Twisted Sisters by Jen Lancaster Read Free Book Online

exactly, Reagan,” Dr. Karen says, surprised that I’m actually familiar with
     what she’s saying.
    This is exasperating, as Pepperdine isn’t exactly clown college. (And it’s not like
     they hosted
Circus of the Stars
there, either.) “Naturally I’m familiar, what with being a doctor and all,” I reply
     curtly.
    Then Dr. Karen literally pats my hand in an infuriatingly condescending manner. The
     way she reaches for me instantly reminds me of a praying mantis grabbing at a leaf.
     Why did it take me until now to make the comparison? Put that bug in vintage Dior,
     apply too much rouge, and I swear I couldn’t tell the difference between them.
    “Of course you are, my dear,” she says. “Anyway, the book’s called
The Thanwell Diaries
and it recounts the bizarre behavior I’ve documented from patients taking that drug.”
    “What’s Thanwell? Like Ambien?” Mindy’s equally bronzed buddy asks. What’s her name?
     Crystal? Jewel? Amber? Something gemstone inspired and vaguely white trash—that much
     I remember.
    “Thanwell is like Ambien on crack,” I interject. “The drug is absorbed ten times more
     quickly and is prone to cause delusions and hallucinations. I’m at a loss to understand
     why the FDA hasn’t pulled this dreadful product. Those who take it report a high frequency
     of episodes where they engage in all kinds of risky behavior, like sleep driving,
     sleep eating, sleep shopping, etcetera. I worked with one gentleman who after ingesting
     Thanwell—which he took against my counsel—serenaded his entire condo complex. This
     incident was troubling for a number of reasons, namely because he can’t sing, it was
     four a.m. on a Tuesday, and
he was completely nude
, save for a pair of cowboy boots. He was so humiliated afterward that he put his
     place on the market, sold it at a loss, and moved out of town. He was almost ruined
     financially.”
    Dr. Karen snorts in a most unbecoming fashion and slaps the table. “That’s
hilarious
! Give me his e-mail address! I’d love to include his story in my book. Oh, wait until
     you hear what this one lady did . . .”
    Before Dr. Karen can launch into her story, I slip away from the table. Technically,
     she’s not violating patient confidentiality, yet I’ve no desire to encourage her spilling
     salacious details.
    Besides, that story’s for
my
book someday.
    Of course, if I’d listened to Boyd, I’d have dropped out to write and follow him on
     the thus-far-unpaid surfing circuit. He said with the way I devoured books and observed
     human behavior, he was sure I’d produce something amazing. Let’s see . . . a doctorate
     and guaranteed professional success, or one enormous crapshoot of which I’d never
     hear the end if I were to fail? No contest there.
    I step out onto the lanai for a quick breath of air before the evening’s programming
     begins.
    From behind me I hear, “Reagan Bishop, tear down this wall!”
    I whip around to see Deva, grinning like the Cheshire cat. Instead of her usual dashiki
     or ikat caftan, today she’s all wrapped up in the traditional garb of boldly printed
     Hawaiian kapa cloth. Does she even own a pair of jeans? And what does laundry day
     look like at her house? I have to wonder. She’s also opted for a haku lei floral headpiece
     woven with orchids and banana leaves. She’s quite the contrast to me in my white J.Crew
     sundress with a dove gray cardigan and hair pulled up in a high bun.
    Deva explains, “You said when growing up, people would always quote Ronald Reagan
     because of your first name. I thought ‘tear down this wall’ could be our thing.”
    “Deva, this is
not
going to be our thing. Do you not recall the part earlier where I told you how much
     I hated that?”
    Undaunted, Deva reaches up to scratch under the back of her headpiece. “Well, you
     were slurring pretty badly by that point, Reagan Bishop. My apologies for misunderstanding.”
    To this day, I’m