The Girl with the Wrong Name

by Barnabas Miller

  Andy laughed shortly. “Do you try to confuse me, or am I just a dumbass hick?”

  “Neither,” I said. “Actually, I can boil it down to one very simple question. Do you have an iPhone?”

  “Do I look like I have an iPhone?” he snorted.

  “It’s all right,” I said. “We have a spare.”

  Chapter Fourteen

  [REC]

  I can’t describe how good it feels to be shooting again. I hadn’t even realized what was missing. Now it’s so clear: I was half myself without a camera; now I am whole. Like Sweeney Todd says, “At last! My right arm is complete again!” Or in this case, my collar. I have carefully sewn the button cam cable down the inner seam of my wedding dress and run it through an incision in the pocket, connecting it to my iPhone.

  Yes, I am wearing my wedding dress. But there’s a perfectly good explanation.

  As my best friends love to point out, I own exactly two dresses. One is the rumpled, black ball of crusty puke that now resides in a trash bag on my bathroom floor. The other is the vintage wedding dress that, until now, I kept wrapped in tissue paper, creaseless and pristine, inside the cedar Glory Box at the foot of my bed. It’s Sunday afternoon, nearly 3 p.m. The wedding is at 5:30, and all the dry cleaners are closed. My Ann Taylor puke dress is totally unsalvageable, so . . .

  Yes. There are obviously a few problems with wearing a wedding dress to someone else’s wedding.

  For one thing, it’s appalling and morally reprehensible. A full Boba Fett costume would be less offensive. Also, it’s not exactly ideal if you’re trying to lay low. But at least my “wedding dress,” while being white, won’t scream, I’m a deranged wannabe bride. It’s a weird, funky, A-line thing from the late ’50s/early ’60s that I found at a vintage store and just knew would be my bridal gown. Not a wedding dress per se, but a wedding dress to me. More importantly, it has two features that are essential to Operation FaceTime:

  1) The pockets. Ugly/beautiful pockets, one of which is the perfect vessel for my hidden iPhone.

  2) A high, structured collar that flares out from either side of the V-neck, climbing toward my chin like two daisy petals. There’s a buttonhole on the left petal, and a small onyx button on the right. They can be fastened over the neck to form a cutout on the chest, but I’ve left the collar open in the flared position and replaced the onyx button with my button cam. A button cam that is finally recording video again.

  I am defacing my most prized possession with a button cam and white thread.

  I’m committing sacrilege.

  But for the potential answers to all our burning questions, and a potential happy ending to someone’s strange and beautiful love story, it’s worth it. All I need now is that second iPhone. I am ready to record some test audio and video before the big event.

  We waited until after 8 p.m. to sneak back into the apartment last night. Emilio was done with his shift, and I figured correctly that Mom would still be crashed out on the couch. Todd never checked on me without Mom present—too afraid to barge in on me naked—so Andy and I made it back to my room without them ever knowing I’d gone.

  The next bit of luck came this morning. Apparently Mom and Todd had to attend an NYU luncheon this afternoon. Mom was worried enough about me to offer to skip it, but I promised her I’d stay home all day safe and sound. Unfortunately, something was wrong with my phone, I lied. I’d get it fixed tomorrow, but in the meantime, could I borrow the one we kept as a fourth line in case anyone lost a phone and needed a temp? (Because Todd loses his iPhone every three to four weeks? I left that part out.) She agreed. Anything to ensure that I’d be in touch the instant I needed to be.

  Now she’s tapping lightly at my door.

  “Bye, Mom,” I call to her. “Thanks again for the phone!”

  “The luncheon should only go about three hours,” she responds, respecting that I’ve chosen to keep the door closed. “I’ve instructed Todd to forego his usual schmoozing of the dean so we can be home sooner. We should be back no later than six.”

  “Sounds great! Have fun.”

  “All right, then,” she says.

  I hold my breath, listening for their footsteps. There’s only silence.

  “All right, then,” she repeats. “Just rest, sweetheart, all right? It’s the most important thing.” Another pause. “Theodore?”

  Please just leave already! I squeeze my eyes shut. “Yeah?”

  “Todd and I were having a discussion this morning, and I just wanted to clarify. You’re aware that I love you, right?”

  I feel another crack forming in my lungs. My eyes become damp. “Yes, I’m aware,” I say. I was not, in fact, entirely aware. At least now I’ve got the proof on digital audio.

  Only then do I hear the fading footsteps and the sound of the door closing.

  I exhale, finally able to relax. But almost instantly, I tense again. I’d spent most of the morning convincing myself the wedding would be nothing more than a few mean looks from Tyler and a beautiful moment playing Cupid to Andy and Sarah. I can’t dwell on the unknown, though. To paraphrase Tyler himself, whatever happens . . . happens.

  Once I’m sure Mom and Todd are in the elevator, I yank open my bedroom closet, letting poor Andy, the budding yogi contortionist, back out of hiding.

  “Okay,” I say, “we’ve got the second iPhone, so I can walk you through Operation FaceTime for real.”

  “You’re sure you want to stick with that code name?” Andy asks with a smirk.

  “I admit, it sounded cooler in my head,” I say. “But once you name an operation—”

  “Hey, what are these?” he interrupts, peering into my Glory Box.

  Stupid. I left it open when I took out the dress. Andy dunks his head in, clearly delighted he’s discovered a treasure trove of my most personal secrets. All the sketches I’ve made of my dream wedding ring: the six little diamond daisy petals surrounding a gold center. A million sketches of me in my wedding dress, wearing my dream ring, wearing my dream wedding pearls, surrounded by dream wedding flowers. My face grows hot.

  “Just some drawings,” I mumble, slamming the box closed.

  Andy flashes me a sly grin. “You really love daisies, huh?”

  I ignore him by taking the iPhone from my dress pocket. (I made sure to leave enough cable so as not to disconnect the button cam.) I bury my face in the screen, tapping around, checking to make sure I’ve installed all the necessary software, hoping he gets the hint. Then I plop down on the couch, placing the second phone on the coffee table.

  “Okay, check this out.” I open FaceTime on my phone and dial Andy’s loaner phone. When it rings, I accept the call, and then I show him the new image on his screen. It’s a video image of my bedroom wall instead of my face. “See. I told you there was a way.”

  He sits down next to me for a closer look. “Wait. What am I looking at?”

  “I found an app that makes the rear-facing camera the default video source for FaceTime calls. So now, instead of seeing my face on your phone, you’re seeing my button cam feed.” I stand up and do a slow twirl so he can see the pan around my bedroom on his screen. “Now I can keep the phone in my pocket the whole time.” I slip my phone into my dress pocket and continue to twirl. “As long as our call stays connected, you’ll be seeing and hearing whatever I’m seeing and hearing.” I throw my fist out for a bump. “Come on now. Give me my propers.”

  I expect a full bump in return, and maybe even a hug, but Andy doesn’t look impressed. On the contrary, his expression grows much darker.

  “What’s wrong?” I ask.

  “This button cam thing,” he says. “You haven’t used this recently, have you? Like, on me or something? Because I told you how I feel about—”

  “On you?” I interrupt. “Of course not. Andy, I made a promise.”

  He runs a quick
visual polygraph on my eyes and thankfully buys the lie. “Okay, then it is a pretty freaking smart idea,” he admits. “But if your phone is in your pocket, then how am I going to talk to you? How do I tell you when I spot Sarah or Wyatt?”

  “Ah, that’s what the IFB earpiece is for.”

  “The what?”

  “The IFB earpiece. It’s right here.” I can’t blame him for not seeing it; it’s no bigger than a pearl, lost in the faded gold etching on my Japanese coffee table. I pick it up and roll it gingerly between my thumb and forefinger. It’s a pale cream color and molded to fit right inside the ear, making it nearly undetectable.

  “Sometimes we get to use them on location shoots for the Sherman News,” I say. “I’m in charge of the gear. It’s Bluetooth ready, so all I have to do is pair it with my phone and, voilà, I’ll have you loud and clear in my ear. Okay, sorry about the ‘voilà,’—I’m just a little excited. Dude, we’ve got to test it. I’m going to the kitchen. Stay here.”

  I’m more than just a little excited. I can barely contain it as I run to the kitchen, lodging the earpiece in my ear and pairing it with my phone. I do a slow walk around the kitchen, leaning slightly toward the collar. “Test, test. One-two, one-two. Can you hear me, Andy Reese? Tell me what you see.”

  “I see a kitchen.” Andy’s voice pipes into my left ear with perfect clarity.

  “Hell, yeah, you do!” I take a moment to do a small fist-pumping dance. He can hear me, and I can hear him. He sees everything I see. Everything works. “So what do you think?” I ask eagerly. “Are we ready for this wedding, or are we ready?”

  “I guess,” Andy says. “Just remind me why we’re doing all this? Do we really need this fancy setup?”

  “Andy, there’s nothing fancy about it. Earpiece, button cam, FaceTime. I can’t walk around Battery Gardens shoving my phone in people’s faces till you recognize Sarah or Wyatt. Tyler would see your big face on my screen and go apeshit on me again. No, this is the way to go. Quick, quiet, and under the radar. The Renauxes will never even know I’m talking to you.”

  “Okay, fair enough.”

  “Good. So, you’re in, right?” There’s a long silence on the line. “Andy?” I press my finger to the earpiece, making sure it’s securely in place. “Andy, can you hear me?”

  “Yeah, I’m right here.”

  “What just happened? Where did you go? I thought there was a glitch.”

  “I didn’t go anywhere.”

  “Then what? Are you ready to do this or not?”

  “Theo, I can’t,” he says. “I’m sorry, but I can’t let you go in there alone. It’s too risky. Between Tyler and this Lester Wyatt dude, you need someone there to watch your back.”

  I lean against the fridge. “You can’t go with me. How many times do I need to explain this?”

  “No, I get that. But can’t you at least bring someone else? You could pass him off as your date. Don’t you have some friend who’d go nuts if he knew you were walking into this weird-ass wedding alone?”

  The answer is quite obvious, so I have to lie. “Nope. No, I don’t know anyone who fits that description.”

  “What about that dude who came over the other night?”

  “No, Andy. Forget it. I’ve been avoiding his texts and calls for the last thirty-six hours. I can’t suddenly call him up and invite him to a wedding with two hours’ notice.”

  “Why not?”

  “I just can’t, all right?”

  “Oh, wait.” I can practically hear him grinning through the earpiece. “I get it. You like him. You don’t want to ask him on a date because you’re afraid he’ll say no. Theo, we don’t have time for that stuff right now.”

  “No, I do not like him. We’re not like that. He’s like my goofy older brother.”

  “Then asking him to hang with you for twenty minutes should be no sweat.”

  “I don’t . . .” My heart starts racing. I press my palm to my chest. “Okay.” I sigh. “Okay, I’ll call him. But you’ve got to wait in the kitchen while I make the call.”

  Andy laughs. “Of course. Those goofy older brother calls always need to be made in private. Everybody knows that.”

  Max answers before the second ring.

  “Seriously?” He barks it instead of hello or what’s up. Then he repeats it minus the question mark. “Seriously.”

  “What?”

  “Thee. Seriously?”

  “What, Max?”

  “Seriously?”

  I pull the phone from my ear and let him get it out of his system.

  “You come to my house in some deep existential crisis, bordering on losing it completely, not totally sure that you are in fact you. Then you sneak out the next day while I’m asleep and don’t answer my calls for two days? You can’t do that. You can’t make a power forward feel like a Jewish grandmother. Like I need to sit in my rocking chair with an afghan on my lap, worrying all day that you’ve been kidnapped by Cossacks or hobos.”

  “I only understood about half of that,” I say. “What is a power forward, and why are you wearing an afghan?”

  “Jesus, what’s the difference? Just tell me what happened. Where have you been, and how hard is it to answer one call? See, I’m already speaking in Grandma! That’s what you do to me, Thee.”

  I knew this was what it would be—Max yelling about what a bad friend I’d been, having every right to do so. I park myself on the bedroom floor, leaning against the side of my bed, in it for the long haul, pillow tucked between my chin and knees as protection from his general pissed-offness.

  I regret not stopping the recording before I made the call. I’d figured all drama was good drama—at least on film. But not so much in real life, I’m learning. Anyway, I won’t be able to hear his side of the conversation in the footage, so this scene won’t even make the final cut.

  “Theo, are you there?”

  “Max, do you have a suit?”

  “What?”

  “A suit. Do you own a suit? You know, like a suit that people who wear suits wear.”

  “Yeah, I know what a suit is. I don’t wear track pants twenty-four hours a—”

  “Max.”

  “What?”

  “I’m going to say something, and it’s going to take a while, so just let me finish before you interrupt. Can you promise you’ll do that?”

  Silence. Then a deep breath. “I’m all ears, Thee. Whatever it is can’t be any weirder than the last session.”

  “Do you think there is any way I could ask you to go with me to a wedding today? As a favor? A friend favor? Without it evoking any of the clichés of girls asking guys to weddings, or being confused in any way with me asking you out on a date, and without it being romantically suggestive in any way, or implying that it might become romantically suggestive later on, like—to—”

  “Wait,” Max interrupts.

  “No, you promised you wouldn’t interrupt me.”

  “I said I was all ears. But let’s back up a second. Did you just ask me to a wedding?”

  “Yes.”

  “And the wedding is today?”

  “In less than two hours.”

  “And whose wedding is it?”

  “Not relevant. A friend. A friend of a friend.”

  “And how do you know this friend of a friend?”

  “Not relevant. Can you go? I mean, given all my conditions, can you go?” I don’t hear any nervous fumbling on the other end.

  This was a terrible idea. I should never have listened to Andy. “Max, I’m going to hang up now. Please, if you can just forget we ever had this conversation—”

  “I’ll go.”

  I blink several times. “You will?”

  “At least I’ll know where you are,” he groans. “Just give me a time and place.”

  I blin
k rapidly again and realize my eyes are moist. But I’m smiling. It’s the generic effect of weddings—all weddings, any weddings—that’s what it is. “Five thirty. Battery Park. Meet me in front of the Harbor Café.”

  Only one thing remains to be done before I leave. I’d avoided it for as long as I could. But now the time has come.

  I step into my bathroom, lock the door, and look in the full-length mirror.

  I’d always imagined I’d look like Audrey Hepburn when I finally put it on. That was before I was disfigured. I thought I’d look like Audrey Hepburn in that white Givenchy dress from Sabrina. But once I finish concealing the scar and applying the lipstick and dusting on the blush and rolling on the mascara and gelling the curtain, I take in the dress.

  I do not look like Audrey Hepburn. I look like Elvis.

  I am ’70s Elvis in drag. No, I’m a ’70s Elvis impersonator in drag. All I need are some giant rhinestones down the neckline, and it’s straight on to Vegas. And the ass . . .

  Let us not speak of the ass. Let us just call the dress a “tragic epiphany,” and leave it at that.

  Chapter Fifteen

  I am a Theo-Cam. A walking, breathing camera. The impartial observer I was born to be. I am Andy’s eyes and ears, his remote-controlled drone. I’m keeping my distance, hovering in front of the Harbor Café, zooming in on the entrance to Battery Gardens, scrutinizing the guests as they stroll through the ivy gates, framing each young brunette in my crosshairs.

  This is it, Sarah. This is the day we meet. Operation FaceTime is a go.

  “Anything yet?” I murmur into my collar.

  “Nothing yet,” Andy’s voice replies in my ear. “You know what? I’m not worried about finding her. That’ll be cake. She’s so much more beautiful than all these girls. She’ll stand out like a Disney princess. It’s him, Wyatt. I need to see his face.”

  “I know.”

  It’s a bigger wedding than I’d expected. Probably more than three hundred guests. I take a seat on a stone bench on the Harbor’s front lawn. How many times have I shot this scene? How many Sundays have I spent shooting the newlyweds coming in and out of Battery Gardens? And it’s always a variation of the same themes: the bride with her smile frozen and her bridesmaids shuffling alongside her, guarding her hair and dress from the elements. Then the groom, silent with his groomsmen, his smile tinged with terror. And then without fail, one or two hours later, they emerge from that second-story balcony overlooking the water, posing for classic, windswept photos that their children and grandchildren will admire.