Dream Life

by Lauren Mechling

  “Thanks?” I said unsurely and turned toward the door, I glanced in the coffee shop’s mock-Victorian mirror and caught sight of myself in a curly black wig, peacock feather hat, and one of Kiki’s old costumes from her days as a Coney Island Follies showgirl. It had looked glamorous at home, but now I wasn’t so sure.

  We made our way outside. The setting sun was casting long shadows on the street, and Alex didn’t look half as cute as I remembered. I tried to paste his normal hair back on his head with my imagination. There was no way Andy would have played the part of “dapper oilman” in a suit the color of a grape jelly bean.

  “So remind me what’s supposed to happen at this murder-mystery party,” Alex said. “Is someone going to get killed or something?”

  “No, somebody supposedly already did,” I told him. “When we get there we’re all going to get a mock-newspaper report of the murder along with four clues. Kiki wants us to approach each other and ask ‘Where were you at the time of the crime?’ and stuff like that. Then they’ll announce the murderer at the end of the night.”

  “I still don’t completely get it,” Alex said. “How do you win?”

  “It’s not a win thing.” I was starting to get peeved. “It’s just Kiki’s idea of fun, having all her friends dress up and ask each other silly questions.”

  “If you say so,” he said. We were silent the rest of the walk to the industrial warehouse where the party was being held.

  A muttonchopped man in a conductor’s uniform stepped out the door and blew a whistle in our faces. “All aboard!”

  I didn’t realize who it was until I saw the telltale skull ring. “Clem?”

  “It’s Conductor Flannagan tonight. Tickets, please!” He fed our invitations into a hole puncher and handed them back to us along with a fake-newspaper clipping and four clues. “See you inside.”

  I was still marveling at Clem’s new facial hair as we wended our way through the backstage corridor. It was crammed with plastic plants and fake brick walls left over from an old production.

  The second we stepped through the Showgirl Express door, I was instantly overcome with guilt for having ever sided against Jon-Jon. This was the coolest party I’d ever seen. He hadn’t merely decorated the theater to look like an old train—he’d practically built a whole train, complete with separate cars and wide windows and chugga-chugga sound effects.

  Everybody had followed Kiki’s orders and showed up in the most outrageous costumes—or, in my parents’ case, outrageously grim burlap sacks. I quickly scanned the place for Becca, who was nowhere to be seen, then watched in admiration as a gangster in a pin-striped suit sidled up to a sixty-something showgirl and told her, “I know two things when I see them, Dollface, talent and trouble. And I think I’m seeing double.”

  Alex’s eyes were getting shiny. “This is amazing.”

  “Told you so,” I said proudly.

  Jon-Jon had filled the party with theme-appropriate snacks: magnifying glass–shaped sugar cookies, mini blood sausages, and a mound of pâté in the shape of a revolver. I took two crystal glasses of blood orange juice from the bar, but when I turned around to hand my date his drink, he was no longer on hand.

  I found him a few minutes later in the first class car, talking to an older woman who was wearing what looked like an Oriental carpet around her head. She had an expression of distress, and when she saw me coming over, she seemed to heave in relief.

  “Claire,” Alex said, “this is Fran Haze, the filmmaker. I saw her do a Q and A at Film Forum last year. How does your grandmother know her?” He was practically panting.

  “How does she know anyone?” I shrugged and smiled in Fran’s direction. I could tell she wanted to go back to playing murder mystery “So, where were you at the time of the murder?” I asked her.

  “Hold up, hold up.” Alex passed a small white rectangle Fran’s way. “I’m studying film, and if you’re ever looking for somebody to mentor, or even just want to shoot the breeze, don’t hesitate to call me.”

  I cringed at his obliviousness.

  “Thank you,” she said warily. “I think I’m going to breeze thataway.” She gestured vaguely across the car. “I see some … people I know.”

  “Sorry if that was weird,” Alex said. I was so embarrassed for him, I didn’t know what to say. “I just find adults so much easier to talk to than people our age. Sometimes I wonder if I’m an old man trapped in a fifteen-year-old’s body.”

  He chuckled lightly and, much to my horror, turned and proceeded to buttonhole more of Kiki’s friends. It wasn’t long before he was greasing palms with a jazz pianist, an exiled Iranian cinematographer, and Andre Rabinowitz, the famous Columbia dean.

  I could only take so much, and ended up settling on a velvet bench in the Way Station, wondering why I’d ever invited somebody whose idea of a good time was to pass out his business card—even though he didn’t have a business. Pushing thoughts of Alex to the back of my head, I concentrated on the dance floor. Past the old showgirls and mobsters, my “vagabond” parents were dancing cheek to cheek. I wondered if the burlap was chafing their skin.

  Off in the corner, I saw a young man with a wimbledon #1 trophy hanging around his neck and his date, whose sign said METROPOLITAN OPERA DIVA, swinging each other around. Louis and Becca were pretending to be making fun of the old-fashioned moves, doing everything bigger and deeper than everyone else, but I could read between the lines: they couldn’t contain their happiness. Everything inside me went sunny.

  “Well, isn’t this cute?” came a familiar voice.

  I snapped out of my reverie to see the birthday girl hovering above me. She was decked out in a blue sequined frock and holding a plate of miniature hamburgers.

  “I know,” I told Kiki, looking over in time to see Louis guide Becca into a dip. “They’re finally succumbing to their destiny!”

  “Not them. This tomfoolery.” Kiki waved Alex’s card an inch away from my nose. “This buffoon claims he knows you.”

  “Oh yeah,” I croaked. “That’s Alex. He’s here as the dapper oilman.”

  “But that role was created for Andy, was it not?”

  I sucked in a deep breath. “I had to find an understudy.”

  Kiki shook her head gravely.

  “And what about that culinary fellow?”

  “Ian Kitchen?” I cast a guilty look down at my shoes. I hadn’t taken any of his calls since the flying egg incident. “He couldn’t make it.”

  She humphed. “We’ll take this up later. For now, I want you to go and tell your friend to cease and desist immediately. My parties are not networking opportunities for anybody, much less youngsters with crass manners.” She turned around and started to interrogate a man in a military uniform about his whereabouts on the night in question. Becca caught my eye and waved enthusiastically at me. I returned the gesture and then, my head hanging low from Kiki’s scolding, shuffled out of the Way Station and searched the other cars for the offender I’d unleashed on the party.

  “Looking for your ticket or something?” somebody asked me in the smoking car.

  Even though he was shrouded in a cloud of smoke, I knew who it was in a heartbeat.

  He’d come!

  “Andy?” My voice was shot through with joy

  We locked eyes, and it took every bit of self-control not to wrap my arms around him and kiss him until the party shut down.

  “What are you doing in the smoking car?” he asked, staring at me as if in a trance.

  “Um, what are you doing at Kiki’s party at all?” I narrowed my eyes, in an effort to seem angry with him, but something about the way he smiled told me I just looked like a little kid who was still learning how to wink.

  He extended his arm. He was holding a blue box with a red ribbon. “For Kiki,” he said.

  “That was nice of you.” I accepted the gift, concentrating hard on not making any skin-to-skin contact. But he was the one to touch the small of my back. “Not bad. You should w
ear crazy costumes more often. Very becoming.” His hand lingered for a little rub, and a warm sensation spread through my body. “So as you can probably guess, there’s another reason I came. I wanted to explain something. About before, when—”

  “Hey, babe,” came a sinus-congested voice. Before Andy could say anything more, Alex had wiggled into the space next to me. Andy wasted no time lifting his hand from my back and stepping away from me.

  “Andy!” I said quickly. “This is—”

  “Alex.” He slipped him a card.

  “Wow, I don’t know that many guys our age with business cards.” Andy flashed Alex the universal you-are-a-raving-lunatic smile, then threw in a conciliatory, “Nice touch.”

  “You can get them for free on the Internet,” Alex provided. “The Web site’s on the back.”

  Andy’s gaze traveled to where Alex was resting his hand. On my waist. His face fell like a broken elevator and I let off a skittish squeak. “Do you want a drink or anything?” I offered desperately.

  “Nah, not tonight.” Andy looked devastated. “I didn’t … I … I gotta go. Good luck to you … both.”

  And with that, he bolted into a cloud of smoke.

  Desperation burbled up inside of me and I pushed Alex’s hand away. I had to track Andy down.

  I ran off and scanned every car high and low, and threaded through the dance floor too many times to count.

  “Watch it, lady!” Becca apprehended me when I was passing her and Louis. “You gonna dance with us or what?”

  “In a minute,” I told them, and kept going, moving through all of the cars.

  When hope was lost, there was only one place I wanted to be.

  Alone in a toilet stall, I buried my wet face in my palms and tried to comfort myself by thinking of all the terrible things that hadn’t happened. I hadn’t spilled my drink on anyone. I hadn’t vomited on national television. Henry hadn’t come down with a terminal illness.

  But none of that really helped. And when I got out of the stall and checked myself out in the mirror, I saw the night was even worse than I’d realized. And no, I’m not talking about the mascara tracks running down my face.

  The real problem was about eight inches to the south.

  My cameo necklace was gone.

  { 19 }

  Hide and Go Seek

  When I was done crying and ready to face society again, I found Alex sitting by himself in the library car, shoveling murder by chocolate cake into his mouth. His shoulders were slumped, and when he caught sight of me, his eyes filled with more concern than I’d ever thought to give him credit for.

  “Everything all right?” he asked.

  Just great. I lost my chance with Andy And my magic cameo.

  “I’m sorry,” I said, pointing to my tummy. “I think I ate a funny oyster. We should probably go.”

  His deep inhale said he knew something else was up, but he just asked if we should find Kiki to say good night. Convenient that his manners were appearing now.

  “No point in disturbing her,” I said, nodding toward the bunk bed of the sleeper car where Kiki and Edie were posing for a man who was taking pictures with an antique flashbulb camera. “Besides, I’m seeing her first thing tomorrow.”

  “You guys sure make a lot of plans,” he marveled.

  To be honest, we hadn’t made an actual plan, but of course I’d be going over there ASAP. It wasn’t like I could call the theater space’s lost and found department and file a report for a lost superpower. The only person who could help me find my cameo and get my hands on that cursed pink iPod was Kiki. I didn’t have a second to waste.

  Alex laid his plate on a side table and I placed Andy’s gift box next to it, confident it would eventually make its way to Kiki.

  It occurred to me that I should probably tell Becca I was taking off, but I knew she’d freak out and insist that I stay. It wasn’t a scene I was feeling strong enough for, so I gave myself permission to take what Kiki calls a “French leave.”

  Outside, the sky was dark as ink and the wind was whipping off the Hudson River. While Alex tried to hail a cab, I huddled under an entranceway and hugged my stomachache, which wasn’t feeling so fake anymore.

  Alex didn’t seem as mad or flustered about leaving early as I’d feared. “That was really cool,” he said, sliding into the taxi after me. “I think I made some good connections.”

  Good thing, I thought, because he wasn’t going to be hanging out with me anytime soon.

  When I got home and caught my cameo-free reflection in the Renault car mirror, the full awfulness of the situation hit me. I was so shattered the thought of sneaking one of Mom’s leftover steamed chocolate cakes out of the refrigerator left me cold. All I wanted was to retreat to my tiny bedroom and lick my wounds in private.

  I’d left my computer on and there was an e-mail from Ian.

  For the hundredth time I’m super sorry. For what it’s worth, that businessman guy is considering legal action against us and none of us are allowed to hang out in the store if we’re not being ‘useful,’ whatever that means. Write back and save me from drawing infinite teardrops.

  I knew he was half kidding, but he sounded worse than ever, and I knew I should send him a note to cheer him up.

  Instead, I ended up cruising around Moonwatcher.net. They hadn’t put up anything too outrageous, just a “State of Affairs” feature that linked the Moons to the guys they were supposedly seeing on the sly.

  Sills’s picture was shown next to Wiley Martins. Diana was linked to a James Dean–type kid in a tight white T-shirt, Reagan to a child-actor-turned-heartthrob who was starring in her dad’s latest blockbuster, and Poppy with a trio of skateboarders. They were trying to link Becca to Alonzo Ladin, a junior voice coach at Lincoln Center who’d been wearing a kabbalah bracelet and ladies’ platform shoes the time we’d met.

  I heard a rustling and turned around to see Henry creeping into my room. Still in little boy panhandler character, his face was coated in charcoal.

  “Hey.” I clicked the window on the screen shut—but not fast enough.

  “Why’s Becca on a dating site?” he asked.

  I whipped back around. “How do you know about dating sites?”

  “Charlie W.’s dad does it,” he said. “He lets us pick dates for him.”

  “You’re kidding, right?”

  “No,” he said matter-of-factly, and proceeded to sit on the edge of my bed and reach under it for a box of Mon Cheri chocolates. “He says he’s made so many mistakes in his life, we’re probably better judges.”

  “I’m sure Charlie W.’s mom would love to hear that.” It slipped out before I could stop myself.

  “A lot of people are on it,” Henry went on. “Jori, our music teacher, is there, and so are a bunch of other kids’ parents.” He popped a candy in his mouth. “Trust me, it’s not a big deal.”

  I was puzzled—was it possible that Henry was becoming cooler than his impossibly with-it older sister?

  I held out my hand for a serving of chocolate. “So who ended up being the murderer anyway?”

  “Some guy named Don Juan.”

  “Impossible,” I said without pausing to think. “I saw the entire guest list and there was nobody called—” I perked up when I realized what he was trying to say. “You mean Jon-Jon?”

  “Yeah. They had a judge and a trial. His punishment was house-sitting an empty mansion in Sag Harbor for a month.”

  I could feel myself beaming. So Kiki’d solved the old unwanted houseguest bugaboo. I could only hope she’d be half as useful with my own problems.

  I spent that night tossing and turning under the covers, touching the part of my neck where my cameo should have been and anxiously peering out the window, waiting for the next day to start. At last, the crescent moon started to melt into the sky, and not much later an apricot hue spread along the horizon.

  I got up and threw on a comfortable outfit of jeans, a boatneck sweater, and a huge fringed scarf.
In the elevator down, I looked up in the corner mirror to double-check that my naked neck was covered.

  Traffic was light and I biked up to Kiki’s in no time. “Room service,” I called out as I knocked on her door. I’d brought a liter of Coke and a bag of almond croissants—her favorites.

  Her gray eye squinted through the peephole. When she opened the door she looked worse for the wear, and it didn’t help that her face fell to her ankles. “Oh dear. What’s the trouble?”

  “I was just bringing you some break—”

  “Like fun you were! I wasn’t born yesterday?”

  “Okay,” I said. “There’s something I need to talk about.”

  The front room was crammed with gifts and leftover party goodies—magnifying glasses, water guns, and an unused pin-the-mustache-on-the-inspector game. I could see Andy’s present was on a side table, the ribbon untied.

  After complying with Kiki’s request to empty the croissants into a silver basket, I drifted over to the blue box and couldn’t resist pulling off the lid for a peek. Inside was an amazing pair of Art Deco hair combs with parrot engravings. Andy’d got it perfect—no surprise there.

  Jon-Jon was sleeping on the couch, his huge stomach rising and falling like a metronome.

  “It’s his last night here,” she whispered as she started for her room.

  “I heard,” I whispered as I followed her. “Henry told me about your eviction plan. Very cunning.”

  “You make it sound like a bad thing. I prefer ‘resourceful.’” She closed the door to her bedroom and pulled out a chair from her dressing table. I sat on the bed, tightening my scarf around my neck’s empty spot. “Now what has gotten into you?”

  And so I told her. Or tried to. My voice was catching, and I had to focus on a mental image of New York with a buried Brooklyn Bridge to coax the truth out. “Last night, I … well, somehow I …”

  “You lost your necklace.” Her tone was plain as Wonder Bread.

  I reached up to feel if my scarf had somehow untwisted to reveal my bare collarbone. Negative.