Read Online The Friends We Keep by Holly Chamberlin - Free Book Online

on wearing skintight clothes and wearing her hair like, I don’t know, a movie star. Did I mention that she owns her own business, a private gym? I would just love to see her perfect life go up in flames when her son gets caught doing something much worse than smoking pot (I’ve read that pot leads to all sorts of bad things, like heroin and serial killing). Legally speaking, I’m under no obligation to tell her what I saw, right? I mean, I suppose I could go to the police now and rat on her kid but I don’t think he’d get much time for such a small offense, what with him being a minor and all. Right?
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    Dear Deeply Disturbed Individual:
    You don’t really expect me to condone your jealous, small-minded, and downright irresponsible behaviors, do you? Here’s my advice: See a therapist for your tendency toward cruelty; get your son into counseling (Clearly, with a mother like you he lacks all sense of ethics.) ; lose weight and get a haircut so that your poor husband doesn’t flinch every time he walks in the door; and, finally, get a hobby or, better yet, a job so that you don’t have time to waste on plotting revenge for imagined offenses. One more note: I’ve contacted the owner of the private gym regarding her son and she was very thankful for my concern. In fact, she offered me a full year’s membership for free! See you around!

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    I sat next to Sophie in her latest-model Saab as we winged our way to the suburbs to watch her son’s baseball game before driving back into Boston to meet John for dinner. “Winged” is the exact word I want here. Interestingly, given her mild nature, Sophie drove with a lead foot. All those years sitting in backed-up LA traffic must have been terribly frustrating.
    Really, I thought, I have no clear idea of why I’m here. I have no interest in baseball, in sports of any kind, for that matter. I could have used this time to finish the book I was currently reading, a juicy adventure novel by one of today’s top-selling writers. (The name stays with me.) I could have gone to the Armani Exchange store and bought that jacket I’d been considering.
    I sighed.
    â€œWhat?” Sophie asked, her eyes shifting to look at me.
    â€œNothing. Keep your eyes on the road.”
    â€œI’m an excellent driver,” she said. “I’ve never gotten a ticket.”
    â€œMaybe because the police haven’t been able to catch you,” I muttered as we whizzed past a string of fast food giants with colorful names like Timmy’s Tub o’ Lard and Duke Danny’s Donuts.
    We arrived eventually at the field, a big, square plot of grass and dirt punctuated only by a high fence and two sets of rickety, unpainted wooden bleachers. Nice, I thought. I’ll get a snag in these pants and they’ll be ruined. Two hundred bucks down the drain for a charitable act of so-called friendship.
    Sophie and I took seats halfway up one set of bleachers. Sophie seemed extraordinarily happy to be there. But already I was bored silly and very aware of the stares I was getting from some of the people scattered across the ancient bleachers. Fine, I thought, let them stare. The sweatpants-wearing public is no concern of mine. I will die, I thought, before I plunk a hot-pink sun visor on my head.
    But I wasn’t bored for long. For some crazy reason I’d been thinking that we were on our way to watch a bunch of pimply preteens. But the players trotting out onto the field were men. Young men.
    Of course. The three-year-old boy I vaguely remembered would be an adult now. Kids. They’re tricky.
    I let my eyes roam over the players taking positions and discussing, no doubt, vitally important strategic matters. It was quite a display. One player in particular caught my attention: a tall, well-built guy with thick, wavy dark hair and a butt for which a woman would kill to have access. As if reading my lascivious