Lulu Dark Can See Through Walls

by Bennett Madison

  “Well, if that is her, we should make friends.” I giggled. “Maybe she’ll give us free polish.”

  “Better that than Wet ’n’ Wild,” Daisy decided. “But I wouldn’t count on being best buddies. She looks kind of, um, forbidding.”

  At that moment Sally Hansen looked up from her nails and glared right at us. Daisy and I quickly averted our eyes, studying our coffee cups like they were the most fascinating things in the world.

  Whew! Nearly caught mid-mockery. That was a close one.

  I swirled my mug around, watching the black stuff inside slide back and forth. Sometimes I think my coffee would taste better if I put milk and sugar and all that junk into it, but my dad taught me from a young age that to do that would be wrong. I took a final, bitter swig.

  “Did Charlie say that he was going to get me more?” I asked.

  “He didn’t mention it,” Daisy answered.

  I realized that Charlie had actually been gone for a while. “Where has that boy gotten to?” I wondered aloud.

  “Bathroom, maybe?” Daisy guessed. But for some reason I didn’t think so.

  “I’ll bet you anything that Berlin Silver has him cornered. She’s just itching for a date with Charlie.”

  “Definitely,” Daisy said, making a face. “You should see how she stares at him in study hall. Like a wolf about to devour a helpless little lamb. Or a puppy. A beagle puppy.”

  “I’ll go see if he needs rescuing.”

  “You do that,” Daisy said.

  I pulled my purse onto my lap and snapped it open. It was my favorite purse—a fake Kate Spade that I bought from an extra-shady bootlegger on the corner of Roxbury and Flower Avenue. I’d had it for two years, and the way I was attached to it, I can’t even tell you.

  It had a garish, tacky, pink-and-yellow flower pattern and a hot pink strap. I loved it precisely because it was a phony and because—with its ridiculously over-the-top design—it looked like no other bag in the world.

  I grabbed my lip gloss from inside and slicked on a new coat. Then I tossed the bag over my shoulder and made my way through the crush of the crowd.

  When I found Charlie, he was pushed up against a wall by the bathroom, and what do you know: Berlin Silver was leaning in close, making doe eyes at him. Her sparkly tube top was pulled up just enough to reveal the silver tattoo on her hip bone. It’s a shark, and Berlin is obviously very proud of it. She makes sure to wear skimpy clothes that show it off just so everyone knows how hard-core she is, even though I suspect that she’s secretly kind of a pushover.

  I couldn’t hear what she was saying over the din of the opening band, but I could guess: she was telling him about how cool she was, or how rich her dad is, or about the genius design of the aluminum can. When it comes to conversation, Berlin Silver is kind of predictable.

  “Charlie,” I said with a breezy smile, squeezing in between the two of them. “How did I know I’d find you talking to Berlin?”

  He grimaced sarcastically. “I don’t know, Lulu. Maybe your famous x-ray vision?”

  He turned to Berlin with an apologetic slant to his eyebrows. “Lulu Dark can see through walls, you know. She knows everything that goes on in Halo City.”

  “Gee, Lulu. You’re, like, a superhero,” Berlin cooed, glancing down at her own cleavage and sneakily adjusting her tube top.

  I couldn’t decide why I was suddenly so annoyed with Berlin. Maybe I was just mad at her for being such a snob to Daisy. Unlike Charlie, I’m not easily wooed by people who are mean to my friends.

  “I am like a superhero,” I told Berlin. “But I don’t see through walls. I see through people.” I gave a half smile, half scowl, and Berlin withdrew a little, taken aback.

  “Don’t listen to her, Berlin,” Charlie said. “She’s just in a funk.”

  Berlin laughed long and loud, even though Charlie hadn’t said anything particularly hilarious.

  She sort of sounds like that woman from The Nanny when she laughs, I decided. On the other hand, I’ve been told that my laugh sounds like whale song, so maybe I’m not one to talk.

  “Whatever,” Berlin chirped. “Don’t worry, Lulu, I know you didn’t mean anything.”

  I was about to tell her I did mean it, but Charlie had already grabbed me by the purse strap to drag me away. The Many Handsomes were busy setting up their crap, and Daisy was beckoning from the spot she’d staked out at the edge of the stage.

  “Lulu,” Charlie said as we elbowed our way toward her, “just for tonight could you try not to live up to your reputation as an überbitch? Why can’t you just be the nice person that I know you are?”

  “Sorry,” I retorted, “but what’s with this crowd? First Rachel and Marisol pick on me, and then Berlin acts like she’s your girlfriend. I feel like I’m at a convention for the obnoxious. And when in Rome, right?”

  “Whatever.” Charlie sighed.

  The thing is, I knew he was right. Sometimes it’s just easier for me to be mean because it’s so much worse to be defenseless. Around here they put ketchup on nice girls and serve them for lunch. That’s one of the only valuable things my mother taught me—before she moved to California to be a C-list starlet.

  Even so, I didn’t want Charlie to think of me as an “überbitch”—or even the regular kind. I don’t know why I cared what he thought. It just mattered. He was so innocent, like a little bunny rabbit. He didn’t understand why it was sometimes safer to be like a porcupine instead.

  “Where’d you find him?” Daisy wanted to know when we got to the stage.

  “Berlin was hoping Charlie would propose marriage,” I teased. “She was practically slobbering over the thought of a make-out session in his dad’s jet.”

  “Give her a break,” he said. “She’s just trying to make friends. She’s the same way with you, isn’t she?”

  I had to give him that one.

  “I just hate that Berlin tries so hard,” I decided. “I mean, she’s so freaky. Can’t she make friends like a normal, non-deranged person?” When I got to the end of the sentence, Daisy’s eyes had widened at me. She was tight-lipped, shaking her head in a tiny little no.

  “What?” I said. “You hate her a lot more than I do.”

  Her expression grew more dire. I swung my head around . . . and found Berlin. She was standing right behind me—her eyes wide and her mouth formed into the O of surprise. Our eyes met, and she looked like she was either about to cry or kill me.

  “Oops,” I said halfheartedly. She turned and walked away.

  Ugh! I felt terrible. Why did things like that always have to happen to me? I wasn’t trying to hurt anyone’s feelings. I was just saying the first thing that popped into my head. I barely even meant any of it.

  We watched as Berlin stalked her way through the crowd, knocking over at least a few drinks as she went. She was almost at the door when she stopped, reconsidered, and turned around. Berlin made her way over to the corner, where Sally Hansen was standing, still working on her manicure. She appeared to strike up a conversation.

  “Whoa,” said Daisy. “I guess weirdos stick together.”

  But Charlie wasn’t having it. “I don’t see what’s so weird,” he said. “You guys shouldn’t—”

  Luckily, before Charlie could launch into a full-on lecture, the band launched into their first song. It was this totally kicky number with hand claps and lots of la la las. I’m a sucker for anything with la la las, and when I started dancing, I was instantly in a good mood again.

  After the first song I took a second to look at the band—and almost lost it for real. The Many Handsomes lived up to their name, and the lead singer was the best of all of them. He was tall and sinewy and totally jacked, with black, wavy hair, blue eyes, and tan skin—like the statue of David if he wore tight jeans and a black tank top. He was playing his guitar with revved-up gusto, biting his lip, veins and muscles popping.

  I leaned over to Daisy and did my best to whisper, even though we were right by the speakers
. “Who on earth is that singer?”

  “His name’s Alfy Romero,” Daisy said. “Didn’t you read his profile in last week’s YM?” I shook my head, then turned back toward the band. Daisy continued in my ear. “If you think he looks cute in a tank top, you should see him in a bathing suit.”

  The music grew more intense, and I let it sweep me up, up, up.

  I was getting into the groove to an embarrassing degree when Alfy Romero looked down and flashed me a smile that could have powered all of Halo City. I tried to be cool, meeting his gaze and letting the corner of my mouth tilt the tiniest bit. But it was hard not to melt. I was disarmed, and let me tell you, it takes a lot to throw me off.

  It could have been my imagination, but I swear he held the look for the rest of the song, and when it was over, I elbowed Daisy excitedly. “Did you see that?” I asked while Alfy studied the set list.

  She grinned and raised her eyebrows. “Everyone saw it,” she said. “Marisol and Rachel are green with envy.” She gestured over at the girls, who had unfortunately wound up a foot or two away from us in the pogoing mob, arms folded dyspeptically across their chests.

  Charlie had noticed too, I guess.

  “Will you two give it a rest?” he grumbled. “You’re acting like giggly little schoolgirls.”

  “We are schoolgirls,” Daisy said. “And you’re acting like a jealous boyfriend.”

  “Jealous! What do I have to be jealous about?”

  “Maybe you have a little crush on Lulu yourself.”

  “Ha!” I exclaimed.

  “Get real, Daisy,” Charlie said with a scowl. “Lulu and I took baths together when we were babies. Having a crush on her would be like having a crush on my sister.”

  “Except that your sister’s an evil fink,” I pointed out, slightly offended by the comparison.

  “Well, at least my sister doesn’t burp all the time, like you do.”

  Daisy listened to us, swinging her head back and forth like she was watching a tennis match. “Please, you two,” she interrupted. “This is too much. If I wanted to watch a Meg Ryan movie, I would have gone out with my mom tonight.”

  “Shut up, Daisy,” Charlie mumbled, totally blushing at this point.

  “Fine. I’ll say no more,” Daisy shouted above the music. “Let’s just be happy for Lulu. Mr. Many Handsomes is quite smitten!”

  “What was that you just said?” the eavesdropping Rachel Buttersworth-Taylor interjected.

  “Nothing,” Daisy told her. Too bad Daisy is a terrible liar. I’m pretty bad myself, which is why I never lie, not even white ones.

  “That’s funny,” Rachel said, her eyes sparkling wickedly. “I thought you just told Charlie that Alfy Romero has a crush on Lulu.”

  “Um, no. Uh-uh. Not at all.” Daisy shook her head emphatically, which made her seem even less convincing.

  “Well, just remember, Lulu has a tendency to imagine things like that,” Rachel began, going in for the kill. “Remember when she thought that Mr. Adams, the Latin teacher, was in love with her—and then he gave her a D?”

  I gasped. It was a cheap shot. Plus it was so obvious that the reason he gave me a D was because he was trying to throw everyone off the truth.

  Unfortunately, bringing that up wouldn’t exactly help my case.

  I was at a loss for an original comeback, so I went for a low blow of my own. “No way, Rachel. Your head’s all screwy. Must be all the boozing your mom did when you were in the womb.”

  Rachel’s smirk disappeared. Her eyes turned to steel. Even though the band was playing louder than ever and the crowd was going crazy, you could feel the air escaping from the little circle we were standing in.

  For the first time that night Marisol spoke up. “You know what, Lulu? You’re a real piece of work.” She took Rachel by the hand to usher her away, then turned back for a final retort. “You should be ashamed of yourself.”

  I’ll be honest: it’s not like what she said was devastating or anything, but something about her icy tone gave me goose bumps.

  Daisy turned, grabbed my shoulders, and practically shook me. “Lulu!” she scolded. “That was not cool. Just because you know the most hurtful thing to say doesn’t mean you always have to say it.”

  I frowned in confusion. “What’s the big deal? On the Richter scale of insults, what I said barely even registers.”

  “You don’t remember?” Daisy asked.

  “Remember what?”

  “The time Rachel’s mom showed up sloshed to the eighth-grade potluck dinner? Rachel’s sensitive about that stuff!”

  “Oh,” I said. “Right.”

  Truthfully, I didn’t remember the potluck dinner at all. Then it occurred to me—eighth grade was the year I had mono. I probably missed the entire thing.

  A strange, hollow feeling settled in my stomach. I hadn’t been trying to do any real damage. I do have some decency. It’s like, I only make fun of people for being fat if they’re totally skinny. You don’t want to cut too close to the bone; otherwise you end up looking like a jerk.

  But Rachel and / are always bickering, I told myself. There was nothing to do now except put it all out of my mind. For the rest of the evening I tried hard not to think about what I had said. Dwelling on it gave me a bad case of guilt-induced anxiety.

  The music the band was playing was shaking me from the inside out, humming with a warm, dreamy drunkenness. I felt it in my knees and lungs, and I closed my eyes, letting the thrill of the room blanket me. There it was again: another glimpse of the perfect.

  I was still stuck in it twenty minutes later when the Many Handsomes’ last song ended. It took a couple of seconds of listening to the crowd going wild for me to realize that the set was over.

  The stage lights blinked off, and I was struggling to see when I felt a tap on my shoulder from above. My heart somersaulted when I realized that I was face-to-face with Alfy Romero.

  He was bent down, leaning over at me from the stage. All I could make out was the vague outline of his chiseled jaw, his perfect lips. His breath, which didn’t even smell bad, grazed my cheek. He put his hand on my shoulder. I nearly swooned.

  “This one,” he called to someone in the wings.

  For once I was dumbstruck. I opened my mouth to speak and realized that I had no idea what to say.

  It didn’t matter, though. A second later the stage lights faded back on.

  As the rest of the band returned to the stage, Alfy stood up and strapped on his guitar for the encore. He stood wide-legged in a warrior stance, bounced once, and strummed a big, echoing power chord before the drums and the bass kicked in.

  When the show was over, we were sweaty and breathless, glowing with energy. I was still getting my bearings when a big guy in a dirty T-shirt and cargo shorts came sidling up next to me.

  “From Alfy Romero,” he said. He handed me a piece of folded-up paper before shuffling off to the stage door.

  Surreptitiously I looked down and unfolded the paper he’d handed me. It was the Many Handsomes’ set list, printed in messy, boyish, Sharpie scrawl. At the bottom a note: You’re beautiful, it read, in the same adorable chicken scratch. Call me. XOXO Alfy R. Then—prize of all prizes—his phone number! I gasped and stuffed it quickly into my purse.

  Suddenly I felt eyes on me. Daisy and Charlie were both staring.

  “Lulu,” Daisy said, slack-jawed. “You are brilliant! How did you make that happen?”

  I shrugged. It was a total mystery to me.

  Charlie shook his head. “I hope you’re not actually considering calling him. I mean, musicians will give their numbers to anything in heels.”

  My smile quickly evaporated. “But I’m wearing hot pink cowboy boots!” I argued weakly.

  “Charlie, don’t be such a jerk,” Daisy stepped in. “It’s obvious that Alfy noticed Lulu because she’s one of a kind and he happened to be nervy enough to do something about it!”

  “Whatever,” Charlie said. “Believe what you want to be
lieve. I’m outta here.”

  “You’re not going to stay for another coffee?” I asked.

  “Nah, I promised my sister I’d take her dog for a walk before I went to bed.” He gave us each a quick kiss on the cheek, zipped up his sweatshirt, and booked for the door.

  I was still trying to figure out what to make of the situation when I heard a giggle behind me and felt a cold wetness on my butt.

  “Oops!” came a shrill, familiar chirp. I twirled around. No surprise; it was Rachel and Marisol again. Rachel was clutching an empty glass to her chest, barely hiding her jubilance.

  “What the hell . . . ?” I exclaimed, craning my neck to survey the back of my skirt. A huge wet spot was quickly spreading across my butt. In a second I knew what had happened. Rachel had accidentally on purpose spilled her iced coffee all over my favorite pink-fringed vintage skirt! It was dripping down my legs—and into my cowboy boots!

  “I’m so sorry, Lulu.” Rachel snickered. “I can be such a klutz sometimes. Don’t worry, though, the iced coffee blends right in with the pattern.”

  Marisol was standing behind her friend, looking amused but sort of embarrassed.

  No time for arguments. The clock was ticking. I beckoned urgently to Daisy.

  Daisy took one look at the sludge dripping down the backs of my legs and flew to my rescue. “Quick,” she said, shooting Rachel and Marisol a reproving glance. “If we work fast, we might be able to salvage your skirt!” We rushed to the bar, where she swiped a pitcher of water and some napkins and got to work cleaning.

  It was a lost cause; I could tell from the start. I loved my poor little fringed skirt. I’d bought it at a flea market for only five dollars. Now it was gone.

  A small part of me realized that maybe I had it coming.

  “Sorry, Lu,” Daisy said after a valiant effort. “I don’t think there’s much more I can do. If only I could remember that Swedish trick with the egg whites and tonic water that my mother taught me. . . .”