Dream Life

by Lauren Mechling

  Becca took her bun out of its clip, a surefire signal she was stalling. The Access theme jingle started to play and she murmured, “Follow me,” jerking her head toward the back of the deli.

  We trooped upstairs in silence. She hung my coat up for me and had me wait in the game room while she made a pot of tea. She came back a few minutes later and closed the doors behind her.

  An ominous mood hung over us—the lights were low and steam was rising from the dragon-shaped teapot. She handed me a cup and finally spoke. “You have some explaining to do, young lady.”

  Was she kidding?

  “Excuse me?” I said. “You want me to explain why I made up a story about having to go to my voice coach when I actually had a secret rendezvous with the mayor? Oh wait—sorry. That’s not me, it’s you.”

  Becca’s eyes smiled as she raised her teacup to her mouth. “I didn’t say I don’t have some explaining of my own. But you were supposed to be in Stuy Town.”

  Now I was getting peeved. Was she my best friend or my personal keeper?

  “Yeah, I was there.” Becca looked at me like I was feeding her lies by the spoonful. “B, I know you’re just getting the hang of bikes, but there’s something you should probably know about them: they have a way of moving around. Fast.”

  “Whatever—you know you’re not supposed to go prowling around the alley.”

  I squinted in fury.

  “I wasn’t in the alley. I was on the street, like any person has the right to be, when I saw Mayor Irving. And I’m not even going to ask what you were doing breaking the no-boys rule. I just want to know what he was doing here. Is he, like, having a secret affair with Sills?”

  “Please.” Becca smiled and put her cup down. “The explanation is a whole lot less fun.”

  “I’ll be the judge of that.”

  My verdict ten minutes later: she was half right. The answer was pretty crazy, but not as fun as I’d hoped.

  Until now, I’d never really stopped to think about where the Moons got the ideas for their projects, but I would have been smart to. They didn’t just pull them out of thin air. They had a very special consultant.

  “The mayor comes up here and tells you what to do?” I was stunned.

  “He doesn’t tell us what to do,” she protested. “He comes to us with suggestions. And it’s up to us what, if any, projects we want to invest our time and …” Too uncomfortable to finish with the obvious word, she hugged her knees and twisted to the side.

  “It’s okay,” I told her her. “I’ve heard the word ‘money’ before.”

  “Well, it’s our families’ money, which makes things a little weirder,” she said, still facing away.

  “Why doesn’t he just deal directly with your parents?”

  She snorted. “Think, Claire.”

  “I don’t get it.”

  “It’s pretty simple. Our parents leave us to take care of things and they turn a blind eye. It’s safer they don’t know what’s going on. Otherwise something might—it might come out by accident that they had a hand in sprucing up the park or whatever.”

  “And if it did?” I could feel my nose scrunching up.

  “Are you kidding? If people knew how closely our families were working with City Hall, there’d be riots in the street. You know how cynical people are. Everyone would say our parents were buying the mayor off so their business deals would get approved.”

  “What deals?” I said skeptically, still digging.

  “Like my parents’ new ketchup factory and Reagan’s dad’s bid to buy the New York Post.“

  “Oh.” At least there was something I already knew about. “And that’s not what’s happening?”

  She steadied her breath and met my eye. “Not at all. This”—she motioned to our surroundings—”it’s a way of doing good things with no strings attached.”

  “And haven’t you ever worried that if the mayor kept showing up here, people might wonder what lies behind Star Foods Emporium?”

  Becca shrugged. “Mayor Irving is known to be involved in the Gramercy Park Neighborhood Association. Their office is two doors down from the deli.”

  “Wow, you have it all covered.” I looked around the room, as if the older Shuttleworths might be crouching in the shadows. “So how involved exactly are your parents in the Moons?”

  “In pocketbook only. They just make contributions to the Pookie Trust.”

  My head wasn’t processing things as fast as I’d like.

  “To what?” I said.

  “‘Pookie’ was what Gummy Salzman’s husband called her. Her will stipulated that a trust be set up to fund interesting anonymous projects. They’ve become a little more ambitious over the years. Most of what we do now is work with the mayor on things he doesn’t want to be so public about.”

  I glanced across the room, my eyes settling on the oil painting of Gummy Salzman. Her features were thick and her skin was tinged yellow. The best-looking thing about her was her deeply knowing eyes. “Okay,” I said, “but why doesn’t he just be public about them?”

  “Lots of reasons,” Becca said. “Some of the projects, like fixing a park fountain or cleaning up the zoo, wouldn’t be a favorite of taxpayers when we have serious things like murders and failing public schools to deal with. And sometimes there are heavy issues the mayor doesn’t want to come out and scare the public with.”

  My heart beat a little faster. “Like?”

  Becca smiled tightly. “Say there’s a confidential report that says there’s a risk that the city’s water supply will be contaminated. The mayor can either make it public and watch all eight million New Yorkers freak out and, like, die of dehydration, or he can install the recommended new filter and let people go ahead with their regular lives.”

  “You’re saying ignorance is bliss?”

  “Sometimes.”

  I licked my lips, taking in her explanation. “So the water, is that hypothetical situation the one you’re working on?”

  “That was last year.”

  “Wow. And now you’re on to …” I looked at her, waiting.

  Becca clasped her hands together. “Say there’s a secret report that says the Brooklyn Bridge isn’t so, um, safe.”

  I could tell by the way she was twisting her airplane ring that she wasn’t speaking hypothetically “Are you serious?” I exclaimed, my heart in my throat. “There’s about to be a terrorist attack?”

  Becca cradled her knees and rocked back and forth. “No, nothing that James Bond–y The bridge’s central cable is losing its strength and the only way to keep it is to reinforce it with a platinum lining. But platinum is rarer than gold. And crazy expensive.”

  My ears perked up at this. A dedicated supporter of the TSE cashmere and Christian Louboutin shoe empires, I’d never heard Becca declare anything to be too costly. “How crazy expensive?”

  “More crazy expensive than I’d care to say.” She looked embarrassed. “Long story short, the city can’t afford it—they’d rather shut down the bridge for a while and replace the weak cable with a new one altogether.”

  “And what’s so bad about that?” I asked. “Safety first, right?”

  “If any of the bridge’s cables are replaced, then the bridge loses its landmark status.”

  I still didn’t see what the big deal was.

  “So what? Since when were you into status?” I said.

  She shook her head. “You don’t get it. The current landmark status prohibits people from building anything near the bridge that is taller than a couple of stories. And if that goes out the window, real-estate developers will be able to do whatever they want with all the waterfront property.”

  “Oh.” I was starting to catch her drift. “And more ugly developments is not something we would want, is it?”

  “The developments’ hideousness is the least of it. They’d be so big they’d cover up most views of the bridge. You’d hardly be able to see it with all the minicities people want to build near the ba
ses.”

  I was stunned. “But the Brooklyn Bridge is one of New York’s—”

  “Most important landmarks. Second to only the Statue of Liberty. I know, I know. But when it was built it wasn’t supposed to last this long. And landmark laws are stupid like that.

  “So far this is all hush-hush.” She raised an eyebrow and drew in a breath. “There’s a public inspection scheduled for early April. If it fails, there’s no question, they’ll replace the cables with the superdurable plastic they’re using on new bridges all over the country. And that will be the end of the Brooklyn Bridge as we know it.”

  “Can’t your parents donate the platinum that the city needs?” I asked.

  Becca shook her head. “They don’t like to draw attention to themselves. Especially when they’re in the process of building a huge factory that needs the mayor’s approval every step of the way. But there’s another option.”

  “Lemme guess,” I said, starting to get the hang of it. “The Moons are installing the platinum cable the bridge needs?” She smiled encouragingly. “And you’re planning a party on the bridge that will cover up the real work you’re doing on the bridge? Just like you did at Grand Central?”

  “Good work, Voyante.” She smiled warmly. “It’s actually a movie shoot, not a party. Sills wrote this awesome script, it’s basically a remake of the bridge scene in the Alfred Hitchcock movie Vertigo. The mayor gave us a permit to close off the bridge for one night. During the shoot we’re going to have engineers pretending to be actors climb up the weak cable and secretly line it with platinum. At least, that was the plan.”

  “Was the plan?”

  Just then, Sills’s voice shot through the room. “Becca, we need you upstairs now.” She sounded as serious as I’d ever heard.

  “I’m coming,” Becca yelled back.

  The floorboard creaked as Sills retreated.

  Becca took one last sip of tea and got up. From her spot above, she studied me—a challenging look in her eye.

  “What’s going on?” I whispered. “Tell me.”

  “We ran into a bit of a roadblock. That’s why I was called up here today.” A resigned intake of breath. “I wasn’t supposed to invite the Half Moons, but it’s kind of late for that. Do you—are you—”

  “Up for it?” I finished off for her.

  She nodded hesitantly.

  “Why not?” I said as coolly as I could manage, but my palms were as hot as turbine engines.

  • • •

  “I told her everything,” Becca said when she stepped into the office upstairs. I’d never been inside the room before, and I couldn’t help gawking. It reminded me of the pictures I’d seen of fashion designers’ studios, its walls papered over with maps and postcards and dramatic doodles. The furniture was as colorful as if it had been selected by a child—there were strawberry Art Deco armchairs, a yellow see-through desk, and a peacock blue loveseat with a curlicue frame.

  Sills was seated behind the desk and Poppy was in the background, facing the window. A dark mood hung over the room. “Claire might be useful,” Becca said.

  “I’d say it’s a little late for useful,” said Sills. “We already got ourselves good and screwed.”

  “Well, what’s going on?”

  “I don’t think it’s your business,” Sills said to me. “No offense.”

  I grimaced. I knew as well as anyone else that the only times people say “no offense” are when offense should be taken.

  Becca turned to her. “We’re in so deep we don’t have time to keep up appearances. We can kick our new members out or fill them in and enlist their help.”

  “And I see you’ve gone ahead and made an executive decision.” I tensed at Sills’s words.

  “She’s as trustworthy as they come,” Becca promised.

  “She’d better be.” Sills eyed me pointedly.

  “I don’t get it,” Poppy said, distractedly running her fingers along the window’s wrought-iron grill. “Nobody could’ve snuck through.”

  Confusion warbled through me. “Wait—someone broke in?”

  “I thought she told you everything.” Sills rotated the computer screen to show me Moonwatcher.net’s latest post. The words “Bridge to Paradise” were written above a photograph of Sills and Poppy walking over the Brooklyn Bridge, their heads tilted skyward.

  I just stared, not sure how to respond. “The Helle Housers know?” I said at last.

  “Hard to tell.” Becca sighed. “If only that were the extent of the problem.” She opened a drawer and took out a pink iPod. “You’re going to love this.”

  “Thanks,” I said awkwardly as she passed it to me. “Is this a hand-me-down or something?”

  “Hardly,” Becca said. “Now put on ‘What’s Going On.’ It’s by Marvin Gaye.”

  “Thanks,” I snapped. “I thought it was Mozart.”

  “Just press play.” Becca looked at me seriously.

  While Sills got up to make sure the door was shut, I did as told and stuck the buds in my ears. “I don’t hear anything.”

  “That’s because there’s nothing to hear,” Becca said. “Now look at the screen.”

  I held up the machine for inspection. The words “Vertigo Girl” blazed across the pink machine’s display window.

  “It’s not an audio file,” Diana told me. “You can use MP3 players to save any kind of file.”

  “I know you can,” I said, my gravelly voice breaking in defensiveness. “My mom keeps transcripts of her interviews on hers.”

  “It’s Sills’s script,” Becca said. “Turn the dial and you’ll see the rest.”

  “It’s just a first draft.” Sills sounded embarrassed. “I was going to revise it.”

  I scrolled down and studied the document. In under a minute, I’d come across directions for a two-minute-long “silent study of the rain,” a scene of rhyming dialogue, and one where a woman named “Vertigo Girl” dances with a Bosc pear. It was starting to make sense why Sills was so self-conscious.

  “Wow.” I cleared my throat and tried to think of something diplomatic to say. “Looks artistic.”

  Becca flopped onto the couch and patted a spot next to her. “Go to scene three. It’s the bridge scene.”

  I dialed down according to her instructions.

  SAMURAI SAM

  What’s with the blindfold?

  VERTIGO GIRL

  (breathlessly)

  You know I hate being this high up.

  SAMURAI SAM

  Just look at me. It won’t be scary, I promise.

  11:18 p.m. power outage in districts 22, 23, 23b, 24, & 31 Downtown Manhattan and Lower Brooklyn. (Irving OK’d)

  11:32 p.m. Power restored.

  Vertigo Girl pulls off the mask and locks eyes with Sam. He touches her nose with the tip of his pinky. She succumbs to his classic seduction maneuver and they kiss passionately.

  I wanted to laugh. “The nose tickle is a classic seduction maneuver according to whom?”

  “Screw the nose tickle.” Becca gave me a worried look. “We had the script loaded onto two iPods, one for us and one for the mayor, and that’s it. We adjusted the iPods’ transmission capacities so there’s no way of anyone uploading it onto anything. It’s secure in the little pink machine.”

  “But we didn’t take something else into account,” Sills said.

  “What’s that?” I asked.

  “Theft,” Sills replied dryly.

  Poppy folded her arms. “When Sills got here this morning, the other one had been replaced with a decoy.”

  “Exhibit A.” Sills held up a pink iPod that was in a drawer. “It’s a dummy. Someone broke in and made off with the original.”

  “Well, you still have a copy,” I offered feebly. “You can make your movie.”

  “Think for a second,” Poppy said in an exasperated tone. “There’s a copy out there that links us to the mayor. They can take it to the press and out us.”

  My heart lurched. “Do you t
hink someone’s doing that?”

  “Not yet.” Becca shook her head. “The script barely means anything on its own. It’s practically a doodle. But if we were to go through with the plan and there really was a power outage while we shot on the bridge, the script would be very revealing. Our cover would be completely blown. Look for yourself.”

  I glanced back down at the script. Maybe the nose tickle was more powerful than I’d given it credit for. It had distracted me from the fact that the most important part was right before my eyes—the call for the power outage complete with the “Irving OK’d” in clear typeface.

  Deadly stuff, for the Moons and the mayor.

  “This is terrible,” I said.

  “More than you realize,” Poppy said in a clipped tone.

  Sills stepped in. “We have another file on the iPod with a laundry list of ten possible future projects.”

  “Nine,” Poppy corrected her. “The nine things the city needs the most. And unless we get that iPod back, those nine things are off limits.”

  “So,” said Becca, “if we do decide to fix anything else, it’s going to be …”

  “Totally lame?” I said.

  Sills nodded. “Maybe not ‘totally,’ but it certainly won’t be all that substantial. Unless something out of the blue hit New York that isn’t on the list.”

  “Like a hurricane,” said Poppy.

  “Or Bigfoot came to town,” added Becca

  “Shut up.” Poppy play-slapped her. “This is serious.”

  I braided my fingers together and stretched out my arms, thinking everything over as fast as I could.

  “Are there any signs that somebody broke into the clubhouse?”

  Becca shook her head no.

  “Could it be a Half Moon?” I said, still in shock from the idea.

  Sills was tugging at her movie star hair. “No. You’re the most clued-in of the bunch, and you didn’t have the slightest idea about any of this.”

  I tried not to feel the sting. “It’s got to be the Helle House girls, right?” I said, looking up to a quintet of halfhearted nods. “But they don’t know where the clubhouse is, do they?”