Dream Girl Page 25

  “Paris? I thought you were in London.” She chuckled. “What kind of a private eye are you if you don’t know I called you a million times?”

  I felt a smile tug at my mouth. “I literally just walked in the door.”

  “Oh right, you were busy running around the world. Listen, I can’t believe you tried to tell me about Rye and I didn’t get it.”

  “Well, a paper napkin isn’t exactly the most convincing evidence…. Anyway, you okay?”

  “Sure, I guess. I’m just in a state of shock. And I hate the idea of having to go through life second-guessing everybody I meet, wondering how much they tell me is true, you know?”

  My stomach tightened. How would she take it if she were to discover the truth about my special talents? Had I been lying, or just holding back? And, really, what was the difference?

  “We shouldn’t talk about this on the phone,” she said. “You never know who’s listening. I just wanted to say welcome home. And I owe you. Big-time.”

  The next day was cold and damp. At nine fifty-five sharp, Becca and I met up with Ian, Zach, and Eleanor outside of school. Becca ran over to give me a huge hug and raked her hand through my new hair. “Wow,” she said approvingly. “From Betty to babe.”

  “Here it is!” Ian alerted us.

  A white Kinko’s van came rolling up the street. While Becca signed something, the rest of us formed a human chain to unload all the boxes into the building.

  Change doesn’t need very long to take effect. When the bell signaling the end of homeroom rang, I stood at my locker, pretending to be searching for something, and watched the pile of “Evil Radish” diminish until there were no copies left. And when I overheard one girl scream, “Oh snap! I know which stuck-up bitches this is about!” I tipped my hat to Ian. How many artists can make a bunch of radishes resemble a specific gaggle of girls?

  At lunch, nearly everybody was absorbed in the comic book, myself and Ian included (we didn’t want to give ourselves away as the creators). Our ultimate triumph came midway through the period, when a few of the BDLs rolled into the cafeteria. They pretended to be in on the joke, waving and smiling, but we’d got them—and how!

  I was feeling pretty pleased with myself until I went to my locker after lunch and saw Sheila and her minions waiting for me. Her eyes were clouded over, and I wondered if she’d been crying.

  I said hello, but she was in no mood for pleasantries.

  “Sixty-five?” she asked. “I would have given you a better grade.”

  I opened my mouth to ask her what she was talking about, and she thrust her copy of “Evil Radish” into my hands. I now noticed, for the first time, that Becca had put a blurb on the bottom of the cover: “65%. Needs Improvement—Mr. Bunting.” She must have thought his disapproval was a funny badge of honor.

  “You’re in Bunting’s class, right?” Sheila asked, a few BDLs fanning around her. The only one who wasn’t glaring at me was Janice. She looked mortified.

  “It’s—it’s just a comic book,” I stammered nervously, and I could hear how deep my voice was. “All about a bunch of radishes who aren’t very nice.”

  “I don’t need your synopsis,” Sheila told me. “I already read it. Very impressive, especially the part about Evil Radish’s summer with her friend Little Lemon. Funny how the comic book didn’t get into the part about how Little Lemon stole Radish’s boyfriend.”

  There was no convincing her that Hayden and I were just friends, was there?

  “How many times do I have to tell you?” I cried, exasperated. “Nothing ever happened between Hayden and me.”

  Sheila’s shoulders heaved. “And now there’s a book about a radish insisting that all her little admirers come to Sammy’s Noodle Shop?”

  “Maybe,” I said, summoning all my courage, “if those radishes didn’t torment the boys—I mean, alfalfa sprouts—there wouldn’t be comic books like this.”

  “Maybe you’re right,” she said in a baby voice. “Maybe the radishes need to learn a lesson.”

  She began to walk away and her cronies followed closely behind. I couldn’t remember how to breathe as I watched their figures recede down the hallway. I wasn’t cut out for this having an enemy business.

  “Or maybe,” Sheila turned around to face me again. “The radishes will stop tormenting alfalfa sprouts and set their sights on”—she squinted and looked me up and down—“sour little lemons. For the sequel.”

  “Can’t wait to read it!” I yelped, trying to sound brave. The truth was, I was petrified. Say what you would about Sheila, but she wasn’t stupid. And now she was about to bump me up to the number one spot on her list of foes.

  I trudged down the hallway with my head hanging, like a sad horse. But when I went outside at the end of the day, I saw how much the ecosphere I inhabited had changed. A suddenly popular Ian stood front and center of the crowd, showing his sketchbook to a tangle of enamored classmates. Meanwhile, Sheila and the rest of the BDLs were nowhere to be seen. I could only assume they were off in somebody’s living room, scheming their revenge. Oh, the thrills that lay ahead! It was a welcome surprise when Becca came up from behind and pinched my back pocket.

  “Talk about a brilliant redesign,” she said, surveying the scene. “I can hardly wait to get going on our next big project.”

  And that was when it hit me—going back to Farmhouse suddenly didn’t seem all that desirable. As much as I’d loved it there, as much as I missed taking hoedown dance classes and working in the bunny garden, there was no denying it: that was all in the past.

  Henry Hudson was my home now, like it or lump it.

  Becca went on, “If we actually spent a real chunk of time planning something, it could be major, right?”

  “Depends if I’m still alive,” I said, and told her about my run-in with Sheila.

  Becca winced. “The Bunting quote. She knew you were in his class. I’m so sorry. I didn’t think it through.”

  I draped my arm around her back and led her away from the building. “It’s not your fault. She would have figured it out anyway.”

  “Really?”

  I nodded. “You know the part about how the evil radish calls her ex-radish boyfriend and tells him he can’t dump her because one day she’s going to be so popular she’ll get her own show on MTV and he’ll regret it?” Becca nodded intently. “It’s based on a true story that Hayden, her ex-boyfriend at camp, told me.”

  Becca was grinning uncontrollably. “Whoops,” she said. “So much for your career as an undercover operative.”

  “Very funny.”

  “So, wanna get mushroom slices at Sal’s?” Becca asked.

  “Let’s go somewhere without other Hudson kids.”

  “Oh, will you stop being embarrassed already? Who cares if you wrote a really funny story about somebody who deserves it? Let’s catch up on your trip.”

  We ended up going to Dirt, a vegan tea shop on Rivington Street. The interior was cave-dark, and the only other customer was a woman with dyed-red hair and a dolphin tattoo that took up most of her back.

  I told Becca pretty much what had happened, minus the weird dreams.

  “I can’t believe Rye was behind the freaky text messages,” Becca said.

  “Don’t give her full credit,” I reminded her. “She was just feeding them information.”

  “No wonder she was always complimenting me on my outfits and asking me questions about where stuff came from,” Becca said, breaking off a piece of her dairy-free banana bread. “The thing I don’t get is how did all this information fall into your lap?” She looked at me suspiciously.

  “It was just a freak encounter,” I said, and gave her the explanation I’d prepared in French class about how Louis and I had stumbled into Rye and the Soyles totally by accident.

  “Still,” she said, “you’ve got to admit that’s too strange. You’d think there were higher forces at work or something.”

  I started to change color. Thank God the restaurant wa
s so dark.

  “Dad had one of his security employees interrogate Rye,” Becca said.

  “And?”

  “It’s as she said. Otto put her up to it. Turns out the two of them have been on and off for years and she’s hopelessly in love with him.”

  “That is totally bizarre,” I said, bringing my teacup to my mouth. “Have you ever seen him? He looks like—”

  “A fat drowned rat in baggy clothes, I know. But he’s a total jerk, and some girls love that kind of thing. I guess she was wooed by his evil streak….”

  All these pieces were coming together: Rye, planes, the tasseled handbag, Otto’s ugly little dog. Wait—could it be?—she was the girl on the plane coming back from Paris last summer. My vision back then hadn’t been so stupid after all!

  “So what was she doing on the plane?” The words were rushing out of me. “Was she telling the truth when she said she was just jamming it so it wouldn’t get off the ground?”

  “That’s what she thought she was doing. That’s what the Soyles told her, and she didn’t ask any questions. They had her pour water on the computer. Just enough to make the system sick.”

  “How sick?”

  “There’s no way to know. It was possible that the plane wouldn’t take off.” She shrugged. “It was also possible it would go haywire thirty-five thousand feet in the air.” Becca put her vegan dessert back on the plate and stared over my shoulder. I could tell she was sadder than she was letting on.

  I put my hand on top of hers and squeezed tight. “It’s okay. The Soyles aren’t going to get to you guys. You’re safe. They’re in the hands of the police.”

  As if on cue, the door opened and a couple of cops ambled inside. Becca motioned for me to lower my voice and proceeded to speak in a whisper. “Shall we move on to another topic?”

  I smiled and the two of us sat quietly, sipping our tea.

  “All things considered,” Becca broke the silence, “we’re fine. Except for Andy.”

  “He’s totally heartbroken?” I asked, trying not to look too sad.

  She paused. “More like Jack Nicholson crazy, sweeping through rooms and banging everything around. But he’ll calm down soon enough. And then he’ll be single. And he’ll be dying to get revenge on that bitch.” She gave me the eyebrow. I wasn’t entirely sure if she was trying to let me know that she would now condone my going out with her brother, but I didn’t press the issue.

  “Well, tell Andy I send my best,” I said hesitantly.

  “He needs more than that. Let me know if you can think of any good distractions.”

  Could I ever.

  “He’s welcome to come over to our place on Thursday night for fake Thanksgiving.” I was startled by my own words. Kiki’s refrain about how it’s up to the gentleman to do the asking ran through my mind. “You know,” I said pathetically, “he always said he wanted to see the nutty-professor complex. Everyone will be there: Kiki, my mom, Douglas, Louis, Cheri-Lee, maybe even Sheila.” I made a funny face.

  Becca stood up and started fiddling with her coat. “I’ll pass along the message.” Her face was long. “Sounds like fun.” Only now did I realize that she wasn’t upset that I was angling to see her brother. She was just feeling left out.

  “Don’t be ridiculous,” I said, fighting back laughter. “You’re invited, too, obviously.”

  { 31 }

  Crowded House

  With this year’s Thanksgiving celebration occurring a week late, Mom and Dad were hoping Kiki would be so aghast with our household’s ineptitude that she would decline their invitation. But Kiki was a stickler for tradition—and a fan of eating great big meals. She was thrilled to have two Thanksgivings.

  When I arrived to pick her up, she gave me a big kiss and congratulated me again on my work in Europe.

  “A job well done. You’re off to a most promising start.”

  “I could use a little rest first.” I handed her two boxes of possibly stale macaroons. “As requested.”

  She quickly devoured one cookie and appraised my new hairdo.

  “This is a good thing,” she declared, circling me to see it from all angles. “We might have to figure out a way to get you to Paris more often. Now be a dear and set these on the table, will you?” She put the boxes of cookies in my hands.

  Then she disappeared to get ready. I sat at the table, and I’d flipped through an issue of Vanity Fair and eaten an entire rain forest’s worth of nuts by the time she emerged. Her pale hair was up in a tortoiseshell headband, and she was wearing a blue wool dress that emphasized her heft.

  “How do I look?” she asked.

  “Beautiful.” I needed to butter her up—the better her mood, the better our Thanksgiving. “Like a million bucks.”

  “You sound as convincing as a cheap politician.”

  Kiki was in a testy frame of mind, so I remained quiet in the cab ride downtown. I didn’t react when she asked for an update on a rip in my apartment’s couch she’d found particularly fascinating last Thanksgiving. And when she pressed me about how the family had gotten on with Mom in Florida, I lied and told her it had been smooth sailing.

  “Aren’t you little Miss Positive Outlook?” She sounded disappointed.

  “Aren’t you the one who taught me you catch more bees with honey than vinegar?” I reminded her.

  When the cab stopped outside our complex, I helped her out and kept hold of her arm as we inched down the Washington View Village walkway.

  “Aloha!” I shouted when we entered the apartment, a warning to everyone to stop talking about the controversial houseguest.

  “We’ll be right out!” Mom called from the kitchen. “The potatoes got a little unruly and…we’re sort of messy….” She and Dad erupted into giggles.

  Kiki struck the pose of a penguin, flapping her arms out at her sides. Henry scurried over to remove her coat.

  “Hi, Kiki!” he cried.

  “How nice it is to be waited on by a handsome young man.” She whispered something into his ear and, when she thought nobody was looking, slipped his fifty-dollar “tip” into his hand.

  “Whoa!” If only Henry’s head could have spun all the way around.

  “Welcome, Kiki!” Dad stuck his head out of the kitchen. “You look lovely. Can I bring you a—”

  “I’ll get it myself,” Kiki thundered, making her way to the bar to fix herself a martini.

  “The couch,” I whispered at Henry. “Did you remem—”

  I looked into the living area and saw that he had draped Mom’s green crocheted throw over the busted cushion.

  When Kiki, her martini, and Henry were safely situated on the couch, I ran into the kitchen to check on everything. Apart from the mashed potatoes splattered all over the counter and my parents’ aprons, the scene looked pretty promising.

  “Is this okay?” Mom asked, pulling off a piece of roast chicken for me with her tanned fingers. “Can you tell?”

  Mom’s one act of subversion on Thanksgiving was to serve chicken instead of turkey, which she said she found too dry to give to guests. “It’s great,” I told her, “but you should probably cook it longer. It’s still really moist.”

  “But its supposed to be a little tender.” Mom pouted.

  “It’ll be fine,” Dad whispered, coming up from behind to kiss the back of Mom’s neck. “I’ll make sure Kiki has a few martinis before dinner.”

  “Oh—would you?” she asked him. “I’ll be just a second, Mom!” she yelled into the main room. “I just need to check the vegetables!”

  Even though the kitchen was far too small for three of us, I stayed to watch my mother kneel down and pull out an oven rack of légumes en papillote—a French dish of diced vegetables cooked in parchment paper. Using a wooden spoon to poke open one of the packets, she prodded at the mound of diced peppers, onions, and eggplant, all as bright and fine as confetti. How I was related to somebody so good at cooking was a mystery to me.

  “Henry,” Kiki could be heard
saying. “Will you tell your parents they need to get this couch reupholstered? What if the Queen comes over one of these days?”

  “I think she just got here ten minutes ago,” Dad whispered.

  I had to suppress my laughter.

  Mom sighed dejectedly and turned to my father. “Tell me everything’s going to be—”

  “It will.” He kissed her on the tip of the nose. “More than fine.”

  In a rare effort to be nice to my parents, Kiki called out, “I saw a fabulous show at the Met. All about the fashions of Paul Poiret. You had quite the talented fellow countryman, Gustave.”

  “Poiret?” Dad confessed he’d never heard of him.

  “You’ve never heard of anyone,” Mom teased him. “You wouldn’t know Karl Lagerfeld from Kmart.”

  Feisty! I guessed all those hours at the Planet would sharpen anyone’s wit.

  At last, the other guests started to arrive—first Douglas, then Becca.

  “No escort?” I asked her.

  Becca frowned. “Andy said he wasn’t feeling up to it. I think he went to the movies, but he said he might come by for dessert.”

  “And what’s the chance of that happening?”

  Becca shrugged and turned to fix her hair in the mirrored Renault poster.

  I was feeling bummed but perked up when Cheri-Lee entered the apartment, bearing what appeared to be a pineapple with hundreds of shrimp sticking out of it on sparkly toothpicks. “That’s amazing!” I exclaimed. “How on earth did you do that?”

  “Toothpicks are our friends. You can attach anything with them—shrimp, pineapple, radishes.” And in case I hadn’t picked up on the colossal hint, she added, “You know who helped me with it? Your friend Sheila.”

  That was my cue to open up about my relationship with her daughter. Sorry, but I wasn’t going to bite.

  “Let me get that for you.” I tried to relieve her of the fruit-seafood sculpture.

  She pulled away. “I’m fine.”

  In the shade of the coatrack, we played a game of tug-of-war. “I know you’re upset with me, but I need to tell you that you don’t know the whole story,” I told her. We were both clinging to the pineapple, our faces barely three inches apart. “It’s not as simple as you think.”