Naked

by Francine Pascal

  Time for another kickoff. Gaia stepped into a huddle with four of Paul’s friends. She wiped her brow with her forearm, smiling at all of them. They glanced at one another and smirked. It was unbelievable. She was actually having fun. Her absurd escapist behavior plan was working.

  “Ready for another kick?” one of them asked.

  She nodded. Her team had already relinquished all kicking honors to her, insisting that her whole I’ve-never-played routine was a transparent hustle. They clapped in unison and then lined up at one end of the field, facing down Paul and his team at the other end.

  Gaia placed the ball on the kicking tee.

  “Ready?” she shouted.

  Paul’s team nodded.

  With a deep breath she sprang forward and kicked the ball as hard as she could. It sailed high into the air, and she sprinted downfield—almost managing to catch up with it. Her intention wasn’t to show off, but what the hell? She smiled as Paul backpedaled and positioned himself for the catch. She was going to nail him. This was going to be good. That wasn’t quite working out, but it was still a hell of a lot better than the reaction she’d get if she kicked the ball as far as she could. She wasn’t even sure she wanted to know how far she could kick it.

  The instant the ball landed in Paul’s hands, she focused her eyes on him like a tiger preparing to pounce. A few of his teammates tried to block for him, but she sidestepped them easily, as if they weren’t even moving, as if they were stationary mannequins. She actually felt competitive. It was glorious. Paul started left, then quickly bolted to the right. Poor guy. He didn’t know about martial arts training. She’d been trained to spot and react to that kind of rudimentary fake out since she was a little girl.

  The distance between them closed. She could see Paul glancing at her out of the corner of his eye. He tried to pick up his pace. They both laughed out loud. And then she launched herself off the ground, flying headfirst into Paul’s midriff, securing both her arms around his waist, tackling him hard to the ground and rolling him over twice.

  Paul winced.

  Gaia smiled down at him, straddling him, covered in dirt. “Are you all right?” she asked.

  “Remind me to suggest basketball next week,” he said with a groan.

  “Are you kidding?” She laughed, keeping Paul pinned to the ground. “I’m having too much fun. I think—”

  “Gaia!”

  The sound of her own name sliced through the air—in a voice she didn’t recognize, a voice choked with rage. And when she turned, she saw why.

  She’d never seen Sam Moon look so angry.

  “WHEN I HEARD THERE WAS GONNA be a Hamptons reunion brunch, I couldn’t resist,” Chad said, grinning from behind those ridiculous sunglasses. “I took the jitney straight in last night.”

  Fake Smiles

  Ed stared at him, wondering why the hell he didn’t take those glasses off. It wasn’t sunny inside the restaurant. But maybe he just wanted to avoid making eye contact. Which wasn’t a bad idea, actually. Maybe Chad was smarter than he looked, sounded, acted, and generally presented himself.

  Note to self, Ed thought, matching Chad’s fake smile. Kill Heather and dump body in East River.

  At least she was painfully anxious and nervous. That provided him with some consolation. Her face was so stiff that it looked like it had just been taken out of a freezer.

  “So, anyhoo, we’re sitting back there in a private booth,” Chad said, jerking a thumb over his shoulder. “Carrie and Muffy and the whole crew. Why don’t ya come join us?”

  Carrie and Muffy. He was being serious. Ed glanced at Heather. She kept her eyes fixed to Chad. She wouldn’t even acknowledge that Chad had just used the word anyhoo. Even Blane didn’t use that word. In less than a minute Chad had already surpassed Ed’s future brother-in-law in terms of sheer heinousness—a feat that Ed wouldn’t have believed was possible.

  Chad patted Ed’s shoulder. “So, it’s great to see you back on your feet, Ted,” he said.

  “My name’s Ed, Brad,” Ed replied. His lips were beginning to hurt. He’d never smiled so much for so long.

  “Right,” Chad said, slapping his head for dramatic effect. “Ed, sorry. And, uh. . . it’s Chad.”

  “Oh,Chad!” Ed laughed his best socialite laugh.

  Chad’s sunglasses roved over Ed’s crutches. “You must be so totally happy that you can, like, walk. . . or almost....”

  Ed nodded. “I totally am, bro. I totally am.”

  “Yeah,” Chad murmured, nodding thoughtfully. “Hey, man, I really like your sweater, by the way.”

  A tiny squeak escaped Ed’s lips—the beginning of a laughing fit. Heather squeezed his arm again. Hard. Ed bit the side of his cheek. But Chad didn’t notice Ed’s derision, or at least he pretended not to notice. Instead he frowned at Ed’s legs.

  “But, um. . . what happened to your pants?”

  “What do you mean?” Ed asked innocently.

  “They’re like. . . filthy.” Chad glanced around the restaurant. People were beginning to stare at them, probably because they were standing right in the middle of everything, blocking the paths of waiters, and generally making an embarrassing spectacle of themselves. Ed realized that he no longer felt like laughing. He felt like smashing Chad’s sunglasses with his fist.

  “I fell getting into a cab,” Ed said.

  Chad shook his head. “That’s really sad, dude,” he said.

  Ed wondered if he could detect the daggers shooting from his eyes. “Is it? That’s funny, I didn’t think it was.”

  Nobody said a word. Chad stared at Ed, and Ed stared at Chad—and who knew what the hell Heather was doing?

  “You know, I’m actually really glad I ran into you today,” Chad announced. He suddenly sounded very serious. “Because I’ve kind of always wanted to tell you—”

  “Ugh!”

  Ed flinched. All at once Heather was groaning. She doubled over and clutched her stomach.

  “What’s wrong?” Ed asked with a scowl.

  “My stomach,” Heather moaned. “I just got this really sharp pain....”

  She was lying, of course. She was a terrible actress. But Ed was thankful. At least she was making an attempt to disrupt the horror that had already gone on for far too long. And once again, if Chad knew she was faking it, he pretended to be oblivious.

  “What’s wrong?” Chad asked. “Too much booze last night?”

  Heather’s face darkened, but she kept gripping her sides. “No... I don’t know.... I feel really sick, though. Ed, could you come downstairs with me?”

  Ed stared at her. He was half tempted to tell her that he wouldn’t, just to see her squirm. But then he would be stuck with Chad. This morning was really shaping up to be one of the best he’d ever had. It probably ranked at number three: right behind the morning he woke up in the hospital after the accident and the morning he found out that Gaia Moore was in love with Sam Moon.

  “Of course I will, dear,” Ed said. “But you’ll have to carry my crutches and let me lean on you for support. How does that sound?”

  Heather looked up at him, her face white as a sheet. “It sounds fine, Ed,” she said in a tight voice. “Just fine.”

  SAM DIDN’T QUITE TRUST HIS EYES.

  One of Them

  He knew that he was putting himself in terrible danger by coming here, by wandering all up and down the island of Manhattan, searching for Gaia. He knew that he was putting Gaia in danger, too. Only now. . . now he no longer felt guilty. His motives were selfish, but clearly they were well-founded. He had to hear directly from Gaia that Josh’s story was nothing more than a manipulative lie.

  First he’d gone to Washington Square Park. Then to Gray’s Papaya. Then to the Mosses’ fancy Upper West Side apartment, where he’d been politely informed by the maid that Paul and “his friend” were playing football in Central Park.

  “His friend.”

  Clearly Josh hadn’t been lying at all.

  Gaia was o
n top of Paul. Their legs were entangled, and their faces were only inches apart. Smiling. Laughing. Playing football. Since when had Gaia switched from chess to football? How could she possibly be doing this? She was sobbing to him in her father’s apartment just over a week ago. Her father had abandoned her again, she’d said. Sam had let her down again, she’d said. She’d cried to him about how they would never make it work—about how she was alone in the world, how she was doomed to always be alone.

  And now here she was, barely a week later, going out to clubs at night and playing football in the morning. With her buddy. The brother of a guy who thought Sam was a murderer. Sam knew what this was. It was all one huge vindictive slap in his face. Gaia was trying to drive him crazy with completely absurd behavior, the way he had done with her. It was her twisted way of getting back at him for destroying their trust. And it was some very successful revenge, he had to admit.

  “Gaia!” he shouted again.

  She rolled her eyes and pushed herself off Paul, then strode toward him across the field. Sam was very conscious of the fact that nine fairly large, muscular guys were all staring at him. He tried to put them out of his mind.

  “What are you doing here?” she asked, folding her arms across her chest.

  “I had to see it for myself,” he answered.

  She raised her eyebrows. “See what?”

  “I had to see you rolling around in the dirt with Paul.” The words were strained. Again he felt like he was outside himself, watching a stranger, somebody who had no relation to Sam Moon. Gaia shook her head and turned to walk away, but Sam grabbed her by the arm.

  “You can’t keep doing that!” he shouted.

  “I can do whatever I want,” she hissed. She clamped her hand on Sam’s and removed it, spinning away from him. Her eyes were slits.

  Sam swallowed. The emptiness inside was beginning to consume him. He felt like a shadow, a shell. There was nothing left, nothing but bitterness and acrimony. “Do you want to tell me the truth about you and Paul?” he croaked.

  “The truth?” Gaia scoffed. “When was the last time you told me the truth about where you were going or where you’ve been?”

  Sam flinched. A valid point. But he was too angry to give it any credit.

  He stepped closer to Gaia and tried to lower his voice. “Is there something happening between the two of you or not?” The question was all that was left to him. It comprised his entire existence.

  Gaia blinked. Then she laughed—a humorless, disgusted laugh. “He’s like my brother, Sam,” she mumbled. But there was a hesitant tone in her voice.

  “What was going on with the two of you in the back of that cab?” he heard himself ask.

  “I passed out after a fight!” she shouted with exasperation. “You’ve seen it happen before. Paul was just letting me—” Gaia froze.

  “What?” Sam spat. “Letting you what?”

  “Why would you think we’d done something in the back of the cab?” she asked again, glaring at him suspiciously.

  Sam could feel his life collapsing in on itself. He was racked with images of all the people who’d given him that same stare—Ella Niven, the police, Brendan, Josh. . . and now Gaia. He was caught in the undertow of accusations, struggling against the tide. But what was the point of fighting it? Drowning was inevitable. He looked into Gaia’s eyes and saw every single thing he’d done wrong. And he was quite positive he hated himself—for every lie he’d told her, and every stupid errand he’d run, and every jealous word that had come out of his mouth. He was turning into a hideous combination of everyone he despised.

  He was turning into one of them.

  There was no denying it. The transformation had been insidious. And in spite of all his best intentions—despite all his self-motivational monologues and a couple of useless punches—he really hadn’t done a thing to stop it. This is the time, he realized suddenly. This is the time to stop this. This is the time to tell her everything. Right now, before anything else can go wrong.

  “Listen to me. . .,” he began, with all the gentleness that had been missing. He stepped as close as she’d let him, his eyes roving over her very sad face.

  And then he stopped.

  Because there, on her upper-right temple, was a small, glowing red dot, no bigger than a dime.

  Memo

  To: J

  From: L

  Date: February 28

  File: 776244

  Subject: Gaia Moore

  Subject has been liberated. The messenger is in hand. Prepared to proceed as ordered.

  Memo

  To: L

  From: QR11

  Date: February 27

  File: N/A

  Subject: N/A

  Leak has been terminated. Transfer of information incomplete. Enigma is in pocket, currently boarding a flight for New York. Prepared to proceed as ordered.

  Memo

  To: ALL CONTACTS

  From: L

  Date: February 28

  File: N/A

  Subject: N/A

  We are now back on schedule.

  Plan will proceed as of 6:00 P.M. Greenwich mean time.

  final warning

  He wanted the conversation to end. Before he lost it completely. Before he got them both shot.

  “YOU KNEW HE WAS GOING TO BE here, didn’t you?” Ed asked, trying his best to find a happy medium between yelling and whispering. Unfortunately, the smelly foyer outside the rest rooms wasn’t the best place for a private argument. But it would have to do.

  Moralistic Smoke Screen

  “Of course not,” she hissed, glancing up the stairs. She’d dropped the sick act the moment they disappeared from Chad’s view. “Seeing him was the last thing I wanted. Why do you think I want to go home?”

  Ed just looked at her. “Heather, can I ask you something?”

  She nodded, still peering up toward the main floor.

  “Why did you even come here?”

  “To see my friends,” she mumbled.

  There was more to it, though, and Ed knew it. Heather kept hoping Ed could overcome this inane class struggle with her “other” friends. Now that he could walk, he’d taken a crucial step toward acceptability. Yet somehow, with his crutches and stained pants and sense of humor, he was letting her down yet again. And that must have been why Chad was making her so nervous. Of course. It made perfect sense. Chad was exactly what he could never be.

  Not without lots more money.

  “I have an idea,” Ed announced. “Why don’t I just have another accident, and then maybe I can pick up another twenty-six million?”

  Heather jerked toward him, her eyes blazing. “What the hell are you talking about?”

  He shrugged—at least as much as he could with crutches digging into his armpits. “You tell me.”

  “Don’t do this, Ed,” she warned. “Not here.”

  “Do what?” Ed asked.

  She didn’t answer. She simply shook her head. So did Ed. Heather could say all she wanted about his loyalties and betrayals, and his hidden feelings for Gaia, and what a horrible egregious sin it was to break a promise, but that was all a bunch of peripheral bullshit—Heather’s big moralistic smoke screen. Because as far as Ed could tell, Heather had asked him to lie about his recovery for one reason. And it was the same reason she’d gotten so angry at him, the same reason she was giving him the silent treatment today, the same reason she was running from Chad Carmel.

  Money.

  Plain and simple. Nothing complicated about it.

  For whatever skewed reason, Heather believed that her place in the world was dependent on the number of dollars in her bank account. She didn’t know who she was without money and everything that came with it—privilege, preference, admiration, power. . . garbage. Ed had always tried to ignore that part of her. But just as her looks had improved through the years, her shallow values seemed to have gotten worse. Or simply more transparent.

  “So are we gonna leave or not?
” she asked in the silence. Her voice was a certain combination of plaintive and demanding that only Heather could have managed. “We can pretend I have food poisoning or something.”

  “If it’s so unbearable for you, why don’t you just go?” Ed suggested. “I’m hungry. I think I’ll sit down with Chad and the rest of the—”

  “Shut up,” she snapped.

  Ed straightened up on his crutches and looked her in the eye. “Fine. Just tell me why we’re leaving, and I’ll take you home.”

  Heather let out a loud frustrated groan. “It’s not why you think, okay? It’s not about rich or poor, or money, or how materialistic I am, okay? So can we just go now? Please. I’m sorry we even came. I thought I could prove something to you about how I’ve changed, but it was just a bad idea.”

  “Is it because there are people up there from that weekend?” Ed pushed.

  Her face fell. “I don’t want to talk about that weekend,” she breathed. “I just want to go home, okay?” Her voice cracked. Her expression was as desperate as Ed had ever seen it. Those anxious, reddening eyes set against that white, quivering face. . . she almost looked like a mouse—one that was trapped in some cruel science experiment, overly traumatized and dying to escape.

  A wave of shame enveloped him. He didn’t want to be hurtful. He just wanted Heather to take a good look at herself. And clearly this was not the place for her to do so.

  “Fine,” he conceded. “I just need to use the bathroom really quick. Then I’ll take you home and . . .” He found he couldn’t complete the thought. Because he was worried about what would come out. The words on the tip of his tongue were say good-bye. And if he said that, he knew he would mean it for good.