it. This was obviously one of SondraBeth’s few private moments, and Pandy was encroaching. She’d back away slowly, and SondraBeth would never know she had been there. She’d file away the image as one of those unusual experiences that keep their power only when they remain secret.
She was about to sneak back to the golf cart when suddenly SondraBeth turned her head and stared straight at her. Embarrassed, Pandy froze. Had SondraBeth actually seen her, or had she merely sensed a presence?
“You look just like Margaret Mead,” SondraBeth said.
