Dream Girl Read online

  Well, most of the BDLs. Sheila was peeling off from the posse.

  “Where do you think you’re going?” Janice asked her.

  “I have this thing I have to go to,” Sheila warbled. “It’s…with my mother. I’ll call you guys later.”

  I could tell by Janice’s look that she was skeptical. So was I. Hadn’t Cheri-Lee said she was going to a craft fair and Sheila wasn’t joining her? And since when was she in the habit of lying to her best friends? My head started to spin. Call me crazy, but I had to see what she’d stuffed up her polka-dotted sleeve.

  As Becca gabbed away on the phone, I twisted her wrist around to get a look at her watch.

  “Four already?” I mouthed dramatically. “I gotta run!”

  And before Becca could get off the phone and ask me what could possibly be of such overwhelming importance, I was loping down the street, with Sheila’s brassy bob as my beacon.

  A little ways down the subway platform from me, Sheila was sitting on a bench reading a magazine. My palms coated in clammy sweat, I had to keep wiping them on the front of my dress.

  When the train pulled into the station, I pretended to study a map and waited for Sheila to board, then clambered onto a neighboring car just as the doors were closing. There was a spot near the window, which made keeping an eye on her pretty easy.

  At West Fourth Street, our usual stop, Sheila stood up. I determined with a zing of disappointment that she must be going to meet her mother after all. I was following her for nothing.

  But then the doors opened and Sheila did a silly-me double take and grabbed a pole. And she remained standing there until the train pulled into the Thirty-fourth Street stop.

  This was getting interesting.

  I snatched a Daily News from an empty bank of seats and held it in front of my face as I disembarked and followed her up to the street. She was buzzing ahead quickly, too quickly not to be nervous about something. She had to be heading to a top-secret assignation. And unless she was conducting a secret love affair, who else could it be with but the Soyles?

  I hung behind by half a block or so and trailed her up Sixth Avenue, with the newspaper held up to my face. I should have thought to cut eyeholes in it—I had a pretty close call when she stopped to admire a street vendor’s table of jewelry and I nearly tripped over her. Luckily, she was too busy admiring a pair of hoop earrings to notice.

  At last, she turned onto a desolate side street. The afternoon sunlight slanted onto the sidewalk’s heaps of old boxes and mattresses, and Sheila and I were the only people around. I found a spot on a stoop and watched through the ironwork as Sheila charged down the block. She looked behind her one last time before disappearing behind a red steel door.

  I sat there long enough to see a couple of other people enter by the same door: a drippy middle-aged guy who could have easily passed for an accountant and a heavyset woman with long dreadlocks. They were both carrying musical instrument cases. Did the Soyles have their own orchestra or something?

  When I was sure long enough had passed, I approached the building. All my fantasies came to a crashing halt when I saw the piece of paper taped to the door:

  N. Y. S. & S. S.

  8F, PRESS HARD

  BUZZER SEMI-BROKEN

  It was a meeting of the New York Sword and Sorcery Society. No doubt about it. That was why Sheila didn’t want anybody to know where she was going. And she must have been using her yoga mat bag to hide her sword.

  I hadn’t got to the bottom of anything. At least nothing more than Sheila’s not-so-secret dorkiness.

  { 21 }

  Punch-drunk Powwow

  The Russian Tea Room is an over-the-top New York establishment that is the dining equivalent of a sequined Versace dress. Everything, from the bright red awning to the massive crystal bear in the center of the dining room, is larger than life. Kiki loves it. As for me, well, I’m still coming around.

  Kiki had called me the night before to invite me to join her and Edie for a drink, although it was more an instruction than an invitation. “There is no way I will sit on my hands and wait until Sunday night to hear about your weekend with the Shuttleworths,” she’d thundered.

  When I showed up, Edie was running behind schedule, so it was just Kiki and me in a back corner.

  “When Edie and I were still working in the theater we’d come here, and so many producers would send us drinks, we didn’t know what to do with them all,” she told me, her eyes twinkling at the memory. “One night Speedy Fitchburg—his name probably means nothing to you, but he was a real big cheese—he invited us to join him in his private dining room upstairs. And he had members of the Moscow circus up there with him! We spent the night feasting on champagne and blini and trying to learn how to walk on our hands.” She sighed ruefully. “Why don’t people do things like that anymore?”

  I was so tired my head hurt, but I didn’t want to let it show. The last time I’d yawned at a restaurant with Kiki, she’d made a big production of calling the waiter over and requesting a spare pillow.

  “Now, how was your trip?”

  Fighting the urge to rub my eyes or slump, I gave Kiki a recap of my forty-eight hours—the first night in heaven, the conversation about the Soyles, and then the final chapter of Rye-and-Andy-induced hell.

  “And I see you’re feeling dozy,” Kiki said.

  I gave myself a double pinch under the table. “It’s that obvious?”

  “You know, when I was your age I was also exhausted all the time.”

  “Yeah,” I said, “but that’s because you were running around being fabulous or whatever. The thing that’s tiring me out is those black-and-white dreams.”

  “I know how it goes.” She smiled. “Don’t forget I had my own little situation when I was younger. The fascinating thing is most people can wear that necklace and nothing will happen. But if you already possess a special gift, the cameo will amplify it.”

  “And my special gift is being tired?”

  “No, darling. Your gift was always snooping around and concocting mysteries out of thin air. Now you can actually be useful.”

  “Useful how?”

  “From my experience,” she said, “one uses the necklace to help people you care about, to keep trouble at bay. You’re poised to make a difference.”

  What the hell? How long had I been wearing this necklace and only now Kiki was revealing there was a user’s guide?

  I looked around the room, taking in the glittery walls, crimson ceilings, and exotic Fabergé egg–ornamented trees. The restaurant vibrated with other people’s tinkling conversations, and it seemed inconceivable that Kiki’s revelation hadn’t caused the rest of the world to stop.

  She placed her hand over mine. “When I was younger, I used to have a very strong sense about what other people were thinking. But it was always fluff and nonsense—I’d know that a man on the bus was wondering about the composition of saltwater taffy or a girl was worrying over the dry state of her elbows. And then when I started wearing the necklace, everything changed. I was still able to read other people’s thoughts, but…”

  “But what?” I was desperate for her to go on.

  “Well, I could filter out the pointless bits. The first time it happened, I was able to tell that our cranky neighbor Mr. Ringen was hiding something. Turned out he had something in the bottom of his pool.”

  “He was hiding a body!”

  “No, no. His mother’s will. He’d hidden it there temporarily and then forgotten to move it. Turned out his brother was supposed to inherit the house, and it wasn’t long before we had a very charming—and handsome!—new neighbor.”

  I felt hot and downed the rest of my water in one gulp. What did this mean for me? I knew my dreams had a way of seeing into the future, but were they actually telling me something? The ones that immediately came to mind—the flying duffel bag and the fruit and pregnancy dreams—had pointed me to a cheesy self-help book, a make-out session with a dog, and a sword and sor
cery meeting, respectively. Was there a greater point I was missing out on?

  “As a child,” she went on, “my grandmother had a way of seeing pictures in everything. She’d see faces in the clouds or horses in her toast.”

  I nodded with familiarity. Henry once thought he saw King Arthur in his grilled cheese sandwich and insisted on keeping it in a Ziploc bag in the refrigerator until it started to grow mold. But something about Kiki’s tone made it clear there was nothing silly about this story.

  “And then what?” I asked. “She started to see pictures that led her to find things in the bottom of pools?”

  “In a matter of speaking.” She raised her glass at me. “She solved people’s troubles. As can you.”

  I felt my lips trembling. “But why didn’t you tell me any of this before?”

  “Well, this isn’t your typical cocktail chitchat, is it? It doesn’t just come up.”

  “I mean when you gave me the necklace,” I said, my tone calibrated between a groan and a plea.

  “I told you to pay attention to your dreams, didn’t I? I told you they’d lead you somewhere. It would have been boring, completely spilling the beans. Besides, I thought you could use some practice piecing things together.”

  I still needed more practice on that front. Staring into the distance, I tried to put together as much as I could, but all my dreams dangled unconnected, like toys from an avant-garde baby mobile.

  “There’s a lot of good you can do. You could change people’s lives.” She smiled patiently. “And that includes saving people’s lives.”

  I felt my cheeks turn red.

  “Dear,” Kiki said, slightly shaking her head. “Your tonsils are lovely, but—”

  “Sorry,” I said, closing my mouth. “I’m just a little overwhelmed.”

  “Well, I won’t hold it against you.”

  An idea lit up inside me like a flame. “Wait—is this also why I’ve been doing so well on all my tests at school, even the ones I’m totally unprepared for? It’s amplifying my hunches?”

  “Nicely done.” Kiki glanced around the room. At first I assumed she wanted to make sure that nobody was listening, but she signaled to the waiter that she’d like another martini and continued, “I urge you not to let on what you’re capable of—especially not to good friends who you want to be seeing more of. Best not to make too many ripples, you hear?” She checked my face to make sure I understood before continuing. “Not every dream you have will be worth a million dollars, or even a copper penny, but it won’t hurt to chase the clues and see what you come up with. It won’t be a waste of time. At the very least, a little adventure is good for the complexion.”

  “Why didn’t you give the necklace to Mom?”

  “These talents seem to skip a generation,” Kiki said. “Just like the talent for cooking that made its way to my mother and your mother.”

  “Are you saying Mom’s cooking is some kind of superpower?”

  “I look at it as a consolation prize. I suppose it’s only fair that she would get something to sink her teeth into other than that odd father of yours.” Kiki went on, “Now, my grandmother used it to help the Sacramento police out on cases that had to do with people she knew—nothing too scandalous, missing dogs and tennis bracelets. I got started keeping tabs on my friends’ husbands—incredible, all the dirt I dug up. Unfortunately, I found some things out about my own husband. And that was not fun.” She took another sip. “In your case, I take it you’re on to something with the Shuttleworths.”

  Of course I was.

  “Might there be some more trouble lurking around the corner?” She tilted her head suggestively.

  Before I could ask her what I should do next, Edie was bearing down on us.

  “There you two are!” she cooed. She was all decked out in a red minidress and lipstick to match. She took a seat. “Kiki, is that who I think it is over in the corner booth?”

  Kiki strained to get a better look. “Well, son of a gun! I thought he’d said the big goodnight ages ago.”

  “You thought wrong,” her friend told her. While the two gossiped about their sighting, I sat there, feeling absolutely stunned.

  Kiki waited until Edie got up to go to the bathroom to tell me more about the cameo.

  “It’s quite simple. The only words of advice I have are to keep the necklace dry and polish it every once in a while. I also found it helped to look right into the cameo once a day or so, but I have no direct proof.”

  “Okay,” I said, trying to commit these tricks to memory. “Anything else?”

  “I do believe it helps to sleep on your back, which you may as well do anyway. An old bust-preservation technique.”

  “So I’ve heard. Mom’s a big fan of that trick.”

  Kiki frowned at the mention of her daughter. “And of course, you won’t tell anybody about any of this. Not your parents, and especially not the people who you’ll be helping. If you decide you don’t like what I told you, well, all you need to do is remove the necklace and you’re off the hook.” Kiki drained her glass. “And if you decide to keep wearing it, I wouldn’t feel so overwhelmed. Think of the adventures. Oh my!”

  It took me a second to realize she was addressing a waiter who’d just arrived with a flute of champagne. “Compliments of Mr. Lefkowitz,” he said, bowing.

  “My granddaughter will be having it.” Kiki pushed the glass my way.

  The waiter mumbled something about serving minors.

  “Oh, darling, it’s fine,” Kiki told him. “She’s French.”

  “Merci.” I smiled at Kiki and took the daintiest sip I could manage. I felt lightheaded, but I don’t think the drink had anything to do with it.

  { 22 }

  Looking for Mr. Goodbar

  Even though the champagne buzz wore off well before I got home, I still woke up with what could only be described as a hangover. I felt fragile and shaky, and everything around me seemed to have gone into soft focus.

  When I met up with Becca that afternoon, she told me she had to go uptown for a Young Friends of Lincoln Center recital.

  “You sure you don’t want to come see New York’s emerging crop of harpsichordists and flutists perform for five hours?” she asked playfully.

  “Sounds dreamy,” I told her. “But I think I have to go, um…”

  Untangle all the dreams I’ve been having and make sure you end up in one piece.

  She lowered her chin and smiled coyly. “When you want to get out of something just say you have to wash your hair.”

  “I’ll come to the next one,” I said, trying to keep my gratefulness inaudible. “Promise.”

  It was a cool afternoon, with a harsh edge to the air. I walked down Delancey Street until I came to the East River. I’d expected to find a spot where I could think alone, but it turned out the waterfront was swarming with other confused souls.

  I sat down on a bench and got started on the pack of sugary grape gum I’d bought on my walk over. Meditation did not come easy at first. An oily smell was coming off the water, and the guy seated a few benches to my right was playing an extended version of “U Can’t Touch This” on the harmonica.

  But after a little while, I barely noticed my surroundings. I had no idea how long I’d been sitting there, but it was time enough for me to have chomped the flavor out of all five pieces of my gum and gotten completely lost in thought. There was no need to be so intimidated by Kiki’s news. Now I had every reason in the world to believe that Becca’s texts were leading up to something far worse than just plain harrassment. If I stayed sharp and figured out what my dreams were telling me, I could identify Becca’s stalker and keep her out of harm’s way. Or at the very least, I could prevent her from being yanked out of Hudson.

  My motives weren’t entirely selfless. This had as much to do with my own survival as with hers.

  When I got home, Dad leapt up from his desk to welcome me. “Let me take your coat, poupée,” he said, and kissed me on the forehead. “How
was your day?”

  “Um, fine?” I said, wondering what on earth was going on. The last time Dad had gotten up from his computer when he was working to talk to me was—well, I couldn’t think of any time that had happened.

  “You missed a magnificent dinner. I cooked pommes frites and salmon that was as fresh as Didier and Margaux.”

  “Dad!”

  “You look so cute when you’re outrageous,” he cooed.

  “Outraged,” I corrected him.

  Dad laughed and kept standing there, swaying from side to side and beaming. “I am also happy as a lamb for another reason,” he said, and I didn’t even bother to remind him clam was the word he’d meant to say. “I was invited to present a talk at the Sorbonne.”

  “You were?” I squealed. “In Paris?” The last time Dad had been invited to speak anywhere, it had required taking a bus to Stamford, Connecticut. The bus had gotten stuck at a Roy Rogers parking lot in Westchester and the lecture was never rescheduled.

  He was touching his mustache, as if to make sure it was still there. I kissed him on each cheek and told him how proud I was. “I can be your date if you need one.”

  “Only spouses can come. Rules are rules.”

  “Since when were French people so conservative about marriage?” I sighed and left him with his books and went into the kitchen to grab some food. As appetizing as Dad had made the fish sound, I opted for a slice of leftover broccoli pizza and some cold French fries.

  Ten minutes later, I was in my room, overstuffed and facedown on top of my comforter. I told myself I would start my homework when it said 9:15 on my alarm clock. But the designated time came and went, as did 9:20, and I still couldn’t make myself budge. Lying there, I began to imagine that my mattress was rippling like a raft at sea, and I was sure I was drifting off to sleep. But the rippling soon gave way to jerking, and I felt somebody’s fist push into the mattress. I had to look under my bed, where I found my little brother.

  “Boo!” Henry said, getting up and stretching out his arms like a zombie.