Dream Life

by Lauren Mechling

  Becca laughed uneasily. “You tell Louis I said anything and I’ll kill you.”

  “I won’t. Pinky swear.” I pulled the sheet down to show her I meant it. “You guys are perfect for each other.”

  “Don’t get ahead of yourself.” She twisted her airplane ring nervously. “There’s nothing going on.”

  “Yet.”

  She was squirming, and I was savoring every second of it.

  “Shut up,” she said.

  “You know you love it.” A beat. “Mrs. Ibbits.”

  “Any more and I’m gonna punchbowl you.”

  “If you keep up the dork routine, you’re never getting married.”

  In the morning sunlight poured into the room and Becca was on top of the red and white covers still in her jeans and red flats, the steady rise and fall of her shoulders telegraphing her deep sleep. We’d stayed up talking for a while, and we must have passed out at some point.

  The only sounds were the birds outside and Becca’s wispy breathing. I hadn’t felt this relaxed in ages. Just then synthesizer music ripped through the room, giving my friend a rude awakening. Then vocals kicked in, and the chorus of “Born in the U.S.A.” was going strong.

  Becca flipped over, her face striped with pillow wrinkles. “What did I tell you? Dad’s so-called smart house is the stupidest thing ever.”

  “It’s for me!” Andy screamed from downstairs. “The doorbell wires must’ve got messed up!”

  “Yeah!” Becca shot back. “So did my sleep!”

  Curiosity raged through me—what was Andy still doing here, and more important, who was coming by to pick him up?

  Becca shambled over to the window, dragging her limbs to play up her exhaustion.

  I got out of bed and casually joined her, pressing my nose against the window like a little kid at the back of a school bus. If only I were a little kid, and I still thought boys were gross. Instead, all my worst fears were confirmed. Andy was with a girl who had gorgeous long brown hair and one of those supermodel bodies that inspires the people blessed with them to lie and make up stories about getting teased for being “too gangly.”

  Before I knew what was happening, Becca was rapping on the windowpane.

  “Becca!” I hissed. “What are you doing?”

  “If he’s going to cut in on my sleep like this, he deserves a little abuse.”

  I ducked, but not in time. Andy spun around and caught my eye—though he probably couldn’t see that I was tearing up. We were four stories above and besides, Becca was stealing the spotlight, applauding like a cartoon version of an opera fanatic and screaming “Bravo!”

  When my friend finally stopped, she stomped back to the bed. “He totally ruined my morning.”

  Mine too.

  { 15 }

  Night of the Herbal Verbal

  Discounting out-and-out breaking and entering, there were two ways to get into the Helle House and see what their Sunday night “film study session” was all about. One option was to buy a two-hundred-dollar starter membership, though that would entail donating two hundred dollars too many to their cheesy cause and supporting their online stalking operation. The other was to get invited.

  If only it were as simple as that.

  The solution came to me in English class on Friday, in the middle of a pop quiz on The Grapes of Wrath. If nothing else, Henry Hudson, the most boring academic institution on the planet, was turning out to be a good setting for personal problem solving.

  The multiple-choice question I’d been working on (“Who stars in the movie adaptation of the book? a. Tom Cruise b. Steve McQueen c. Tom Hanks d. Henry Fonda) turned out to be constructive—and not only because I had a new contender for Most Idiotic Exam at Hudson. The word “star” sparked the memory of the dream I’d had where Sheila was sitting in the convertible and I’d given her a lollipop to get in the vehicle. A bolt of inspiration struck hard. I had to feed my way into her heart!

  Lucky for me, the Washington View Village’s resident tea and poetry society, Herbal Verbal, was due to take place in the Sunrise Room on Saturday night. Luckier for me, my family’s favorite poetess, Cheri-Lee Vird, was a founding member. And that made Sheila Vird a founding audience member. Her mom always dragged her along, and she could always be counted on to be in the back row, hiding a giant scowl behind an oversized chai tea.

  Cheri-Lee sounded excited when I called her to invite her and her daughter to a post-poetry dinner. “I’m making Indian,” I was sure to tell her. I knew these were magic words to her ears—when she was in her early twenties, Cheri-Lee spent a “life-altering” month at an ashram.

  “Are you?” she warbled. “Well, well, who am I to stand in the way of your nurturing instinct?”

  “To be honest,” I said, gearing up to be anything but, “the thing I really want to nurture is my friendship with Sheila.”

  Who knew words could actually taste bad?

  Cheri-Lee gasped. “I can’t quite believe my ears. Care to repeat that?”

  And so I did, painfully. We detectives sure deserved a raise.

  The next morning, Henry and I were walking down Houston Street, heading for Whole Foods. “What if I swallow it?” Henry spun my way and pushed the tip of his tongue against his very loose tooth. It was embedded in pulpy gum.

  “Then you’ll have an incisor in your stomach,” I said coolly. “Good for digestion.”

  “No way!” Henry looked thrilled, then caught himself in his moment of gullibility. “Ha, ha. You are such a comedian.”

  “That’s what you get for trying to gross me out. C’mon.”

  The Walk signal came on and I removed my grip from his shoulder and pushed him along.

  When we reached the market, a brief scan of the crowd told me Henry and I were probably the only people within a one-mile radius who didn’t have eco-friendly this is not a plastic bag sacks smugly slung over our shoulders. I wondered if it counted as environmentally responsible to buy new bags in different colors to match the season.

  My list consisted of one thing only: something I could pretend to have cooked. Henry and I made our way toward the prepared foods section, stopping along the way to taste any and all free samples on offer.

  My mouth was full with a new line of olive oil flavored gelato when a sign dangling from the ceiling caught my attention. It showed a picture of two chickens locked in embrace and over it were the words CHOCOLATE TASTING SATURDAY AFTERNOON AISLE 8.

  I’d already had that dream about kissing a chicken—was there any way this was a coincidence? Though even if it was, there was chocolate involved so I had no choice.

  Henry and I reached the Promised Land in no time. There was a small crowd forming and I understood what the chickens on the sign had been all about: the boutique-chocolate brand was called Kissing Chickens and the chocolates were egg shaped.

  “That’s from Venezuela,” a woman said when I stepped into the tiny spot between two freebie-loaders and helped myself to a sample. Still chewing, I looked up to see a plump woman whose apron identified her as a “Cocoa Technician.” She went on, “I find it tastes rather grassy. What are your impressions?”

  Uh … that it’s free chocolate. And therefore it’s good?

  Normally I would’ve backed off, but Henry was freeloading up a storm, and it would have been downright cruel to put an end to his euphoria. “It has a satisfying counterpoint,” I told her, trying out one of the few foodie terms I could remember hearing Hallie use.

  “Interesting observation.” The woman frowned. “Let’s see what you think of the Kenyan. It’s subtler.” She handed me another chocolate oval. “For its flavor to reach its potential, you have to let it melt slowly on your tongue.”

  Weird, but I could dig it. At least I wouldn’t have to talk to her while it dissolved.

  I took it, eager for another trip to chocolate heaven, and just as I’d placed it on my tongue, who should come rolling by but Sills and Reagan, both looking head-turningly cool in their tweed fedor
as and belted overcoats.

  “You don’t understand,” Sills was saying, “it’s the second-most prestigious film festival in Miami.”

  “I didn’t know there were any film festivals in Miami.” Reagan stopped in her tracks. “Look!”

  I went bright red, but it turned out she wasn’t talking about me. In fact, I was pretty sure they didn’t even see yours truly.

  “Sugar!” Reagan cried.

  Granted, I was stuck in a crowd, but something told me if I weren’t so small and unassuming, my fellow Moons would have noticed me. Sills gave the chocolate display an unimpressed onceover and kept going. And Reagan barely touched down for ten seconds, just long enough to grab a fat handful of free chocolates, but not long enough for any of the “Cocoa Technicians” to bum-rush her and subject her to a hundred questions.

  Talk about the story of my life. Here I was, letting a stranger quiz me for hours, while people like Reagan breezed around, helping themselves to anything they wanted.

  When the woman asked for my verdict, all I could say was: “I’m dumbstruck.”

  “I thought you’d like it,” she replied, and went on to tell me about the one-day-only baker’s dozen special. “Will you be paying cash or charge?”

  Cheri-Lee came over directly after the poetry reading that night. After banging into the apartment, she made her presence known with a customarily dramatic announcement. “What are those heavenly spices? Sheila, will you get a whiff of that?”

  Crap!

  I wasn’t even dressed yet and I hadn’t gotten around to setting the table.

  Running out of the kitchen, I burst into the living area to turn on the sitar CD Hallie had lent me for the occasion. I cranked up the volume and startled Dad, who’d drifted off to sleep while waiting at his wheelie desk for my hostessing debut.

  “Get any good work done tonight, Gus?” Mom laughed and planted a kiss on his bald spot.

  “I … I was just sorting out a structural problem.” He sat up quickly.

  Leaving the two of them to fawn over each other, I went over to Cheri-Lee and Sheila and tried to butter them up. “Can I get you a drink or take your coat?”

  It came out too fast and I ran my hands over my bob, hoping my hair didn’t look as crazed as I suspected it might.

  “One thing at a time,” Cheri-Lee chuckled, slipping out of her poncho. “This was such a fab idea, Claire. Though I’m sorry you couldn’t come to the event. Laird Humbleward, that media studies professor in our building, did a positively transporting recitation on solitude in the Himalayas.”

  I cast a look at Sheila. If there was one thing we could bond over, it was her mother’s nuttiness. But she just pulled her black coat tight around her body and stared coldly across the room. “We eating soon?” she asked. “I have to be somewhere in a little bit.”

  Something told me it was going to be a harder night than I’d bargained for.

  My parents knew I couldn’t cook but were willing to support what Mom called my baby step toward reconciliation with Sheila and promised to stay mum about the meal’s not-so-homemade provenance. Mom threw together a salad and Henry helped me set the table. The meal got off to a fine enough start, if you were willing to overlook the fact that I forgot to put out water glasses or thoroughly heat the frozen nan bread and that Sheila was too busy sending text messages under the table to eat, drink, or speak to me.

  My chances of getting an invite to Helle House were sinking by the minute. How had it failed to occur to me that you could only count on Kiki’s golden rule of reciprocity (“invitations beget invitations”) if both people have the barest sense of manners?

  Even Cheri-Lee, usually blind to her daughter’s horribleness, was growing agitated. She kept trying to bring Sheila into the conversation, and when she leaned across the table to scoop seconds onto her plate, I saw her pluck the phone out of her daughter’s lap.

  “What are you doing?” Sheila growled.

  “Just trying to get you into the spirit of things. Did you taste the saag paneer? It reminds me exactly of my days in Bombay!”

  “Mom, nobody says ‘Bombay’ anymore. It’s Mumbai.”

  “Oh, Sheepee.” Cheri-Lee sounded unhurt. “Who raised you to see the world so literally? Now why don’t you tell Claire that hilarious story you were telling me this afternoon?”

  No way. Sheila was capable of telling a funny story?

  “Which one?” Sheila groaned.

  “The one about how you found out that your English teacher writes those horrible teen novels on the side.” Cheri-Lee turned to smile at me. “You know, the books where all the kids shoplift Gucci purses and have intimate parties.”

  “Inuit parties?” Henry chimed in with a hopeful look on his face.

  I could barely suppress a smirk but Sheila’s face was set straight as a Sunday school teacher’s. “And?” she said in a tone to match. “You just told the whole story.”

  Awkward glances all around, I tried to think fast.

  “Sheila,” I started, “I feel bad, holding you up like this. We can just hang out another time if you want.”

  Like, um, tomorrow night. At your stupid clubhouse.

  “Sure.” She retrieved her phone from her mother’s pocket and brushed it off. “Another night would be better. I’m supposed to be somewhere else.” She eyed me icily, and I half suspected she knew I was a Moon.

  “Are you going to the Hudson Debate Club party?” I asked.

  My provocation worked: Sheila reeled at the suggestion with a horrified “A ziff!” It took me a few seconds to realize she was saying “As if.”

  “She’s going to that club,” Cheri-Lee supplied. “Or should I say cult?”

  Actually, you could say stalking and burglary concern.

  “The club you were talking about before?” I was lacing my voice with all the admiration and envy I could stomach. “That place sounded so cool.”

  Cheri-Lee took the bait. “Say, Sheila, why don’t you bring Claire by sometime?”

  Man, this was too easy.

  “I think Claire already has a friend in a club.” Sheila shot me a nasty glare.

  Fat chance I was going to fess up about Becca’s identity as a Blue Moon.

  “Don’t I know it,” I said, trying to infuse my voice with a sad sack quality. “Louis has belonged to the Racquet Club forever and I barely ever get to go. They’re weird about guests.”

  Sheila threw me a dirty look.

  “Sheila has guest privileges,” Cheri-Lee piped in. “And you haven’t used them yet, have you?”

  Bingo.

  Sheila’s mouth was quivering like Jell-O on a turbulent plane ride, but I was ahead of her. “Really? That would be amazing. Maybe sometime next week. Oh shoot—” Then I tried to imagine awful things, Didier and Margaux’s tank being drained, Henry getting eaten by a wild boar, Andy kissing that leggy girl I’d seen outside his window.

  “What’s the matter, Claire?” Dad sounded worried. My Method acting was working wonders.

  “I just remembered I have a …”

  Think quick, Claire.

  And then I saw one of my grandmother’s pink-lined note cards in a heap on the sideboard. “I told Kiki I’d help set up her mystery-murder thingie next week, so I’m going to be busy pretty much every day starting Monday.”

  “Another week, then,” Sheila was all too happy to add.

  “What a drag,” Mom said dejectedly. “This was starting to sound like a great plan.” I swear, Sheila and I could blow up each other’s apartments and our moms would still want us to be friends.

  “Hold up, you two.” Cheri-Lee was looking especially proud. “What about tomorrow? It is only Saturday.”

  I forced a chuckle and brought my hand to my forehead. “God, I’m totally losing my mind, aren’t I? Tomorrow would work.”

  “That would be sweet,” Dad said. “Old friends.”

  I was going to gag.

  “Fab,” Cheri-Lee agreed. “Why don’t you two just ch
eck in tomorrow and finalize the plan?”

  Sheila gave us both a black look.

  “Aw, Sheepee,” her mom said. “It’s just a one-time thing. Nobody’s saying you have to make a weekly tradition out of it.” She looked over at my parents, obviously embarrassed about her daughter’s subhuman behavior.

  “Fine.” Sheila slumped back in her seat. “You know, there are rules and regulations. Like, there’s a smart dress code. I wouldn’t wear one of your hand-me-downs.”

  It took no small amount of willpower to resist the urge to tell her that Kiki’s old wardrobe was museum-worthy “I’ll see what I can dig up,” I told her.

  And I meant it in more ways than one.

  { 16 }

  Roll Out the White Carpet

  My bladder was about to explode and I raced to the putty-colored door with a WC sign. There was no answer when I knocked, but when I flung it open, a girl wearing a long black dress was stooped over the stone bowl sink, scrubbing her hands. I left and tried the next door down the hallway, but the same girl was at the same sink, still washing her hands. By the third time I thought I’d found an empty room only to barge in on her, I knew I was in trouble—and not because I was annoying her. I needed relief like never before, and there was no toilet in sight.

  Thank God for my Le Coq Sportif alarm clock’s annoying crowing—my bathroom dream had nearly caused me to wet my bed. I had to get up early. I didn’t put it past my slithery neighbor to slip out for the day and turn off her cell phone. I pulled my sleep mask up my forehead and dialed Sheila’s home number before I got out of bed.

  “Do you know how early it is?” Sheila asked when she took the phone from her mom.

  “Sorry,” I said. “Just wanted to make sure we’re still on for tonight!” I was trying to inject some sweetness into my husky voice.