Dream Life Read online

  “She loves this part,” Becca whispered to me. “She’s an actress at heart.”

  Sills returned a few minutes later and pushed the Nixon mask up on top of her head. The beauty of her features came as a shock. Her eyes were the color of sea glass and her mouth was shaped like a Valentine’s Day card—a perfect heart. Her beauty was so extreme I didn’t even feel jealous. I just wanted to keep staring forever.

  “We’re good to go,” she announced, oblivious to my thoughts. “Nobody’s outside. It’s safe.” She gestured for us to follow her through the door and we obeyed, careful not to make too much noise.

  The clubhouse occupied an alley that was hidden from public view by the messy vines and brambles twisting around the gates on either side. The courtyard was charming in a munchkiny way, filled with tiny trees and snow-covered cast-iron furniture. It was as different as could be from Washington View Village’s litter-strewn courtyard. My parents would kill to have a place like this to come out and read in. They might even be willing to go along with the dead Republican president masks.

  A tap-tap startled me, and I looked up to see an owlish man behind a window. My heart stopped when I saw he was waving at Sills.

  “Crap,” I muttered.

  Sills laughed and waved back to him. “Oh, he’s not a problem. Mr. Dimitrius is always there. He invented a self-cleaning toaster oven twenty years ago and hasn’t had any reason to leave his house since.”

  “That’s intense,” Hallie muttered, narrowing her kohl-lined eyes. Her eyebrow ring glinted in the moonlight.

  “He’s harmless,” Sills said. “He never crosses to our side, never asks any questions. Anyway, take a look at our building. It’s hard to tell apart from the others in the alley, except for the—”

  “Star-shaped white stone on the top?” Sig hazarded a guess.

  “Impressive,” Sills said. “Do the rest of you see it? Look up, on the right-hand side, close to the edge of the building.”

  I craned my neck to follow her gaze until I saw it, fastened onto the stone by the second floor. It wasn’t particularly small or large and it didn’t call attention to itself. It looked as if it belonged there, like a birthmark.

  When we came back in, the fireplace was lit up and crackling like something out of a Christmas movie. It was the picture of coziness, and even though my heart had been pounding just moments before, I was suddenly in the mood for a nap.

  “You guys ready for history hour?” Poppy asked us before we’d settled back in to our seats. “Diana’s prepared a little paper on the club’s background. Don’t worry, it won’t be like school.”

  She turned to her fellow Moon, who was consulting a paper. “Blue Moons from 1741 through the present,” Diana read in a voice drained of vitality. She reminded me of how nervous Dad gets when he gives one of his lectures at academic conferences.

  I felt restless at first—I’d already heard a bit about the Moons’ formation from Becca. New York’s early settlers, yadda yadda. I snapped to attention when Diana got up to 1965, and it wasn’t only because that was Kiki’s golden era.

  “Here’s where the drama starts. Some members wanted certain reforms.” Diana smiled shakily.

  My curiosity-ometer immediately shot up and hit the roof. “What kind of reforms?”

  “They wanted to allow guys in the clubhouse,” Becca told me. “Which would be fine, I guess, on the face of it.”

  “And on the not-face of it?” I pressed.

  “Well, that’s not what the Moons are really about.”

  “What are they about?” Sig’s voice was lined with annoyance.

  “We,” Diana corrected her. “We‘re about taking care of the city. And it can be hard to do what needs to be done when there are dudes making a mess of things.”

  “Not that we don’t like guys,” Poppy put in. “I have a boyfriend and so does Diana, but there’s a time for everything.”

  Especially if you’re waiting around for Andy Shuttleworth, I thought with a sinking heart. Then you have nothing but time.

  Diana returned to her paper, interrupting my thoughts. “April 1965, a few dissidents left and started the Ladies League.”

  Reagan poured the remaining contents of her candy bag into her mouth. “Which couldn’t be a more inappropriate name for them.”

  “Why’s that?” I urged them along, ready for some dirt.

  “Ladies don’t multiply like rats.” Becca’s lip curled. “They have something like a hundred and twenty-seven members.”

  “And when they’re not busy posting stupid things about us on Moonwatcher.net,” Diana said, “they’re running one of the city’s cheesier institutions.”

  Did she just say Moonwatcher.net? The online stalkers who were driving Becca crazy and had outed my need for a professional facial? So my suspicion had been correct. They were connected to the rival club after all.

  “You know who those people are?” I was quick to ask.

  Becca gave me a tender look. “We’re not a hundred percent certain.”

  “Only, like, ninety-nine percent,” Sills added. “It has to be them. We just don’t have any proof.”

  Becca sighed. “They hired some branding expert and now they call themselves the Elle House.”

  I gasped and blurted out, “That hell house place? That’s the club Sheila just joined!”

  “Who’s that?” Poppy raised her left eyebrow.

  “Just the biggest creep on earth,” I told her, cringing at the mental image of Sheila setting her narrowed eyes on me.

  “I like that, ‘hell house.’” Becca snickered, then made a woeful shrug. “They’ll take anyone.”

  “So long as that anyone‘ll pony up these days,” Diana added.

  “You can feel free to explain what you’re talking about any day now,” muttered Sig. I was grateful for this interjection—I had no idea what was going on either.

  “The group did this stupid renovation that they didn’t think through,” Poppy filled in. “And now they’re in big trouble.” She made the cash-money sign with her thumb and forefinger.

  “What do you mean?” Hallie asked. “How much?”

  “Whatever it is, it’s too much,” Becca said. “Rumor has it they’re hurting so bad they tried to pay the Domino’s delivery guy with a half-empty bottle of tequila left over from a party.”

  “That’s terrible,” I said, and I couldn’t help being reminded of how Sheila’s favorite prank in middle school involved ordering ten super-stuffed pizzas to be delivered to our bossiest neighbors’ apartments.

  Becca’s eyes flashed in amusement. “Now they’re selling these partial memberships where you’re allowed to go for a few hours on Tuesdays and Sundays or something stupid.”

  “Don’t forget the reality television show,” Reagan added, catching my eye. “They’re making this show about themselves that they think they’ll be able to sell to cable.”

  Sheila must have been excited. Maybe she wasn’t the most popular girl at Hudson anymore, but here was her big chance to be a reality television star.

  “But the main thing,” Poppy said, “is in addition to supporting the local fake tan industry and getting identical blond highlights, everyone in the club—members new and old—is supposed to get dirt on us. Or at least who they assume the Moons are.”

  I felt a rush of dread.

  “Why would they do that?” asked Hallie.

  Diana shrugged. “It’s just an old rivalry thing. They know our anonymity is important to us. So they know exactly how to drive us crazy.”

  “We do our best to keep ‘em guessing,” said Sills.

  “Bit of a losing battle,” moaned Becca. “We’ve been outnumbered something like fifty to one.”

  Was I to take this to mean we newbies had been invited for more reasons than the pleasure of our company?

  “And would that have anything to do with why you invited us?” Sig asked. “You’ve practically doubled your numbers.”

  She was a smart coo
kie, that Sig.

  A smile spread across Becca’s face. “Never hurts to have more moving targets if you’re the target. Plus, we wanted to mix it up a little bit—we were craving new company. Put your coats on,” she told us, and let the other old-timers know we’d be back in an hour or so.

  Ten minutes later, when we were racing up Park Avenue in a cab, I still had no idea what was happening. Becca was giving the driver directions from the passenger seat and we newbies were relegated to the back.

  “Is it just me, or are you totally confused?” Hallie asked me.

  “At least we don’t have blindfolds on this time,” I said, gazing out the window at the swooshing nighttime traffic.

  “Can you pull over here and wait a minute?” Becca asked the driver as we breezed past East Fortieth Street and approached the old Pan Am Building. Then she turned and soberly instructed us, “Get out and look around.”

  We stepped onto the sidewalk. There was a stillness to the night—not a soul in sight, not even any interesting garbage blowing about.

  “I don’t get—” I started to say.

  And then I saw it: embedded in the wall at eye level (well, dwarf eye level) was a tile the size of a sugar cube. It had a Blue Moon ship on it.

  Something sparked inside me.

  “Nice work,” I muttered. “Is this how fancy people make graffiti art?”

  “More like the opposite.” Becca’s eyes were gleaming. “We broke in one night and cleaned up all the graffiti on the observation deck. And then we had a midnight dinner up there.”

  “Are you serious?” Hallie asked. “What did you guys have?”

  Would she ever give this foodie thing a rest?

  “The tile is how we sign off on our work.” Becca ignored Hallie’s question and ushered us all back into the cab to continue the tour.

  The rest of the ships were easy to find. The Morgan Library? Check. The Armory building? Check. Central Park’s angel fountain? There it was, just under the second tier.

  “All the fish had died and nobody was going to do anything about it.” Becca made a sad face then watched me, waiting for a reaction. She knew I’d be thinking about Didier and Margaux.

  “I read something in the Daily News about the fountains’ miraculous fish restoration, how they all started multiplying,” Hallie said in wonderment. “But I thought it was supposed to be some scientific mystery?”

  Becca suppressed a grin and dug her hands in her pockets. “You have no idea how hard it is pulling off these projects without getting caught. Sometimes we host charity tea parties and don’t even show up ourselves, to throw them off. Now that we kicked Annika out, we wouldn’t be surprised if she joins Elle House and spills the beans, but so far they haven’t been able to keep up with us.”

  I was starting to get what was going on.

  “How can you keep her from saying anything?” I asked.

  “We can’t,” Becca replied. “But we can try to stay one step ahead. This year’s main event is going to be extra tricky. The Elles are dying to get some real dirt on us, and our big project is a little crazier than usual.” Her eyes narrowed and her teeth glinted in the dark. “We might need your help.”

  I couldn’t have been less surprised. Or, more important, thrilled.

  { 9 }

  Stargazer

  When we got back from our midnight tour, I had no idea what was in store for me. The Moonery’s main room was empty except for Diana, who was curled up under a plush red blanket on one of the sofas, dead to the world.

  She twitched and opened her eyes. “There you are,” she said groggily “I’m supposed to give you your directions.” Something under the blanket moved. Linus the cat shot out and raced across the floor.

  “There are more adventures?” I asked, suddenly feeling a little tired—and, for once, not from dreams.

  The sleepy redhead got up with a yawn and told us we were to make ourselves at home.

  “The rest of us will be upstairs getting some work finalized,” Becca said. “You guys just get to know the place. And each other.”

  Now I was starting to feel like a lab rat in one of my parents’ professor friends’ sleep-deprivation studies.

  “What work?” Sig asked, voicing the very question I was wondering about.

  Diana had already trudged most of the way up the stairs, the blanket loosely wrapped around her waist. “Boring stuff. Don’t worry about it.”

  The other newbies and I were left to look at each other in confusion. I was feeling kind of crummy, like a kid sister left out of the good stuff.

  “Guess we have to throw ourselves a house party,” dead-panned Sig.

  “There are worse houses to party in,” Hallie reasoned.

  “Let’s raid the fridge,” Sig suggested.

  There wasn’t much in the black-and-white-checker-tiled kitchen, and we helped ourselves to the only things on hand: a box of graham crackers and a deli-bought provolone and tomato sub somebody must have forgotten about.

  Once I had food in my stomach, I wasn’t feeling so tired anymore. “Let’s explore the rest of the place,” I said.

  “Good call,” Sig mumbled, still stuffing the remainder of the sandwich into her mouth.

  Free of high-tech contraptions or even modern heating, the clubhouse was charming in a knocked-up, vaguely dusty way. The library’s walls were lined with old maps of New York. The shelves contained an epic out-of-print book collection, and in the corner of the room were eight fastidiously rolled-up sleeping bags.

  Sig and Hallie settled on the couch in the library, where they watched a ridiculous highway massacre movie involving a clown. I’d already seen it at Becca’s, and I decided to test the bubble bath facilities. And, I’ll fess up, see what I could overhear.

  When I trooped upstairs I could hear muffled conversation behind the office’s closed door. If only I had X-ray vision instead of indecipherable dreams!

  I took off my cameo and drew the water. When it stopped running, the sounds from the office grew louder. I tiptoed over to the wall and pressed my ear against it, though I still couldn’t make out a syllable. Feeling helpless, I returned to the tub and leaned back and closed my eyes.

  I was on the stage at Radio City Music Hall. The lights were blinding and all I could see were my fellow showgirls, though they weren’t exactly girls. The chorus line consisted of leggy number ones, their endless limbs moving in perfect synchronization. It was a math professor’s fantasy.

  When I woke up, I sat bolt upright in the water. I had no idea what time it was, but the water had cooled to room temperature. It was pitch-black outside the pocket window and the night was clear enough to see a few stars. A thump through the wall told me the girls were still in the office overseeing their mysterious project.

  Freshly dried off and coated in lemon-rosemary oils, I went back downstairs and joined Sig and Hallie in the library. The movie hour had ended, and Hallie was engrossed in a mix tape on an old Walkman she’d dug up. Sig’s personal bliss appeared in the form of an Atari console.

  I grabbed a book I’d already read from the library and settled on a reading chair, hoping to distract myself from feeling left out of the good stuff that was happening behind a tightly closed door. Thank goodness for Agatha Christie. Three chapters into her classic The A.B.C. Murders, my dire frustration had given way to resignation. Just in time for the girls’ return. “Meeting adjourned,” Becca declared, settling onto the arm of my chair. I looked up, searching her face for any clues, but she wasn’t giving anything away.

  The rest of my stay there was actually pretty mellow. Saturday afternoon, we took a field trip to see a show of Salvador Dalí’s weird melty painting at the Museum of Modern Art. At one point I saw Professor Glanford from my building and hid behind a gallery wall—my parents thought I was upstate, after all. Later that night, we goofed around, watching TV and enjoying the s’mores station Hallie rigged up. Sunday morning, we feasted on egg and cheese sandwiches from the deli and all painted our
toenails the same cotton-candy pink, though not because of some cultish ritual—it was the only color in the house.

  By the end of my stay, I wasn’t feeling left out anymore, but I still hadn’t forgotten about Friday’s little emergency meeting in the clubhouse office. When I got home late on Sunday afternoon, between aborted attempts to do my math problem set and come up with a nonpathetic reply to Andy’s latest random e-mail question (“Have you ever had a White Castle burger?”), I couldn’t resist doing a little more digging.

  Elle House’s official Web site—a separate entity from the so-called anonymous Moonwatcher.net—was nothing if not pretentious. A free-floating cube rotated over a hot pink background to reveal pictures of the club’s “white room,” which was a space filled with white couches and chairs. There was also a picture of the “spice room,” just like the previous room, but with red walls and tasseled pillows galore, and the rooftop “splash lounge,” which, as far as I could tell, was a small swimming pool that was under repair.

  Luckily, not much had changed over on Moonwatcher.net. The only new picture showed Poppy and Reagan in Grand Central Terminal, wearing belted coats and craning their necks up to look at the main concourse ceiling’s amazing mural of the sky. The caption underneath read: HEADS UP, SPACE CADETS. WE’VE GOT YOUR NUMBER.

  Not so fast.

  After school on Tuesday afternoon, Becca surprised me by fishing me out of the crowd and bringing me to a fancy restaurant on Clinton Street. From the doorway I made out pale pink tulips sprouting from fixtures on the walls. An enormous brown paper bag of freshly delivered bread was waiting on the bar and only a few of the tables were set.

  “B, it doesn’t look like they’re open yet,” I said.

  “Of course they aren’t, it’s barely four o’clock.” She headed for a table in the back, underneath a collage of yellow stars and a lion head. I locked eyes with the animal, and momentarily flipped through my roster of dreams, searching for lions or any stars. Or even anything from The Wizard of Oz.