Robin Wasserman - Envy

There was a pause-since she hadn’t realized that she’d ditched Miranda, Harper hadn’t bothered to come up with a good excuse. But what was she supposed to say, “I was out with our worst enemy, plotting a way to set up the guy you’re crushing on with another girl”? In this case, it didn’t seem likely that honesty would be the best policy.

“I was… at the dentist. It was an emergency.”

“A tooth emergency?” Miranda asked dubiously.

“Yeah, I chipped a molar, and I managed to get the guy to see me right away. Thank God.”

“It hurt a lot, huh?”

“It still does.” Why had she said that? Now she was going to have to fake a toothache for the rest of the week. First rule of successful lying: Keep it simple, and never offer more information than necessary. She’d had a lot of practice.

“Must have been horrible,” Miranda said sympathetically. “We’re talking acute, throbbing, knives-digging-into-you pain?”

“Uh-huh.” It was sort of true, if you counted the pain of having to lie to Miranda 24/7-and having to rely on Kaia, of all people.

“Brutal, agonizing pain?”

“Yeah.”

Miranda laughed. “Good.”

Payback came on Friday night. As the wounded party, Miranda got to pick the activity, and after a few days of careful thought, she’d settled on the perfect punishment. Karaoke. Both girls were equally averse to the torture and public humiliation that Karaoke Night at the Lasso Lounge represented, but Miranda figured it was worth sitting through an hour of off-key crooning to see Harper make a fool of herself in public. She’d been right.

“You aren’t really going to make me do this,” Harper complained, as a hefty man crooned Clay Aiken’s latest “hit” up on the makeshift stage.

“Oh, I so am,” Miranda replied with an evil laugh.

“This is cruel and unusual punishment, you know,” Harper pointed out.

Miranda smiled sweetly. “What are friends for?” She pointed to the short line of would-be American Idols who had assembled by the stage. “Now get over there and show ’em what you’re made of.”

Harper glared at her, gulped down the last of her drink, and stalked off toward the line. “I hate you,” she tossed over her shoulder.

Miranda just raised her drink in a one-sided toast. “Don’t forget to smile!”

Then she leaned back in her chair and waited for the fun to start. This was going to be good.

Too many hours and too many drinks later, Harper and Miranda stumbled out of the bar on a karaoke high. Midway through her Cyndi Lauper spectacular, Harper had abandoned her embarrassment and belted out “Girls Just Wanna Have Fun” at the top of her lungs. She’d scored a round of thunderous applause and returned to the table flushed and ready for more. And after another margarita, Miranda had conceded to go with her, kicking off a marathon sing-along that took them back to the endless afternoons they’d spent as kids, choreographing dance moves to the latest on MTV. The humiliation factor was through the roof-but there was no one there to see them, and by that point in the night, they didn’t even care. After a rousing, girl-power version of “I Will Survive,” the karaoke machine had finally shut down, the lights went out, and Harper and Miranda were forced to seek a new adventure.

So phase two of the night was planned during the tail end of phase one, which meant that clear, sober thinking had been left far behind by the time Harper suggested they stop off for supplies.

The result of their giggly stumble through the twenty-four-hour convenience store?

A two-pound bag of Mike and Ikes (on sale for Halloween), a two-gallon bottle of Diet Coke and another of Hawaiian Punch (mixers), a six-pack of Jell-O pudding (because, well, just because-thanks to the two pitchers of margaritas back at the Lasso Lounge, they no longer needed a reason). And the pièce de résistance: a box of hair dye that promised to “change your color-and your life-in three easy steps.” It was time for Miranda to become a bottle blonde.

“You said you wanted a change, right?” Harper asked, tossing the box into their shopping basket, despite Miranda’s halfhearted protests.

They stumbled back to Harper’s house with the goods-her parents were off in Ludlow for the weekend, visiting her great-uncle in his nursing home, a trip that Harper had easily resisted being guilted into. Great Uncle Horace had no idea who she was and last time had insisted on referring to her as Fanny, apparently the name of a British nurse who’d been “kind” to him during the war.

Harper’s parents didn’t mind her staying home alone, as long as she had “that responsible Miranda” around to keep an eye on things. If they only knew.

One very messy and wet shampoo later, Miranda’s hair was thoroughly coated with dye, and the two of them had nothing left to do but wait for it to dry. They fidgeted impatiently, leafing through magazines and flipping through the TV channels-Friday night was pretty much a home entertainment dead zone.

Miranda refused to look in a mirror until it was perfectly dry-she said she wanted to wait to get the full effect. And, as Harper watched with horror as Miranda’s hair dried and the final color emerged, she concluded that postponing the inevitable could only be a good thing. But finally they could wait no longer.

“Okay, I can’t stand it anymore,” Miranda said. “How does it look?”

“Uh… it’s different,” Harper hedged. “It’s definitely different.”

“Well I know that-but how does it look? Oh, forget it. I need to see for myself”

She bounded up, but Harper leaped ahead of her and jumped in front of the mirror.

“Before you look, I just want to remind you of what you said before, how I’m such a good friend to you.”

“Of course you are, Harper-this was your idea, wasn’t it? I’m not going to forget that.”

“That’s what I’m afraid of,” Harper murmured. But she stepped aside.

Miranda’s scream would have woken up Harper’s parents, had they been home-as it was, Harper suspected it might still have woken them up a hundred miles away in Ludlow. It might even have woken up Great-uncle Horace-and he was deaf.

“Harper-what have you done to me?” Miranda cried, lunging toward her. Harper jumped away, searching for some large piece of furniture she could put between herself and the newly psychotic Miranda.

“Don’t blame me,” she protested. “I followed the directions. I think.” She ducked unsuccessfully as Miranda threw a pillow at her head.

“Look what you’ve done to me!” Miranda yelled. She slumped down on the bed and burst into-well, Harper couldn’t tell whether it was sobs or hysterical laughter.

“Are you… okay?” Harper asked tentatively, sitting down beside her.

“Okay?” Miranda asked, tears of laughter streaming down her face. “How could I be okay? I look like Kermit the Frog!”

Sad, but true.

Miranda’s rust-colored hair had been changed in three easy steps, all right-her head was now topped with a frizzy mass of bright green tendrils, the color of celery. Or of everyone’s favorite Muppet.

It was horrifying. Humiliating. And hilarious.

Unable to control herself any longer, Harper burst into giggles.

Miranda fell backward onto the bed, gasping for breath. “It’s not funny,” she complained.

“I know,” Harper said, trying to force a solemn and sober look.

“Except that it is,” Miranda admitted, breaking into laughter once more.

“I know,” Harper agreed, laughing again herself. She felt a rush of relief that Miranda didn’t want to kill her-but she worried about what would happen in the morning, when the alcoholic glee had washed out of her system and, sober and hungover, she still looked like a Muppet. Things might not seem so jolly in the light of day.