MAXCELL: Hello, Theo, it’s your friend Max. Might you have a brief moment to speak? Would be so greatly appreciated.
MAXCELL: Oh, the humanity
I yanked off the headphones and shoved the phone into the old-lady purse that Mom had made me buy with the dress. Then I checked my ass in the mirror, gasped with horror, grabbed my pumps, and tiptoed to the back door in the kitchen while Mom and Todd discussed Ayn Rand in the living room.
I knew there was no way I could get past my doorman Emilio without a conversation, but I tried. I moved swiftly through the lobby—as swiftly as I could in my barely used, clunky pumps—and ducked my head like a movie star leaving a Hollywood hot spot.
“Hot date tonight?” Emilio grabbed the doorknob but wouldn’t open the door.
“Oh, please.” I laughed. “Emilio, have you ever seen me go on a date?”
“First time for everything, right?” He smiled. “I’m gleaming with pride.” He was from Guadalajara and still carried an accent. Everything sounded like every-sing.
We don’t live in a fancy building. Emilio doesn’t hail people cabs or wear one of those vaguely military outfits with tassels on the shoulders. He doubles as the building’s superintendent and maintenance man, and opts for loose-fitting khakis and a shirt that was always opened one button too many, revealing a dense forest of graying man-fuzz.
“I think you mean ‘beaming’ with pride,” I said.
“Oh, I’m gleaming and beaming.”
“Well, you shouldn’t do either, because it’s not a date.”
“Jew look pretty fancy.”
We’d worked through the accent-related “Jew” confusion a long time ago. When I was about twelve—and I had just seen Annie Hall for the first of my nine times—I told Emilio to watch the scene where Woody Allen describes an NBC executive’s unfortunate lunch inquiry: Jew eat? No, not ‘Did you eat?’ but JEW eat? JEW? Emilio thought it was so hilarious that we agreed to make it an essential part of any conversation.
“No, Jew doesn’t look fancy,” I said. “You’ve just never seen Jew in a dress.”
“No, it’s not the dress,” he said. “It’s a vibe.”
“A vibe?”
“Yeah, Jew have the vibe.”
“There’s no vibe, Emilio.”
“Vibe,” he insisted with an all-knowing nod. “My daughter had this same vibe the night she met my son-in-law Estefan. Now I have two beautiful grandkids and counting. Trust me, I know the vibe.”
I started compulsively flattening my hair against my cheek. “There is no vibe,” I groaned. “It’s not a date, it’s, it’s a—I’m going to an awards ceremony, okay?”
“Oh. Well, I hope it’s the Vibe Awards, because Jew would win tonight.”
“Jew doesn’t win, Emilio. Jew never wins.” I swatted his hand from the doorknob and swung the door open, sliding by him as he laughed gleefully.
“Jew have a beautiful night, Teodoro!”
Outside, I searched the block for Andy.
When I heard him call my name, I followed his voice and found him rising from a stoop across the street. He had his backpack hoisted over one shoulder, and he was still in his jeans, but he’d swapped out the frayed white V-neck for a crisp white Oxford shirt, untucked and open at the collar.
I’d seen a thousand “dudes” crisscrossing the East Village on a Friday night in that exact same outfit. They traveled in teams of three, and they always reeked of desperation. That devil-may-care untucked shirt seemed so laughable to me, since they had obviously primped and gelled for hours, grasping at trends like thirteen-year-old girls. But as I clip-clopped across the street, wobbling my way toward him, I realized the man they were all trying to look like—the man they were all trying to be . . . was Andy.
If we had been on a date, this would have been the moment when we shared a quick hug or a casual peck on the cheek. But there was no hug and no peck. Instead we just stood in awkward silence, which only brought more attention to the absence of the hug or the peck, which in turn only magnified the date-like nature of the non-date.
“You put on a dress for me,” he said finally.
“For Sarah,” I corrected him too quickly.
“God. Do you really think we’ll find her at that club?”
“I know we will.”
He took a small step closer, erasing the last bit of distance between us. “Theo, I’m running out of ways to thank you.”
I lifted my head to meet his, noticing for the first time that the pale beige freckles on his nose almost matched the color of his eyes. “You don’t have to thank me.”
I glanced back across the street and caught a glimpse of Emilio watching us through the front door. His easy smile had been replaced by a distrustful squint.
My cheeks suddenly flushed, but it wasn’t because of Andy; it was simply this: I’d never had a father around to give my date the once-over—that withering “touch her, and I’ll break your face” look. Having my overprotective doorman eye my non-date with fatherly suspicion was the closest I would ever come.
I couldn’t get this comparison out of my obsessive head: If Emilio was my doorman father, then the bouncer at the Magic Garden was most definitely my doorman mother. Ice-cold. A master in the art of silence. Impervious to even the most heartfelt of pleas. I thought Andy’s Texan charm could work on any creature with a beating heart, no matter the gender, height, or pectoral size, but this bouncer was a six-foot granite statue in an Armani suit.
“Aw, come awn, man.” It was the first time I’d heard Andy exaggerate his drawl for effect (I suspected it was a secret skill all Southerners possessed). “Forty-five minutes? We been standing on this line for forty-five minutes. Now that just ain’t right, don’t you think?”
Zero response from Granite Bouncer.
Maybe he saw the same tragedy I did: a massive herd of drunk girls in heels and crotch-length skirts, lining up in the cold as if it were their lifelong dream to be funneled into a vast, thumping abyss. Their toxic fusion of designer fragrances was making me woozy. I wasn’t sure how much longer I could last.
Andy tried a new tack. “All right, look. I think you need to know the whole story here, man. The girl I love—I’m talking the love of my life, brother—I’ve been trying to find her for days, and I think she just might be inside that club right now. Only she doesn’t know I’m out here. So we just need you to let us in so I can tell her that. Do you feel me, brother?”
We got nothing.
“Really?” Andy laughed, but the laugh was strained. I wasn’t sure how much longer he could last, either. “I don’t even get it. I was just here on Saturday night, and they let us through in two minutes. What the hell changed?”
I slammed my eyes shut. I knew exactly what had changed. It was the hotness level of his companion. Sarah had walked him straight through that door because she looked like Sarah. But a bottom-heavy troll in funeral attire? That was a much harder sell.
“Excuse me, sir?”
Miracle of miracles, Granite Bouncer actually turned to me. Apparently, he responded much better to sir than he did to dude, man, or brother. Maybe I had cracked his code.
“What up, girl?” he asked.
“Hi, yes—if I could just point out . . . your website states that we should ‘come on in without a fuss, because the Magical Garden is waiting for us.’ But we have actually been waiting for it for about forty-five minutes. Doesn’t that strike you as false advertising?”
When the bouncer smiled, he looked like a totally different person. Which is to say, he looked like a person.
“You’re funny,” he said. He said it as if his opinion had very deep and lasting significance. “I like funny girls.” With that, he leaned over and unhooked the rope. I was so shocked, I didn’t even move at first. “You coming in or not?”
“Yes, thank you, sir,
yes,” I said.
“Theo, let’s go!” Andy called back to me, already through the door.
“Oh, and girl . . .” The bouncer grabbed my arm. “If I could also just point something out. This whole funeral brunch vibe you’ve got going—totally working.” He waved his hand over me from head to toe. “I like a girl with a look.”
I couldn’t decide if I was flattered or insulted. It didn’t matter. Andy and I were in.
I cupped my ears like an elderly librarian. It wasn’t the bone-shaking bass drum or the screaming synthesizers—I liked my music set to “deafening.” It was that I’d spent weeks alone in a small bedroom, living with a mother and stepstool whose preferred entertainment was quietly debating the postfeminist merits of Susan Sontag. I’d blasted plenty of music in my room, watched more than two hundred movies, played more than forty Xbox games, so I wouldn’t have called it “sensory deprivation.” But nothing on earth could simulate the crush of human bodies. And that was the Magic Garden: a cavernous garden of arms, legs, elbows, naked shoulders, and perfectly toned asses. I think they’d set the thermostat to “Deathly Oppressive Humidity” for the sake of all the flowers.
And there were so many flowers. Mounds of fresh flowers and green leaves sprouting up from tall Lucite pedestals that anchored plush, circular banquettes. The pedestals were lit up from within like trees in the Na’vi forest, casting an ethereal, blue glow on all the Crest-whitened smiles and tan summer flesh. It was so ugly and so beautiful at the same time.
It was Blue Hell with flowers, and I wanted out as much as I’d wanted in, but I wasn’t leaving until I found Sarah and asked her at least one question:
Why on earth would you bring Andy here? Why not a kick-back barbecue joint in the West Village? Or a romantic restaurant where you could actually hear each other speak? Did we meet the same Andy Reese? Sensitive country boy? Ridding the world of irony one boyish smile at a time? You’d just spent a whole day with him, soulfully walking and talking Before Sunrise–style. Why would you close it out with this soulless urban dungeon? Are you one of the Beautiful People? I mean, I know you’re beautiful, but are you one of them?
Okay, fine, that was nine questions.
“Andy,” I shouted, straining my voice to overcome the din of the crowd and the pulsating beat even though he was less than a yard away, “if I’m going to spot her in this hellscape, it might be good if I actually knew what she looked like. How about some specifics?”
I felt a set of bony fingers crawl down my back. When I turned around, there was a pencil-thin party boy in a sleeveless Sex Pistols T-shirt and skinny jeans pushing me forward, his hands on my hips.
“Dude.” I slapped his probing hands from my body. “What is your problem?”
I don’t even think he heard me as he slid past. But when I turned back around, Andy was gone.
“Andy?” I called out, spinning in place. “Andy?” The bodies were cutting deeper into my personal space. There was nowhere to put my hands without touching some guy’s sweaty back. Nowhere to breathe without inhaling some girl’s Chanel-drenched neck. I crossed my arms over my chest and buried my fingers between my underarms, feeling sweat start to trickle down my elbows. “Andy . . . ?”
“Theo! Theo, look up!”
He was tall enough that I could see his backpack. He pointed above us and mouthed, “Bar. Meet me at the bar.”
By the time I got upstairs, I felt like a used punching bag. I’d lost track of Andy again, but I was sure he’d find me. I pushed through two more layers of thirsty club kids and miraculously found an available stool. I set my elbows down on the glowing blue Lucite bar and buried my head under my hands. I knew it made me look like one of those psycho drunk chicks who’d had one too many lemon drops and a screaming fight with her boyfriend. But maybe that was a good thing. Maybe it made me invisible—
“Rough night?” a boy’s voice asked, close to my ear.
I jerked away and became the Terminator, scanning the boy and assessing the threat level: Casual gray sport coat over a spanking new white T-shirt. Even whiter teeth in a perma-smile. Close-cropped, wavy red hair with no product. Bud Light Lime on the napkin in front of him. A flat pug nose that probably left him begging for his frat brothers’ sexual table scraps in college. Yes, undoubtedly a frat boy, but one of those kinder, all-inclusive frats that real frats made fun of.
Conclusion: Douchey but harmless.
“Do you need a drink?” he asked.
“No, thank you,” I said. “I didn’t come here to drink.”
“Oh, right on.” He smirked. “Booze isn’t your thing, then?”
“Right,” I said.
“How about a water?”
I glanced over my shoulder for signs of Andy. He should have made it to the bar already. Now he had me talking to strangers again. “Okay, a water,” I said flatly.
Douchey-but-Harmless raised his hand to the bartender. “Ray-Ray! A bottle of water for the lady!”
“Coming up!” Ray-Ray shouted back.
Clearly Douchey and the bartender were friends, and clearly Douchey wanted me to know this. The hordes were clamoring for Ray-Ray’s attention, hollering drink orders, thrusting fifty-dollar bills between the beer taps, but Ray-Ray ignored them like the bouncer had ignored Andy.
Aha. Andy was a genius. He wanted us at the bar because that’s where all the regulars hung out. The regulars were more likely to know Sarah if she partied here, and I was pretty sure I’d just found the Magic Garden’s resident junior barfly. Time to unleash Theo Lane, P.I.
I turned to Douchey. “So do you come here a lot?” I demanded.
Douchey frowned. I shut my eyes, mortified. I’d just asked him a variation of the world’s most clichéd pickup line by complete accident.
“Yeah,” Douchey said cautiously. “I live just around the corner.”
I mustered the courage to open my eyes.
“One water for the lady!” Ray-Ray slid up to our spot and poured half a bottle of Voss water into a floral-print glass. He had a square actor’s face, annoyingly perfect jet-black hair, and overly manicured black stubble. “Who’s this, Tim? Your little sister?”
I was relieved that Tim’s real name was even more harmless than Douchey.
“No, this is my friend . . .” Tim looked to me to finish his sentence.
“Emma,” I said.
“Well it’s very nice to meet you, Emma.” Ray-Ray reached over the bar, I assumed to shake hands. But when I reached for his hairy bear paw, he snatched my wrist. In a flash, he expertly fastened a thin strip of orange paper around it. “Welcome to the Magic Garden, Emma. You can have all the water and soda you want. It’s on me.”
Once free, I scowled and massaged my wrist. underage was printed on my orange bracelet.
I needed to find Andy, and I needed to get out of here as soon as possible. “Listen, Tim, I was supposed to meet my friend Sarah here, but I haven’t been able to spot her yet. Maybe you know her? Sarah? She comes here all the time. She’s blonde and . . . she’s ridiculously pretty.”
“I know at least twenty ridiculously pretty blonde Sarahs who hang here,” Tim said.
“Right. She’s, uh . . . God, I don’t know how to describe her. She was just here on Saturday with our friend Andy.”
“Andy . . . ?” He was waiting for a last name.
“Andy Reese,” I said. “But you probably don’t know him—”
“Andy Reese?” Tim interrupted, dropping his voice to a whisper. He glanced over his shoulder and leaned close, hammering me with his cinnamon skunk breath. “Of course I know Andy. He’s here almost every night. In the men’s room.”
“The men’s room?”
“Yeah, I bet he’s there now. Should we pay him a visit?”
I blinked, feeling vaguely sick. “Andy Reese? Is here every night? In the men’s room?”
&nb
sp; “Pretty much,” Tim said, sliding off his stool and smoothing down his jacket.
“Like, since when? Since Saturday?”
“My boy Andy?” Tim laughed. “Nah, the kid’s a year-round staple. He’s what makes the Garden magic.” He offered his hand, and I flashed back to the Harbor Café—to Andy reaching across our table for a supposedly innocent handshake. I wanted to tell Tim he was full of shit, that he had the wrong Andy Reese, that he had no idea what he was talking about. But one thing kept getting in the way: Andy had disappeared. Did he head straight to the men’s room? Was he conducting “business” in there? What was he carrying in that overstuffed backpack that never left his side? Was the bouncer just pretending to ignore him? Just giving his pal Andy shit for hanging out with an underage girl?
No, this is ridiculous. Douchey is messing with your head because you’re the ugly newbie at the bar. You know Andy. He couldn’t even remember the name of this place until you helped him remember it.
But I’d known Andy Reese for less than twenty-four hours.
I knew him about as well as he knew Sarah No-Last-Name.
“Show me the men’s room,” I said to Tim.
“Oh, Andyyyyyy?” No one seemed to care that Tim was cutting the long line to the men’s room and ushering a clearly branded underage girl through the door. “Paging Andy Reese. I have a friend of yours who wants to say hello-ohhhh.”
All the things that should have made my skin crawl didn’t matter right now. Not Tim’s increasingly annoying, singsong-y children’s theater voice. Not the fact that I was entering a men’s room, something I’d never done before, not even in an emergency. It was lined wall-to-wall with backs hunched drunkenly over shiny white urinals. I willed the symphony of zippers and pee and who-knows-what-else into the background because I needed to see him. I needed to see the real Andy Reese.
“Andyyyyy?” Tim called again. He smiled, showing those white teeth. “He’s usually at the back.” He led me down to the handicapped stall at the end of the room and tapped on the metal door. It was unlocked. “Mr. Reese?”
The Girl with the Wrong Name Page 6