“They’re such good hosts,” Daisy said. “I wish my mom was that laid-back.”
Daisy’s mom, Svenska, was the most tightly wound woman I’d ever met in my life. One time, when Daisy had left a pair of underwear on her bedroom floor, Svenska had gotten so mad that she’d ripped it right in half with her bare hands, cursing furiously in Swedish.
“Hippies are always laid-back,” I told Daisy. “I actually heard that Marisol was born on a school bus.”
“What does that have to do with anything?”
“You know,” I told her. “A hippie bus. In the olden days, before all the hippies became public defenders, they used to drive all over the country in school buses and give birth on them and everything. I’m not really sure why. Maybe they liked the color or something. Maybe they longed for the days of elementary school.”
Daisy got all bright-eyed at that. “Maybe I should be a hippie when I grow up,” she said thoughtfully. “Except I’d like to have my baby on one of those airplanes that has water skis on it and give birth just as we’re coming in for a landing in the middle of the Pacific Ocean.”
I smiled and shook my head ruefully. “You can’t really be a hippie,” I said. “You’re like thirty years too late. Be something else. Or better yet, just be Daisy. That’s more than enough.”
Daisy grinned and there was a jangling at the door. When it swung open, we saw Marisol, saddled down with grocery bags. She took one look at me and Daisy sitting on the couch, and her face dropped. As soon as I saw that expression, I was certain that she knew the jig was up.
“Gimme a sec,” Marisol said, and went to drop her bags off in the kitchen. When she came back, she just stood in the doorway, arms crossed across her chest.
“What’s up, guys?” she finally asked. “Come to start another fight?”
For a second I thought seriously about doing just that, but Daisy placed a warning hand on my knee. The tea had chilled me out a little too, and I decided that it wasn’t really Marisol who I had the issue with.
Plus I’d probably get more information out of her if I tried to do things the nice way.
“Marisol,” I said with as much sincerity as I could muster, “I’m really sorry about last night. I was just shooting my mouth off. I had no idea what I was talking about.”
Marisol softened a little. “I’m sorry too.” She sighed. “I told Rachel just to let it go. But you know her. She’s too proud to let anything drop. Sorry I didn’t stop her.”
“I know people like that,” Daisy said, for no reason that I could think of. I would have asked her what she meant, but Marisol’s words sounded too much like a confession to me.
“So—Rachel did take my purse!” I exclaimed.
“Your purse?” Marisol asked, her brow furrowed in confusion. “I was talking about when she spilled that iced coffee on your skirt.”
So she had decided to play dumb. Fine. I wasn’t going to let up.
“Right,” I said, “the iced coffee. Which Rachel spilled so that she could snatch my purse while I was cleaning up!”
“What? No way.” Marisol shook her head. “I’d never have let her do that. Besides, Rachel may hold a grudge, but she’s not a thief.”
Now, here’s where I wished I had that special girl detective ability to get the truth out of anyone. You know, where they get all steely-eyed and whip out the evidence that makes whoever they’re talking to break down and confess all? The problem was, I had no idea what the truth was. I mean, Marisol seemed to be telling the truth. And even if she wasn’t, I didn’t see how I was going to get her to admit anything that she didn’t want to. There was still the possibility that Rachel had taken the purse without telling her friend, but short of catching Rachel red-handed, I didn’t know how I was possibly going to prove anything.
Resigned, I got up. “Well, thanks anyway. If you hear anything about my bag, please, please tell me,” I begged.
“Of course I will,” Marisol said, leading us to the door. As we descended the stairs, she called down after us, “This doesn’t mean we’re friends, you know!” She laughed, and although she was joking, I detected a note of truth in her voice.
I was still distraught about my loss when we met at Charlie’s sister’s house that evening. Since Genevieve was technically a grown-up and since Charlie’s parents were always out of town anyway, Charlie had been living with Genevieve in a huge nineteenth-century loft in the Brick District—the trendiest neighborhood in town—for the past year and a half. We were gathered there to watch Genevieve’s much-heralded television debut.
Genevieve had been plugging away at the acting thing with not much luck for a year. Then a casting director who was friends with her mother finally took pity on her and cast her in a schmaltzy TV movie about the Civil War. Genevieve herself couldn’t be there to watch it with us; she was having a big party for the premiere with all her rich girlfriends in some bar uptown, but that was fine with me. Charlie’s sister and I tended to butt heads. I could never tell if Genevieve and I really hated each other or if we were just teasing. Probably a little bit of both. I’d known her for so long—since I was born—that I couldn’t help feeling a decent amount of affection for her. Even if she was a shallow, supercilious ice princess. Sometimes I got a little nostalgic, in fact, when I remembered how she used to push me down when we played hide-and-seek.
Despite my conflicted feelings about Charlie’s sister, I simply couldn’t wait to see her movie. Based on the ads that had been running for the past week, it was sure to be terrible, and although Gen’s part was too small to make it into the commercial, I knew based on her all-around mediocrity that she was bound to be hilariously bad.
She didn’t disappoint.
Genevieve played a slutty Civil War nurse. The fact that they didn’t even have girl nurses in those days didn’t prevent the producers from decking her out in a low-cut, old-fashioned nurse’s uniform and one of those funny hats with the little red crosses on them. Every chance she got, she’d push her arms together across her chest, forcing her boobs together to make them look even bigger. She had the most ridiculous lines to say, too, things like, “That’s the most magnificent musket wound I’ve ever seen, handsome Colonel Francis.” She read them like she was reading off the letter chart at the eye doctor’s office. About halfway through, when she began a star-crossed romance with a double-amputee Confederate general, I started laughing so hard that I snorted popcorn kernels.
As silly as the movie was, it was kind of cute to see how proud Charlie was of his big sister. He just kept going on and on about how great she had been, recapping all his favorite lines even though we’d just seen the freaking movie.
Why he adores her so much, I’ll never understand. I guess it has something to do with the fact that she’s his sister and all.
About two hours after it was over, Charlie, Daisy, and I were still lying around on the hardwood floors, tossing popcorn into the air and catching it in our mouths. The conversation had turned back to the stolen purse.
“Nancy Drew and I had a productive day of sleuthing,” Daisy told Charlie. “Even if we didn’t uncover any clues.”
I sat up. “Who, precisely, are you calling Nancy Drew?” I asked, insulted.
Daisy sighed and placed her hand maternally over my own. “Lulu Dark, my little girl detective.”
“Excuse me,” I proclaimed loudly, “But I am not a girl detective. I’ve read about them, and each one is so worse than the last. They’ve got no personality, no social lives outside of their obviously gay boyfriends, and absolutely no sense of style.”
There was a pause. Then Daisy and Charlie laughed uproariously.
“Well, excuse me,” Daisy finally said when she had conquered her guffaws. “But you have to admit you were playing the sleuthing game pretty hard. You practically ransacked Rachel’s room.”
“I did not,” I said, wounded. “You can’t blame me for wanting my purse back. Girl detectives are prissy busybodies who investigate the disapp
earance of stolen brooches for old heiresses. I’m just trying to reclaim what’s rightfully mine.” I sniffed. “Anyone would do the same in my position.”
“Oh, sure they would,” Daisy said.
“Nancy!” Charlie whispered. They erupted into laughter again. All I could do was sit there and watch. Finally, when I couldn’t take it anymore, I began pelting them with popcorn kernels.
It didn’t help. In fact, it just made them laugh more—until they began retaliating. When a full-blown popcorn fight had erupted, Charlie, the king of gross-out, got the idea to spit the kernels at me instead of throwing them. Daisy quickly followed suit.
I was getting seriously beaten in the popcorn war when Daisy checked her watch. “Crap!” she said. “Svenska is going to kill me. I’m so late.” Hurriedly she began to gather up her stuff to leave.
“I should go too,” I said, standing.
“Stick around,” Charlie said. “It’s not even midnight yet. Your dad doesn’t care.”
“I’m getting kind of sleepy,” I said reluctantly. “It’s been a long day.”
“I’ll make some espresso.”
I gave in. It was still early, and Charlie always knows how to convince me.
So Daisy tripped off to the train, and Charlie busied himself brewing coffee. I hopped up onto the counter next to him and leaned back against the tile wall.
It’s funny how comfortable I feel around him. Even though he’s, you know, a boy and all and definitely not bad looking, it isn’t that way with us. He’s just Charlie, which is why I didn’t feel weird talking to him about Alfy Romero.
“I know he’s like way too old for me, but when he was looking at me, at the show, it just felt so perfect,” I was saying as Charlie handed me a demitasse of espresso. I took a sip. “Perfect,” I told him distractedly before going on. “But now it’s just like, how do I get in touch with him? I might never see him again as long as I live.”
“Maybe it’s fate,” Charlie said. “Maybe you’re not supposed to get together with Alfy.”
I rolled my eyes. “If fate didn’t want me to get together with Alfy Romero, then why would fate make him give me his number? Fate is stupid. I, for one, don’t believe in it.”
“I do,” Charlie said. He looked at me appraisingly and gave a sheepish half smile. “I think fate, like, makes certain things happen, and then it’s up to you to decide how to handle it. You can either play along or you can not.”
He turned and made for the living room. I followed him, swigged my coffee back, and lay on the hard floor, arms outstretched like a snow angel.
“So in that case, Charlie, what should I do? I mean, how am I supposed to deal with this situation?”
Charlie lay down next to me on his back with his hand behind his head. “Go with the flow. Chill out a little. Let things happen as they happen. That’s what I always do, and everything always turns out fine. Don’t worry so much. Just let the world take care of you.”
“Whatevs,” I said. “That’s you, not me. I take things into my own hands.”
“Maybe you could learn something from me.”
“Likewise.” I laughed.
We stopped talking and lay there. The best kind of friend is sometimes the kind you can just enjoy the quiet with. I was just feeling the buzz of the coffee and the steadiness of Charlie’s breathing. It was comfortable, you know? Nice.
Of course, Genevieve had to ruin everything by busting in just as I was feeling at my most peaceful. When she saw Charlie and me lying next to each other on the floor, I thought her eyes were about to pop out, even though we were so obviously not doing anything of that sort.
I stood up and brushed myself off, trying to maintain a shred of dignity. Genevieve just stood there expectantly, still decked out in her party outfit, tapping her foot expectantly. “Well?” she said finally.
After a beat Charlie took the cue and burst into applause. I quickly followed. Genevieve was loving it, bowing and curtsying and patting herself on the back.
“What do you think? Am I going to win an Emmy?”
“Oh, definitely,” I told her, and even though I wasn’t trying to sound sarcastic, she glared. “I didn’t ask you, Lucifer,” she said.
“You were great,” Charlie said, jumping up and giving her a big bear hug. Genevieve instantly grinned.
“Thanks, little bro. I didn’t think I was too shabby either.”
I could tell I wasn’t going to get away with any ribbing, no matter how gentle, and I wasn’t in the mood for another congratulatory retread of the movie, so I began to put on my jacket.
“Where are you off to so suddenly?” Genevieve asked me.
“I promised my dad I’d help him re-lace his shoe collection tonight.” I gave her a smirk.
“Well,” she said, half grinning, “have fun with that.” Then suddenly she had a thought. “But before you go, Lulu, I thought you’d like to know that I saw Berlin Silver walking down the street tonight with a purse identical to that shabby little number you carry. I don’t know why she would think it was fashionable; it’s obviously a fake and a tacky one, too.”
My jaw dropped.
Oh my God! I’d been barking up the wrong tree!
Rachel Buttersworth-Taylor hadn’t stolen my purse—Berlin Silver had.
THREE
I WAS LOOKING FORWARD to starting trouble with Berlin on Monday, but when I walked into third-period history, her usual spot in the back of the classroom was empty.
I peered down the hallway in either direction, hoping I’d see her sauntering along lackadaisically or, more likely, leaning against a locker flirting with Jordan Fitzbaum. But she was nowhere to be seen.
I supposed there was a chance that she was just taking her sweet time, but deep down I knew that the girl wasn’t going to show. Berlin Silver was nothing but a thieving, spineless chicken.
When class started, I was completely unable to concentrate, although that was nothing new. Today my thoughts were filled with revenge. I was going to make Berlin regret the day her played-out Jimmy Choos ever crossed my path.
I couldn’t decide which I was more set on—getting my purse back or showing Berlin Silver who was who. Yes, my purse was important to me. And the phone number, of course. But more than any of that, it was a matter of pride. If Berlin Silver could get away with ripping me off, what was to prevent everyone in Halo City from thinking they could mess with me?
Now Berlin was skipping school to avoid me. What nerve. I ripped a piece of paper from my notebook and dug through my backpack for a ballpoint pen.
THE COWARD! I wrote. I folded the paper into a boomerang and tossed it underhand to Daisy, who had been forced by George, our teacher, to sit three desks in front of me and one diagonal to the left to avoid this very scenario. Daisy and I were too slick for him, though. As my note whipped under desks, spinning a foot above the tile, Daisy swiftly reached under her chair and caught the flying missive, with a barely audible thwap, against her opened palm.
George turned from the blackboard. He narrowed his eyes at me suspiciously, but he’d missed the whole thing as usual. He liked to think that he ran a tight ship and that we all loved him because he encouraged us to call him by his first name, but we really thought he was an idiot, due to his obliviousness to the pandemonium that was taking place right under his nose.
It was a constant battle between the class and him, not because we were naturally unruly kids, but because he spent so much time trying to catch us in the act that we just had to respond by living up to his expectations—and thwarting him at every step.
Jordan Fitzbaum was the master at it. One time he managed to write the word VAGINA on the blackboard five separate times in one class period without George ever catching him.
George was still motoring on about the Franco-Prussian War when I caught a glimpse of Daisy wiggling her ears. That was my signal. Jauntily I headed to the front of the room to sharpen my pencil, even though I didn’t technically have a pencil. George’s eag
le eyes stayed on me as I passed Daisy’s desk, but he was no match at all for that girl, who, with Houdini sleight of hand, invisibly returned the note into my pink cowboy boot.
When I got back to my desk, I unfolded the note and tapped my chin thoughtfully with my pen, which was somewhat battered from the pencil sharpener. At lunch we’ll get Charlie, Daisy had written. Take the afternoon off. If we can’t get her at school, we’ll take the battle to the crook. Fight fire with fire trucks! I pursed my lips into a satisfied pucker and looked up to see that George was heading in my direction. He had his pointer in hand and a determined march in his step. I smiled at him and shuffled my papers around.
“Your correspondence, please?” George snapped. I sighed with overblown dismay and handed him the decoy that I’d been saving precisely for an occasion such as this one.
“George, it just landed on my desk!” I said, shrugging, “I honestly don’t know where it came from.”
He unfolded it triumphantly and emitted a high-pitched gasp when he realized that he’d been fooled again.
The decoy was a dog-eared, elaborately folded piece of notepaper that read VAGINA in huge black Sharpie letters.
Score.
I’d gotten detention, but that was okay because no one bothered to go to George’s detentions. The worst he could do was give you more detention, which you still didn’t have to go to. He never bothered alerting the real authorities anymore because he and the headmistress, Dr. Felicia Bober, were sworn enemies. She’d ignored his pleas for disciplinary assistance ever since October, when he’d melted one of her precious overhead projectors by leaving it on overnight.
Daisy, Charlie, and I met at our usual sunny spot on the terrace for lunch. Then we got to work hatching our plan. Since Berlin had only transferred to Orchard in January, she wasn’t in the school directory, but we figured it would be easy enough to find out where she lived from one of her many boy toys.
Lulu Dark Can See Through Walls Page 4