Dream Life

by Lauren Mechling

  Confrontation not being my strong suit, I did everything I could to avoid running into my current trio of least favorite people at school the next morning. In homeroom, I blocked out Sheila by keeping my eyes closed through Assistant Principal Arnold’s daily announcements, and I spent lunch period far away from Alex in the back corner of the library, sneaking bites of my tarragon chicken baguette sandwich while flipping through Hudson’s outdated reference books. And the rest of the time, I dragged through the hallways with the hood of my vintage toggle raincoat pulled tight over my head, praying Ian wouldn’t see me.

  Which might explain how my attempt to quietly slip through the after-school crowd and out of the building was interrupted not by an across-the-lobby wave or even an in-your-face hello, but a full-on tackle. For a split second, I was sure the person clinging to my back was Alex, dying to know what had happened to the girl he was calling “babe” only days earlier, but then I saw the dove-gray calfskin boot swinging around my side.

  There was only one person who would show up to Hudson in shoes like that, and in this weather no less.

  “You’re not fooling anyone with that hangdog stance,” Becca said when I shook free of her. “You’re calling attention to yourself. If you really want to fade out the world, make like a queen bee and hold your head high.”

  “Easy for you to say,” I replied. “When some of us look up we’re still a foot shorter than the rest of the world.”

  “Whatever. It’s all about attitude.” Heeding her own advice, she swiftly turned and cut through the crowd of kids milling around outside of the building. “Now stay with me,” she said over her shoulder. “Reagan texted to say there’s a meeting at the Moonery today at four-thirty and I should make sure to bring you.”

  My throat clenched as I thought of what awaited at Reagan’s hands. Was I going to have to personally drag her dad back to New York to earn her forgiveness?

  “Oh good, a fresh hell on the horizon.”

  “Relax, C,” Becca said, still threading through the group. “Ray and I went to sushi last night and I talked some sense into her. She’s ready to turn the page.”

  “And what book would that be?” I was on guard.

  “Claire, listen, here’s your chance to make amends. She’s open to it—she just got off the Dartmouth waiting list.”

  “She did?” I stopped mid-step. “That’s fantastic!”

  “For you it is, that’s for sure. … Speaking of kids getting lucky, watch.” She stopped near a kid with what appeared to be an unintentional fauxhawk.

  “My productivity all boils down to two words,” he was saying. “Vitamin. E.”

  “That’s one word,” one of his friends corrected him. “E is just a particle.”

  I turned back to Becca. “Sorry, but I don’t get it,” I said, but then I saw her gaze was set elsewhere. I followed it and witnessed a couple getting cozy against the side of a parked Cadillac. I had to squint to make sure I was seeing straight.

  No way.

  Alex and Sheila were the cuddlers. And they were one beret short of starring in one of Mom and Dad’s L’Amour Toujours! posters.

  “What the … Do you think this is some attempt to make me jealous?”

  “I wouldn’t flatter yourself,” Becca said in an undertone. “It’s nothing to do with you. He just came up to her and asked if she lived in the professor complex. It’s been one magical moment ever since.”

  This was getting surreal—not only was Alex hot for Sheila Vird, the worst person on the planet, but he was using Washington View Village as his opening gambit. “Give me a second to process this,” I muttered as we walked away. “I can’t believe I live in the pickup line he’s using with Sheila.”

  Becca pulled her leather bag up her shoulder and cast me a bemused look. “What I can’t believe is that you fell for that pickup line, and not too long ago.”

  She had me there.

  On the subway ride up to the Moonery, the energy between us was freer and looser than it had been in ages. We earned more than one irritated glance as we debated which of the four foot ailments featured on the Zopi Podiatry Institute’s advertisement we’d rather come down with. A doo-wop group started singing “Little Darlin’” directly to us, and we clapped and shoulder-danced in our seats. By the time we got back on the street, we were in one of those hotheaded moods where everything seems hilarious, and the sight of a scrawny man wearing a the party starts here sweatshirt sent us into the craziest fit of giggles.

  But the party came to a crashing halt when we walked through the door of Star Foods Emporium and into the clubhouse. The Moonery’s office had become a veritable funeral parlor, all pallid faces and naked walls. Everyone’s posture had caved in since the last time I’d seen them, and the bulletin boards were sadly barren of the Brooklyn Bridge photos and the Sink Landon–related newspaper clippings and photographs. For some reason, all the girls were holding index cards and markers.

  “Did we miss an early spring cleaning or something?” I asked, trying to get at least a smile out of my question. But nobody responded and I had to rephrase it. “Where are all the pictures?”

  “We took them down.” Sills smiled in name only.

  “I can see that, thanks. … But why?”

  The pit in my stomach told me the answer couldn’t be good.

  Reagan made a loud sigh. “We’ve lost any glimmer of hope.”

  “Besides,” said Diana, “we’ll be able to see the real Bridge Towers project out the window soon enough.”

  My heart fell and I cursed myself for not having superglued my necklace in place.

  “We’re voting on a new club project,” Hallie filled me in. “Time to move on.”

  How could they move on when I was so close to coming through? Well, at least I was close to getting close. I just had to finagle my way into Andy’s good graces and then into Helle House.

  Necklace or no necklace, I had to keep at it.

  Sure, the cameo had given me a leg up. But left to my own devices, was I entirely useless or just handicapped? Fine, severely handicapped. Still, it was worth a try.

  “You can’t pull the plug!” I squealed.

  “You heard what happened at Helle House, right?” Reagan asked me.

  “Yeah, you guys got caught wearing your disguises and they kicked you out. So what?” I was sounding as motivational as my cuckoo phys ed teacher Coach Blendack.

  Reagan looked at me like I was an idiot. “So, we can’t get into Helle House anymore.”

  “Not as guests … but that doesn’t mean we can’t send in uniformed maids or UPS work—” I brought my hand up to where my necklace used to sit and tapped my fingers against bare skin.

  “Claire,” Poppy cut me off. “Nobody can get in there. They’ve locked down the place. Look.” She passed me a BlackBerry that was opened to the Elle Club’s homepage.

  Emergency advisory: Due to an unexpected legal matter, we have frozen all operations. Members are advised to find other parties to crash for the time being. Unfortunately we cannot offer refunds. Due to high traffic volume, please allow us 30 days to respond to your e-mail. Cross your fingers and C U Soon X O X—The board

  I felt the old confused duck expression take over my face. “I don’t understand. …”

  “Word on the street is they got busted serving booze to minors,” Diana said.

  “Maybe, but I don’t completely buy it,” said Sills. “I mean—that place is one big liquor cabinet, and has been for decades, and they’ve never had any trouble in the past. Maybe for some reason they called the cops on themselves.”

  “Not a bad idea,” threw in Reagan. “If Helle House is shut down, we can’t get the iPod back.”

  “My money says they want us to go ahead with the movie shoot so they can bust out the iPod and expose us,” said Diana.

  “I can just see the newspaper headlines,” Poppy said. “Politicians’ Preppy Plot.”

  “What about High School Friends in High Places?” a
sked Hallie.

  Becca grimaced. “I can’t even imagine what my dad would do if any of this got leaked.”

  “Me neither,” said Sills.

  I looked around at all the girls’ faces. They were so worried about what a leak’s implications for their families would be, they were missing the point: if the Blue Moons weren’t able to continue operating, the bridge as we knew it would be gone.

  “We’ve just got to lay low,” demurred Diana.

  “Or step it up.” My voice was overpowering and I cleared my throat. “We can still figure out a way to get into Helle—”

  “No point,” Poppy interrupted. “The inspection’s too soon and there’s no chance we’re going to get the iPod back. We spoke to the mayor and we called off the whole Vertigo Girl plan. No movie on the bridge.”

  “You don’t even want to try?” I whimpered.

  Reagan crossed her arms and chewed on a corner of her index card. “There’s a world of difference between trying when you have a fighting chance and trying when you don’t. If there’s one thing I learned from my dad, it’s that there’s no use beating a dead horse.”

  Diana bridled at the expression. “Do you have to put it that way?”

  “But the horse isn’t dead,” I squawked, too upset to take our resident equestrian’s objections into account.

  “Sorry,” Sills said, “but it is. It’s deader than dead can be. There’s no way to get into their clubhouse, and even if there were, we’re not even sure the iPod is still in there. It could be anywhere.” She gave me a heavy-lidded stare. “So you tell me, what’s left to do?”

  Give it a shot, and all the while do everything you can to get the necklace back and have a crazy dream and find the iPod before it’s too late. Duh.

  But before I could say anything, Sills answered her own question. “We have two options. Get so depressed we can’t move … or move on.”

  “Are you kidding?” I exclaimed. “You’re going to walk away?”

  “We’re not total losers.” Poppy sounded offended. “We’ve just come up with a change in plan.”

  “We’ve been talking about ways to refocus our energies, little jobs that will keep the momentum going.” Diana was starting to sound like an aerobics instructor.

  I turned to Becca. “Did you know we were giving up like that?”

  She didn’t need to answer. Her apologetic look said it all.

  Reagan handed index cards and huge glitter sex and the CITY: THE BUS TOUR pens to Becca and me.

  “Did you actually buy these?” Becca asked incredulously, staring at the glittery pink high heel on the end of her pen.

  “Yeah right,” Reagan scowled. “They were just randomly lying around my house. Now why don’t you stop insulting my writing instruments and come up with a couple of suggestions for quick interim projects? Mayor Irving said he needs the next week to focus on getting through the bridge inspection. Everyone’s going to go crazy, but once the reaction calms down, he’ll come to us with some ideas for other things we can help out with.”

  Could this be any more depressing?

  “Chin up,” Sills told me. “There’ll be something else.”

  Dubious, I bit down on my pen’s glittery Dolce & Gabbana bra. As big a place as New York is, how many problems can exist at any given time that rate up there with the fate of the Brooklyn Bridge—or whatever else was on that list on the iPod? Mayor Irving would probably come to the girls asking for help with something lame like planting flowers around the city’s dingier streets.

  “Just think of a quick project,” Reagan told us. “Something to tide us over for now.”

  Becca was scribbling away, but I could barely even make a scratch of my own.

  It wasn’t for lack of ideas. Just ones that I could share.

  Reagan was the one to read the proposals from the index cards. It was fairly obvious who’d come up with what (only Poppy or Sig could claim the proposal to repaint the skateboarding ramp down by Police Plaza, and Diana had to be the brain behind the plan to spruce up the city’s stables in Van Cortlandt Park).

  “And this is supposed to make us feel better?” Becca asked. “It’s only going to remind us what a disaster this whole thing has become.”

  “Well, what do you propose?” Reagan asked. “That we throw stones at Helle House?”

  “That could work.” Becca tugged at her hair as she thought. “We need to think of a solution.”

  “What about a mental health night?” Poppy suggested. “Nothing but guilty pleasures all around. Maybe it’ll loosen us up and give us some inspiration.”

  I was nervous about losing any more time, but it wasn’t like I knew what to do with my time, just that I needed it. Everyone else seemed to love Poppy’s suggestion.

  For Diana, a mental health night meant taking a bath and reading The Black Stallion for the twentieth time. For Sig and Poppy it entailed going to a video game arcade in Times Square. And the rest of the girls, reluctant Reagan included, decided to watch the first season of America’s Next Top Model on DVD. I would have happily joined them, but Becca had another kind of binge up her sleeve. And she insisted on my coming along.

  “What about Louis?” I jabbed.

  “You’re prettier.”

  “You’re so superficial,” I praised her.

  “It’s still before six, right?” she double-checked when our cab pulled up outside of the International House of Pancakes in downtown Brooklyn. By the doorway, a man had set up a fake Louis Vuitton handbag stall. “Andy says their early-bird special is not to be missed.”

  I’d never taken Andy for a bargain hunter, but when we crossed the threshold, it all clicked. The scene was yet another postcard from “Only in New York,” with brown-suited nine-to-fivers somberly reading the New York Post in front of heaping pancake platters.

  When we took our seats we couldn’t decide on what to order, so we ended up picking the two dishes with the silliest names—the “Rooty Tooty Fresh ‘n Fruity” and something called “Buns Away.” While we waited, Becca fiddled with her cell phone and tried to contain a smile.

  “I know what you’re doing,” I said.

  Her mouth twitched. “Is that right?”

  She was such a bad secret keeper it was adorable.

  “Give me a little credit.” I took a sip from my water glass and pressed an ice cube against the back of my teeth. “Please tell him I send my regards. And Henry wants his copy of The Great Brain back.”

  She tilted her head. “Who are you talking about?”

  I smiled obnoxiously. “Your lover boy.”

  “Thought so.” A look of relief washed over her face and she glanced back down at her phone, leaving me to read the depressing Calorie Counter affixed to the wall.

  Finally, a couple of waitresses came over carrying our milk shakes and skyscraper-high plates of carbohydrates. I wasted no time unplugging a trio of paper umbrellas from a stack of pancakes and popping a bite into my mouth.

  And then I nearly choked.

  Looking over a pile of sweets, it dawned on me there had been a switch of Shuttleworths. Andy was seated directly across from me, his dimple shining like a diamond.

  Becca was standing over the table, struggling not to let her smile get too wide. My heart began to palpitate.

  “I—I thought you were in Orlando?” I spluttered.

  “He texted to tell me his flight just got in, so I told him to swing by,” Becca said from above, pausing to shoot me a meaningful glance. “You guys have some major fessing up to do.”

  My heart bounced giddily.

  “Now, if you will excuse me, I’m done with this place.” Becca plucked a strawberry off one of the plates. “See you later, suckers!”

  “So what’s this fascinating-sounding confession of yours Becca was promising me?” Andy’s sharp tone was offset by the soft way his green eyes were fixed on me.

  “I think she may have got a little ahead of herself,” I said. “I don’t have anything that horr
ible to lay at your feet.” I cast him a nervous glance.

  “Why don’t you let me be the judge of that?”

  You got your signals crossed. Now you need to uncross them. Kiki’s words were fresh in my mind.

  I drew in a breath. “The guy you saw me with at Kiki’s—”

  Andy gave a little head shake. “This story is horrible already.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “If you’re talking about that social climber who had his hands all over you, I’m not sure I can think of a single thing about him that isn’t horrible.”

  “But I didn’t do anything horrible,” I squealed. “I didn’t do anything at all. He was just an extra.”

  He eyed me with a mixture of disbelief and bemusement. “What are you, Martin Scorsese?”

  “Will you shut up and listen?” My words came out sharper than I’d intended, and he looked startled. “Sorry. I brought him because the person I wanted to come with me was acting kind of horrible himself. And when I saw him … when I saw you,” I clarified, my cheeks burning, “with that cute girl …”

  “What cute girl?”

  “It doesn’t matter,” I said. “Becca explained it was actually your thirty-five-year-old tutor.”

  Andy’s jaw dropped. “You thought I was with Carla?”

  I smiled in a way that I hoped would lighten the situation, but he only laughed awkwardly. “Is that all Becca told you?”

  “Wait—there’s more?”

  There was a long silence, and I felt sick as I watched him drown a pancake in syrup. “You are hooking up with your tutor?”