Revenge of the Cootie Girls Read Online Free

wearing, but I was easily recognizable. Hard to miss a tall, undead woman with rusty Brillo Pad hair, even in Times Square.
    The reason I had arranged with Kathy to meet here before going to Hojo’s was so I could brief her a little more, tell her not to mention NBC, rival comedian Noriko Mori, or sumo wrestling to Tamayo Scheinman. Claire Thibodeaux was anchoring tonight, and would be meeting up with us later, so I had plenty of time to tell Kathy not to mention Jess, Washington, or the British embassy to Claire. Since Sally wasn’t coming, I didn’t have to tell Kathy not to bring up dead pets, bad boyfriends, or medical experiments. Maybe I worry too much, but you never know what might come up in conversation and send a sensitive and vulnerable friend into a tailspin.
    By seven-thirty, after a full-frontal assault by the Jews for Jesus, one of whom answered me in Serbo-Croatian, I gave up and went to Hojo’s. Kathy would figure it out. We’d picked the Hojo’s restaurant in Times Square because it was central and we all liked it for different reasons, Kathy because it looked just like the one in her hometown in rural Florida, with the same decor, the same trademark orange-and-turquoise color scheme. She found it surprising to find anything in New York City that was just like back home. Tamayo and I liked it because it was such an anachronism. We liked to sit at the bar in the back, right out of 1962, and share a pitcher of anachronistic cocktails, like Rob Roys and sidecars, which were hyped on orange-and-turquoise placards on the windows.
    Kathy was nowhere to be seen, but Tamayo was at the bar, with her Walkman on, dancing in her seat, singing along audibly to every third word. She was dressed like Marilyn Monroe.
    â€œHey, you old hooker,” Tamayo said, loudly enough that people in the restaurant turned to stare at me. It would have been nice to be unobtrusive, but hard to be, looking the way I looked and with Tamayo announcing me.
    We hugged. If anyone looked like a hooker, it was her. What a sight she was, Japanese face, platinum-blond wig, all five foot four of her poured into a replica of Marilyn’s Happy Birthday Mr. President dress, her thin arms in sparkly white gloves. We both had a fondness for long gloves. There just aren’t enough occasions in life to wear them.
    â€œWe’re the only people in here in costume,” I said.
    â€œI’m not in costume.”
    I laughed. “Have you seen my intern Kathy?”
    â€œNo, but I don’t know what she looks like.”
    â€œShe knows what you look like. She’d introduce herself.”
    The bartender put a full pitcher of something greenish in front of Tamayo and she said, “Bartender, another glass for my dead friend.”
    â€œNo thanks. I’ll just have a coffee.”
    â€œNo gimlet?” Tamayo said.
    â€œI don’t want to get drunk. Not even tipsy.”
    â€œBut it’s Halloween.…”
    Tamayo had that special light in her eyes, the “Let’s crash a debutante ball and then go throw money and roses at gay male strippers” light.
    â€œListen,” I said. “Kathy is a nice kid, she’s very serious.…”
    â€œSo what?”
    â€œI just don’t want anything like the dance-theater incident … or the bar brawl …”
    â€œBut we didn’t start that brawl, Robin. We tried to walk away.…”
    â€œI thought maybe we could try being lower-key tonight. The kid looks up to me, no shit, and it wouldn’t do for her to see me drunk, swinging my bra above my head in a biker bar, for example.”
    â€œHogs and Heifers isn’t a real biker bar,” Tamayo said.
    â€œNevertheless, the keyword for tonight is ‘decorum.’”
    â€œDecorum,” Tamayo said, puzzled, cocking her head slightly like a dog, pretending she didn’t know what it meant. “What’s the intern like?”
    â€œYoung,