He was a student at Thorndike Academy. He was a senior. Last night was Homecoming. He had gone to the Masquerade at Renata’s mansion, then to Nicky Bloom’s after-party at the Hamilton Hotel.
He was awake. There had been some question about that a few minutes ago, but now he was pretty darn sure he had left that strange spinning movie of last night and was ready to start going in the right direction again.
He was in a bathroom. A bathroom with white and blue tiles on the floor and floral wallpaper. This was not his bathroom. In fact, this wasn’t any of the eight bathrooms in the Tremblay mansion. This wasn’t a bathroom he had ever been in before.
Was he at a friend’s house? His mother’s?
Two capital H’s embroidered on the towels clued him in. He was in a hotel room. At some point last night, some point that was long gone from his memory, he had left the party on the top floor of the Hamilton and checked into a room on one of the floors below. Not that he could remember checking in, or opening the door, or stepping inside…did he remember anything that led him here?
Yes. He remembered saying good night to Nicky Bloom. He didn’t know where he was when he said it, but he could hear his own voice speaking the words.
Good night, Nicky.
Sweet dreams, Art.
Then she kissed him on the cheek. That much he knew for sure. He remembered how intensely exciting that was, how certain he felt that the kiss was just the beginning of something more…
But if anything more did happen, he didn’t remember it. He willed himself to his feet, his head wailing in pain at the motion, and he staggered out of the bathroom, hoping with all his heart that she was in his bed, and if not she, then at least a note she had left behind.
There was no girl in the bed, no note, no bra or panties or other evidence of a fabulous night. Just a jumble of sheets and blankets with a buzzing bee inside them.
His phone was the angry bumblebee that had woken him up—he understood that now. His phone had fallen out of his pocket in the night and was somewhere under the sheets. Whoever was calling now had tried to call a few minutes before.
There was only one person who called Art over and over and over until he got an answer. Only one angry bumblebee.
Art tried not to look at the screen but it was too late. He’d seen the shape of the letters out of the corner of his eye and remembered programming them into his contacts all those years ago.
Incoming call from Dad.
While Art was partying with Nicky Bloom and her entourage, his father had been puddle-jumping the Asian airports back to Hong Kong after a two-week hunting adventure in the jungles of Southeast Asia. Art’s father had been out of contact for a while, but at some point in the past few hours he had returned to civilization, and when he did, when his phone went from no reception to four bars, he almost certainly got news from all his friends about what went down at the Homecoming Masquerade.
About his son’s betrayal.
The phone stopped buzzing. It had gone to voicemail. In the silence, Art heard the sound of his own heart racing out of control in his chest. He felt like he might need to throw up some more.
And then the phone started buzzing again.
“No,” Art whispered, as if he was the victim in some cheesy horror movie, as if his phone was some angry demon that would only be satisfied when he answered it.
Dad, the screen taunted. DAD DAD DAD. At that moment, the bold, white letters were more than the musings of some microprocessor in a plastic case. They were a message straight from hell. They were the angry totem that would always reappear no matter what you did to it. Throw it out the window, stomp it to smithereens, flush it down the toilet—it would always come back to life and demand your attention. Your father is going to speak with you whether you like it or not, the phone said to him. The more you put it off, the angrier your father will get.
Art picked up the phone and pressed ANSWER. Before saying hello, he quickly pressed the minus button on the side to turn down the volume, hoping to get a jump on the shouting that was about to ensue. Art so completely expected a tirade that he heard one in his mind even when it didn’t come.
What the hell were you thinking? I raised you better than that! What are you, some blubbering buffoon? Why can’t you get your head on straight just one time in your miserable life?
Merv Tremblay’s voice spoke to Art in memories from childhood, and Art felt the physical abuse that sometimes accompanied the shouts. A smack upside the head. A twist of the arm. One time Merv grabbed Art by the ear and dragged him to his bedroom. Another time Merv pushed him into the wall so hard the sheetrock cracked.
Art was so deep in the well of memory that it didn’t register to him at first when his father began the conversation with a different tone. Art didn’t comprehend the words Merv was saying the first time they came through the phone, and Merv had to say them again.
“How are you feeling?”
How was he feeling?
“Who is this?” Art asked, convinced some new assistant was calling from his father’s phone. Merv Tremblay would never ask how his son was feeling. Merv Tremblay didn’t give a shit.
“What do you mean who is this? It’s your father, Art.”
“Oh, sorry Dad. I didn’t…I guess I…I’m feeling okay, I think.”
“You sound a little hung over,” said Merv.
“Yeah. A little hung over. Maybe I am.”
His dad laughed. Flying pigs in a frozen hell, Art Tremblay had told his dad that he was hung over and his dad was laughing. What was going on with that guy? Was he high? He must have been high. Art knew his dad to partake in designer drugs from time to time—prescription pain pills, animal sedatives, weird shit from Italy and Mexico—his dad must have been on something. There was no other explanation for this.
Art had defied his father in a big way last night. The Tremblay family was loyal to Galen Renwick. Merv and Galen had been friends long before Art was even born. Art’s decision to go to Nicky Bloom’s after-party was a slap in the face to the old man. It made things complicated for Merv, both at work and on the golf course. It was the brash decision of a teenager who wanted to tell his father where to stick it.
“A little hung over, eh?” Merv said between chuckles. “I suppose that’s to be expected. I remember the after-party my senior year. It was on a yacht and there was a pirate theme. We drank rum right out of the bottle and sang sea shanties. It was a really smart way to do it. By the morning, when everyone was puking, we didn’t crowd the bathroom, we just leaned over the side of the boat.”
It occurred to Art that he had never heard this story before. It was the kind of thing a father tells his son if he likes him, if he wants to be his friend.
“Hey Dad, have you spoken with Galen Renwick today?” Art asked.
More laughter from Merv. “Oh yes,” he said. “Oh yes indeed. I think it’s safe to say that man is shitting his pants right now because of what you did.”
“So…you’re okay with what I did last night?”
The laughter stopped. There was a second of silence, and during that time, Art pulled the phone away from his ear. It wasn’t even a conscious decision. Some reflex kicked in and Art knew, just knew, that now was the time his dad would start yelling, that this first minute of pleasantries was just his dad screwing with him, giving him an ever-so-brief taste of a loving father-son relationship before pulling the rug out for good.
But he was wrong. His father didn’t start yelling. He did just the opposite. He spoke in a low, sincere tone, like he was giving advice, like he was being a parent for once in his life.
“Listen, Art,” he began, “I know last night was tough for you. We all thought it was going to be an easy decision this year. It seemed so obvious that Kim Renwick was going to win. But then this new girl showed up.”
“Nicky,” said Art. “Her name is Nicky Bloom.”
“I know. I’ve heard all about her. My phone has been going crazy for hours now. You know, I
think I’ve spoken with more than twenty people today.” He started laughing again. “Oh goodness what a stir you caused last night. Crashing into that girl…what’s her name?”
“Rosalyn. Kim wanted me to throw Nicky into Rosalyn so she’d spill her wine and ruin Nicky’s dress, but I crashed into Rosalyn instead.”
“Yes, yes—that’s what I’ve heard. And then the new girl got you a different jacket and kissed you in front of everyone. Seriously Art, people were calling me to tell me the details even before the dance was over. The whole world wants to know what we’re doing, because if the Tremblays are supporting the new girl, it changes everything.”
“What are you telling them?”
“The truth, of course. I haven’t spoken with my son yet so I have nothing to say. I think I’ve repeated those words a hundred times since I got to the airport.”
“Seriously? That’s what you’re telling them?”
Waiting for all the facts before condemning his son—this didn’t sound like the Merv Tremblay that Art knew.
“Of course that’s what I’m telling them. And if they push me for more, I tell them it’s none of their goddamn business, and none of mine either. I tell them you’re the senior at Thorndike and that’s the way the contest works. The seniors are the ones who decide which after-party to attend. The seniors are the ones who get to bid at the Date Auction. We parents provide the funds, but it’s the kids who spend them, now, isn’t it?”
Art was dreaming…he had to be dreaming. There was no way his dad was saying this to him, not unless he’d undergone a complete personality makeover in the past week.
“Thank you, Dad. I’m…surprised.”
“No need to thank me, Art. From what I hear, it sounds like you did good last night. With Kim, we were just one family of many who had to kiss Galen’s ass. With this new girl, it sounds to me like you’re in tight.”
“Yeah, really tight,” Art said, thinking fondly about a slow dance he and Nicky shared at the start of the after-party. Was that it? Had Merv finally come around to respecting Art because he got in good with a future immortal? It had to be. Yes, the more Art thought about it, the more it made sense. While Art had slept, his father had spoken with all the Washington power players. His father’s reaction, the way he was treating Art, was evidence that everything was going just as Nicky said it would.
People were leaving Kim in droves. There was no other explanation. Only a tectonic power shift away from the Renwicks and towards the new girl could explain the way his father was treating him right now.
In the background Art heard a muffled voice speaking in Chinese.
“That’s my boarding call,” said Merv. “I don’t know if I’ve ever been so excited about an eighteen-hour flight before. I’m going to sleep as soon as we take off, and my infernal phone is finally going to stop ringing.”
Art caught himself smiling. He was smiling as he spoke with his dad, as if they were friends.
“Okay. Have a good flight,” Art said.
“There are no good flights,” said Merv, speaking in the same ugly, bitter tone that Art knew so well, but somehow sounding different all the same.
“I’ll see you when you get home, Dad,” said Art.
There was no response. His father had already hung up.
Art put the phone down and stared at it for a second, wondering if he had heard his father correctly.
From what I hear, it sounds like you did good last night.
Yes, those were the words. His father sounded grouchy and mean when he said them, but there was no denying their meaning. Art’s father had given him a compliment over the phone. Never before in all his life, or at least not since he was very little and his dad didn’t realize yet that he was going to be a giant disappointment…a compliment. An honest-to-God compliment!
Art felt like he had left his real life somewhere in the past and stepped into an alternate dimension, a place where gorgeous, exotic new girls showed up at the Homecoming Masquerade and took an interest in him, where he went to a happening party with his classmates and they acted like he was the coolest kid there, where his dad treated him with respect.
And it all started when he danced with Nicky Bloom. What an amazing girl. In less than 24 hours, she had all of Washington turning on its head. Art imagined the Washington Monument as the needle-point on a city-sized spinner, with Nicky Bloom flinging the whole city round and round with a twist of her fingers.
Art threw himself on the bed, feeling like he could relax for the first time in his life, like he had finally done what he was supposed to do and deserved a long, restful sleep.
He woke up some four hours later, the afternoon sun glowing behind the curtain in his hotel room. He lay in bed for a few minutes, wondering if the phone call from his dad had really happened or if it was another dream. He had gotten so messed up the night before he could hardly tell the difference.
Still, after he zipped up his pants, he rushed back to the nightstand to grab his phone and scroll through the recent calls.
It was right there in front of him. Dad. Inbound call at 11:18. Lasted for twelve minutes.
“Holy shit,” he whispered.
The magnitude of that phone call from his dad began to set in. Art had made a crazy decision the night before, a decision he never would have made if he had been sober, and it changed everything. He had been a doormat for Kim Renwick, but now he was a cunning enemy who had gotten the best of her. He had been the spoiled softie among his peers, marginally popular, but only because of his money. Now he was a leader who had been the first big player to ditch Kim for the new girl.
Now he was a son who made his father proud, rather than a wuss who wasn’t worthy of the family name.
Art took off his clothes and started a shower, then decided what he really wanted to do was take a bath. A long, hot bath to ease his aching head and give him a chance to play out a proper fantasy about Nicky Bloom in his mind. He splashed around in the tub for twenty minutes, imagining Nicky’s naked body on top of his, and when he was done he said, “You can make this happen, Art.”
He pulled the drain plug, stood up and said it again. “Art Tremblay, you are gonna make this happen. You are gonna get with this girl, and when she becomes immortal, you will too. Hot damn, Art Tremblay, make this fucking happen!”
Ten minutes later he was dressed and downstairs, asking at the front desk about checking out.
“It’s all been taken care of, Mr. Tremblay,” said the woman at the counter. “Ms. Bloom paid for your room and left you this.”
The woman put a small note card on the desk. Art picked it up, and the scent of Nicky’s perfume immediately hit his nose and reminded him how incredibly awesome it was to be alive. Inside the card were two words followed by seven numbers. The words were, “Call me.”
As he drove back to Potomac, Art cataloged all the many reasons that he was, all of a sudden, a hugely important player on the Washington scene.
In two weeks I turn eighteen and inherit a quarter share in one of the most important businesses in this town.
Last night I led my classmates in a rebellion, a god-damned insurrection, and now everyone is talking about it.
The things people are saying about me must be good—look at the way Dad reacted.
Dad is an important businessman, and he respects me. I am about to be an important businessman too.
I am an adult now. A young adult, and maybe, just maybe if I play my cards right, I might stay a young adult forever.
Etson, the butler, opened the front door to the manor and bowed his head as Art stepped inside. It was a gesture so common in Art’s life he never even noticed it, but tonight he understood. Only a privileged few had servants who bowed before them when they entered a room. “Top of the food chain” is what Art’s father called them.
I’m top of the food chain. A predator.
A predator, just like his dad, who adorned the family home with proof of his predatory prowess. The front foyer
of the Tremblay mansion was like a natural history museum of large game, a walk-in trophy case meant to show off the most impressive kills Merv Tremblay had made over the years. On one wall was a herd of forest grazers whose heads had been stuffed and mounted. Deer, elk, antelope, a ram, three ugly wild pigs with big curvy tusks, and an enormous moose with a little grin on his face.
When Art was twelve, his dad took him to Africa to attend a big game safari. During the first night on the savanna, a tick latched onto Art’s leg, and gave him some mystery illness. Fever, chills, diarrhea—a father who cared would have canceled the hunting trip to tend to his sick child. But Merv did no such thing. Instead, he had one of the guides take Art into town in the back seat of a jeep. While Art was laid up in an African hospital, his father continued the safari, making what he would later call his “favorite ever kill” on the fourth day of the trip.
That kill, a 12-foot crocodile that Merv named Rosie, now stood against the far wall of the entryway, the taxidermist having set the creature in permanent repose with its jaws open wide. Over the years, Merv had shown hundreds of houseguests the insides of that crocodile’s mouth, explaining in detail how the African crocodile is “without question the most fearsome predator of the savanna.” Never once did he mention that while he was out killing that croc, his son was in a hospital bed watching French soap operas on a black and white TV.
Standing opposite Rosie the Crocodile was a black bear that Merv killed in New Mexico. Next to the bear was a wall with the heads of a bison, a boar, a zebra, and a yak. Stuffed birds hung from the high ceiling above them on invisible wires. A pheasant, a duck, a turkey, a flock of geese in a flying V... and standing front and center in the room, the dual staircase bookending it on either side, was a towering African elephant that Merv had killed the summer after Art’s freshman year at Thorndike. The elephant had four feet on the ground and its head was turned to greet people as they entered the house.
The Festival of the Moon (Girls Wearing Black: Book Two) Page 2