Dream Life Read online

  “I think your friend hates me.” Andy’s look didn’t contradict what I was saying, and I slunk deeper into my seat. “Don’t mind me while I disappear.”

  “Sounds like a plan.” Becca rose to her feet and motioned for us to join her. “Last one to the door has to come back here every night for a week.”

  • • •

  We ended up taking a cab up to Sylvia’s, a soul food restaurant in Harlem. It was the opposite of the fake restaurant we’d just visited, with many diners who fell outside of the sixteen-to-twenty age range and lighting that made it possible to actually locate your fork. The walls were covered with photographs of celebrities who’d eaten there, and there wasn’t a single patron who didn’t appear to be having the time of their life. It was anything but a “see and be seen” kind of place.

  Becca had been there before so she took care of the ordering: fried chicken, ribs, candied yams, corn bread, and some vegetable I’d never heard of. I was intimidated by the quantity of it all, but when the chicken arrived at the table and the buttery aroma enveloped us, my stomach capacity instantly quadrupled.

  “God,” Becca said, gnawing her way down a sticky rib. “You have no idea how good it is to be back home.”

  “Yeah, I hear Hawaii’s pretty tough this time of year,” I deadpanned.

  “You try spending Christmas there,” Becca said. “There was no snow and my chocolate Santa melted.”

  “You ate it anyway,” Andy reminded her.

  Becca flicked her shiny brown hair over her shoulder. “Well, it didn’t feel right,” she insisted. “I hate Christmas that’s not in New York.”

  “At least you had your Brookfield friends there,” Andy said, and I felt myself raising a jealous eyebrow. Brookfield Academy is the superuptight uptown all-girls school that Becca went to until sixth grade, when her parents sent her to Houghton, the superconservative boarding school in Massachusetts she attended until some creepy stalker started following her around and her parents made her come home to Manhattan.

  “I didn’t realize you were still friends with Brookfield kids.” I was trying my best to conceal my unease.

  “I wasn’t.” Her eyes darted away. “But I reconnected with some of them. They actually turned out okay. Maybe we can all hang out soon.”

  Yeah, right. I’d read enough issues of Teen Vogue to know how terrifying those girls were. They all looked like ballerinas and attended enough international debutante balls to use the Hôtel de Crillon in Paris as a mailing address.

  “Anyway,” Becca went on, “what did you do for Christmas? Were you at the Waldorf?”

  Okay, I realize it might seem a little hypocritical to hold it against the Brookfield girls that they go to five-star hotels when I have a grandmother who lives at the Waldorf-Astoria, no fleabag motel. But it’s different.

  Kiki isn’t filthy rich, she just happens to have an amazing apartment. She’s been a resident at the hotel ever since the sixties, when she was a recently retired showgirl who convinced her diplomat husband that he needed a New York pied-à-terre, lovely as Washington, D.C., was. To hear her tell it, my grandfather balked at the suite’s steep price, but Kiki persuaded him that regularly staying in the red-hot center of New York would have its advantages. And did it ever. She absorbed an entire library of etiquette books and saw to it that they both got invited to every costume gala and breakfast party. She was one of the top swans of New York society, and one of the most well-known pictures of Truman Capote’s infamous Black and White Ball shows Kiki chatting with Frank Sinatra and some Mexican race car driver whose claim to fame was convincing a pair of sister socialites to leave their husbands for him, at the very same time.

  Nowadays Kiki barely resembles the woman who used to regularly appear in the Vogue society pages, but she still makes a big to-do out of having fun. When her friends aren’t throwing cocktail parties and gossiping about scandals from half a century ago, they’re giving me pointers and trying to cook up new scandals to gossip about.

  “So?” Becca was waving her hand in front of my face. “I repeat: What did you do for Christmas?”

  “Sorry.” I blinked hard. “Kiki was visiting a friend in Boston, so I hung around my building and watched academics get drunk on nasty eighteenth-century cocktails.”

  “Come again?” Andy said.

  “Ivan Fargoset, this cultural studies professor who lives on the sixth floor of my building, found a historic cocktail book at a stoop sale. He gave a demonstration on classic fermentation tactics and then he mixed the homemade booze with bits of horseradish in plastic cups.”

  Andy made a pained face. “Sounds edifying.”

  “Yeah, I learned a lot. Like don’t ever accept homemade alcohol. One of the faculty wives nearly had a seizure.”

  Becca laughed. “And what about New Year’s Eve? More partying with the professors?”

  “Kiki was back by then, thank God. I hung out at her place for a bit and then I went down to Ian Kitchen’s.”

  “Just the two of you?” Andy puckered his lips.

  I paused to savor his uncharacteristic—and totally unnecessary—jealousy Adorable as Ian Kitchen may be, he’s even shorter than I am, and he carries a wheelie suitcase around with him everywhere he goes.

  “A bunch of boys he knows from the comic-book store were there,” I told them. “They said a few other girls were invited, but I’m not convinced they actually know any. We played some video game called Vampire Fantasy and I watched a couple of the guys practically get in a fistfight over who’d collected more blood droplets.”

  The second I said it, I felt embarrassed. Why hadn’t I just done what any normal person would do and lied about going to some regular high school party with wine coolers and a police bust?

  “Vampire Fantasy?” Andy repeated. “You should invite Becca next time. She’d kick their butts.”

  “You’re too right,” I said, eyeing Becca in relief. Prim as she might look, Becca is crazy about anything remotely horror themed. She has a collection of plastic cockroaches and a fake ID she uses exclusively to get into R-rated horror movie screenings. “You would blow their minds. And those kids could use some humble pie.”

  “Whatever,” Becca said, handing our waiter a stack of our empty plates. “Who wants real pie?”

  Darkness enveloped us when we left the restaurant. “Taxi time?” Becca asked, shivering for effect.

  “Not yet,” Andy said. “I hardly ever make it this far uptown. Let’s walk around a little.”

  He guided us down Lenox Avenue and west on 125th Street. There were hardly any stars out, but the trees shimmered with hundreds of tiny seasonal white lights. Andy was looking up at all the buildings and I linked my arm through Becca’s peacoat sleeve.

  “Hey, B,” I said, “Louis and I are thinking of taking a day trip to Philadelphia. The Chinatown bus gets there in like, two hours. What do you think?” I asked as casually as I could. I’d promised Louis Ibbits, my oldest friend in the world, I’d try to get a read on Becca, and whether she had any interest in him.

  “Sounds right,” Becca said neutrally “I usually take the train.”

  Becca is willful in all respects, oblivion very much included.

  “No.” I squeezed her arm tighter. “I meant what do you think about coming with us? There’s this museum full of medical curiosities, like pickled organs and flipper feet.”

  Before I could bug her more, Andy turned around to face us. He looked alarmed. “Am I the only one who didn’t know about this?” I realized he was pointing across the street.

  I scoped out the scene, but all I could make out was New York on a typical Saturday night: couples squabbling under store awnings, buses blazing by, packs of guys searching for a party to crash.

  But Becca echoed her brother’s concern. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”

  “Um, anybody care to fill me in?” I peeped.

  “Are you blind?” Becca raised her arm and pointed up.

  What was it with me m
issing the most obvious thing? A few feet away stood the Apollo—the famous theater where nearly all the Motown girl groups I’m obsessed with got their start on amateur night. Just when I was about to tell them a pointless tidbit about the Ronettes, I looked up at the marquee and realized what they were freaking out about.

  SHOW’S OVER. COMING SOON: SHOWTIME LOFTS. HURRY UP WHILE UNITS ARE STILL AVAILABLE.

  Andy went over to study a building permit pasted to the side of the building. “Thought so.” He sounded angry. “Sink is without mercy.” He turned back to meet my glassy-eyed stare. “Sinclair Landon. Ring a bell? A tiny bell?”

  “Sink runs this real estate development company called Zeta Equities,” Becca filled me in.

  “Whenever a landmark starts to deteriorate,” Andy said, “Zeta pounces on it. They say they’re coming to the rescue or whatever and then, before you know it, they turn it into a cheesy condo.”

  “Aren’t there laws against that?” I asked.

  “Sure … and loopholes.” Andy kicked at an empty cigarette pack into the street. “If a landmarked building starts to fall apart and the city doesn’t have the resources to fix it, developers can make a bid. They have to promise to respect the integrity of the original structure, but their definition of ‘integrity’ is super loose.”

  I could feel myself making my oh-so-attractive confused duck expression—a house specialty. It was hard to remember that, for once, I was the normal one here. My parents tend to be too worried about making ends meet and remembering which day of the week is faculty discount night at the Associated Supermarket to teach me about multimillion dollar development deals.

  “You’ve seen the Coney Island boardwalk, right?” Becca asked.

  I nodded, remembering a bike ride Louis and I had recently taken. The Coney Island of my childhood—wonky-mirrored funhouses and Skee-Ball arcades—had been replaced with a soaring purple complex that looked like an inside-out spaceship.

  “They’re not doing that here, are they?” I asked.

  “So it seems,” Becca said.

  “Can we go?” Andy came as close to snapping as I’d ever seen. “I can’t deal.”

  “Sure,” his sister said. She stepped down from the curb to hail a taxi. “I’m going to the East Side,” she said. “Anyone headed that way?”

  The cab had already pulled up before Andy and I had a chance to turn down her offer. That moment at the end of a night where people split up into groups based on their next destination always happens faster than I’d like.

  “Enjoy your last day of freedom,” Becca said as she folded into her cab.

  “Wait,” I said just as she was closing the door. “What are you doing tomorrow?”

  It came out a little desperate, but I couldn’t help it. Tonight’s hang-out wasn’t enough to cure me of the massive case of Becca withdrawal I’d been suffering.

  “Tomorrow’s bad.” She sounded hesitant, and my mouth settled into a pout. Was more of an explanation too much to ask for? “But I’ll see you bright and early at that place that shall not be named.” She made a face at the thought of Henry Hudson High and pulled the door shut.

  Even though I knew I’d see her soon enough, I still felt a pang of sadness

  I turned to Andy once Becca’s cab was out of sight. It occurred to me that Columbia was about ten blocks away, and I still hadn’t seen his dorm. Well, that thought had already occurred to me before now. But it occurred to me that maybe we could do something about it. “Should I walk you down to campus and then—”

  “I’m not headed there just yet,” he said, oblivious to my implication. “I told my friend Jack I’d swing by his place. He’s having a poker party.”

  “Oh, that’s cool.” Disappointment rang through my voice, and I tried to cover it up by telling him I sucked at poker. “I’m better at old-lady games, like Scrabble.”

  “Then we’re even. I suck at Scrabble,” he said in a consoling tone while flagging down a cab. “I can’t spell for my life.”

  Andy supposedly had learning disabilities, though I’d never seen any evidence of one. I just thought he wouldn’t find school so hard if he hadn’t skipped first grade and if he ever bothered to study.

  His poker party was in the Village, so we shared a cab downtown. We rode south along the West Side Highway in near silence, and as the fare on the meter mounted, so did my sense of discontent. Kiki always says the way to a man’s heart is to “leave emotional prattle to the pages of the women’s magazines and keep things light as a hazelnut soufflé,” but that was impossible with this heavy feeling in my heart. And then it occurred to me: might Becca be backing off because she suspected something was going on between her brother and me. Could it be?

  “Hey, Andy,” I said after he’d instructed the driver to take the Fourteenth Street exit. We probably had one minute left. If that. “Did you tell… I mean … does Becca …”

  He stroked his fuzzy head and looked at me apprehensively. “You want to have a serious talk now?”

  “No.” God, why did my voice have to crack when I lied?

  “It’s okay, we probably should.” Andy leaned up and told the driver to pull over at the corner, near the site of his poker game, then placed his hand on my knee. I pretended not to feel anything as we locked eyes. “Look, I just don’t think now is a good time to make anything official,” he said. “The new semester is starting and my parents lined up a whole army of tutors to keep me on my feet. Dad says if I don’t get at least a B average, he’s going to make me transfer somewhere in the country. He thinks I’m running around the city too much. So, I kinda need to …” His eyes shifted focus from me to the middle distance. “I need to keep distractions to a minimum this semester.”

  Was he kidding? Only a month ago I’d saved his life and now I was demoted to a mere “distraction”?

  I was so upset I wanted to jump out of the car and run.

  He cleared his throat and sighed. He’d have to have been an idiot not to notice my disappointment. “That came out the wrong way.” Now he was rubbing my knee. He leaned in to kiss my ear. Okay, I was feeling a little better. He caught my eye and smiled. “I just need to keep things low-key for the next little while.”

  I could feel my brow furrowing. “So you just want to be fr—”

  “Claire, shut up.” That was the first time I’d heard him say those words to me. And then he leaned in and gave me a kiss on the mouth that tasted as cool and sweet as a green apple. When he was done, he stroked my cheek, and I felt my heart give a double beat. “‘Just friends’ is not an option. But please, a little patience. Okay?” He skipped out of the cab and crouched down to take one last look at me before handing the driver a twenty-dollar bill and shutting the door behind him. “I’ll call you soon.”

  My head was whirling in happy confusion the rest of the way home. I hadn’t seen his dorm, but we’d had our longest kiss yet. I fingered my cameo, my smile growing like Jack’s beanstalk.

  It wasn’t until I’d made it through the Washington View Village courtyard and onto the elevator that I started thinking about the spiel that had come before the kiss. How had I missed the part that mattered? He wanted to keep things low-key. Which was a nice way of saying he wanted to put things on ice. The kiss had just been a consolation prize that he’d thrown in at the last minute.

  My stomach dropped.

  We were over, and we’d hardly even got started.

  Looked like Sink Landon wasn’t the only strategic genius in town.

  { 2 }

  Plus Ça Change

  I was wearing a black-and-white elf suit, and we’re not talking the Victoria’s Secret “Sexy Santa” line. I was on the main floor of Macy’s, ho-ho-ho-ing for the little children. Everything was fine and dandy until a girl in a wheelchair approached me and my bag of presents was suddenly empty. Her face began to crumple, but then she looked elated. I looked down at my bag and saw a Cabbage Patch Kid doll poking out.

  My color-challenged dreams used to fr
eak me out. Now I woke up feeling anything but worried. The mysterious night visions were happening again, which meant my life was about to pick up. The usual postdream grogginess overwhelmed me as I tried to sit up, but I didn’t mind at all. A little exhaustion seemed a small price to pay for seeing things that nobody else can.

  I pushed off my bright pink silk JE DORS, DONC JE SUIS sleep mask—a Christmas present from my parents—and looked around the room. It was a mess, with fashion magazines littering the floor and the Kiki hand-me-downs I’d hand-washed the night before draped across every available surface.

  “I can’t keep coming in here to wake you up.” Mom was leaning against the doorjamb, looking as drowsily beautiful as ever, even in her XXL LA VIE C’EST UN SOAP OPERA T-shirt. A diehard Francophile, Mom is a sucker for any clothing that comes from France, no matter how heinous or ungrammatical. “Vacation’s over, Claire,” she said.

  Like that hadn’t occurred to me already.

  I groaned, pulled myself out of bed, and shuffled out of the room and down the hall. After a quick shower, I threw on my back-to-school outfit: jeans, a gray and white striped T-shirt, and a skinny French blue cardigan that Kiki told me her “dear friend” Oscar de la Renta had special-made for her. Kiki has a way of embroidering the truth, but when I looked in the mirror I had to hand it to her—the sweater was perfectly cut for somebody with the short arms and epic butt that my grandmother and I share. Finally, I put on my cat eyeliner and took a step back to study myself in the mirror. With my blond bob, Cheerio-shaped mouth, and freckles, I’m more Girl Scout than Gisele. The most interesting thing about the way I look is that I have one green and one hazel eye. One can only hope for future developments.

  Dad was sitting cross-legged on the Moroccan rug in the living room, his face scrunched up into a tight red ball. My little brother, Henry, was next to him, studying a stopwatch through his mop of blond curls.

  “Your father’s trying Saffron’s positive visualization exercises,” Mom whispered, draping her arm around me. She was referring to Saffron Scott, the supermodel-turned-home-design personality who was the subject of Mom’s latest ghostwriting project. Mom’s B-list celebrity clients usually keep their relationship with Mom strictly professional, but Saffron was going through a divorce from some jerky fashion photographer, and it must have really been messing her up. She had latched on to my weirdo household with a fervor bordering on obsession—sometimes she came over when there wasn’t any work for her and Mom to do at all.