Spa Day

Two women’s spa day masks a dark secret that binds them in guilt and loyalty.

         “There they go again,” Melissa Cambridge muttered. “Do you think those two could be any less obvious about their relationship?”

         Her companion snickered and slurped loudly through her straw, the oversized glass of chilled mimosa nestled between her hands.

         “You do know what they’re called, right?” Melissa ventured.

         The sunglasses hid her mocking gaze, but her lips curled up in derision all the same as her companion raised a brow in query.

         “The Bert and Ernie of Berkeley Avenue.”

         Both women tittered in delight at the irony of it all as they watched the flamboyant young men walk hand in hand across the street.

         “Can I get you ladies anything else?” came the polite question from their attendant, who offered them a tray filled with tiny finger foods.

         “Yes, I’d like—”

         Melissa coughed behind the glossy pages of her magazine, a barely audible “Audrey” drifting toward her now-mortified companion.

         “Not now,” Audrey Sutherland replied, sinking a little lower on the lounger as the attendant bowed and glided away.

         She stared longingly after the tray. Those cucumber sandwiches had really looked—

         “Keep stuffing yourself with all that food and you’ll become a big bird all right,” Melissa huffed. “Have you forgotten what you were called in high school?”

         Audrey stiffened.

         How could she possibly forget?

         Audrey the Cookie Monster—the girl who could almost always be found stuffing her face with the delicious delights her mother, who ran the local bakery, was prone to feeding her.

         “I’m on my diet,” she protested with a weak smile. “And I appreciate all your support—”

         “Stop talking,” Melissa interrupted, holding up a perfectly manicured hand. “Look who just walked in.”

         Audrey barely caught sight of the well-dressed woman being ushered into the spa by the overenthusiastic attendants. And why not? She was the wife of Senator Daniel Zverev and an alleged descendant of the count of some obscure Romanian town. With her exotic features and modelesque frame, it was a wonder mere mortals didn’t fawn and want to lick the ground she walked on.

         “Ugh. She makes me sick,” Melissa grumbled. “I mean, what the heck is she wearing? Last year’s collection from Wang? That ought to be in a trash can.”

         Audrey thought it looked lovely, and even made a mental note for her stylist to find something close to the sea-green silk wraparound dress. But one glance at Melissa’s expression of disdain kept her lips sealed.

         Thirty minutes later, both women were prone on massage tables, receiving first-class treatments from professional masseurs.

         Audrey sighed as the stresses of the week dissolved beneath firm, rhythmic pressure. Somewhere beside her, Melissa was still complaining about something—of course she was—and Audrey, grateful for the anonymity of the face cradle, allowed a small grimace to surface.

         She’s awful, her mind screamed. Just the worst. So why do you keep hanging around her? You’re no longer in high school, Audrey. Stop clinging to a friendship you don’t need anymore. Have you forgotten everything already?

         Of course not.

         If she had been the Cookie Monster, then Melissa had been The Grouch—the walking embodiment of the typical high school Miss Know-It-All with a mean streak.

         Except for one thing—

         Melissa “The Grouch” Cambridge had saved her life.

__

         She’s in the hallways of Milton High School—2001—struggling in size 20 jeans as mocking whispers of “Cookie Monster” and “Big Bird” trailed and swirled around her with every movement.

         Coming to school was agony, and making friends, next to impossible. She did her best to steer clear of the worst bullies, but the torment—year after year—was building into a hysterical scream inside her, begging for release.

         It all came to a head the night the Ravens won the State Championship.

         Excitement was at fever pitch, adrenaline running rampant among hormonal teenagers desperate to get it out somehow.

         It was Rory Whittaker—the linebacker—who cornered her once she stepped out of the restroom. He’d been stalking her like prey: eyes wide, nostrils flaring, breath hot and heavy as he pawed hungrily at her.

         She tried screaming, wondering where everyone else was, but the clothing stuffed in her mouth stifled her cries and nearly choked her.

         She squeezed her eyes shut and prayed for a miracle.

         And it came—with the sudden splash of something wet, hot, and metallic across her face and lips. It was followed by the gurgling sound that escaped his throat as his heavy body slumped against hers.

         It took her a long moment to realize someone was yelling at her to “get the eff up!”

         Pushing his body away, she looked up to see her saviour: a wild-eyed, trembling, and breathless Melissa holding a bloody baseball bat.

         They didn’t speak. They simply understood.

         Together, they erased every trace of what had happened. There would be no report, no accusation, no justice.

         Who would believe them? Whittaker was the town’s golden boy, the hero who’d just won the championship. Girls like Audrey and Melissa were easy targets—temptresses, attention seekers, liars.

         So they buried it all.

         And Melissa had borne the heavier secret ever since.

__


         “So,” Melissa said now, slinging her purse over one shoulder with a practiced smile. “Same time in a couple of weeks?”

         “Sure,” Audrey agreed.

         They exchanged polite hugs, promises to call, and parted with air-kisses that meant nothing.

         She’s the worst, Audrey thought, waving as the black sedan merged into traffic. But am I any better? Loyalty’s a strange kind of love. Blood sisters, bound by what we buried.

         For now—

         She hummed softly and drifted back into the beauty parlour.

         Those cucumber sandwiches had looked too good.

         One bite couldn’t hurt, could it?

         Melissa would understand.







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Word Count: 954
Prompt: In honor of Sesame Street Day on November 10 (it debuted on Nov. 10, 1969), write a story or poem that includes all of the following, BOLDED - the twist is to not make your entry about Sesame Street itself. big bird, the grouch, cookie monster, Bert and Ernie, trash can, the count
Written For: "The Writer's Cramp"