Dream Life Read online

  Becca and three other girls were front and center, sprawled out on a striped sheet that was covered with junk food. From a distance, the new girls didn’t look as photo-shoot-ready as I’d expected. There was a vaguely messy aspect to all of them, or maybe it was just that they had bigger, more untamed hair than I’d expected. Becca looked up and motioned for us to hurry over.

  “Nice spot,” I told Becca as I crouched down next to her, trying not to stare at her friends. “Very … um … VIP.”

  Leave it to me to sound like somebody’s corny uncle.

  “I know it’s too close, but I forgot my glasses,” she said sweetly, pushing aside a takeout container of guacamole. “Hey Louis!” she exclaimed in the cheerful tone of somebody who couldn’t possibly be romantically interested.

  Louis rallied a “Hey” that was probably intended to sound macho but came out defeated. He took a seat by one of the blanket’s corners.

  “I haven’t seen this movie in so long,” Becca said, and launched into a sales pitch about its epic greatness. As she detailed a scene where a terrifying hiss turns out to be nothing but the sound of an ordinary bus, I snuck a glance at the other girls. They were pretty, but more than that, they were interesting-looking, a development I was not expecting. One of them had a wavy brown hairstyle that looked straight out of a 1940s movie. Another one had a round face and long frizzy curls the color of boiled carrots. And then there was an otherworldly-looking one, with paper-white hair and skin to match. No wonder Becca was so taken with this bunch. The light-haired one caught me looking at her and smiled. “Hey, I’m Reagan.” She turned to our friend in common. “Becca, you gonna introduce us or what?”

  The other two warmed up after Becca rattled off our names. Diana, the redhead, asked Louis where he played tennis. Sills, the retro movie-star girl, set her sights on me and rolled over on her stomach.

  Suddenly my cross-legged position felt overly formal, and I leaned closer to the ground.

  “Becca said you went to Farmhouse, right?” Sills asked.

  “Yeah.” I was trying to contain my surprise. Becca had told them about me? I glanced over at my friend to see she was playing with a sheet of temporary skeleton tattoos and a water bottle.

  “I always wanted to go there,” Sills said. “It sounds much more humane than Brookfield—that’s where Reagan and I go.”

  Unless she was messing with me, she was actually pretty nice. I just nodded as nonchalantly as I could while the pale girl made a puking gesture at the mention of her school. “Thank God I’m a senior. I’m so outta there!” She seemed nice too.

  Sills ignored the interruption and went on, “My ex-boyfriend went to Farmhouse. I used to hear all about it from him.”

  “Really?” I looked over at Louis, our resident Farmhouse student, but he was busy investigating the inside of a bag of SunChips. I couldn’t picture somebody this polished going out with any of the eccentrics from Farmhouse, and my normally raspy voice raised a few octaves. “Who’s your ex-boyfriend? Maybe Louis and I know him.”

  Before she could answer, though, a guy with a volunteer T-shirt came over and delivered a whole box of pizza to our blanket. As far as I could tell, everybody else in the tent was just getting slices, but then again, nobody else in the tent looked as special treatment–worthy as Becca and her friends. Becca rubbed her new skeleton tattoo in place and dug into the pizza.

  I was dying to ask how they’d hooked up this four-star pizza delivery, but it was probably best to wait until we were out of earshot of our less lucky neighbors.

  “You probably don’t know him.” Sills raised herself off the ground and helped herself to a slice. “He graduated a long time ago.”

  “Sills—there’s no way she doesn’t know him.” Diana rolled her green eyes as she took a slice and passed the box to Louis.

  “Wiley Martins,” supplied Reagan.

  Louis and I locked eyes and exchanged a silent whoa. Winston Martin-Schultz was Farmhouse’s first and only celebrity alum. When we were in middle school, he used to sit around the hallways playing the guitar and looking like a hotter version of Bob Dylan. Nobody was that surprised when he got a record deal, though we all found his transformation into straitlaced pop star “Wiley Martins” a little baffling.

  “You know, he used to be a total hippie,” I told them.

  “Still is,” Sills said. “He’s just playing the game.”

  “Well, he’s doing a good job of it,” I said, disapproval ringing in my voice. “Did you see the huge spread of him in this month’s Teen Vogue?”

  “He did Teen Vogue?” Sills looked disgusted. “He always said he was holding out for Rolling Stone.”

  “Yeah. Actually, I think I have it in here,” I blurted out. The second I pulled the new issue out of my bag I regretted it—Sills couldn’t have sounded more condescending in her pronunciation of the magazine’s name, and now I was broadcasting that I was one of its faithful readers. But, much to my surprise, the quartet seized on the issue like a pack of vultures.

  While they combed the magazine’s pages, I checked up on my buddy Louis with a sidelong glance. Not one to give up easy, he was watching his beloved Becca, and I could tell by the way his lips were wobbling that he was racking his brain for something Becca-worthy to say. “Hey, Shuttleworth,” he called out at last. “What’s with the tattoo?”

  She laughed. “It’s temporary. Want one?”

  “I was thinking of getting a real tattoo,” Louis said. “Maybe a tiger, or Elvis?”

  My heart panged for my friend, who was losing his cool by the second, but Becca wasn’t even paying attention to him. “Yeah, cool…,” she said absentmindedly

  “I once saw this guy with a—” Realizing Becca wasn’t listening, Louis’s jaw tightened. I could tell he was about to break.

  “Give her the CD,” I whispered.

  He gave me a desperate look, then shook his head and stood up. “I should get going. My dad just texted me to remind me I said I’d go to some recruiting dinner with him.”

  What a terrible liar. Louis’s delivery was fine, but his excuse was pathetic. In his five years as the general manager of the New York Knicks, Louis’s dad had yet to invite his son to any glitzy functions—those honors fell exclusively to Ulrika, my oldest friend’s wicked stepmother.

  “No!” Becca protested.

  Well, what do you know? Maybe there was hope after all.

  But when I looked over at Becca I saw her outburst had nothing to do with whether Louis stayed. “Sorry,” she mumbled. She was visibly embarrassed. “I just know her, that’s all.” She was pointing at the magazine. “Annika Gitter.”

  “I never realized what an idiot she was,” said Reagan.

  I was struggling to see who they were talking about and was late to tune in to my friend’s byes. I waved disappointedly to Louis, then scooted closer. The magazine was open to the regular “My Crib” feature, and it showed a girl jumping on her bed in a chartreuse tutu-style dress.

  “Have you read this part yet?” Diana asked.

  When I shook my head, Becca foisted the magazine in my lap. “You have to. It’s so embarrassing.”

  I took the magazine and glanced up at Becca. I had no clue what she was talking about. By this point, I’d seen many sides of Becca, but embarrassment wasn’t one of them. Her eager eyes told me to stop looking to her for clues and to check out the magazine. I didn’t have to study it for long to figure out what the girls were reacting to. Teen Vogue isn’t known for featuring Nobel Laureates, but the girl of the month had the rest of the “My Crib” girls beat in the idiocy contest.

  Apparently Annika liked to draw the number seven on everything because she thought prime numbers were “inspiring,” and she kept her collection of raindrops in vintage contact lens containers. “This is great stuff,” I said sarcastically. “You couldn’t make this up, could you?”

  “Read the bottom, about the animals,” said Sills.

  “‘I’m an animal-rights ac
tivist and in honor of that, all the animal rugs in my room are reproductions,’” I read aloud.

  “You all know that’s not true,” Sills said. “Her grandfather was, like, the great white hunter of Africa. He gave her all his skins.”

  “Priceless.” Becca smirked. Then she looked around, suddenly upset. “Wait—did Louis leave for good?”

  I smiled inwardly. Better late than never.

  Cat People was about a lady who was convinced she was going to turn into a killer panther. I’m not sure I’d call it the greatest movie ever made, but I could definitely see why Becca liked it.

  “That was awesome,” I said afterward.

  Becca smiled graciously, as if she had made the movie herself, and rolled up her blanket. Disappointment gripped me. I didn’t want the night to be over just yet. I was finally with Becca’s mysterious other friends and I still wanted to get to know them better.

  One of the pizza volunteers, a man with a beard and thinning hair, came by to pick up our trash and I noticed him steal a smile at Becca.

  Granted, I knew my friend was beautiful, but what a pervert.

  “Do you guys want to get dessert at the Bryant Park Café?” Sills asked.

  So the night wasn’t over just yet. Hurray! I had to hold back from crying out “Pretty please.”

  “Excellent idea,” Becca said. “You guys go ahead. I’m going to use the bathroom here first.”

  “Isn’t there one in the café?” I asked, separation anxiety kicking in. “It’s probably a little nicer.”

  But Becca was already buttoning up her coat and starting for the exit. “I really have to go,” she called back at me.

  Was she in a hurry to break away from us or was I imagining things?

  Befuddled, I put on my coat and followed Reagan, Diana, and Sills onto the street. Without Becca there to buffer us, I started to feel awkward. The crowd was heaving and I was pretty wrapped up in my sudden feelings of discomfort, so I was surprised when I noticed the same golden face with the crooked nose from my dream I had in the SHINE lecture. The image was affixed to a bathroom shed at the edge of the park.

  No way. My breath stopped.

  “Guys,” I said. “I’ll meet you there.”

  “Where are you going?” Sills eyed me in confusion.

  Sometimes I wonder how much further I’d get in life if I didn’t have to spend so much time making up excuses.

  “I have to get my bike,” I said after a tormented pause. “I’m going to bring it over to the restaurant.”

  I didn’t stick around to hear her remind me that the restaurant was only across the park. My eyes set on the golden face, I pushed through the crowd. I was so close to something major, I could feel it in my bones.

  I was almost at the bathroom shed when I noticed a girl around my age sitting on a bench outside the bathroom. She had her nose stuck in the Daily News but the nearest streetlamp was a good distance away and it was dark—there was no way she could be reading. Everything about her looked suspicious with a capital S—the only thing I could think was that she had to be waiting for Becca.

  But why?

  Without stopping to think, I pulled the shed’s door open. Inside, there were two stalls and a sink area with busted-up mirrors and paper towels strewn all over the floor. More to the point, it was just like my dream: Becca was in the entryway, standing in front of a brick wall and conferring with a man wearing wire-rim glasses. I gripped the wall and watched the man hand her a pile of tin containers.

  Something clicked from behind.

  My heart skipped a beat. If I was seeing so many details from my dream, then that had to be somebody loading a gun.

  Ice ran through my veins.

  “Becca!” I screamed.

  There were cries of panic as Becca and the man scurried into a corner. My heart pounding, I turned around to face the shooter.

  But it wasn’t a gunman. It was just the girl from outside. She was holding up a digital camera.

  A blinding flash went off but by the time I could see again, she’d already run away.

  I spun back around and locked eyes with Becca. Her lips were parted and her eyes had popped open as wide as silver dollars.

  What the hell was going on?

  “Get out of here.” She sounded worried—for whose sake I couldn’t tell. “Now.”

  { 5 }

  Under the Radar

  You’d think after a head-on collision like that, I’d get some sort of explanation, but Becca just stayed in the corner of the entry-way, crouching by a radiator.

  “Claire, just go. …” I’d never seen her look this anxious. “I’ll call you later tonight.”

  She had to be kidding me.

  “I don’t understand,” I said sadly.

  She tilted her head softly and snuck a glance at the man beside her. “It’s the best I can do right now.”

  The man gave me a stern look. Becca’s shoulders shot up in a minuscule shrug.

  “Fine, see you around,” I said, my hurt ringing through every syllable. I clenched my fists and huffed out the door. If she wasn’t prepared to explain what was happening, then there was somebody else who might shed some light on the situation.

  I made my way to the edge of the park and crossed the street. There was a pay phone outside a dry cleaner and in no time I was dialing Kiki’s number. I needed to share every minute detail with her. I needed to hear what to do next. I did not need her new friend to pick up and inform me that my grandmother had decided to go to Newport for the weekend. “She’s catching an ice sculpture show,” Jon-Jon said lazily. “I had to pass on the opportunity. I’m a Southern boy and the only ice sculpture I like is in the shape of a cube, in a glass of bourbon.”

  Just my luck.

  I made my way around the corner and hopped on my bike. Riding down Sixth Avenue, I felt all kinds of messed up. I could barely pay attention to the traffic lights and I had to pedal extra slowly to keep from getting rubbed out by a bus.

  As I pulled into the Washington View Village courtyard, I was hit by a gurgly “Yoo-hoo!”

  Standing in front of me were Cheri-Lee Vird, my mom’s lovable best friend, and Sheila, her rather less lovable daughter. Sheila narrowed her eyes at me.

  “Hi, sweet pea!” Cheri-Lee’s tone couldn’t have been kinder, but I wasn’t in the right frame of mind for an encounter. “You headed up to 8C?”

  I shuddered. “Are Mom and Dad having one of their salons?”

  Cheri-Lee nodded.

  Friday nights, my apartment tends to get overrun with cigarette smoke and French professors. They’ll begin by talking about serious things, like philosophy or the French national arts endowment, but the second they get blitzed on Pernod, they blast Marseillaise rap songs and try to dance like the kids in la banlieue. It can get kind of embarrassing.

  “Guess I’ll see you up there,” I said, turning toward my building, but Cheri Lee reached out and stopped me.

  “While we’re all here, I could use your help with a quandary of mine.” A poetry professor, Cheri-Lee thinks it’s her duty to sprinkle all dialogue with interesting words.

  She took a Macy’s bag from her daughter and foisted a stiletto boot into my hand. “Sheila’s going clubbing and she got these new shoes for the occasion.”

  “Mom.” Sheila dragged the word out into three syllables. “It’s obvious you hate them. I don’t care. And besides I’m not going clubbing. I’m going to a club. Elle House.” She raised her chin and shot me a pointed look, as if I was supposed to be jealous she was going to the “it spot” I’d read about three years ago in W magazine. But instead all I felt was pity—with her head held at this angle, the fake tan line along her jawline was as sharp as a paper cut.

  “So, Claire, what’s your professional verdict?” Cheri-Lee said. “Are these really what the kids are hobbling around in these days?” She couldn’t have sounded more amused. I guessed it was her coping mechanism for having the most awful daughter on earth.

 
; “Why are you asking her?” Sheila groused. “I mean, I wouldn’t call Claire an expert on fashion of the twenty-first century.” She pursed her lips and stared at me.

  “They’re perfect,” I said, ignoring her dig. “And very useful. Pair them with a sword and you’re invincible.”

  Okay, so my swipe at Sheila’s secret life as a sword and sorcery fanatic was a low blow, but it did the trick. Her mouth did that turkey-gobble thing it does when she gets upset, and she grabbed the boots from her mother and trotted toward their building.

  Luckily, the full extent of my cruelty was lost on Cheri-Lee, and on the elevator ride up she just told me for the hundredth time how important it was to her that her daughter and I patch things up.

  Why didn’t she realize that after what Sheila and I had been through, making nice wasn’t in the cards?

  “Sometimes people grow apart,” I said. Of all people, Cheri-Lee should know that. Her husband Wendell had recently up and left her for a grad student who ate different-colored foods based on the day of the week.

  “And sometimes people grow up,” she countered, stepping off the elevator toward my apartment. I unlocked the door and was hit by a blast of Edith Piaf. Trailing behind Cheri-Lee, I slunk down the hallway and slipped into my room, where I wouldn’t have to deal with anybody in my immediate family or the NYU French department.

  Or so I thought.

  When I opened my bedroom door, my jaw dropped. Mom and her ghostwriting client Saffron Scott were rifling through my bookshelves. Their cheeks were flushed from cocktails and their hairdos were similarly disheveled. If they weren’t both unfairly beautiful, they would’ve looked completely mental.

  “These are cute, no?” Mom picked up my new Empire State Building and Chrysler Building paperweights.

  “Love, love, love!” Saffron proceeded to take a zillion digital photos.

  What on earth was happening?

  “Um, hi?” I cut in. “Do you guys need any assistance?”

  When they realized they weren’t alone, the pair turned to face me. Saffron looked a little embarrassed but Mom just smiled. “Oh, hi, dear. Saffron’s working on a segment on hot teen spaces for her show,” she said airily. “She was thinking of including your room.”