Dream Life Read online

  Zilch.

  Becca took off her coat to reveal the latest installment in her lifelong series of fabulous outfits: holey jeans, a gossamer-thin baby blue T-shirt, and a coral velvet blazer with matte gold buttons.

  I took a seat in what must have been the squishiest chair my butt has ever squished into and looked up to see Hallie appear from a doorway in the back, bearing a breadbasket and looking infinitely less punky than usual. She wore a white uniform and her striped mane was tucked back into a bun that looked almost monochromatic.

  “This is Hallie’s parents’ place,” Becca said under her breath. “I cleared it with her already, I just needed somewhere quiet to talk to you.”

  I had no idea why she needed to make such an undercover production out of talking to me but at least this much was making sense: Hallie’s credentials as a foodie hadn’t come out of thin air. She was a full-fledged restaurantista.

  “On the house.” Hallie delivered the basket and stepped away.

  “Thank you!” Becca called after her, then ripped off a piece of rosemary focaccia. “Oh my God is it good!” she exclaimed.

  The bread smelled delicious, like pine trees and spun sugar.

  “Have some.” She slid the basket my way.

  “It is amazing,” I conceded after a bite, “but please say you didn’t bring me to this secret location to talk about bread.”

  She giggled and ran her hand through her hair. “Okay, you got me there. I wanted to fill you in on—”

  “Whatever secret activity you guys were doing upstairs all weekend?” I jumped in.

  “All weekend?” She laughed. “You mean when we were gone for, like, two hours?”

  My eyes darted away in embarrassment. “It felt longer than that.”

  She looked at me apologetically. “Sorry—the timing was just really bad. Anyway, we’re organizing a fund-raiser on Saturday. It’s at the Oyster Bar in Grand Central. It should be fun.” She tried to force a convincing expression and I felt queasy.

  “I thought you said you didn’t do debutante parties and stuff?”

  “We don’t. We’re going to be lurking in the shadows—in our formal dresses.” She blushed. “Reagan’s mom is on the board of Hope and Anchor, this New York water protection group …” She paused while a waiter delivered a plate of chili-dusted French fries to our table. “It’s a fund-raiser for her cause. Supposedly.”

  My eyes widened. “Supposedly?”

  “No, it is a fund-raiser for the cause. But that’s not our real priority. We have another restoration project in the works. You know how the Elles saw some of us in the concourse, right?”

  “Yeah, I saw the picture.” For once, I felt on top of things.

  Becca shook her head. “Those girls are on our trail, and we needed to come up with a decoy … to distract them from the real Grand Central project. So we invented this party. On the invitation we’re mixing some of our names with some names you won’t recognize. So I need to ask you for a favor.”

  “You want to use my name?” If there’s one thing I’m good for it’s a name nobody’s heard of.

  “Thanks, but your name is hardly inconspicuous,” she said with a twinkle in her eye. “That’s not what I’m asking you for, anyway.” She took a sip of water, the ice cubes clinking against her glass. “Last week, some idiots on a company softball league decided to play catch in Grand Central while they were waiting for their train. They cracked the opal on the face of the clock on the information booth and now the city wants to replace it with a nasty digital one.”

  I imagined a giant Seiko watch in the middle of the train station’s lobby. It made me wince.

  “So you’re going to fix it before they get a chance to do that?” I checked.

  “It can’t be fixed,” she said. “That’s the problem. But we did some research and found out that when the clock was made, there were two copies. The duplicate’s at a private club in Amsterdam.” Her eyes went dreamy. “Well, it was.”

  I felt myself blink hard. “Did Helle House take it?”

  “No.” Her cheeks flushed. “We bought it. What’s the point of a club having a trust fund if you’re not going to put it to use?” She fed herself another French fry and wiped her hands on her napkin. “We replaced it last night.”

  “And nobody noticed?” I asked incredulously.

  “I hope not. There’s a secret passageway connecting the information booth on the lower level to the main one. We got in with a couple of muscular engineers at the break of dawn the other morning and … voilà.”

  “Seriously?” It seemed implausible. “It’s completely done?”

  “Almost. Sills got distracted and forgot to stick on the Blue Moon tile. But we’ll get around to that.”

  “Is that what you need my help with?”

  “Sort of.” Becca looked at me fondly. “I don’t want the Elles to find out about any of it. They still don’t know about half the stuff we do.” She looked up, as if worried that a spy might be at one of the empty neighboring tables.

  “Well, here’s a piece of advice,” I said. “Don’t have a party at the scene of the crime. It will only call attention to what you did.”

  “That’s where you’re wrong,” she said, sliding closer to me. “We’re dressing up the party so it looks like the main event. The fund-raiser is going to be as big a blowout as any and everyone will be too distracted to notice the real main event.”

  “Oh, that is kind of smart,” I allowed.

  Why had I underestimated Becca even for a moment?

  “Only if it works.” She sounded insecure. “Your services will be very much needed. You and Sig and Hallie have to do whatever you can to make sure that the merry pranksters who crash—and Lord knows they will—have a good time.”

  “You want us to make sure the Elles are happy?” I asked in disbelief. What was I, hired help?

  “How else do you propose we keep them from getting up in our business?” She brought her water to her lips and took a small sip to conceal her widening grin. “Oh, and one more thing. You’ll be talking to Kiki in the next little while, right?”

  “Probably,” I said nonchalantly. “Why?”

  “If she has a couple of party tips to spare, that would be great. Believe it or not, the last time I threw a party it was for my tenth birthday.”

  “So you totally know what you’re doing,” I said. “What’s wrong with goodie bags full of unicorn stickers and Laffy Taffy?”

  “And a Fudgie the Whale ice cream cake?” she added.

  We broke into laughter, and for the first time that day I started to feel entirely comfortable around Becca, in a way that had nothing to do with the restaurant’s ultracushioned chairs.

  Saturday night was deep winter at its most beautiful. The air was razor-sharp and icicles were growing on the tree branches.

  I showed up at Grand Central Terminal at the appointed hour and found Sig and Hallie sitting on the concourse’s marble staircase, their coats in a heap by Hallie’s hip. They looked incredible.

  “Holy hottie!” Sig cried out when I shimmied out of my coat.

  “Wow,” Hallie seconded. “I barely recognized you.”

  I rolled my eyes and muttered a slightly offended thanks, but the truth was I hardly recognized them either. Hallie was looking like a punk princess in an asymmetrical silvery strapless dress with a huge silk gardenia on the front. And Sig was obscenely stunning in a little black sequined number. If anyone was ever going to write a fairy tale about a mushroom that turned into a fox, they already had their illustration done for them.

  Kiki had picked out what I was wearing—a black satin dress by Adolfo, trimmed with black-and-white feathers, paired with a black satin band I was to wear on my forehead. It matched the dress, but that was beside the point. The hair band was going to play a pivotal role in the plan Sig, Hallie, and I had worked out beforehand.

  Excitement raced through me and I allowed myself a quick glance around the lobby. The “old”
clock above the information booth looked as distinguished as ever. I overheard a man remark on how the clock hadn’t been working all week and his companion assured him the time was correct. Throngs of train passengers milled beneath the monument, but there were no girls with fake tans and stilettos to speak of—not yet, anyway.

  “All right,” I said to the others, anticipation swooshing through my stomach. “You ready to rock?”

  The girls nodded and we were too excited to say anything else as we crossed the concourse and descended the stairs to the lower level.

  Downstairs, the party was in full swing, with a turnout of at least a couple hundred. Some people were dancing, and the rest were chatting animatedly while craning their necks to check out everybody else. Scattered throughout the crowd, the Blue Moons were decked out in formal dresses that fit them too perfectly to have come from any rack. They’d taken Kiki’s cardinal party rule—”Make guests wear plastic fruit headpieces or serve dinner upside down; anything so long as it’s different”—to heart. The theme they’d chosen was Ancient Egypt, and the Oyster Bar restaurant looked like a set from Cleopatra, with golden snakes on the tables and men in pharaoh costumes making the rounds with martini glasses full of the amber-colored “Ankh-tini” concoction that Hallie had created in the Moonery’s kitchen.

  “Proceed with caution,” a familiar voice said when I accepted one from a tray. “Word is they used curry powder.”

  There went my heart. And it didn’t get any easier when I turned around and my eyes met Andy’s.

  “Thanks for the warning,” I said, placing my drink back on the tray. “I think I’ll stick with curried chicken.”

  Andy smiled and looked me up and down. “You cleaned up nice, Shorty.”

  “There you are,” Becca cut in just as I was about to melt. She was wearing a white dress with elbow-length sleeves. Louis was at her side, wearing a gray suit and looking more debonair than Cary Grant.

  “Louis?” I said, trying to cover my surprise at how dapper he looked. “Wow …”

  “Yeah, yeah, yeah.” I could tell he was embarrassed. “I tried to rent a mummy costume but someone beat me to it at the last minute.”

  Becca moved in. “How’s it going so far? See anything interesting?”

  The way she said it made me feel like I was in trouble for not working harder.

  “Not yet, but I just got here,” I offered as an excuse, and nervously touched my cameo. “I’m just going to, um, get a Coke.”

  “One of the waiters will bring you one,” Andy said, and I had to pretend not to hear him as I cut free.

  “I’ll walk you part of the way,” Becca said. “I have to go to the bathroom.” I saw Louis’s face fall.

  We broke free of the guys and I lost Becca to some old acquaintance of hers ten steps later. I was left to float around and look for Elle House infiltrators, all the while making small talk with anyone I bumped into. As Kiki had told me, “All you need to get by in conversation is ‘How do you do?’ and ‘Is that so?’ People are brilliant at yammering on about themselves.”

  The party crasher–spotting was harder than I’d been expecting. I kept my eyes peeled for fake tans, but there were hundreds of guests, many of whom had decided that tonight’s Egyptian-themed bash was the perfect occasion for bronzer and gold body makeup. The only things I learned were (a) that some people get freaked out when an absolute stranger walks up to them at a party and introduces herself and (b) that Andy likes to make funny faces at girls spending massive amounts of time walking up to complete strangers at parties and introducing themselves.

  A hundred introductions later, the only people who stood out were Louis and Reagan. They were both leaning against the edge of the lunch counter, staring mournfully at the dance floor, not exchanging a single word.

  “Is gloomy the new black?” I asked as I joined them.

  Reagan sighed and ran a hand through her snow-white hair. “I’ll be fine.”

  And that’s when I realized she was anything but fine. I cut a look at Louis but he didn’t pick up on it.

  “What happened?” I asked in a softer voice.

  She scrunched her eyes closed. “I just can’t believe my mother didn’t come to her own frigging fund-raiser.”

  Pain was burning though her cheeks. I racked my brain for the correct response.

  “Maybe it’s for the best,” I said, leaning against the spot next to her. “The party’s doing fine. And you can let loose, without her here.”

  She pursed her lips. “That’s not the point. She promised she’d come and make a speech on behalf of the foundation.”

  I lowered my voice to a whisper. “Ray, as far as I can tell, the foundation isn’t really the point of this shindig.”

  My words had little effect. “I can’t get her to pay attention to anything but His Royal Highness. She just grooms him and chases him around all day.”

  “Her dog?” I ventured, remembering all the rich ladies I’ve seen near Becca’s house treating their Pekingese like little princes.

  “Close.” She almost laughed. “Her husband.” She eyed me with a mixture of amusement and dolefulness. “H.R.H. His initials. My dad was named Harold Unger Hendricks, but he read some self-help book for executives that said that initials were important and he didn’t want to go by H.U.H., so he changed his middle name to Reagan when I was little.”

  “He chose the name Reagan out of the blue?” I squinted.

  “He’s a big Republican. He wanted to pass it off as a family name, which is pretty rich considering how little he—or anybody I live with—cares about family.”

  I shifted closer to her. “So now he’s H.R.H. Like some kind of royalty?”

  “Exactly. And he acts like it too. We used to be close but these days the only thing he ever asks me about is when a college will take me off its waiting list.”

  Her face flickered with sadness and I felt a renewed surge of compassion.

  I started thinking of how some years ago something changed between my dad and me and I had to ask him to stop flipping me upside down and tickling me to death. “Dad stuff can be hard,” I offered.

  But she was too deep down her own hole of self-pity to have heard a word of what I said. “Sills and her dad go out to dinner every Wednesday, just the two of them. I can’t even imagine what my dad and I would talk about. … Though maybe if I’d gotten into one of those A-list schools he’d find me more interesting.”

  I felt guilty even for thinking about my own dad. Tickle attacks aside, he was pretty great, always ready to talk or look the other way if I was doing something Mom wouldn’t approve of.

  Reagan drifted away and I turned to Louis watching Becca dance with Andy and looking devastated. I leaned in and watched along with him, the two of us longing for half of the same whole. Finally I said, “You know your competition’s her brother, right?”

  He looked startled. “That’s the famous Andy?”

  I felt a zing of affection for Louis. “You have so much to learn, my child.” Louis heaved a sigh of relief. “Want to get some fresh air?”

  He shook his head. “It’s, like, negative seventy degrees outside.”

  “C’mon,” I said, tugging him along.

  When we’d exited the restaurant and come into the main dining concourse, I saw something that made me stop in my tracks. The newspaper recycling bin across the way featured an ad for a discount airline on the side. It had a picture of a kangaroo drinking a margarita. Just like the kangaroo in that party dream from once upon a time. And something was moving behind the bin!

  My cameo necklace warmed up against my skin, like a mug of tea on a cozy fall night. Weird. This was a first.

  Without even thinking twice, I sprinted toward the bin.

  “Yo, Lemonhead.” Louis was out of breath when he’d caught up with me. “Why didn’t you tell me to bring my sneakers?”

  I wanted to kiss the ground, except I had to keep my composure in front of the three girls crouching behind the
bin. Even if they hadn’t been decked out in spiky heels and fiddling with digital cameras, I would’ve known they were Elles. After all, who happened to be among them but—

  “Sheila!” I cried out, my voice oozing with fake friendliness.

  “What are you doing here?” she snapped. Louis was looking at me like I’d just gone completely crazy.

  “I was just about to ask you the same thing,” I said brightly—after all, Kiki always said kill them with kindness. “My friend Becca’s helping put on this party and she invited me.”

  “Hey, Sheila,” Louis mumbled in mild surprise. “Did you go on vacation or something. You look really …” It suddenly clicked that she was covered in instant tan, and he trailed off.

  “I’ve just been spending a lot of time outdoors,” Sheila huffed.

  “Anyway,” I said, trying my hardest not to laugh. “You know my friend Becca, right? She’s here with some friends. I should introduce you to them.”

  Who knew I had so much phony charm bottled up in me? Before the girls could protest, I had met Sheila’s pals Jasmine and Violet and was leading them all into the Oyster Bar. Playing dumber than a light-up yo-yo, I presented Sheila and her friends to Becca and Poppy, then took off my hair band and waved it in the air—the secret “Got ‘em!” signal Hallie and Sig and I had worked out.

  A couple of waiters came rushing over, their arms weighted down with dessert trays. Going along with the script we’d planned the night before, one of the waiters whispered something to Becca.

  “I can’t believe it,” she announced to us in her best faux-distraught tone. I could tell Sheila and her friends were buying into Becca’s “problem”—they were watching Becca with visible fascination, not used to seeing their prey this close. Becca went on, “Some of the waiters got drunk and we don’t have enough people to pass out the desserts.”

  “No worries!” I told her. “We’ll do it!”

  “Oh that’s so nice of you!” Becca’s voice was dripping with fake gratitude, and she turned to Sheila and the gang. “Really? You don’t mind?”