“I understand that,” I said. “Believe me, I want to see President Bernstein healed as much as anyone.” Maybe more, since everyone was counting on me. “I’m not refusing to do more. I can’t do anymore. I’m depleted. You know how a bucket can only hold so much water and after it’s all poured out, you’re not going to get another drop out of it no matter what you do? That’s how it works for me. I can only do it until I’m done.”
“But would it hurt to try a little longer?” Dr. Karke asked, looking to Dr. Wentworth for back-up. “I told the first gentleman that I’d have good news for him today.” A note of desperation tinged his words. He wrung his hands.
I felt for him, I really did. I just couldn’t help him.
“You heard what my brother said,” Carly said, speaking a little louder than necessary. “His bucket is empty. When he can do more, he will.” She turned to me. “When do you want to come back again, Russ?”
“I don’t know. Maybe tonight?” I said. “By this evening I think she’ll be ready for more.” As I said this, I felt a frequency of awareness in the air and sensed that the president could hear everything being said. I leaned over and said, “President Bernstein? My name is Russ Becker. I’m the one who alleviated the pressure in your head. You get some rest. I’ll be back tonight to do another session. Hang in there, you’re doing really well.” She didn’t respond in any way, but I knew she understood.
“Could you two excuse us?” Dr. Karke said to me and Carly pointing to the door. “We need a few minutes to confer.”
Once we were out in the hallway, I heard him say to Dr. Wentworth, “What the hell was that? I thought you said he could heal her!” Dr. Wentworth shushed him and said something in my defense. I couldn’t quite make it all out, but I caught something about test results and data and allowing more time.
Carly put her hands on her hips and frowned. She said, “I don’t care if he is a doctor, that little man is a complete dick.”
“Cut him a break. He’s not so bad,” I said. “Just disappointed.” I knew the feeling. I was disappointed in myself.
“You are way too nice,” she said.
“Not really.”
Shaking her head, she turned her attention to her purse, unzipping the top and rummaging through the contents. When she located her pack of gum, she popped a piece into her mouth. “I was ready to tell him we were done and going home. Ingrate.”
“Don’t even talk like that, Carly,” I said. “We’re not going home.” A pretty nurse smiled at me as she came past pushing a cart. She hesitated in the president’s doorway, and when Dr. Wentworth called to her, she went in.
“It just makes me mad that they’re second guessing you.” She snapped her gum, a habit that drove my mother nuts.
“That’s his job. He’s just doing what he thinks is best.” I leaned my back against the wall and rested the sole of one foot flamingo-style. “I actually feel sorry for him. Now he has to tell Mr. Bernstein that his wife isn’t miraculously recovered like he promised. That really bites for him.”
“He shouldn’t have promised it.”
“Yeah, he shouldn’t have promised it. But he did.”
Carly leaned in and quietly asked, “Do you think you can fix her? In time for the Bash?”
“Yeah, I think I can.” I thought about how her brain woke up after my energy infusion. President Bernstein wanted to get better, but every part of her body was fatigued and strained. “I’m going to try my best anyway.”
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Russ
That afternoon I found myself in Layla Bernstein’s bedroom. Most guys my age would think this was a dream come true, but for me, it was just part of the job. After we found out we were going to the White House, the three of us dressed appropriately: Mallory in a flowery dress with a ruffle around the v-neckline and Jameson and I in button-down shirts and khaki pants. When we first arrived, a Secret Service agent directed us into a small sitting room with the kind of furniture preferred by elderly women. The agent assured us Layla would be with us shortly, and then departed, leaving us to wait alone. Mallory and I sat in stiff upholstered chairs, while Jameson took the loveseat across from us. On the cream-colored wall behind him hung an oil painting of a bonneted woman who looked down on him in disapproval.
“Imagine all of the history that took place in this room,” Mallory said, looking around. “First ladies having tea here, and diplomats sipping brandy and hammering out agreements by the light of the fire.” She gestured to the fireplace. “I can picture it.”
“Of course you can picture it. I don’t think they’ve redecorated since Lincoln was in office,” Jameson said, stifling a yawn. “Didn’t you think the rooms would be bigger here?” He leaned back and extended his long legs. “What’s the deal with that? Even the furniture is tiny.”
“I did think it would be bigger," Mallory said. ”Didn't you, Russ?”
I sized up the room and shrugged. "I didn't have any preconceived ideas one way or another."
She and Jameson went on about the size of the furniture, and wondered if the Secret Service would notice if Jameson rearranged the room. "It's probably all wired with explosives." Mallory joked. "If you move something, we’ll get blown to bits."
"None of the furniture is wired," I said. "But I wouldn't try to take that picture off the wall, or an alarm will sound."
Mallory looked startled. "Why do you say that?"
I raised one eyebrow. "If you don't believe me, give it a try.”
She jumped up quickly, to go test my theory I thought, but I was wrong. A second later I knew the real reason she got up off her chair when I spotted Layla Bernstein leaning against the door frame peering in on us, an amused expression on her face. Who knew how long she’d been watching us and listening to everything we’d said? I was glad I hadn’t done anything embarrassing.
“Hello,” Mallory said politely, gesturing to us to rise. “It’s nice to see you again.”
Layla walked in and immediately I saw that she had it—the thing that all the magazines talked about. She had a presence. She strode in as if she was in a perpetual spotlight. Layla was beautiful and slender, with glossy black hair and chiseled cheekbones, but her beauty appeared to be effortless. I doubt this girl ever had a moment in life when she lacked confidence. Next to her Mallory looked ordinary.
Layla sat down on the loveseat next to Jameson, but her eyes were on Mallory. “I was told we met in Miami, but I don’t remember being introduced.”
“It was so hectic at the decathlon,” Jameson said, sitting back down and resting his hands on his knees. “You probably met so many people…”
Layla put her finger to her lips. “Shh. I’m thinking.” She gestured to Mallory. “You have a sort of standard high school girl look. And you,” she turned to Jameson. “Smartest guy at your school? Top nerd. Am I right?”
“Actually I’m homeschooled,” he said. “Doing university-level work. They’re the ones who go to the public school.”
“I saw a million nerd boys in Miami,” Layla continued. “You could have been one of them, for all I know. But you, sweetheart, what’s your name?” She snapped her fingers at me and pointed.
“I’m Russ Becker.”
“Russ Becker.” Coming out of her mouth my name was as smooth and sweet as honey. Her intense scrutiny made me uneasy. “You I’d remember. We’ve never met. I know I’ve never seen you before.”
A woman came in carrying a tray of tall glasses filled with a light brown liquid, a wedge of lemon floating in each glass. “Would anyone care for a cold drink and some cookies?”
Layla stood up. “Send them to my room. We’re going upstairs.” She beckoned to me with one crooked finger. “Cute boy, come with me.” Mallory and Jameson looked unsure as to what to do so they just tagged along behind. Layla took my hand and pulled me through the doorway past two Secret Service agents, both in dark suits with earpieces. They said hello to her but she didn’t answer. She said to me, “We have to g
o through the Diplomatic Room to get to the private residence. Hopefully there won’t be anyone there. I hate it when I get stuck talking to people.”
I didn’t say anything, because I didn’t know what to say. Her hand clasping mine was warm and soft, and I couldn’t stop looking at her. She practically glowed with perfection and she smelled like a wonderful mixture of something like roses and cinnamon. It felt all wrong to be noticing these things when I was in love with Nadia, but it’s not like I had a choice.
Layla glanced over her shoulder and frowned as she saw Mallory and Jameson behind us. “We’re not going to lose them, are we?”
“Afraid not,” I said. “The three of us are supposed to stick together.”
“That’s a shame,” she said. “Because I’d love to get some alone time with you.”
I felt my face flush red but Layla didn’t seem to notice. Nearly as tall as me, her strides were long and she was making good time. We passed another Secret Service agent talking to a woman wearing business attire. I tried to see if the woman was someone famous, but Layla yanked me along before I could tell.
When we got to the Diplomatic Room she exhaled in relief and looked up at the ceiling. “Thank you.” She turned to me. “Once we’re through here we’re home free. Literally. After this I can finally be myself.” We walked through the room and around a set of brown, room-dividing screens, the kind they use in restaurants to give diners a sense of privacy. We ducked behind the screens to get to the stairs. She was right, going from the public portion of the house to the private part did have a different feeling. Home free, as she said.
We walked up a staircase and down a hallway. “Welcome to my museum bedroom,” Layla said, as we approached a closed door. She opened it and went in first, beckoning for us to follow. Once inside, she kicked off her shoes, sending them skittering across the floor. The room did look like it could be in a museum. Ornate crown molding lined the edges where the walls met the very high ceiling. Opposite her bed was a sitting area set up in front of a fireplace like the one downstairs. An oval gold-framed mirror was mounted over the mantel. Heavy velvet drapes were held back from the windows with a gold cord which ended in tassels.
But there were some personal touches too. The mantel and dresser were topped with dozens of framed photos of Layla with friends, just like you’d see in any other teenaged girl’s room. The fact that most of these friends were famous rock stars and actors was beside the point. And the rug next to the bed was a fake full-sized grizzly bear, which was, I’m guessing, not original to the room.
“So cool,” Mallory said, her voice bubbling with excitement. She examined the celebrity photos above the fireplace. “I can’t believe we’re here, in Layla Bernstein’s bedroom. This is amazing.”
“You’re here all right,” Layla said. “By the way, you don’t need to worry about snipers. The glass in my windows is bulletproof.”
“Has there been a problem with snipers?” I asked.
“Well, no,” she said, “because the glass is bulletproof.” She padded over to the nightstand and picked up the phone, turning to me before dialing. “Did you not hear me tell that girl to bring the drinks up? Where the hell could she be?” She drummed her fingers on the wooden surface. “Yes, this is Layla. Tell the girl to bring the tray with the drinks and cookies up to my room. Really? Okay then.” She hung up and made a face. “She’s on her way.”
“This was so nice of you to invite us up here,” Mallory said.
“Please,” Layla said, indicating the chairs by the fireplace. “Have a seat.” After they’d occupied both places, she grabbed the front of my shirt. “You. You’re coming with me.” Half laughing, she pulled me over to the bed, then climbed up and sat with her legs tucked beneath her. She patted the space next to her and I went along with it, sitting down on the edge with my legs hanging to the floor. She said, “So Ross Becker, what do you think?”
“Russ.”
“What?”
“My name is Russ. Not Ross.”
She laughed. “Okay, if you want to play it that way.”
“It’s not that I want to play it that way. It’s my name.”
“Okay, then. Russ.” Like I was being difficult and she was humoring me. “Let’s start the conversation over and get it right this time. What do you think of my room?”
“It’s nice.”
“Just nice?”
I had the feeling I was being tested and I didn’t know the right answer. I ventured a guess. “Very nice?”
“Do you like my rug?” She indicated the fake grizzly bear rug underneath my feet. It actually looked pretty real, but the plastic beady eyes reminded me of the stuffed animals Carly used to give me when I was little. I never really played with them and eventually my mom donated them to Goodwill.
I shrugged. “It’s cool.”
She leaned in and in a confidential tone said, “Sometimes I like to roll around on it naked.”
“Excuse me?” I heard her, but I wasn’t quite sure I heard her.
“I like to take off all my clothes and roll around on it,” she said with a laugh. “I love the way it feels against my skin. Do you know what I mean?”
Jameson called over from his side of the room. “Are you comfortable there, Russ? Because you look decidedly uncomfortable.” He laughed his Jameson cackle. I could never decide if it was an actual laugh or if he was faking it. Either way, it had an unmistakable mocking tone.
“I’m fine, thanks,” I said to both him and Layla.
I was happy when there was a knock on the door and it turned out to be the woman we’d seen earlier carrying the exact same tray of refreshments. Two minutes later we were served iced tea along with cookies that looked like dog biscuits. None of us opted for a cookie, but the tea was pretty good. Before the woman left, she reminded Layla not to drink near her bed, because tea stains were hard to remove. As soon as the door shut behind her, Layla called Jameson and Mallory over to sit with us on the bed. “They won’t give me diet Coke anymore,” Layla said, sighing and taking a sip of her tea. The ice clinked in her glass as she raised it to her lips. “Not since my mom started advocating for a healthy lifestyle. As the first family we have to set a good example.”
“I read about that,” Jameson said. Out of the four of us he seemed the most awkward sitting on the bed. He tried about three different positions before settling on cross-legged, but I don’t think he found it natural. He had the look of a spring about to be unsprung. Any second I expected his limbs to come undone and send him sprawling. “That’s why they won’t serve fish sticks in public schools anymore.”
“In fourth grade I was addicted to fish sticks,” Mallory said. “With French fries and lots of ketchup. Yum. I didn’t even think about calories back then.”
“Imagine how much grease you were consuming,” Jameson said. “And your gall bladder had to deal with all that fat.”
“My gall bladder was cool with it,” Mallory said. “It didn’t mind.”
Layla watched them discuss fish sticks and gall bladders with amusement. She set her glass down on the nightstand, moved closer, and gave my knee a squeeze. “So if you’re thinking you’ll meet my mom, you’re out of luck. She’s working on some big project and even I haven’t seen her for days. You might be introduced to her at the Bash, if you’re lucky, but don’t count on talking to her. She’s going to be super busy.”
“Okay,” I said. I always had trouble talking to someone when there was another discussion happening nearby. Jameson and Mallory had moved on to the topic of tator tot casserole and, like a true Wisconsinite, Mallory was rhapsodizing about melted cheese. Stretchy melted cheese, which was, in her opinion, the very best kind. I had to really pay attention to catch what Layla was saying.
“Okay what?” Layla said.
“Okay, whatever. I don’t really care, Layla. I wasn’t planning on talking to your mother. I’m here to go to the Black Tie Bash with you.”
She tilted her head to one side, givi
ng me a look of careful consideration. “So what’s the story, Russ? Would you care to fill me in?”
“Fill you in on what?”
She gave my knee another squeeze and then started to stroke the inside of my thigh. “Why exactly are we pretending that I met you before?”
“Um.” I gulped and took a quick sip of my drink. “What?”
Mallory’s head whipped around. Amazing the way girls can carry on one conversation but still catch what other people are saying. “Layla, I heard that you have problems with back pain, is that true?”
And just like that, Layla dropped the subject and turned her attention to Mallory’s question. Apparently she was one of those people who jumped at the chance to talk about herself. “I wouldn’t call it pain,” she said, putting a hand to her back. “More like torture. Absolute torture. And when it’s bad, nothing touches the pain. I mean, I can’t get any relief. I’m in total agony. My dad gets it too. I must have inherited my spine problems from him.”
“I’m a certified massage therapist,” Mallory said, flexing her fingers. “I bet I can help.”
“It’s not too bad today—”
But before Layla could really object, Mallory handed her glass to Jameson and scooted over behind Layla. She placed her hands on Layla’s shoulders and began kneading the base of her neck. “Man, you are tense. You must be under a lot of pressure.”
“Tell me about it.” Layla’s head dropped forward and her eyes closed. “That’s really good, but the trouble spot is lower.”
“I’ll get there,” Mallory said, continuing to massage Layla’s shoulders and then sliding her fingers down her back.
I was one hundred percent certain that Mallory was not a certified massage therapist and that it was all a ploy to allow her to get close enough to exert mind control. Mallory had to have heard about the back pain from one of our PG contacts. It wasn’t public knowledge. At least I had never heard about it.
“This is really nice,” Layla said, practically purring like a kitten. Her head drooped and bobbed as Mallory worked on her back.
Edgewood Series: Books 1 - 3 Page 68