As the sleepless hours ticked by, my common sense and typically even keel deteriorated. I bordered on delusional, grasping at straws, determined to fix the unfixable. I’ll call her tomorrow and tell her I was just kidding. I’ll tell her I lied because I felt sorry for her. And while I waited for her at Tres Amigos the next day, I had every intention of doing so.
But I didn’t have to, because Mattie made it okay. More than okay, because that’s the magic of Mattie. She resides at that strange little way station between stark reality and larger than life fantasy. She wants so much more than just-the-facts-ma’am. She lives for those miraculous moments when you stumble upon something that’s somehow truer than the truth.
With four little words, and without even realizing what she was doing, she carved out a safe place for me to be someone other than Cool Will. She called me Will With Two Ls.
He was just a joke at first. A goofy nickname for a Will who’s buddies with a Wheaton fangirl. By the afternoon, he became the charming stage assistant to Ginger the intrepid orphan and budding escapologist.
On the way to Miyu’s house, Mattie popped an old-fashioned cassette tape into Stella’s ancient Volkswagen stereo. I almost had a conniption when the familiar crackles of “My Blackbirds Are Bluebirds Now” came on.
“Oh my god . . . is this Annette Hanshaw? You listen to jazz?”
Mattie’s eyes bugged out of her face. “Yeah. I can’t believe you know Annette Hanshaw.”
“Have you not noticed how much Jazz Age slang I throw around? The ’20s are probably my favorite decade. I mean . . . good god . . . the art, the fashion, the music. Maybe the 2020s will be cool.”
“We can only hope. I’ve always felt like I got screwed by the time lottery. Are you ready to meet Miyu?”
“Is she expecting me?”
“Hell no. If I’d given her a heads up, she would have barricaded the door.”
“Oh. When you put it like that, she sounds like a real peach.”
“It’ll be fine,” she said, though she sounded far from one hundred percent sure.
We pulled up to one of those old Grayton villas. I realized I’d driven past it at least half a dozen times and probably raised my eyebrows over the knee-high lawn. It never occurred to me to wonder who lived there. I followed Mattie up a stone footpath and watched her ring the bell by the ornate front door. A few beats later, a little panel with a hummingbird carving flipped open.
“Who’s the Jehovah’s Witness?” the woman behind the door asked. Based on Mattie’s description of her mentor as a sharp-tongued agoraphobe, I could only assume it was Miyu. And, for the record, she’d already won me with that line.
“This is Will.”
“Hey,” I chirped.
“It’s okay. He’s cool. I almost drowned because of him, but we worked it out.”
“I’m so happy for you,” Miyu deadpanned.
“No you’re not. But you’re going to let him in. He’s going to help me raid your attic so I can plan my next act.”
Miyu slammed the hummingbird panel shut.
“So,” I said. “Does that mean I don’t get to give her a free copy of The Watchtower?”
“It means she’s either loading her shotgun or checking herself out in the mirror before she opens the door.”
The door flew open and Miyu stood over the threshold, her dark hair freshly finger-fluffed.
“So predictably vain,” Mattie mumbled.
“I will let the Jehovah’s Witness in on one condition,” Miyu said without even a hint of a smile. “He takes over as your stage assistant so I can stay backstage where I belong.”
“Miyu, Will doesn’t—”
“Yes,” I squeaked over Mattie’s protest. “Oh my god, a thousand times, yes. Miyu, you’re the cat’s meow.”
Miyu gave me a cool once over with her steely eyes. “If you say so, Jehovah.”
“Thanks for consulting with me first,” Mattie whined.
“I thought you didn’t have any friends,” Miyu said. “I’m jumping on the first opportunity that presented itself.”
I turned to Mattie with my best puppy-dog eyes. “I won’t do it if you don’t want me to.”
Miyu cackled from the doorway. “If you can resist that dimpled pout, you’re a stronger woman than I, Girl Scout.” Yessss.
“Goddammit,” Mattie huffed. “Will, you’re officially my new stage assistant.”
I couldn’t think of anything to say, but I’m certain I had one of the goofiest grins of all time plastered on my face.
Mattie shoved her way inside, scowling at Miyu. “We’re off to the attic.”
We climbed three flights of stairs wrapped in threadbare oriental runners and scaled a ladder I had to pull down from the ceiling in the third floor hallway.
“Holy cannoli,” I whispered. “It’s like the Xanadu of antiques.”
I’d been in my fair share of grandmas’ attics, but I’d never seen anything like this. Dusty credenzas carved out of solid cherry. Wrought-iron coat trees with glass birds perched on the hooks. Boxes spilling over with Christmas ornaments and stained glass lamps. A menagerie of abstract lawn sculptures.
Mattie pointed at the sculptures. “Totally late-80s art deco, don’t you think?”
I barely heard her because something hanging on a dress from across the attic had drawn me in. I had to climb over an old Schwinn and a collapsed tent to get to it. The crust of black sequins sparkled even in the dim light.
“Whose was this?”
Mattie glanced over. “Ah. One of Akiko’s costumes. She had quite the career.”
“She was an escape artist? Is that how Miyu learned all this stuff?”
“Yep.”
“Who designed her costumes?”
“No idea.” She popped open a black trunk lined with red velvet.
I massaged the hemline between my fingers. The stitching was so precise, so perfect. “It’s really excellent work. And it looks formal, but it’s designed for movement. Genius.”
Mattie squinted at me. “Genius? Seriously? I thought you had an aversion to stereotyped interests.”
“That’s not what I said. And it’s not like I give a shit about fashion trends or runway models. I just like the idea of handcrafted art you can wear. I probably get it from my mom. The woman has more hand-stitched jackets than a boutique in SoHo.”
I might have a contentious relationship with my mother, but if nothing else, she’d instilled in me a deep appreciation for beautiful things made with passion. I’m not talking about the kind of high-priced bullshit you find on Fifth Avenue. I’m talking about one-of-a-kind artifacts that change the way you feel when you put them on. Art that transforms.
“I guess I’ll buy that,” Mattie said. “I do have kind of a thing for vintage clothing. You know, stuff from back in the day when everything wasn’t made in a sweatshop and falling apart after the first wash.” She grinned at me. “So, do you and the guys from the basketball team talk about wearable art?”
I have to admit, I loved that Mattie and I had bulldozed through the walking-on-eggshells phase of friendship and gone straight for asking each other pointed questions. “What do you think?” I coughed.
“I think you should come help me dig through this stuff.”
I knelt beside the trunk. “What are we looking for?”
“Something the salon-goers will dig.”
We dug through piles of straitjackets, nets of chains, enough shackles to lock down a small army, and a slew of antique locks, all polished more lovingly than most prized pieces of jewelry. I pulled out a pair of rusty antique handcuffs that had probably been used to transport prisoners in the late 1800s or keep drunken sailors from rattling around in the brig.
Mattie shivered as she stared at them. “Those are super creepy. All that rusty iron . . .”
&nb
sp; That’s how I knew we’d found the right restraints. There’s nothing I wanted more in that moment than to watch Mattie take on something that scared her enough to give her a case of the shakes with just a glance. Cool Will couldn’t handle that kind of audacity, but Will With Two Ls was more than ready to live vicariously through his new partner in mutually assured destruction.
Will With Two Ls didn’t daydream about sipping bootleg cocktails at speakeasies with imaginary friends. He didn’t have to because he and Ginger the intrepid orphan frequented Salone Postale on the regular. He didn’t mope around in his room listening to show tunes and old jazz records. Instead, he and Ginger drove down back roads on hot summer nights listening to them together.
I didn’t have to be Will With Two Ls all the time because, lord knows, I wasn’t quite there yet. I got all fluster-cated anytime I even thought about showing up at one of those intolerably-loud-vomit-parties as Will With Two Ls. Ryder, inevitably drunk on vodka, would predictably lose his shit over the thousand-and-one times he’d changed in front of me in the locker room. His zozzled ass wouldn’t even hear my adamant claims that overbearing close-talkers did zilch for me. And in a tragic turn of events, Betsy would drop all of her quiet sophistication, regress into junior-high-drama-rama, lock herself in a bathroom and sob over a vanilla-scented candle for hours. Meadow would glare at me from a dark corner, plotting dastardly ways to avenge her BFF.
I could still pull Cool Will out of my back pocket when I needed to and tote him around like a shield. But by dubbing me Will With Two Ls, Mattie had thrown open a dusty trapdoor and shown me an escape route. I was ready to take only the smallest of baby steps. Though, that day in Miyu’s attic, I saw the light at the end of the tunnel winking at me, coaxing me forward with the spark of better days to come.
The woman from TV tapped her pen against her lips. “Do you ever get scared?”
I curled a strand of my bright pink wig around my index finger. The Hummingbird was flitting around behind my chair. I’d bought her a foam samurai sword to keep her entertained during the interview. She sliced through the air with grand swishes, vanquishing imaginary foes. Swish!
“Mom-mom-mom-mom,” she babbled. “Look, look!”
“Hush,” I said. “In a minute, hachidori.” I turned back to the TV woman. “What was the question?”
“Do you ever get scared?”
“Of course,” I replied with a smile. “What I do is very risky. It can be a matter of life and death. But there’s also a deep sense of serenity. There’s a moment, just before I free myself, that feels so small and yet so big at the same time. It lasts for just a second, sometimes less, but it encompasses everything.”
“Does your life flash before your eyes?” the TV woman asked.
I laughed. “Maybe something like that. But I don’t see it. I feel it, like a thick mist condensing deep in my chest.”
– Akiko Miyake, New York, November 19, 1985
Mattie, You’re Giving me that Look
“Deep breaths,” Will said as I parked Stella’s Volkswagen in her driveway.
My sweaty palms kept slipping on the steering wheel. I wiped them on my jeans before pulling the keys out of the ignition. I followed Will’s advice and sucked in a lungful of oxygen before opening the driver’s side door.
“Okay, wish me luck.”
“You don’t wish performers good luck, Mattie-O. You say ‘break a leg.’”
Frankly, I didn’t need luck or a broken leg to pull off my plan without a single hitch. I needed a freaking miracle.
I stalked up to Stella’s front door and rang the bell. The door flew open less than a second later and Stella’s spidery limbs trapped me in one of her classic hugs.
“I missed you, Ginger.”
“I missed you, too,” I admitted with a sigh. “Like, a lot. Is Frankie here yet?”
“Yeah, he’s in the kitchen. Did you take good care of my baby?” She glanced toward the bug, her brows knitting. “Is your brother in the car?”
Will waved from the passenger seat and I shoved Stella into the foyer and shut the door.
“Look. I can promise you a fun night, but you and Frankie are going to have to abide by a few rules.”
An olive-skinned early adolescent emerged from the kitchen, gangly limbs dangling from his torso. “Salutations,” he mumbled.
I grabbed him by the shoulders and shuffled him next to Stella. His stiff arms and the look of mild shock on his face told me he wasn’t used to being touched, especially by insistent teenage girls. “Please listen carefully. Rule number one—under even the most extreme of circumstances, you will never, ever speak of the things you see tonight, no matter how thrilling or surprising or ridiculous you may find them. Sub-rule one-dash-a—no photos or video evidence allowed. If I see either one of you pull out a phone, I will run that phone over with the Bug.”
“Ginge, you’re scaring me.”
“Rule number two,” I continued. “One of our fellow students is waiting in the car. You will treat him like a normal human being, and you will not, for any reason, ask him why he is hanging out with me.”
Stella glanced at Frankie and he nodded.
“Rule number three—you will not over-consume alcohol, no matter how many free drinks people hand you. I will not have time this evening to be a drunk person’s babysitter.”
Stella scrunched up her face. “Mattie, Frankie’s totally cool, but I don’t think bringing him to a house party is a good idea.”
“Good lord, Stella. Do you think when you’re away I turn into a teenage cliché? We’re not going to a house party. Though there will be drunk people. And loud music. And possibly some debauchery.”
“I’m so confused,” Stella whined.
“Confusion aside, can I count on you to abide by these three rules? Don’t talk about what you see, don’t be a twerp to my new friend, and don’t go on a bender.”
She threw her hands up. “Yeah. Sure. I guess.”
I grabbed Frankie’s shoulders again. “What about you?”
His dark eyes blinked at me. “I’ve always fantasized about being drafted into a shady, international spy organization with no formal ties to the government. This is almost as good.”
“Fantastic. Let’s roll.”
Twenty minutes and one awkward drive full of silent pauses later, the four of us piled into a corner booth at Pink Ginger. Sugar-coated Japanese pop music blared from a speaker behind the sushi bar and the scents of soy and raw fish assaulted my nostrils.
“I’ll have the Sushi Regular,” Stella told the waiter.
Will ordered the same, I ordered two Philly rolls and a seaweed salad, and Frankie ordered chicken teriyaki.
“Not a fan of raw fish?” I asked.
“I don’t eat anything with a face,” he replied.
Will busted a gut.
“You do realize chickens have faces, right?” I asked.
“Oh, birds don’t count,” Frankie explained with a shake of his head. “They’re, like, tiny, soulless dinosaurs. I have no moral qualms with eating them.” He glanced from me to Will, then cracked a huge grin.
“You’re screwing with us,” I said.
“Maybe a little,” he said with a shrug.
Will cracked up again, and Stella raised her eyebrows at me. I wasn’t sold on Frankie the Wannabe BFF Thief yet, but he was growing on me. I studied his face, trying to decide whether he was the type who would blackmail an older woman once he found out about her double life.
“You’re giving me that look,” he said.
“What look?” I asked.
“That look that white people give me when they’re trying to figure out whether I’m white.”
Will and Stella both exploded with laughter. “So busted,” Will sang.
I shot Frankie a scowl. “For your information, that’s not what
I was thinking about. But I will admit I wondered on the car ride over here.”
“I’m Azorean,” he explained.
Will squinted at him. “Is Azorea a fictional land in one of those online RPGs?”
Frankie blinked and pursed his lips. “I have no idea. But I’m not from Azorea. My family hails from the Azores.”
“Islands off the coast of Portugal,” Stella said, saving us from making more awkward guesses about what and where the Azores were.
“Groovy,” Will said. “I gotta iron my shoelaces.”
Stella’s face got all serious as soon as he left the table and headed toward the restroom. “Will Kane? How did this happen?”
I grinned when I realized Stella was just as weirdly suspicious-slash-jealous of Will as I was of Frankie. “Rule number two,” I reminded her with a smirk.
“Oh, I’m well aware of rule number two, Ginge. You said we couldn’t be twerpy to your new friend. You didn’t say I couldn’t bug you about how it came to be that he’s hanging out with the three of us.”
“Touché,” I grumbled.
“I don’t see what the big deal is,” Frankie said. “He seems like a nice guy.”
“Turns out he is a nice guy,” I said.
“Don’t change the subject just because Frankie doesn’t understand the Cianci Regional social fabric.”
“Holy super-snob, Batman, you’re doing it again. We don’t live in a poorly-written, low-budget drama, Stell. This is real life. Sometimes, in real life, interesting people find other interesting people and decide they want to hang out with them.”
“That seems reasonable,” Frankie chimed in.
Stella raised one eyebrow, flashing me a look of incredulousness I could never pull off, even if my life depended on it. “What, exactly, does he find so interesting about you?”
“I don’t know what you’re implying, but our friendship is completely non-sexual.”
The Art of Escaping Page 12