“He’s just going to foist me off on his fiancée or make me watch Disney Channel with Marisol.” Plus, I need to be here. I could miss something at the carnival. Even though Red and Stewart didn’t take any late night drives with their shovels Monday or Tuesday evening doesn’t mean they won’t resume it tonight. What if they find something and I’m not there? When I asked Red Fritz for the rest of the week off, he jumped on the idea. Why would he be excited about me leaving town? Because I’m definitely an asset to the circus. My clowning skills are pretty much priceless. Yet he dismissed me for the week as if the show can just carry on without me. I mean, yeah, I might’ve mistakenly popped a kid with a balloon Saturday night. And maybe that four-year-old wascrying because I accidentally hit him with my shoe, but that’s no reason to be glad I’m gone. What if Red knows I’m onto something? That man is connected to Betty’s murder. I’m just not sure how. Or why.
I give my mom the same wounded expression that used to get me what I wanted—from new shoes to jaunts to Paris. I pout my lips. I blink until my brown eyes have a misty sheen. My voice is sweet as the tea at Sugar’s Diner. “Mother, please let me stay in Truman.”
By two p.m., I’m standing at the LaGuardia baggage claim with my dad.
“Hey, sweetie.” He crushes me in a hug, then I introduce him to Ruthie.
“I don’t believe in plastic surgery, sir.” She says, handing him her bag. “I’m all about keeping things as natural as the good Lord intended.”
As she walks in front of me, I stare at her striped beehive that’s a security risk all by itself.
Three hours later, Ruthie and I are watching TV in my bedroom.
“Dude, this room is scary.” She points toward the trio of cherubs on the ceiling above my bed. “I can hardly watch the movie for thinking any minute one of them is gonna swoop down and stab me with a pitchfork.”
“One of my dad’s ex-girlfriend’s decorated the house.” That would’ve been two hundred ladies ago. “Every room has a theme.”
Ruthie picks up the lamp in the shape of lips. “What’s the theme in here—scary movie props?”
“Love,” I sigh. “Anymore, I think it’s pretty dead-on. This room gives me nightmares and a stomach ache. So do boys.”
“Aw, you just gotta find the right guy. Like my Budgie-umpkins.”
Before I can totally gag, little Marisol sticks her head in the door. “Guess what?”
The monkeys fromThe Wizard of Oz are at the door, and they’vecome to claim you? “What?”
“This is going to be my room.”
I nearly fall off the bed. “I don’t think so! You have your own room down the hall.” In the lovely theme of vegetables that are purple.
“But when the baby comes, I’ll move into this room.”
“Baby? There’s no baby.” Oh, no. My dad can’t even keep up with me, let alone another child. I sit down hard on the bed. “Right, Marisol?”
She shrugs a shoulder and sniffs. “Well, there will be one day. I mean, they are getting married soon.”
“My dad’s already done the baby thing. Me.” And I turned out fabulous, thank you very much. “So don’t get your hopes up.”
“But I heard them talking about it yesterday when they met with Christina’s lawyer over the prenup.”
How sad is it that an eight-year-old even knows what a prenup is? “So . . .” I pat the space beside me on the bed in invitation for her to sit. She skips into the room, straightens her bow, then takes a seat. “What else do you know about their prenup?” I glance at Ruthie, but she’s absorbed in an old Reese Witherspoon movie.
“Nothin’ really. After the lawyer lady left, my, um, sister was in a really bad mood.”
Hmmm. Maybe it didn’t go so well. Good. I hope my dad stuck it to her and made sure Christina walks away with nothing of his if they divorce. But it’s odd only one lawyer was involved. Surely Dad’s guy was in on it too.
“I wouldn’t set your sights on my bedroom yet.” I pat her on her dark head. “Let’s get them married first, okay?” Or not.
Marisol’s forehead draws into a frown. “They have to get married. She says she’s worked too hard for it not to happen.”
I blanch. “What do you mean?”
“Marisol!”
The girl perks at her sister’s voice. “Christina’s home!”
I reach for her. “Marisol, wait—”
She races out the door . . . taking her secrets with her.
Dinner is low-key, with pizza and chips at the dining room table.
“Tomorrow we’ll go out for dinner.” Dad takes another slice of pepperoni. “Bella, are you going to show Ruthie your city?”
“I thought we’d hit the Statue of Liberty tomorrow. Maybe the NBC studios and Rockefeller.” Squeeze in some shopping.
Ruthie chomps on a bite, oblivious to the string of cheese dan-gling from her chin. “I want to see if I can talk to the guys at SaturdayNight Live. I have this skit idea they’re gonna love. It involves a talking tomato.”
“Kevin, will you cut my pizza into bites?” Marisol slides her plate toward my dad.
“Of course, pumpkin.”
“You’re the best in the whole wide world.”
Like a slo-mo sequence from a horror film, I watch as she leans toward my father. He meets her half way. And they rub noses, giggling. Giggling!
“Aren’t they sweet?” Christina asks, like we’re in the middle of a Hallmark movie. “She loves him so much.” Her smile wobbles for a brief moment. Like a sad memory walked across her mind.
Christina jumps as her phone rings.
“Don’t get that.” Dad’s voice is resigned. “Let it go.”
“I can’t.” She reaches into the pocket of her tailored jacket. “Hello? Oh. Yes, just one moment.” She covers her hand over the phone. “I’m just going to take this in the other room.” Christina rolls her almond-shaped eyes. “It’s a client.”
Dad rubs a hand across his deliberately stubbly face. “She’s had to work a lot lately. But that’s why she’s the best. Ruthie, did Bella tell you about the TV show deal Christina got me? It’s like ExtremeMakeover, but in Brazil. And I’m the show’s plastic surgeon.”
“That’s cool, Mr. Kirkwood. I don’t watch much Brazilian TV. But sometimes I turn on the Latin soap operas. You should think about getting on one of those. ” She looks at me and whispers behind her hand, “Kinda weird your dad andstepdad have both been on TV. How cool is that?”
“It’s the coolest,” I drone.
“I’m sorry.” Christina’s heels tap on the dining room floor. “But I have to go. I have a client who’s in the middle of a crisis.”
“Again?” Dad asks. “This is the third night in a row.”
She trails a hand across his shoulders. “I have to be available to my clients whenever they need me. And this particular one is just a little high maintenance.”
Dad stands up and brushes the pizza crumbs from his lap. “Then I’ll go with you. The girls can watch Marisol.”
“No!” Christina checks her gold watch. “I’ll be back in no time. Just going to call a cab.” She walks away, disappearing into the hall that leads to the master bedroom.
Something is just not right with this chick. I feel the need for a little surveillance. Heaven forbid I go twenty-four hours without tailing someone.
“Wow, I am seriously craving a frappuccino.” I kick Ruthie under the table. “Aren’t you?”
She pops another pepperoni in her mouth. “Whipped cream gives me gas.”
“Starbucks has great water, I hear.” I stand up and pull her with me. “I’ll just grab our purses.” I run upstairs like a rabid pit bull is chasing me. When I make it back down, Christina is at the front door.
“I’ll see you all in a bit.”
“Wait! Ruthie and I are going to grab a coffee. Let’s share a cab.”
Christina’s eyes widen. “No, you two take your own so you can have your girl time.”
I
move ahead of her and open the door. “We must think green and protect Mother Earth.” Not to mention my dad.
“You guys have fun!” Dad yells as we spill onto the sidewalk and into the cab.
My dad’s fiancée is quiet during the ride as Ruthie babbles on about things she knows about New York City. “And my mom told me to carry my money in my bra because that would be the last place a robber would look.”
“Here you go,” Christina says as the taxi pulls up to Starbucks. “Have fun.”
We shut the door, and I watch her give instructions to the driver.
“Come on.” I pull Ruthie away from the coffee shop door and flag down another cab.
“What are we doing?”
I yank open the door of the yellow sedan. “Follow that cab ahead. But keep at a distance.”
Ruthie’s eyes widen as she buckles herself in. “Are we tailing Christina?”
I fill Ruthie in on the mystery woman from two weeks ago. “It could be nothing, but my gut says Christina is up to something.”
Ruthie rubs her stomach. “My gut says I shouldn’t have had that root beer.”
My head bobs with every stop and go. Even at night, there’s no downtime for New York traffic. It’s always rush hour.
“Turn down that street to the right please,” I say to the driver as Christina’s cab stops at a hotel a half a block away. I pay the fare and scurry out.
Peeking around the corner of the building, I watch as Christina nods to a doorman, then sails through the revolving doors and enters the Broadway Heights hotel.
“Follow me, but act cool, okay?”
Ruthie and I walk nonchalantly to the door. When I roll on through, I’m emptied into a large lobby with green botanical carpet.
And completely alone.
“Ahhhh!”
With a moan of dread, I turn around. Ruthie runs in circles, banging on the glass. “It won’t let me out! Crazy spinning portal! You won’t suck me in!”
I stop the glass door and grab my friend by the wrist. “You really have to get out of Truman more often.”
“That thing is evil!” She glares back at the offensive entrance. “Evil, I tell you.”
I plaster my hand over her mouth and jerk her behind a large potted palm. “Be quiet, would you? Getting us kicked out is kind of counterproductive to following Christina.”
Beyond the front desk and across the expansive lobby, my dad’s fiancée presses a button for an elevator. With a ding, the doors slide open, and she steps inside. From the glass front, I watch her rise and count the floors.
“Eighth floor.” I pull on Ruthie again. “Let’s go.”
Praying we won’t miss Christina, we scurry across the green carpet and get in a waiting elevator.
“Keep your head down just in case she looks over here.”
When the door swooshes open, I throw out my arm, stopping Ruthie’s full-speed-ahead departure. “Quietly. Slowly.” I point toward the hallway and wave her on.
On tiptoes we walk down the long row of doors with no Christina in sight. When the hall veers right, I follow it then immediately freeze to a stop.
“Oomph!” Ruthie plows into my back. “A little notice, if you please.”
“Shhh!” I point around the corner. “Christina,” I whisper.
I watch as she knocks on the door of room 857. “It’s me,” she calls in her light Brazilian accent.
The door swings open and Christina rushes inside.
“Can I help you?”
Ruthie and I jump as a man carrying a briefcase appears behind us, his face scrunched with suspicion.
“What exactly are you two ladies doing?”
Ruthie goes on the defense. “What are youdoing? Sneaking up on two teenage girls like that. You ought to be ashamed of yourself.”
“Ruthie.” I jab her with my elbow. “It’s okay. We were just walking through.”
“Yeah,” she huffs. “Walking through to inspect this place for our dad’s pest control company.” She leans closer to the guy, dropping her voice. “For some of the bigger jobs where the bugs are more obvious, he sends us to assess the damage.” She whistles, her eye-brows going high. “And these here? Freaky big.”
The man clutches his briefcase and takes a step back. “You can’t be serious.”
“This floor seems to be the worst.” Ruthie shakes her head mournfully. “You better get in your room and lock the door. My partner and I are on duty for another two hours, so we won’t let any-thing near you. But if you come out”—she lifts her shoulder in a shrug—“we are not responsible for what might happen.”
Torn between not buying a word Ruthie said and afraid not to, the man rolls his eyes, dismisses us with a flop of his hand, and walks away. Quicklywalks away.
“Nicely done,” I say.
“You should probably give me a raise.”
“I don’t pay you as it is.”
Ruthie turns her attention back to the hall. “My people will call your people.”
One hour and two sore butts later, the door to mysterious room number 857 creaks open.
“Stick with the plan,” says a voice from inside, the accent similar, yet stronger than Christina’s.
“She’s going to see us,” Ruthie whispers, pointing frantically to the door. “Let’s go.”
I nod in agreement and turn toward the joining hall.
“I don’t want to hurt him anymore.”
That’s Christina! I stop.
Ruthie tugs on my arm. “Come on, Bella. Running out of time here.”
Who’s ‘him’? I have to know! What if it’s my dad? Or the president? I don’t know this woman. She could be planning to take over the world for all I know.
The woman from inside the room speaks again. “We’ve come too far for you to bail now. You’re integral to this plan. And you know you owe me. You owe this family.”
“Bella, come on!” Ruthie sees I’m not budging. “I’ll see you in the lobby.”
I wave her on, desperate to hear more of this conversation.
“I’m not backing out,” Christina says. “But it’s not too late to change our minds. This isn’t going to plan.”
“And whose fault is that?”
Yeah, whose?
I see Christina drop her head, her gaze focused on the floor. “I have to go.”
Oh, crap. Here she comes.
My feet beat the floor as I sprint down the hall. I slap the elevator button, but the nearest one is on floor twenty-two. I’ll never make it.
I hear the light scuff of Christina’s heels on the carpet. Think! Think!
Two wingback chairs sit on either side of the elevators. I aim for the left, then switch and decide on the right. Muttering a prayer, I dive behind it and crouch low, willing myself to breathe quieter. Hoping she can’t hear my galloping heartbeat.
She digs through her purse as she waits.
“Darn.”
Omigosh. She’s dropped her lipstick. If she bends down she’ll see my feet.
Please God, please God, please God. I’m trying to do some goodhere . . . really. Don’t let her see me. I need help. Maybe a miracle. Ew, Iknow! A guardian angel!
I see the sheer pink sheen of Christina’s nails as her hand nears the floor. Just a millisecond more and I’m outed.
Ring! Ring!
Christina’s sigh fills the hall.
Her hand disappears, and I hear her rummage through her purse again. “Hello? Oh, hi, um, Ruthie. Kevin gave you my number? Isn’t that nice.” She reaches again for the lipstick, her fingers curling around the tube. Completely oblivious to my legs beneath the chair. “Bella’s been in the Starbucks’ bathroom for twenty minutes? Have you checked on her?” The elevator pings and opens. “Sounds like she’s having serious stomach problems then. Yes, I’ll stop by and get some medicine. See you at the house.” And the doors shut, sending the elevator whisking south.
I sag against the chair for a moment before calling Ruthie. “Stomach problems?�
��
Ruthie laughs on the other end. “It was all I could think of.”
“Are you telling me you couldn’t come up with anything better than giving me the runs?”
“It worked didn’t it? I watched her come down the elevator.”
“Yeah, it worked. Horrible story . . . but strangely enough, perfect timing.” I end the call and decide to take the stairs.
Ruthie McGee—my guardian angel of deception.
Maybe she does deserve that raise.
chapter fifteen
On Monday morning I sit at the kitchen table reading the back of the Cinnamon Toast Crunch box and contemplating my life.
Dad was so busy with his TV show preparations, he barely spoke to me. Christina is one big weird mystery I can’t seem to unravel—especially when I spend all my time in Truman. And my snooping skills must be getting rusty because I couldn’t find a trace of any prenuptial agreement in Dad’s office. He’s probably keeping it some place I would never suspect. Like his Bible. My dad is not a believer, and I really wish he would get with it. If anybody needs some Jesus, it’s him.
My mom shuffles in, still in her robe. She wraps her hair in a ponytail and heads straight for the coffeemaker.
“Running a little slow today?” Normally she’s up, dressed, and completely lipsticked way before the rest of us roll out of bed.
She fumbles for a coffee mug and pushes her bangs out of her eyes. “Didn’t sleep much last night.”
Robbie pads in, his Superman cape over his Spider-Man shirt and jeans. “Did anyone catch that CNN report last night on Middle Eastern politics?”
Mom and I both just stare.
Robbie shrugs and sits down by his bowl. “Your loss.” He pours out some cereal, keeping an eye out for the prize.
I help Robbie with the milk. “How was Jake’s big show?”
My stepbrother frowns. “He was good. But we didn’t get to see him much except from the stadium. Dad’s real busy.”
Mom pours her coffee and says nothing.
“But he did smash someone’s face in.”
So Over My Head (2010) Page 10