Mrs. Boyer, Connie, and Mr. Bamoko stalked around the perimeter of the room like judges at a dog show, jotting down notes and eyeing each trainee with deep concentration. Nikki wormed her way closer to Erica and chatted with Cheryl about the unusual customs of Carrie Mae-land. Cheryl was playing a diplomatic attaché, and Nikki took a perverse sort of pleasure in pressing her for details on an “obscure eyelash curling ritual,” knowing that Cheryl would have to make it up on the spot.
“Really?” said Nikki with genuine respect for Cheryl’s imagination. “How do you secure an event like that? With so many people running around it must be hard to protect the ambassador.” Cheryl nodded, but Nikki could see that she was suspicious of the question. Nikki smiled and feigned innocent curiosity.
She knew that Cheryl would have to obey the rules of Cocktails: she had to answer questions; she couldn’t simply turn around and walk away. And although she could misrepresent information, she could not lie outright. Points were given for clever questioning, clever evasions, story consistency, and etiquette. Points were deducted for dropping character, lying, and behaving in a “less than Carrie Mae-like way.” Whatever that meant. At the end of the evening each girl made her report, and the judges critiqued her technique. If Nikki didn’t discover where the ambassador was going tomorrow, her mission would be stamped with a big red FAILED and she would have to do a remedial Cocktails classes on top of her already full schedule.
“Well, generally we like to keep such events invitation-only, so of course we check IDs against the guest list and try to control the access points.”
“Interesting,” Nikki said, fiddling with one of her earrings, a dangling crystal at the end of a thin silver chain. She had liked the chandelier effect and the sparkle it added to her hair, but she was now finding that if she twisted the crystal toward the light she could reflect a rainbow on Cheryl’s cheek.
“Not really,” Cheryl said, trying to change the subject.
Nikki angled the rainbow up toward the eye and Cheryl brushed her cheek distractedly with her hand as if trying to shoo away a fly. The sound of overlapping conversations filled the room as Nikki twirled the crystal again.
“Does the ambassador attend many of these rituals?” Nikki asked, continuing her small rainbow torture.
“I suppose,” said Cheryl distractedly.
“Oh! That must be what all the fuss is about tomorrow!” said Nikki cheerfully.
“Tomorrow, what?” Cheryl said, squinting one eye and tilting her head slightly. Nikki switched to the other eye and watched as Cheryl tilted her head the other way.
“Oh, I heard that the ambassador’s got some big thing tomorrow,” said Nikki carelessly.
“No, no big thing,” Cheryl said. “Just a family party.”
“Oh,” said Nikki, dropping her earring and letting it swing against her neck. “They must have gotten it wrong. Oh well.” She smiled sweetly and then pretended to notice for the first time that her drink was empty. She noticed that Cheryl’s drink was a different color. The color difference could mean that the kitchen had simply switched to grape Kool-Aid, but there might have been another reason.
“I’d better go get a refill. Nice to have met you”—Nikki paused to read Cheryl’s nametag—“Terry.”
Nikki strolled over to the drink table and got a refill on her Hawaiian fruit punch, noticing that all the drinks were still red.
“Thirty more minutes,” Ellen said, sidling up and picking up a drink.
“What?” Nikki asked, noticing that Ellen was THERESA, A JOURNALIST this evening.
“Thirty more minutes, and then I can get out of these panty hose.”
Nikki opened her mouth to remind Ellen that she was recording herself, but then closed it abruptly. Ellen’s mission might be to uncover a spy.
“These events do seem to go on forever,” Nikki responded, opting for a noncommittal reply.
“Unfortunately, so do my panty hose,” said Ellen. Caught off-guard, Nikki laughed louder than she had intended, and saw Mr. Bamoko frown in her direction.
“I sympathize,” Nikki said. “Do you come to many of these state functions?”
“That’s your banter? Your cocktail chatter? Let’s see something with a little more wit,” Mr. Bamoko said sternly.
“Oh sure,” Ellen said, ignoring Mr. Bamoko’s intrusion, but Nikki could see she was starting to sweat. “I’ve been around the world twice reporting for the Associated Press. The food is terrible and the party really only gets good once everyone starts drinking. Last year I was at an embassy dinner in Colombia and a fist fight broke out over the oysters.”
“Hmm,” Mr. Bamoko said, making a note on his clipboard.
“I don’t think that’s likely with this crowd,” said Nikki, wondering what Ellen was angling at and trying to ignore Mr. Bamoko, who was now glaring at her.
“Too bad.” Ellen was playing the hard-boiled reporter for all it was worth. “I could use a drink.”
“They don’t allow alcohol in Carrie Mae-land,” volunteered Nikki, as Mr. Bamoko sniffed disapprovingly.
“What! None?” asked Ellen in apparent shock.
“Well, sometimes you can get some illegal stuff imported, but you have to have a connection.” Nikki suspected that Ellen was on the hunt for a smuggler. But whether her mission was to smuggle something or arrest a smuggler, Nikki couldn’t tell. She didn’t know if she was going to get downgraded for helping Ellen or not.
“I don’t suppose you happen to know such a connection?” asked Ellen, managing to look conspiratorial and trustworthy at the same time.
“I don’t drink, myself,” Nikki said, covering all her bases. “But I have noticed that Terry over there”—she pointed to Cheryl—“can usually find something stiffer to drink than fruit punch if she wants to.” Mr. Bamoko nodded and made a note as he moved on to the next set of girls.
“Thanks,” said Ellen with a smile and a wink. “You’re a real pal.” She slid off into the crowd, aiming for Cheryl.
It was fun to watch everyone interact on several different levels at once. Nikki wondered if she would be able to do the same thing at a real cocktail party with strangers. But then again what was a real cocktail party but an effort to discover new facts about strangers? Dating was like that, too. Nikki reached up to adjust her earring again and stopped, frowning. It occurred to her that all of this felt strangely similar to her lunch with Z’ev. “You know,” said Jenny, who had sidled up to her and was looking both ways for an eavesdropping instructor, “I’ve been thinking about your boyfriend, the one with the funny name.”
“He’s not my boyfriend,” Nikki said, and gulped her fruit punch.
“Whatever. But I was thinking about that crazy story he told you.”
“What do you mean?” asked Nikki, frowning, and wishing she hadn’t told Jenny and Ellen all the details about Canada.
“Oh, come on. ‘I need a fake wife’? I think he was doing this.” Jenny waved at the cocktail party, as if that explained everything. “But for real. Did he say anything else during the lunch?”
“That’s very interesting, Susan,” said Nikki, seeing Mrs. Boyer approaching them behind Jenny. “I can’t say I disagree, but I’m not convinced.”
“Well, Carrie Mae politics are very complex,” said Jenny, covering quickly.
“Dinner is starting, ladies,” Mrs. Boyer said, marking notes on her clipboard. Nikki and Jenny quickly fled into the dining room.
They had barely seated themselves when Dina began to hiccup loudly. Nikki exchanged a horrified look with Ellen across the table as Dina’s hiccups increased in volume and violence. Dina pushed herself away from the table and ran toward the downstairs bathroom, but they all heard the splat as she missed the toilet and threw up on the hard tile floor.
Mrs. Boyer ran toward the restroom, but the rest of the girls remained seated, staring at one another with expressions of mingled horror and amusement.
“Well,” said Ellen, folding her hands neatly
. “I suggest we start dinner with a prayer for the health of our friend Dina.” There was a wave of snickers around the table.
“We will delay dinner for a few moments while we assess the situation,” Mr. Bamoko said sternly, trying to squash the rebellion.
Moments turned into thirty minutes, while Dina was helped to the infirmary, the bathroom was cleaned, and Cocktails class was declared finished for the evening. Dinner was reheated and served again, while the girls discussed Dina’s sudden illness. Nikki cringed at the sound of “food poisoning” and made a break for her room as soon as possible, with Jenny and Ellen in tow. Jenny had taken off her shoes, and they thumped against every rung in the banister.
“That was freaking hilarious,” she said around a yawn.
“Not for Dina,” said Nikki.
“Well, it was unfortunate, but it’s probably for the best anyway. At least we don’t have to deal with her during war games tomorrow,” Ellen said realistically.
“I still feel bad,” Nikki said. “I didn’t want to sabotage her.”
“She sabotaged herself,” said Jenny coldly. “Serves her right for being a bitch.”
“Well,” Nikki said, assessing the situation, “karmically speaking, she may have had it coming, but I’m not sure my karma isn’t dented for helping.”
“As long as Dina doesn’t know we helped, then karma is perfectly welcome to have my car stereo stolen at some later point in time,” Ellen said.
“Practical, as usual,” Jenny said, laughing.
The next morning the teams lined up for war games, with Nikki’s team conspicuously short one person. Mrs. Boyer and Connie were still discussing this when Valerie Robinson arrived.
“Tell them to suck it up,” she said, lighting up a cigarette, as Mrs. Boyer told her of the situation.
“It’s an unfair advantage for the other teams,” protested Mrs. Boyer. “Dina was their team leader.”
“Poor babies,” Val said dryly. “You”—she pointed at Nikki—“you’re the new team leader. See, problem solved.”
“I’m not sure that’s a real solution,” Mrs. Boyer began, but Val was walking away from her.
“OK, everyone, you all know the rules,” said Val, picking up a starter pistol from Mrs. Boyer’s gear. There was a general murmur of agreement from the girls, and Val nodded.
“Great,” she said, “then get the hell out of here,” and she fired the pistol.
There was a mad scramble as the teams gathered gear and rushed to get under cover. Nikki looked doubtfully at Ellen and Jenny. Ellen smiled, and Jenny gave her a thumbs-up. With a sigh, Nikki picked a direction and marched out.
It was much later in the evening when Nikki returned to campus. On a whim, she headed up to the infirmary.
Dina looked horrible. Her skin was pasty white, and she had dark circles under eyes. Her usually well-ordered brown hair was one frizz away from total disaster, and Nikki was pretty sure that the dried flaky substance on her shirt was old puke.
“The war games went really well,” said Nikki, plastering a smile on her still-camouflage-painted face. “We won!” She held up the small gold golf trophy as proof. There was a glitter in Dina’s brown eyes that was making Nikki nervous. “Mrs. Robinson gave us an A.”
Nikki didn’t mention that Val had winked as she had said, “A-plus for handling the situation correctly.”
“I made sure that the grade applied to you, too,” said Nikki, still forcing her smile. “Because you trained with us the whole time, so it seemed only fair. So, uh, not to worry, you’ll be right on track when you get out of here. And I’ll just go now and let you rest.” Nikki reached out to pat Dina’s hand, but the other girl seized her by the wrist.
“I know what you did, Lanier. And when I get out of here I’m going to tell everyone that you poisoned me with breath spray from Specialty Items.”
Nikki yanked her hand back.
“You’re going to be kicked out of here so fast that you won’t even know what hit you. You and your little friends, Jenny and Ellen. I know you were all in on it and I’m going to make you pay.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Nikki said coldly. “But if something like that were said, I’d have to tell everyone about the fifth of tequila you’ve got hidden under your bed.”
Dina’s eyes glittered angrily, but she didn’t say anything.
“You got your A in War Games, so I suggest you just shut up and stay the hell away from my friends.”
Dina looked as though she might say something, but then slumped back on the pillow as the nurse bustled in.
“Visiting hours are over, I’m afraid,” she said kindly.
“That’s all right, I was just leaving,” Nikki said, without taking her eyes off Dina. “I think we said everything that needed to be said. Didn’t we, Dina?”
Dina nodded reluctantly, and Nikki felt the cold thrill of triumph followed by a sharp twist of guilt.
CANADA
In the Boys’ Room
Taking a deep breath, Nikki was about to say no and walk away when the man in the navy suit entered briskly, smiling from ear to ear, his hand extended. He was a handsome man, somewhere in his forties, with a slender build, olive skin, black hair, and deep-set eyes.
“Jim, you look good.” His intonation was more British than American, but Nikki could tell that English was not his native tongue, although she couldn’t quite place his accent. “And this must be your wife. You never told me how pretty she was.” The compliment was accompanied by a smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes.
“Mr. Sarkassian, this is my wife, Kim,” said her new husband, and gave Nikki a reckless look, daring her to deny him.
Nikki shook hands, noticing that besides the designer suit, Mr. Sarkassian also sported a watch that ran well into the thousands, and a pair of ostentatious ruby cufflinks that she estimated to cost more than a month’s rent on a very nice place. She also noticed that despite the manicure, Sarkassian’s hands were callused and his knuckles were flattened from long years of punching something hard.
“Kim and Jim. Charming. You’re a matched set.” Mr. Sarkassian’s amusement carried an undertone of mocking that sparked a current of dislike in Nikki. “Come along, children,” he said, turning on his heel, assuming that they would follow, “my car’s double parked.”
“Where shall we go to lunch?” asked Mr. Sarkassian as they entered the lobby.
“Actually . . .” Nikki said, glancing significantly at her watch and preparing to make her graceful, if resentful, exit.
Then she saw her mother, Nell, emerge from the elevator. Nell was dressed in a pair of tight black slacks and her usual cleavage-baring top.
Nikki realized that she was unprepared to explain her sudden marriage to her mother, and there was no way she was ready to introduce her mother to her new husband, or his sardonic business acquaintance. And then there was the interview. Nikki shook at the idea of telling anyone about the interview, but telling her mother seemed the very definition of hell. Nikki was not nearly drunk enough for that kind of lunch.
“Kim can’t join us,” said “Jim,” filling in when her pause had gone on too long. “You’ve got plans, don’t you, honey?”
She glanced at her new husband; he seemed big enough to hide behind. There was a possibility that she was just drunk enough for this lunch. Maybe she hadn’t really seen that shoulder holster. Maybe it was just the strap on some strange set of suspenders. Yeah, that was it.
“Well, I do have theater tickets, but as long as you promise to get me back here by five, I think I’ve got plenty of time,” Nikki said, crossing her fingers and thinking of her mother’s stupid Carrie Mae meeting. Missing lunch would be one thing, but missing the speech would send her mother absolutely bananas.
“I’d love to go,” she added, “as long as you don’t talk too much business,” she said coquettishly to Sarkassian, with a sidelong look at “Jim.” His face had frozen into position as if he’d been dipped in c
arbonite. Nikki stepped forward to take Mr. Sarkassians’s arm and smiled her best “charm the boss” smile.
Thirty minutes later Nikki was pushing a piece of lettuce around her plate and pondering the idea that she had lost her mind. What happened to Stranger Danger? Had she learned nothing from McGruff the Crime Dog? For all she knew, these two men could be serial killers who took innocent women to expensive restaurants and made small talk before brutally stabbing their victims to death with a salad fork.
Or possibly they just ignored them to death.
Sarkassian was on his third phone call. This time, at least, he had been courteous enough to excuse himself from the table. As far as Nikki could tell, Sarkassian had something to do with shipping, but just how “Jim” was involved Nikki couldn’t tell. He had his head turned in the direction that Mr. Sarkassian had gone.
Nikki looked around the restaurant. There was a clearly involved couple by the windows, and a few tables away a petite woman in an electric blue suit dined alone. Her face was mostly hidden behind a bouffant brown, vaguely Jackie O cut. The woman seemed comfortable dining alone, and Nikki wished she had half her composure and elegance. As she watched, the woman put down her fork and asked the waiter something. He pointed toward the lobby, and the woman rose gracefully and exited in that direction. Nikki watched her walk away and admired the clear definition on her calves and the way she maneuvered gracefully in such high heels.
Nikki looked back at her dinner companion, but he was still ignoring her. Unhappily, Nikki pulled the lettuce back across her plate. She knew she wasn’t exactly Tyra Banks, but getting a boy’s attention had never been a problem before.
“What’s our name again?” she asked, studying his profile. He just didn’t look like a Jim to her.
Bulletproof Mascara: A Novel Page 9