Dream Life

by Lauren Mechling

  “Tonight,” Sheila repeated, “yeah, I wanted to talk to you about that … I think we’re going to have to resched.” Cheri-Lee had to be standing by—instead of out-and-out telling me I was not welcome, Sheila was trying to wiggle out of our plans in a more subtle way. “The club’s having this event and I sort of volunteered to help out. It might be awkward, with you not knowing anyone else.”

  “That’s not a problem,” I said, steamrolling over her excuse. “I’ll just bring a friend.”

  My suggestion earned a groan, but I pretended not to notice and asked what time we should show up.

  “I don’t even know the details yet,” she hissed. “It’s barely eight fifteen in the morning.”

  “Are you serious?” I faked alarm. “I’m supposed to meet Ian for breakfast.” It wasn’t a total lie—we had lunch plans. “I gotta hurry or he’s going to kill me. We’ll just swing by at seven, and if it’s too early we’ll help you set up, okay?”

  I must have been getting good at pushing her buttons; all that came out of her was a strange noise, like a dragon being strangled.

  Who knew it was such a beautiful sound?

  At school on Friday, Ian had told me he wanted to hang out over the weekend. His suggestion had caught me off guard. Weirder still, not only did he insist on picking me up at the Washington View Village gate at eleven-thirty on Sunday morning, but he showed up without his signature wheelie suitcase.

  “Forget something?” I asked, eyeing the empty space by his left foot.

  “It’s the weekend. Light load,” he said with a shrug. “What do you think of that sushi restaurant on La Guardia Place? Wanna go there?”

  I shook my head. “You try having pet fish and eating the stuff. How do you feel about new agey joints with surprisingly yummy appetizers?”

  “Show me the way.” He followed me through Washington Square Park with no complaints.

  Ian fit right in at Uki’s Organic, with his scrawny physique and Bugs Bunny T-shirt that had a picture of a cockroach with bunny ears.

  “So what’s up?” I dragged a pita chip through spicy hummus while we waited for the rest of our meal.

  “You know, the usual survival tactics. Drawing. Guitar Hero. Cheetos. Repeat.” He put his napkin on his lap. “Oh—I started plotting out a graphic novel, Dirt High. It’s going to be about a school where half the population is actually dead. The first scene is going to have the school bus picking all the kids up at the cemetery.”

  “Sounds killer,” I said, and I meant it. “But what’s up with this? If I remember correctly, you don’t love to do the whole ‘hobnobbing in public’ thing. Your phrase.”

  His smile conveyed a twinge of embarrassment. “Okay, there is something I wanted to ask. But can it wait until the food gets here?”

  Wow—there really was an agenda.

  “Why not?” Thankfully, the waitress was right behind him with our plates, so I knew I wouldn’t die from curiosity.

  He took a token bite of his sweet and sour brown rice pilaf, then got to work. “So remember I told you about the Toro Boy movie?”

  “Of course. The movie adaptation where Toro Boy gets diamond horns and a supermodel girlfriend?” I took a forkful of artichoke dip.

  “Good memory you’ve got there.” He paused. “The other day, Rick Evans, the Toro Boy creator, came into the shop and confirmed our worst fears. The Global Media movie people sent him a copy of the script and it’s even worse than we imagined.” He went on to detail the changes. “No more diamond horns, and guess what they’re replacing them with.”

  “What, antlers?”

  “I wish. A Lamborghini with horns painted on it.”

  “Ew, sounds like something one of Britney Spears’s husbands would drive,” I said. “Why doesn’t this Rick guy call the producers?”

  “Like he didn’t try.” Ian’s eyes bulged out. “He sold the rights, like, fifty years ago, when he was in his twenties and willing to give everything away for a month’s rent. The same thing happened to the Superman creator.” He shook his head. “I’m not sure you understand what a big deal this is, but Rick Evans is the Picasso of the comic-book world.”

  “I thought that was you,” I said, licking my finger clean of black olive paste.

  “Seriously, he’s the godfather. The Diana Ross and the Agatha Christie and whoever the editor of French Vogue—”

  “No, no, I get it.” It was embarrassing hearing my interests lumped together in one breath. Was I really that easy to typecast? “So what do you want from me?” I waved a fried tofu stick at him.

  “Well …” He coughed. “We Propellerheads are all funny-looking dudes.” Another cough. “And you, my dear, are not.”

  I felt myself make my confused duck face. “Thanks?”

  He went on to tell me about a protest they were planning outside of Global Media. “It’s going to be totally peaceful. We’re just going to hold up some picket signs and hand out mini-comic pamphlets. Why are you narrowing your eyes at me?”

  I realized that I must have been sleepier than I’d realized and forced my eyes wide open. “So you want me to help out?” I asked.

  He nodded. “We’re asking all the females we know to come, in case there’s any media. Not to objectify you or anything, but nobody’s going to care if it’s just a bunch of comic dorks.”

  Flattering as it was to be asked to be a poster girl, I’d signed the Moon contract that said media was to be shunned. But that rule was meant to keep us from posing for things like “It Girl” spreads in fashion magazines, not help out our favorite people’s good causes, right?

  “I’m an almost-yes,” I told him. “Let me think it over a little more.”

  “Please?”

  I pointed at Ian’s nearly untouched plate. “Eat up. It’s going to get cold.”

  “Going to?” He sounded amused. “How do you think it was when it got here?”

  Unable to bring any of the Full Moons as my date to Helle House for obvious reasons, I ended up inviting Hallie to accompany me on my iPod-finding mission.

  “This is so fun, I feel like we’re in a Pink Panther movie,” Hallie said on our walk from the Twenty-third Street subway station to the clubhouse. “I put on a disguise and everything.”

  “That right?” I stole a long glance at her. She was as all-over-the-place-looking as ever, despite her attempts to disguise herself. Her lips were painted an iridescent purple and her multi colored hair was piled up in a bun that resembled a bird’s nest. She was going to stick out like a nudist uncle at a family reunion.

  Then again, I didn’t look that different from my usual self, either, in my knee-length red Givenchy cocktail dress and black cat eyeliner. My hair was in a bob that I’d only had enough time to dry halfway.

  “Looks like our job just started,” Hallie said, pointing across the street. A cluster of girls in spiky heels and oversized handbags was tottering in the same general direction as us. They were definitely Helle Housers—one of them was holding up a digital video recorder, probably getting footage for the homemade reality television show Poppy had told us about.

  As we approached the clubhouse door, Hallie and I went over the plan—or rather, the lack of one—for the millionth time.

  “We just have to act natural and make sure we don’t get kicked out before the film lecture starts,” I told her. “So no opening drawers or interrogating members about their pink iPod.”

  “But what if one of them has a really cool one?” she asked, waiting for me to look peeved. “I’m kidding! You really need to chill out. I promise, I’m not an idiot.”

  “Sorry,” I said. “I’m just a little nervous.”

  “And I’m a walking oasis of calm,” she said sarcastically.

  We got buzzed into the nondescript door at the club’s address and walked up to the second-floor entrance with mounting apprehension. I was dreading the moment when the hostess told me Sheila hadn’t left my name at the door and sent me packing. It was a pleasant surp
rise, then, to discover there was no formal reception area. Just a doughy-faced woman manning a collapsible coat rack.

  We handed over our coats and set off on a self-guided tour. Walking through the club was a bit like braving a snowstorm. Apart from the “spice room,” every couch, rug, wall, and table was blinding white. When we reached the edge of the “chill lounge” Hallie bit down a laugh. I turned to give her a warning look. “Sorry, I just saw that girl say she’s upping her membership level so she can stay past nine o’clock,” she said, pointing to someone in the distance.

  “Come again?”

  “That’s how they do it here,” she reminded me. “You pay for your perks. Junior-level members can only spend a few hours a week here.”

  “Yeah, yeah—that’s old news. What do mean you saw her say that?”

  “I grew up in noisy restaurants.” She smiled. “I read lips.”

  “For real?” I was incredulous.

  “Trick of the trade.”

  This was too weird.

  “Your hair’s on fire,” I mouthed, still skeptical.

  She narrowed her eyes at me and patted her messy bun. “Don’t joke about that. With all the products I put in it, we’d all go up in flames.”

  This was too crazy. I racked my brain for any unflattering things I might have said about Hallie when she was in the same room. I was pretty sure I was safe, but still, it was freaky.

  I was feeling a little dizzy, and let her lead me across the club. As expected, there were nongirl people everywhere, though I wouldn’t go so far as to call them “guys.” They all seemed bloodless, with their overly styled hair and clenched jaws. One of them was concentrating on wiping down his leather shoes with a handkerchief while a girl sat on the arm of his white chair. Another was fixing the knot of his cashmere scarf in one of the clubhouse’s many mirrors.

  At some point a British-sounding voice came over the loudspeaker. “The film study event will be starting shortly. Please flow into the library.”

  Flow? This place was reaching new heights of ridiculousness by the minute.

  Once in the library, we leaned against a wall that had been painted to look like a bookshelf. I glanced around, as if the iPod would be filed away between a fake edition of Lolita and To Kill a Mockingbird.

  “How long have you been here?” Sheila materialized, surprised to see me. Her tone was no less spiky than the tip of her stiletto boot, which was jutting into my calf.

  “Just a little while.” I jumped back and motioned to Hallie, introducing the two of them.

  Sheila ignored my friend and narrowed her eyes at me. “You know, it’s customary to announce yourself when you show up to someone else’s club. You really shouldn’t be wandering around unsupervised.”

  Unsupervised? Since when was Sheila my babysitter?

  “Guys, pay attention.” A nearby club member jabbed me and directed us to the front of the room, where a Barbie look-alike was teetering on a faux-leather white cube, addressing the crowd. Was she about to raise the curtain on the stolen iPod?

  “I know how extra-cool an event like tonight’s is for all you movie buffs,” she said. “I’m pleased to introduce filmmaker Orly Matthews, who happens to be an Elle alum.” She paused for a smattering of applause, and Hallie and I exchanged confused expressions. The girl went on, “Orly will make a few remarks and then she’ll stick around for cocktail hour to answer all your burning questions.”

  “Good,” I murmured to Hallie. “I have a few of those.”

  The lights dimmed and Orly Matthews stepped to the front of the room to introduce the movie. My heart sunk when she said she was here to promote a documentary she’d made about growing up rich called Daddy’s Little Girl.

  Could this event have nothing to do with Vertigo Girl, but instead a stupid socialite’s so-called filmic autobiography? No way.

  Or yes way. Orly’s movie cut between shots of the Matthews family vacation properties and confessional style interviews where Orly stared at the camera and philosophized about “asset management” and the “burden of privilege.”

  “This can’t be happening,” I whispered to Hallie.

  “I know,” she said. “Talk about two hundred thumbs down.”

  The movie was horrible, without a trace of a pink iPod, and left me feeling utterly dejected. Our fact-finding mission was a total bust. As soon as the lights came back on, I got up and told my host we had to jet. “You know how Kiki gets if I miss her Sunday-night Scrabble party.”

  Sheila’s lip curled and she accepted a drink from a girl who’d come around with a tray. “I’m not sure ‘jet’ is the right word to use when you’re talking about going to visit an old lady, but whatevs.”

  “I guess we can’t all be part of the real jet set,” I retorted.

  Sensing my sarcasm, Sheila opened her mouth in indignation, but before she could spit any venom, one of her new sisters glided over and took her by the arm. “You have to meet Hanson. He’s got an amazing stock portfolio and he’s recently single.”

  Sheila shot me a wicked parting glance as the two whipped around and went off in search of the young investor. Everything to do with Sheila was so polluted, I felt like taking a shower then and there.

  I also felt stupid and frustrated beyond belief. The iPod was as within my reach as eternal youth.

  Elbowing my way through the crowd, my mind was spinning and everything was a blur of mirrors and cocktails and ash blond hair. Then I saw something that made me feel a little better.

  In the corner of the room, a sandy-blond girl was on a phone call. Nothing remarkable there, except for this little tidbit: she was wearing a gold bracelet that coiled around her wrist and ended with a big snake head. A head that looked remarkably like the one in my dream.

  I was more awake than I had been in ages.

  Bull’s-eye! I mean—snake’s-eye! Whatever-eye!

  I grabbed Hallie and pulled her aside. “See the girl on the phone?” I gasped, moving around to stand between her and my friend. “Do me a favor. Pretend you’re talking to me and tell me what she’s saying.” Hallie looked at me like she wasn’t sure she wanted to play along. I had to come up with a cover for my strange talents. “I just,” I started, “I got a weird vibe from her. I think she’s on to us.” I took two drinks off a tray and passed one to Hallie. “Pretend you’re having fun.”

  Hallie took a sip and her eyes bugged.

  “It’s gross, I know,” I said. “Just pretend to drink it.”

  “It’s not that.” Her face fell. “It’s what she said.”

  I was overcome with a weird sense of dread mixed with joy

  Hallie went on, “She just said some Moons crashed the party and it’s safe.”

  “She said they have the iPod?” I whispered.

  “She didn’t say ‘iPod.’ Shh …” Hallie was trying to concentrate. “She said that Al Capone’s taking care of it.”

  My head rippled with confusion. Al Capone was the original Scarface, the toughest gangster of them all. I’d heard about him a couple of years ago, when Kiki and her posse had gone to his estate auction at Christie’s auction house. Edie had tried to buy a plate of bulletproof glass from his Cadillac, but was outbid by the pro wrestler Captain Smackdown.

  But who my age ever talked about a dead gangster?

  “Al Capone?” I said. “Must be some kind of code. But this means they have the iPod, right?”

  “She might,” Hallie said matter-of-factly “All she said was ‘it.’”

  “And that ‘it’s’ safe. What else can she be talking about?” I was overcome with glee. “But how did she know we’re Moons if none of the other hundreds of people said anything about it?”

  “Can we do this puzzle piecing outside?” She tugged me by the elbow. “She’s headed our way. And I don’t have to be able to read lips to tell that she’s not so pleased to see us.”

  { 17 }

  All Scrambled Up

  Hallie and I wasted no time rushing onto the st
reet. We jumped in a cab and hightailed it to the Moonery to report what we’d overheard. Or, to be technical about it, overseen. When we got to the Moonery, Stinko was too entranced by an episode of Family Guy to acknowledge us. We rushed past the curtain and up the stairway. The place was empty except for Diana, who was passed out on the couch, tendrils of red hair falling onto her face.

  “Diana!” I shouted. “It’s totally them!”

  The Moonery’s resident napper sat up slowly and squinted into the light. She was wearing a camisole that appeared to be exclusively made of Saran Wrap and strategically placed embroidery Trying not to stare, I told her what we’d seen at Helle House.

  “They have the iPod?” she drawled in a voice thick with sleep.

  “Well, we’re pretty sure,” I said. “The girl on the phone recognized us as Moons and she definitely had something she was hiding from us. What else could it be?”

  “Jeez,” she said slowly. “So we were right. I’ll set up a brainstorming meeting.”

  I looked over at Hallie for support. How could Diana be acting so blasé?

  “Shouldn’t we call Becca and the rest now?” I was practically panting.

  “We’ll talk tomorrow,” Diana assured me. “I won’t be able to get through to them now. They all went to a nine o’clock screening of Terror High Three.” She must have been able to sense how let down I was feeling. “Becca’s idea,” she added, as if that was going to make me feel any better.

  I left the Moonery and got home a little after ten. Mom was the only one up. Her laptop was burning bright on the kitchen table, which I took to mean she still hadn’t finished her “Priscilla Pluto” horoscope column, which is due every Monday morning.

  “Virgo,” she said, by way of greeting. I could tell she needed help. And as luck would have it, I’d been thinking about a particular Virgo’s future on the elevator ride up.

  “You know what you want and you know how to get it,” I said. “Don’t skimp on sleep. A week of hard work awaits you.”