by Dalya Moon
I've suggested he diversify by reviewing new movies, but James doesn't like modern movies because he says special effects and Hollywood's obsessions with sure things and sequels have ruined storytelling.
I phone James and tell him the coast's clear for him to come pick me up. Julie declined to join us, citing a lack of interest in singing on a parade float, going to a museum, or impersonating the sausage king, Abe Froman.
* * *
When James and I get to Chinatown, we have a difficult time locating the herbalist I went to during the summer. This shouldn't be so difficult, because Spiritdell's Chinatown is only three blocks long.
We park the Jeep and go looking on foot, asking people about the place.
At first, I only ask Asian-looking people, but then I clue in that might be offensive, so I ask black people and white people too.
“It had a neon light on the front, for palm reading,” I tell a man who looks like Jason Schwartz but with more moles.
He points across the street to a construction site. “I know the place well, it was right there,” he says. “All gone now. Future condos. Progress. What're you gonna do?”
“You're sure that's the spot?”
“Yes! I bought many herbal remedies there. Not for my penis, though. Nothing like that.”
“Did they move the business elsewhere?”
“Nope. Liquidated everything. Had a death in the family and decided to retire.”
I thank him, and James and I cross the street to look at the construction site where my hot lead was supposed to be.
James peers through a square cut in the plywood hoarding along the sidewalk. “Man! Don't you want to drive one of those little bucket trucks?”
I squeeze in next to him for a peek. They must be putting in a lot of parking, because the hole in the ground is several stories deep. The ground beneath my feet trembles, or rather, suddenly becomes less stable in my mental model of it, now that I know there's nothing holding us from falling into the pit except for top pressure and a thin spray-coat of cement.
“Ner, ner. Boop boop,” James says, pretending to pull levers back and forth while he watches the trucks at work.
“So much for my big idea,” I say.
James stands back. “Sea town vest,” he says.
“What?”
He repeats himself, but the words don't make any sense until he points at the signage and I turn to read the name of the construction project: C-town West.
“C-town?” I say. “That's not very ... culturally appropriate. Is it? Man. That sounds wrong. C-Town.”
“Kinda catchy,” he says, looking over the artist's rendering on the signage. “Ooh, dumbwaiters. The two story townhomes have dumbwaiters.”
“You're a dumbwaiter,” I grumble as we head back to the Jeep.
“C-Town will restore your vim,” James says.
“Saywhatnow?”
“It's their slogan.” James laughs and takes a photo with his cell phone to send to Julie, who's probably taking a Chemistry test right about now.
I put on my seat belt and consider my leads, or lack thereof. We could go see Heidi again and try to get more out of her, if I can handle the beating.
James asks, “Wanna go somewhere fancy and order hot water and ketchup?”
“Not really.”
He squeals the tires pulling out onto the street. “The usual, then?”
I can't think of anything better, so I agree.
Ten minutes later, we pull up to a convenience store, where we get an assortment of candies, chocolate bars and chips. Then we drive all the way out to the marsh at the end of the airport's runway, where we park near the edge of the fence. Despite the chilly breeze, we take down the top of the Jeep for a better view and stuff our faces with chips and candy as airplanes rip by overhead.
“I never see adults out here,” James says.
“Me neither.”
“Let's promise we'll never grow up.”
“I don't know if that's optional,” I say. “Wait, are you having a Cameron moment? Do I need to get you to a therapist?”
“You know Cameron's the true protagonist of Ferris Bueller. He's the only one with a character arc.”
I throw a handful of white cheddar popcorn at James, which he hates the smell of. “Not again with the Ferris-is-an-imaginary-friend theory.”
“I'm telling you. It was the original Fight Club.”
“Okay. Point by point. Break it down for me.” I put my feet up on the dashboard and toss some Gobstoppers in my mouth.
James tells me all about his theory. There are clues peppered throughout the movie, and if you know what to look for, it makes perfect sense.
I wish he'd put that keen intellect to use on solving Newt's murder. There must be something I've overlooked, something I haven't tried.
I should talk to Shad's girlfriend, Rosemary, at school. She could poke me in the belly button, and I could have a look around through her eyes. Then I'd see … what? Crystal coming into the pawn shop dressed as Cinderella, Shad Miller giving Rosemary a bracelet, and then Shad Miller naked, giving her more than a bracelet. Yikes.
There has to be another way.
* * *
As we're coming down from the sugar rush, each trying to convince the other one he should drive, my phone buzzes with an incoming text message.
“You get that,” I mumble to James.
“Mm-I-can't-even-moo-my-jaw.”
“That last Red Vine gave me diabetes. What does diabetes feel like?”
“Not-funny-at-all.” He laughs anyway.
I somehow manage to liberate my phone from the embrace of my pocket. I can hardly believe my eyes when I read the good news. “It's Austin, she's back in town already!”
James pretends to snore.
“Come on, let's go by her place and surprise her. She thinks I'm at school.”
“Five-more-minutes,” James grumbles, swatting at me.
“Come on, let's go get her. Two guys, one girl. Perfect. We can go to a museum. We'll totally have a Ferris Bueller moment. You can lie on the bench.”
James sits up straight and pulls his seat upright. “Austin's hair is short. And she's a blonde. She's no Sloane, but she is hot. So, as long as you don't mind me pretending to have a crush on her, then okay.”
“You think my girlfriend's hot?”
He puts the Jeep in drive and clears the junk food bags off the dash by swiping them into the back seat. “On a scale of one to hot, she's hot.”
“Hearing you talk about her makes me want to punch you in the mouth,” I say.
“Maybe it's the testosterone. You're hitting second puberty. You seem larger today.”
“Second puberty? Shut up.”
“Did you take your photo this week and compare it to, say, a month ago? I'm serious. You're getting huge.”
“I'll take that under advisement.” Actually, I don't think I did take my photo this week, and I don't recall if I did last week, either. I've been taking the pictures regularly to make a video montage of my face morphing as I grow up, but I guess I've forgotten about that project recently.
Come to think of it, I haven't taken many photos lately, compared to a few months ago. Losing interest in one's hobbies is a sign of depression. I don't think I've been depressed, but I can't say this last week has been the greatest. I saw a dead body, I'm being haunted, bees keep stinging me, and last night I had a troubling dream about my teacher, Ms. Mikado. There are plausible explanations. This could be a sign of anxiety about Gran getting married and things changing in my life—a perfectly normal reaction.
It's high time I had some good things happen, like Rudy buying us a pool. Austin would love lounging by the pool.
I imagine seeing Austin and remember I still have a gift for her, so I ask James to swing by my house before we go to Austin's.
At my house, my nerves tingle at the disobedience of being there during a school day, even though I'm supposed to be home sick. I walk on tiptoes
, like a burglar, which is ridiculous.
As I retrieve the blue box from my dresser drawer, I think I hear the door. “Gran?” I call out. “Mibs?”
Nobody answers.
I can't shake the creeps, so I run out to where James is waiting with the Jeep, eager to get away from the empty house.
* * *
When we get to Austin's bright red house, my hands are nervous and don't know where to go. I feel like I'm asking her out on a first date, not like we've been seeing each other for over four moths.
Austin opens the door, sees me and James, gasps, and slams the door shut in our faces.
James turns to me, saying, “Something I said?”
The door opens a crack. “I'm not expecting company,” Austin says. Even the thin sliver of her is radiant, from her so-pale-it's-almost-silver hair to her pretty face. However, even though I'm no fashion expert, I can tell what she's wearing from the neck down is not as lovely.
James says, “What's with the ratty old housecoat? You look like my mom.”
The door closes again, and I smack James for being an idiot.
I crouch down and flip open the brass mail slot in the door to talk through.
“I have a present for you. Happy four month anniversary.”
I put the corner of the box through the brass mail slot, expecting that will get her to open the door, but instead she grabs the box and pulls it in.
“You're welcome,” I say.
Her eyes appear on the other side of the mail slot. “This is so sweet of you. I'd invite you in, but the place is a disaster.”
“Then come out with us. We're having a day off.”
She's quiet for a moment. “Wow, this necklace is really nice. It must have cost you a fortune. You really shouldn't have.”
I put my fingers through the mail slot and wiggle them. “Come out, we'll have some fun. I haven't seen you in ages.”
She squeezes my fingertips. “Okay. Give me five minutes to freshen up.”
* * *
James and I wait for Austin in the Jeep for half an hour, eating the remains of the junk food while complaining we shouldn't eat any more.
Finally, Austin emerges from the house she shares with some friends of her family. She's a petite girl, and she looks even smaller today in a puffy jacket made of fluffy, fake fur patterned to look like leopard, if leopards were pink. On her head is a black chauffeur hat, probably to cover the scar on her scalp from her surgery. I tell her nobody can see it, and her hair covers the line, but she says her hair is so pale and fine it's practically translucent, and she feels more comfortable hiding her secrets.
“You look like Julie Roberts in Pretty Woman, before the makeover,” James says.
“No I don't, I'm wearing jeans,” she says. “And sneakers. Call girls don't wear practical shoes.”
“Fair enough,” he says. “Why do girls love that movie? I like me some '90s-era Julia Roberts, but, Richard Gere? Is it the sick fantasy of being a call girl?”
“Don't listen to him,” I say as she settles into the back seat. “You look perfect, like always.”
She's got a necklace on, and I stare at it, unsure if it's the one I gave her. My memory of the pattern is hazy, and even as I'm looking at the jewelry now, the design seems to change and shift, like my pal Rudy's strangely-patterned old carpet.
Austin holds the pendant to her pale pink lips and kisses it. “I love this,” she says, then she gives me a kiss that doesn't last nearly long enough.
She wrinkles her cute little nose. “Eww, what were you eating? Your breath smells like feet.”
“Thank you,” James says. “He insists on eating white cheddar popcorn. That stuff is a biohazard.”
“Sorry,” I say, settling back in my seat.
I wish she'd told me she missed me instead of complaining about my popcorn breath.
* * *
James drives us to the Odell Mansion, which is the closest thing we have to a museum. I haven't been here since our class trip in seventh grade.
While we're paying for our admission, James says, “Raye-Anne Donovan is an Odell, did you know that? Well, her mother was an Odell before she married, so her name doesn't match, but if things had gone differently, this might have been Raye-Anne's house.”
The woman working the register says, “The mansion is in good hands now, with the Historical Society. Your friend Raye-Anne should volunteer with us. We'd love to have a genuine member of the family involved. Volunteer spots are always available.”
“Does anyone get paid for working here?” Austin asks. She's been looking for a new job, because she drinks too much coffee when she's working at the coffee shop. She also blames the cinnamon buns for her weight gain, but I think she looks perfect. She feels perfect too, and I have to resist grabbing at her butt when we're out like this, in public—which is a rarity. She was always happy to see me when I came to visit her in the hospital every day, but out in public she sometimes seems embarrassed to be with me.
The woman at the desk adjusts her too-tight-looking bun and explains how most of the admission fees and generous donations go to restoration of the mansion. They do pay the administration staff, as those positions are full-time jobs, but most everyone else only gets an honorarium.
Austin seems disappointed, which makes me disappointed.
“Getting to spend time in such a lovely space is payment enough,” the woman says.
“Lovely space doesn't pay rent or tuition,” Austin says with a sigh.
Some more people enter the tiny vestibule, so the three of us wipe our feet on the mat provided and enter the next part of the mansion.
The experience of coming out of the tiny entry way and into the grand space was probably designed by the architect to inspire awe, and how awesome it is. Above us are stairs that go up, up, up, like an M.C. Escher drawing. When you first stare up at the staircase, you think you're seeing an illusion, created by mirrors, because there's no way those are real stairs, but they are.
“I feel dizzy,” Austin says with a laugh.
I reach for her hand, but she's already wandering away, to the sitting rooms on the ground floor. These are spaces the Odell family would have used for entertaining, during the few short months they lived in the home before tragedy struck.
I can't quite remember what happened, but I believe The Hound Girl from the legend of the same name killed seven people and then herself. This all happened nearly a hundred years ago, and once enough time had lapsed and people could joke about it, they said she killed them all for calling her The Hound Girl.
I enter the room to find Austin admiring a stuffed and mounted pheasant under a glass dome.
“How do you think they got the bird insides out of the bird?” I ask her.
“It could be the body's made of something else and they stuck the plucked feathers into the form,” she says.
“Wrong,” I say. “I hope you don't think less of me for having a mild interest in taxidermy, but I happen to know they peel the skin off, including the fur or feathers, then stuff it like a teddy bear and sew it up.”
“Cool,” she says.
We lean in together to read the information card placed next to the pheasant:
In Victorian times, taxidermy was proudly displayed in homes as a symbol of human superiority over animals.
“Human superiority,” I muse.
Some people enter the room—a small tour group, judging by the leader delivering a well-rehearsed speech. She's talking about this year's huge controversy. As Austin pokes around, looking at the other stuffed animals and objects, I listen in to the guide.
Apparently, there's a big controversy going on now at the Odell Mansion. After years of debate and a few angry resignations, the Historical Society finally upgraded the lighting in the rooms, changing out the authentic reproduction dim bulbs for lights bright enough to actually illuminate all the antique treasures and artwork within the rooms. I gather from their conversation some of the lights are actuall
y compact fluorescent bulbs, and the Society's been red-hot with a debate about changing wall paint colors to compensate for a different light temperature.
Austin leans over to me and whispers in my ear, “This gossip is even better than what's written on the signs for the rooms. Maybe I should volunteer for a shift or two. My dad figures he's a third cousin of the Odells. What do you think? Am I genuine?”
I kiss her, but near her ear so she isn't subjected to my white cheddar breath. “You are the genuine article.”
As we walk out of the room, back to the hall where we started, James tags me on the arm. “Race you to the top!” He flails off toward the first flight of the tall wooden staircase.
Austin pushes me away. “You go. I want to look at my own pace. We'll meet up later.”
I race after James, taking three steps at a time in enormous leaps. I pass him before the second floor, but don't let up my pace, enjoying the rush of power in my thighs and calves.
On the top floor, I've already had a good look around by the time James catches up to me. “This is my favorite room,” I say, pointing to the billiards table. “This is totally where the men would hang out. Hey, what if I had a games room in my basement?”
His hands on his hips, catching his breath, he says, “You barely have room for one foosball table.”
“Gran and I might move to a bigger place. Not Odell-Mansion-big, but bigger.”
“What are you talking about?”
I tell James all about finding Rudy's bank statement, and how my grandmother's future husband is loaded, and things might be looking up for my little family after all.
James wanders around looking at the artwork on display while I talk about the things I might buy.
“Olden-days people sure liked fox hunts,” he says, reaching out to touch one of the ornate frames. “What was the point of catching a fox, anyways? Did they eat them?”
A tall, skinny man with a thin mustache steps into view, seemingly from out of the shadows. “It was for sport,” he says. “Mind your fingers. They leave oils.”