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Violet was inching away. “I have no upper-body strength.”

  “Me neither,” chirped Jasmine.

  “Oh, they’re really light,” the caterer said. “Just cookies.”

  “You guys are so great to volunteer to help,” Becca said artfully, sparkles flooding her eyes. “I really appreciate it.”

  When she said the last bit, she looked straight at me and I couldn’t help lighting up on the inside.

  The caterer led the trio and me into the kitchen, and next thing the Helle Housers knew, they were far too busy standing in for waiters to sniff around and notice if anything interesting was happening upstairs. While I handed out mini Linzer tortes, I could only assume Sills was sitting at the base of the information booth a level above, pretending to wait for her friend’s train to come while secretly gluing the Blue Moon tile in place, per the plan. Just when my tray emptied, Andy came up from behind with a replacement—and a secret squeeze on the small of my back.

  I was suddenly wearing a coat of goose bumps. I jerked my neck in shock.

  “Steady there,” he whispered. “You don’t want to go dropping everything all over the floor.”

  Thanks for the tip. I counted to three and focused on regaining my composure, then continued to play caterer. If the Helle Housers got any pictures from the next fifteen minutes, they had to have been of the insides of their purses. The crowd was voracious, and the head chef made sure to bring over refills whenever any of our tray’s supplies were running low. When Sills and Poppy, dressed up like a suburban train passenger with her bottle of water and leather weekend bag, came back to the party looking pleased, I knew we were in good shape. I glanced at Becca, who flashed me a wink across the room.

  After the Helle Housers and I were relieved of our trays, I wanted to find Andy, but first I had the burning urge to nip upstairs and check out Sills’s work.

  I threw my catering smock onto a counter and raced out of the kitchen and through the party room. Going upstairs was a little risky, but if I ran into anyone I’d just say I’d eaten something with onion and needed to get gum at the newsstand.

  When I made it into the lobby, people were looking at me as if I were the strangest thing they’d ever seen, and I had to tell myself it was because I was overdressed, not because they could read my thoughts. I neared the center of the hall and saw that the clock above the information booth appeared pristine as could be. And down at the base of the booth, a few inches off the floor, was a Blue Moon tile. My eyes darted around among the stragglers in the lobby who couldn’t possibly have any idea what had happened and I was filled with a sense of satisfaction. Knowing about somebody else’s secret is one thing, but playing a part in one is infinitely better.

  “Do we need to get you a watch?” I looked behind and saw Andy was inches away. He reached out to gently stroke my bare wrist.

  “Did you come all the way up here to tease me?” I shot him a flirty look, then glanced away nervously.

  “All the way? It’s not that far. And well worth the walk up a flight of stairs.”

  I felt a pat of butter melt in my stomach.

  He cocked his head ever so slightly. “I want to show you something cool.”

  Without waiting for me to agree, he grabbed my hand and led me all the way up the marble stairs that Hallie and Sig had been perched on earlier that night, and we settled onto the floor of the balcony above. This high up, all the station’s sounds melted into one mellifluous echo, and the concourse spread out like a magic carpet.

  “What do you think, Voyante?”

  “It’s pretty great from up here,” I said, my fingers trembling.

  And it would be greater if you’d kiss me, I held back from saying.

  “Want to see something better? Look up.” Andy pointed at the ceiling.

  I leaned back and craned my neck. “Wow,” I said dizzily. “The stars feel brighter up here.”

  He placed his hand on the ground directly behind me and my spine tingled. “Do you notice anything else strange?”

  I turned to look at him. “The fact that you’re not blowing me off for once?”

  As I was saying it I felt brave, but the second I was done talking fear started karate chopping in my chest.

  He scowled. “I hate to break it to you, but not all of your conspiracy theories hold water. Look up again.” He waited a moment. “See that? It’s all painted backward.”

  “It is?” I studied the order of the stars and tried to flip them over in my head. I was surprised that this was the first time I’d noticed—or even heard about this.

  He scooted closer. “Some people say it was done that way to make us feel like we’re looking down on the sky from the other side. There’s also another, less popular, theory.”

  “What? That the painter had dyslexia?” I joked.

  “Bingo.”

  What was wrong with me, making wisecracks about learning disorders in front of their poster child?

  But Andy didn’t seem to mind. “That’s the theory I’m rooting for. Think about it: if he could create the entire universe, maybe I’ll be able to get a B average. And, you know, start focusing on other things.”

  His implication was so obvious it hurt.

  I sighed and looked away. “Keep me posted.”

  “Like I wouldn’t.” He pressed his forehead against my neck, barely missing my cameo.

  “Claire?” he said. And then he kissed me, right there under the stars.

  All the sound around me drained away and I saw pale pink cherry blossoms explode in my head.

  It felt good—too good to get used to.

  { 10 }

  The Other Kind of Salon

  The next morning, I woke up to a lumpy gray sky. It was the kind of weather that casts its sleepy spell on everything, and I was no exception. Too tired to move, I lay in bed concentrating not on my memories of the party, but on the gray world I’d gone to when I’d closed my eyes the night before.

  I was standing at the head of the operating table, and the patient was covered with a drab-colored sheet. Just as the head nurse handed me the tray with my instruments, the lightbulb hanging overhead went out, and I proceeded to snip and stitch in the dark. When I was done performing my operation, all the nurses clapped and raised martini glasses. Then the patient turned to me and I saw that he wasn’t a man—he was a snake.

  “She moves!” I rubbed my eyes and looked across the room at Dad. “Becca’s on the line.”

  I took the phone and cleared my throat. “Hola.” My voice was huskier than usual, which must have been a function of my sleepiness.

  “Sorry to wake you,” Becca said. “But it’s too good not to. You near a computer?”

  “Say no more.” I stretched and got out of my cozy spot under the covers. I was on Moonwatcher.net in no time. The site’s latest photo showed Reagan looking glum as Poppy sauntered past, her arm linked through a guy’s.

  “‘Blue Moon scandal alert,’” I read aloud. “‘All hell broke loose last night when Poppy “Man on the Moon” Williamson and Reagan “Pale Moon” Hendricks showed up at the Hope and Anchor fund-raiser wearing the same dress. Quele horroir!‘”

  “They didn’t even get that part right, did they?” Becca asked.

  “Not if it’s supposed to be French.”

  Becca snorted. “So it’s official: they got everything wrong. The only thing their dresses had in common is they were black. Poppy’s was Zac Posen and Reagan’s was some Italian designer. Not to mention Poppy’s had only one strap.”

  “You going to write in and ask for a correction?” I asked.

  “Considering that’s the only thing they got out of the night, I’m going to let it lie.” She paused. “Anyway, I wanted to thank you for finding those merry pranksters last night. You did great.”

  Happiness rang through me. It wasn’t so much that I wanted credit for the night before as that I wanted to know Becca held me in high esteem. She wasn’t going to drop me after all.

  “Oh, whatever.�
�� I tried to play it off. “Thank whoever invented fake tans. Those dolts were easy to spot.”

  Becca laughed giddily, then changed the subject. “So what are you up to today?”

  “Why?” I could hardly wait to hear what she had in mind.

  “If you want, Louis was going to take me to this taco joint he discovered, down in Sunset Heights.”

  “You mean Sunset Park?” I asked, mildly annoyed to hear that they’d made plans without me.

  “You know it?” She sounded surprised.

  Know it? Um, I’d only been the one to introduce Louis to my favorite chocolate chicken tacos. “I think he’s mentioned it,” I said coolly, refraining from telling her that I deserved the credit.

  He so owed me one.

  “He’s lending me a bike,” she said. “I haven’t been on one since I was using training wheels. Why don’t you come with us?”

  It was a tough call. Becca was able to sniff out my matchmaker motives from a mile away—and they always sent her running. If I said yes, Louis would kill me for crashing his two-person party. If I said no, she’d bail. I needed a good excuse.

  “I wish I could, but I just remembered,” I said, stuffing my chewed-up nails in my mouth. I had about two seconds to think of an excuse. Make that one second.

  “What?” Becca was practically huffing with impatience.

  And at that very moment, salvation walked in through my bedroom door. Henry was clutching The Big Book of Bugs and wearing Dad’s new terry cloth workout band to keep his mess of blond curls from flopping onto his face.

  “Henry and I have a date to get his hair cut,” I told her.

  “We do?” Henry’s stupefied tone made my stomach tighten. Becca was going to know I was lying.

  But instead she just laughed. “Henry goes to that culty curly hair salon? I didn’t know they took kids.”

  And then it crystallized: she’d misheard Henry’s “we do” for Ouidoo, the “curly girl” place I kept coming across on my fashion magazine binges.

  “Why wouldn’t they?” I had no choice but to play along. She’d never know if I just took him to Cheap Cuts instead of paying two hundred dollars for Ouidoo’s signature “no shampoo” (they didn’t believe in the chemicals) and “no snip” (they used a hedge clipper–like instrument that was supposed to be easier on the follicle than regular scissors).

  “Reagan has an appointment there today too,” Becca told me.

  “She does?” I replied nervously. “But her hair isn’t even curly.”

  “It is before she blow-dries it straight,” Becca said. “Maybe Louis and I will come by and say hi.”

  Way to talk your way into a corner, Claire. Now we had to go there or Reagan would rat us out.

  “Yeah, you should,” I said unconvincingly and looked over at Henry. His little belly was popping through his T-shirt and he was dragging his finger across the top of my fish tank.

  That boy had “two-hundred-dollar salon” written all over him.

  You’ve got to love the Internet. Turned out Ouidoo’s had a “curly child” discount that was affordable enough to quash Mom and Dad’s financial worries.

  “It’ll be good for us to have some quality brother-sister time,” I told them.

  Mom rubbed her eyes. “And what may I ask is so wrong with the quality of your time together at Cheap Cuts?”

  “Nothing,” I said sweetly. “They’re just closed on Sundays.”

  I felt like high-fiving myself.

  As we were on our way out, I noticed a thick envelope with Kiki’s signature pink trim calling out to me from the mail pile on the sideboard. “Hang on, Hen,” I said, gliding over to the envelope. The surprise was that it was addressed to both Henry and me. Kiki usually acts as if I live alone. I ripped it open.

  KIKI MERRIMAN

  REQUESTS THAT

  CLAIRE AND HENRY VOYANTE

  SAVE THE DATE OF SATURDAY THE SECOND OF MARCH

  FOR A BIRTHDAY CELEBRATION ABOARD A

  MURDER MYSTERY TRAIN

  EXACT DETAILS TO FOLLOW

  I double-checked the pile to see if any identical cards had come for the rest of the Voyantes.

  Amazing. Leave it to Kiki not to invite her daughter or son-in-law to her birthday party. Not wanting to start trouble, I quickly stuffed the card in the back pocket of my jeans and rejoined my brother at the door.

  “Wanna hear a joke?” he asked me. “What kind of haircut is popular with bees?”

  I pushed the hair out of his face and studied his blue eyes. He was dying to get to the punch line.

  “I don’t know,” I lied.

  “A buzz cut!” He spread his arms like wings and took off for the elevator.

  An hour later, Henry was off having his scalp smothered with a kelp-protein mask, and I was ensconced in a velvety lounge chair, contentedly working on my second complimentary Mexican spiced hot chocolate and flipping through the latest Elle. So what if I didn’t fit in with the salon’s bizarrely ringleted populace? This place was made for me.

  I was midway through a test that would tell me what my “beauty look” revealed about my taste in men when a woman came over and introduced herself as Henry’s assistant rinse technician. “The mask was remarkably successful,” she said in a tone befitting a cancer ward nurse. “Come and see for yourself.”

  Upstairs, Henry was chilling out in a swivel chair, reading his Big Book of Bugs while a woman with silver corkscrew curls daubed his head with paper towels. “It’s their patented no-frizz technique,” he told me when he met my eye in the mirror.

  I took a seat next to him. “I’ll have to try it at home.”

  The silver-haired woman bristled. “It doesn’t work on people with hair like yours.”

  I felt a twinge of hurt and was relieved when Ravi, Henry’s main stylist, bungee jumped onto the scene and started groping Henry’s locks. He launched into a story about the wedding he’d just come back from a few nights ago, not seeming to notice—or care—that Henry was reading his book and that he was an eight-year-old boy. “I’m not allowed to name names … a real star-studded affair … the cliffs of Scotland are so misty this time of year …”

  Ravi was so consumed with his tales of fabulousness, he was having trouble focusing on the job at hand. In the time it took me to finish my magazine, he’d barely made his way through a quarter of Henry’s hair.

  Boredom was starting to weigh on me. “I’m going to go down to the first floor and get a magazine refill,” I announced, springing out of my chair. There’d have to be something to distract myself with below.

  Weirdly, when I got downstairs, the lobby’s once-heaping pile of glossies had depleted to practically nothing. I lifted the one remaining title—an old Organic Living with this scintillating headline: The Grain Drain Explained—and let it drop back down.

  “Psst,” came a voice.

  I looked up to see a familiar face surrounded by an unfamiliar crown of Pre-Raphaelite curls. “Reagan?” I squawked. “I barely recognized you.”

  “Yeah, I got my mom’s hair.” A shadow passed over her face. “At least she gave me that.” Clearly embarrassed by her self-pity, she started rambling on about her hair and how hard it was to care for. “It has a mind of its own. If I go to sleep with it wet I wake up looking like one of those bonsai sculptures.” She still looked sad and I could tell she wasn’t done thinking about her mother’s hands-off approach to parenting.

  I felt a rush of sympathy. “I like the way your hair looks now,” I told her. “Honestly.”

  “Whatever.” She cast me a skeptical look. “Anyway, I have a treat for you.” She pulled me behind a palm tree and opened her salon smock. She’d taken the whole stack of magazines.

  “You greedy little devil!” I cried, and a vicarious thrill shot through me as I grabbed the first one to come to hand—Nylon‘s new music issue. “And to think I almost bought this!”

  She cast her eyes at the receptionist, who was trying to pretend she wasn’t staring a
t the palm tree we were hiding behind. “I should probably get back to my station,” she said, retying her belt.

  “No worries,” I said, feeling bad for my lack of subtlety about her magazine hoarding as I watched her walk away. “And hey, your secret’s safe with me.”

  She turned around and stared at me in annoyance.

  “Your hair,” I clarified, making a curly corkscrew gesture and glancing over at the receptionist to make sure she was watching. “Not a word.”

  { 11 }

  How I Joined the Green Party

  Tuesday night, a drunk couple decided the Washington View Village courtyard was the perfect location for their enactment of World War III. I got to hear every last detail about the man’s unwillingness to take his girlfriend’s phone calls at work and the woman’s insistence on flirting with the FreshDirect guy. I slept horribly, even worse than usual, and I was in such a daze the next day at school that I’d worked through most of my lunch before I clued in to the fact that I was sitting at the same table as the cute dark-haired guy with the Western style shirts.

  I must have been staring at him, because he jerked his hand in the air and grinned.

  “I’m Alex,” he said, scooting into the spot directly across from me. He sounded slightly stuffed up, as if he was recovering from a cold. “Mind if I—wait, did I just kick you?”

  He was so much goofier than his cool-guy image had led me to believe.

  “I don’t think so,” I said, bringing my Orangina to my mouth. His manic energy was making me smile.

  “Must’ve been somebody else, then.” He looked down the table and called out, “Apologies to any and all injured parties.” Then he turned back to face me. “I have disproportionately long legs. And a short wingspan. See?” He raised his arms over his head, then grinned. “Sorry for the information overload.”

  Okay, he was nicer and spazzier than I would have figured.

  “No, not at all.” I smiled again. “I’m all for information.”

  “No other way to be.”

  He reminded me of an adorable dog, with his slightly overgrown and wet-looking features. I took another bite of leftover duck confit and watched as he produced a mini box of Rice Krispies from his bag and emptied it into a paper bowl. The kid was eating cereal for lunch. You had to respect that.