Love Inc.

by Yvonne Collins

  ‘Maybe,’ I say, watching as Nani passes him the hot sauce. It’s quite possible that I’ll end up liking spicy food once I’m cooking it for Rico every night. After all, marriage is all about compromise.

  Chapter Three

  I’m at the Recipe Box counting cash when someone says, ‘Can you help me, miss? I’m looking for a killer recipe to impress my boyfriend with.’

  I look up to find Kali draped over the counter, wearing a green tank top that matches her eyes. Her curls are twisted into a messy knot that somehow looks elegant. She’s one of those people who have style without really trying.

  Dieter teamed us up with Sydney to do a scavenger hunt. Using the cryptic clues he e-mailed us, we have to visit various locations around the city and present photos of them in next Thursday’s session. Dieter said no tests and no grades, but he’s still giving us homework.

  René, the coolest boss ever, takes Kali’s request in stride. ‘I’ve got just the thing: Desserts to Die For.’

  Kali gravitates to his side of the register. René always has this effect on female customers. He has twinkly brown eyes, salt-and-pepper hair, and at six-foot-three, he really works an apron.

  I drag Kali to the gluten-free cookbook section, the only quiet place in the store on a busy Saturday afternoon. ‘What are you doing here? We’re supposed to meet at one thirty at Austin Java.’

  ‘Can’t you get off early? I checked out the clues, and this is going to take a while.’

  ‘I already cut my shift short,’ I say. ‘So this is costing me money.’ With Dad’s income spread between two households, my allowance has dried up. Now my work paycheck goes to cover my cell phone bill as well as anything I consider a necessity and Dad doesn’t. ‘That’s why I wanted to do it tomorrow.’

  ‘But tomorrow’s the free Notts County concert,’ Kali says, as if that trumps all. She was singing their song the other day. I wouldn’t be surprised if she’s a groupie.

  ‘Why don’t you meet Syd early and start solving the clues?’ I say. ‘I have to unpack some boxes before I go.’

  Kali sets her bag on a shelf. ‘I’ll help you if it’ll go faster.’

  I guess she thinks stocking shelves beats spending time alone with Syd. I’d have to agree. Syd seems prickly, and that dog is just scary.

  René lets me off half an hour early, but it doesn’t get us any further ahead, because Sydney’s a no-show. After waiting an hour I suggest starting without her, but Kali’s too steamed. ‘The whole point is to get to know each other,’ she says. ‘Plus, the other team has three people, so they’ll win. It’s no fair.’

  True, but I bet Simon and Evan aren’t exactly Lauren’s dream team.

  Kali calls the number Sydney gave us again, and finally her mom picks up. When Kali explains our mission, Mrs Stark gives us Syd’s cell number and tells us where to look for her.

  After leaving some blistering voice mails on Syd’s cell, we start walking. ‘She better have a good explanation,’ Kali says, as we circle the old converted warehouse Mrs Stark told us about. ‘And she better be damn good at scavenger hunts.’

  I spot a small plaque on a door in the shape of a stroller with the initials MW painted on its side. ‘This must be it,’ I say. ‘The Maternity Ward. Although I doubt it has anything to do with babies.’

  We step through the door and find ourselves in a cavernous space, where light streams through floor-to-ceiling windows. Several artists are lined up in front of the windows, working on canvases set on easels. In one corner, two guys are placing papier-mâché possums on the tiers of a giant cake platter. In another, a couple in nude body suits are painting each other green as a girl wearing a kimono videotapes them.

  Until today, I considered myself relatively cool. Dad works in advertising and he tries to stay ahead of the curve. We’re always checking out the latest Web sites, magazines, TV programs, and movies. But looking around, I realise I need to expand my horizons.

  Kali smiles at my dazed expression. ‘It’s like Andy Warhol’s Factory,’ she says. ‘You probably need the soul of an artist to truly appreciate it.’ She inhales deeply, as if there’s a secret scent only artists – and air guitar players – can pick up.

  I notice a sign on the wall made from hundreds of old fuses and circuit boards: where art is born.

  Ah, the maternity ward.

  Kali singles out a guy who is applying beige paint to two enormous latex mounds. His hair is pulled into a long ponytail, exposing a stunning face. ‘Now that,’ she says, ‘is art.’ She doesn’t mean the latex mounds. ‘Hello,’ she calls to Adonis. ‘We’re looking for Sydney Stark.’

  He returns Kali’s smile, full force. Rubbing a paint-splattered hand over dark stubble, Adonis says, ‘I haven’t seen her today. Try the old Albany Hotel on Ryder.’

  ‘Thanks,’ Kali says. ‘I’m Kali Esposito, by the way.’ She looks around and spies a tire that’s been painted a brownish-pink. Half a basketball sticks out from the center, painted the same color. ‘It’s nice that you’re recycling. I’m a big fan of eco-friendly art.’

  I cut the conversation short when I notice the nameplate waiting to be attached to Adonis’s piece reads QUADRUPLED.

  Kali hasn’t clued in to the fact that Adonis is constructing a giant boob. Having the soul of an artist may help you appreciate a hotbed of creativity, but having an imaginary pal like Oliver James makes it easy-peasy to spot a regular perv.

  A woman with tattered clothes, matted hair, and a ring of scabs around her mouth stops us as we get off the bus. ‘Got a cigarette?’

  ‘Sorry, we don’t smoke,’ I say.

  ‘Wait.’ Kali opens her bag and pulls out a pack. She hands one to the woman and lights a match.

  The woman’s eyes widen as she takes a drag. Then she mutters something unintelligible and shuffles off.

  ‘With all your rah-rah tree-hugging, you suck on death sticks?’ I ask.

  ‘Carrying them doesn’t mean I smoke them.’

  ‘So you’re helping that poor woman kill herself?’

  Kali sniffs. ‘Are you always this self-righteous?’

  ‘You ragged on Syd about biodegradable bags,’ I point out. But her words sting. What if I inherited a self-righteousness gene from my grandparents along with the rare, Persian red-hair gene?

  Outside a dodgy sports bar, we pass a guy covered in so many tattoos it’s hard to make out his natural skin color. ‘Got a cigarette?’ he asks, leering at Kali.

  ‘We don’t smoke,’ she says.

  I wait until we’re out of earshot to ask, ‘Did we just quit?’

  ‘They’re Gauloises,’ Kali says. ‘Picasso smoked them. And John Lennon. I’ve decided to save them.’

  Surveying the street, I wrinkle my nose and say, ‘Why would Syd hang around here?’

  ‘My third dad is a real estate agent,’ Kali says. ‘This neighborhood is what he calls transitional.’

  ‘This neighborhood is what my dad calls dangerous.’

  At the end of the block we find the Albany Hotel. It’s boarded up and surrounded by safety fencing.

  ‘Maybe there’s another Albany Hotel?’ Kali says, her confidence waning. ‘The sign says “No Trespassing.”’

  I slip through a gap in the fence. ‘Maybe you need the soul of an adventurer to ignore it.’

  She grins and follows me. ‘Touché.’

  Up ahead a dog barks. Banksy?

  Picking our way through refuse, we circle the building. At the back, Syd is standing on scaffolding two stories high. She’s so focused on spraying paint on the wall that she doesn’t notice us. There’s a bucket of spray cans at her feet, along with some large sheets of plastic that appear to be stencils. Banksy is lying on the ground under the scaffolding, chewing a bone.

  I put a finger to my lips so we can creep a bit closer without being detected. Now we can see that several of the boarded-up windows have been painted to show scenes from the hotel’s former glory. In one, a porter accepts a tip from a businessman.
In the next, a man and a woman make out. In the third, an older couple bends over a desk to examine a map. The images are bright and full of life.

  In contrast, the scene Syd works on now is dark. It shows a young couple arguing. The woman throws a suitcase at the man, and below the window a painted pair of jeans falls to the ground.

  Syd bends to switch paint cans, and I see that she’s drawn a stylized ax on the windowsill that slices through a heart dripping with blood. Beside the heart, large graffiti letters scream LOVE DESTROYZ.

  A crunch breaks the silence as Kali steps on an empty beer can. Syd spins around and Banksy jumps up, poised to attack on Syd’s signal.

  ‘Sorry for sneaking up on you,’ Kali calls up to Syd.

  Syd’s posture is as hostile as Banksy’s. ‘You’re trespassing on private property.’

  ‘Says the person defacing private property,’ Kali replies.

  I try to defuse the situation. ‘This work is amazing. Is it all yours?’

  ‘You think I’d tag someone else’s work?’

  ‘No, it’s just it’s so good—’

  ‘That you don’t believe someone like me could have done it?’

  ‘That it looks like a professional did it,’ I say. ‘Look, could we start over? You were supposed to meet us at Austin Java two hours ago.’

  Syd signals Banksy to stand down. ‘What for?’

  ‘Do the words “scavenger hunt” ring any bells?’ Kali asks.

  Gathering her supplies, Syd lowers the bucket to the ground on a rope, before climbing down and starting to fill her backpack. ‘I don’t do extracurricular.’

  ‘I have to,’ Kali says. ‘Dieter will squeal if we don’t, and my mom’s already got me on a short leash.’

  ‘Tell me about it,’ I say. ‘My dad joked about hooking me up to a tracking device.’ If he had his way, I wouldn’t see Rico again until we were old enough to cash pension checks. And he’d have confiscated my phone except I pay the bill myself. Not that the phone has done me much good. I’ve only spoken to Rico once in the four days since the fire. But he has texted a few times, and today he waved as he walked past the store while tapping his watch to indicate that he was late for work.

  ‘Why should I care about your problems?’ Syd asks, still bent over her bag.

  ‘Because your mom said a scavenger hunt sounds like fun,’ Kali says.

  Syd stops packing. ‘You spoke to my mom?’

  ‘Sure. I was worried when you didn’t show.’ Kali pulls a camera out of her bag. ‘I promised to send her some pictures of our project today.’ She aims the camera at one of Syd’s murals. ‘And I bet your mom would love to see this.’

  Syd rests paint-stained hands on her hips. ‘Blackmail won’t work. My mom knows about my art.’

  ‘But does she know the city is your canvas?’ I ask.

  Glancing from me to Kali, Syd weighs her options. In the distance, a car door slams. Syd snaps into action, hastily hooking up Banksy and heaving her backpack over her shoulders. ‘Come on,’ she says, breaking into a run. ‘The security guards have been trying to catch me for weeks.’

  Kali and I can barely keep up, but when the guard rounds the corner and shouts after us, we find a faster gear and scramble through the gap in the fence on Syd’s heels.

  ‘Take the picture,’ Syd says.

  ‘Of what?’ Kali asks, confused.

  Syd points over her head. ‘Number three on the list: “Show me a sign that Pecan Street no longer exists.”’

  The sign overhead reads 6TH STREET.

  ‘I don’t get it,’ Kali says.

  Sighing, Syd passes Banksy’s leash to me, takes the camera from Kali, and snaps the photo. I keep my eye on the dog, who sits quietly at my feet with his tongue hanging out.

  ‘Where does the Pecan Street Arts Festival take place every year?’ Syd asks.

  ‘On Sixth Street,’ Kali says. ‘Oh … right!’

  ‘All the streets around here were named after trees until the city numbered them,’ Syd says. ‘I’ve solved the first three clues, so obviously I’m the brains behind this operation. Good thing you forced me to participate.’

  ‘I want the two hours of my life back that it took to track you down,’ Kali says, watching the guy juggling three torches outside Esther’s Follies. ‘Who’d want to juggle fire in ninety-degree heat?’ she asks, plucking a damp curl off her neck and pinning it back up. ‘That’s stupid.’

  ‘What’s stupid is spending the day walking all over the city with you two, when I could be sitting in Dad’s air-conditioned loft,’ Syd says. There’s a sheen of perspiration on her face, and I notice the beauty spot isn’t running. It’s real. ‘If you stop your yapping and let me concentrate, I can nail this entire list in an hour,’ she continues. ‘Number four: “Find a stone-faced woman who’s made it to the top of our government.”’

  ‘It’s the Goddess of Liberty,’ I say. ‘You know, the statue that sits on the top of the Texas State Capitol.’

  ‘There’s a new genius in town,’ Kali says, reapplying her lip gloss. ‘But before we hike up to the capitol, let’s check out the rest of the clues to make sure we don’t backtrack.’

  ‘That’s actually a good idea,’ Syd says.

  ‘Don’t sound so surprised,’ Kali says. ‘I’m not just an awesome musician with a pretty face.’

  ‘If you developed some confidence, you’d be perfect.’ Syd looks at me and nearly smiles.

  ‘Number five,’ Kali says. ‘“This last surviving council member has lost a few limbs over the years.”’

  ‘That’s the Treaty Oak on Baylor,’ I say. ‘It’s the last of the Council Oaks, where the Native American tribes used to meet.’

  Syd snatches the list out of Kali’s hand, determined to get the next one. ‘“Find a father of Texas that can’t eat, sleep, move, or think.”’

  ‘Stephen F. Austin,’ I call out. I’m on a roll now.

  ‘As in our high school?’ Kali asks.

  ‘As in the man our high school is named after, not to mention the city. We’ll take a picture of his statue in the Texas State Cemetery.’

  ‘Right after we grab a couple of cold sodas,’ Kali says.

  Syd shakes her head. ‘We’re not taking a break until we’ve covered half the list.’

  Heading west along 7th Street, I manage to solve another clue.

  ‘Are you some kind of history nerd?’ Syd asks suspiciously.

  I shake my head. ‘I remember this stuff from class trips.’

  ‘Class trips?’ Syd says. ‘Aren’t those optional?’

  ‘I love them,’ Kali says. ‘And I learn a lot. For example, I learnt that Jorge Vega is an excellent kisser when we visited the State Cemetery.’

  A guy in a cowboy hat turns and smirks as he overhears Kali’s comment. ‘Giddy up,’ he says, tipping his Stetson in her direction.

  ‘Ew,’ Kali says. ‘Cowboys think they can excuse anything with a tip of the hat.’

  ‘Can we please focus?’ Syd asks.

  Ten minutes later, we’re standing at the sandstone wall that marks the entrance to the cemetery.

  ‘I can’t believe you made out with a guy here,’ I say to Kali as the two of us head inside. Since dogs aren’t allowed in the cemetery, Syd and Banksy stay behind in the parking lot. Passing row upon row of plain white tombstones, we make our way to the shady hill where Stephen Austin is buried.

  Kali grins mischievously as I photograph her pointing to the statue of the father of Texas. ‘I kissed Jacob Rosen at the capitol and Bryan Leslie at the Treaty Oak. That’s when Bryan asked me to sixth grade prom – a pivotal moment in my history.’

  When we get back to the parking lot, Syd is waving goodbye to a minibus packed with senior citizens. In her other hand is a can of cold soda that’s beaded with moisture. Beside her, Banksy drinks water from an IHOP coffee cup.

  ‘Are you going to share that with us?’ Kali asks, eyeing the soda.

  Syd snorts. ‘Not likely. Who knows where y
our mouths have been?’

  ‘Fine, then we’re stopping at the next store,’ I say, watching Syd chug the contents of the can. She wipes her mouth with her hand and burps.

  ‘Unbelievable,’ Kali says.

  As we head north, I read a riddle aloud: ‘“What contains twenty-eight stories and is surrounded by brilliance?”’

  ‘I know this one!’ Kali exclaims. ‘The UT Tower. Had my first French kiss there.’

  ‘You’ve gone out with college guys?’ I ask, impressed.

  ‘No, just a high school guy who lived in the area,’ Kali says. ‘But maybe I’ll meet a college guy today.’

  ‘Wouldn’t Rick the Ultimate Therapy Boyfriend have a problem with that?’ Syd asks.

  ‘There’s nothing wrong with having a few numbers on your speed dial. No guy lasts forever, right?’

  ‘You can’t think that way,’ I say. ‘Or you’ll jinx it. I want Rico to be my Forever Guy.’

  ‘I’m just being realistic,’ Kali says, shrugging. ‘Look at my family history.’

  ‘I still believe in forever,’ I say.

  ‘Maybe that’s the difference between one family breakup and three,’ Kali says, walking ahead of us.

  ‘Forever’s tough,’ Syd offers. ‘Even a year is hard work.’

  Kali turns around. ‘You didn’t say you had a boyfriend.’

  ‘That’s right, I didn’t.’ Syd looks as if she regrets mentioning it now.

  ‘What’s his name? How old is he? How long have you been together?’ Kali can’t contain her curiosity. Like me, she probably finds it hard to imagine gruff Syd being in love. But Syd’s had plenty of guys checking her out today – not as many as Kali, but probably more than me. Although Syd’s more striking than pretty, she’s unique, and as Mom always says, unique works in Austin.

  Syd ignores Kali’s questions, and the silence continues until we’re winding our way along a red path through the white buildings of the University of Texas campus. All around us, students are lounging on the lawn or in the shade, reading textbooks or snoozing with their heads resting on their backpacks.