Dream Life

by Lauren Mechling

  Becca was the first to arrive. Without saying a word, she took a seat directly across from Reagan. She had a look in her eyes that I’d seen a few times before—Becca isn’t good at angry. Instead, she gets hurt.

  Finally, Poppy entered, holding Reagan’s jacket. “You forgot this,” she said, pushing it across the table. Reagan dug around the pockets and made a face when she couldn’t find her cell phone. “It slipped out,” Poppy said curtly. “I put it in my bag.” She slowly retrieved Reagan’s phone and handed it to her.

  “Thanks,” Reagan sniffled.

  “This isn’t a bus stop, girls,” the bartender reminded us, and Becca got up to fetch us a round of Cokes. She carried the glasses over in batches, and by her third trip, all the other girls were at the table. Everyone was brimming with questions, but I wouldn’t let Reagan start until Becca was seated.

  Becca pushed a glass with a lime wedge Reagan’s way. “Yours is diet.”

  “My favorite.” The sugar fiend’s tone was laced with sarcasm, but she must have been parched—she drained it in one sip. “Okay,” Reagan said. “I’m ready. Go ahead, throw your stones.”

  “Enough of this victim stuff,” I said. “Just tell us what happened, will you?”

  Reagan’s shoulders shot up to her ears. “Sink had me cornered. He knew my weak spot better than I did. By the time he came to me I was so freaked out I couldn’t think straight.”

  “You can’t tell a story straight either.” Poppy squeezed her lemon wedge into her drink. “Start from the beginning, will you?”

  Reagan rested her elbows on the table and balanced her head on her hands. She must have been perspiring pretty heavily—the roots of her hair were rising up into a snow-white halo. “First off, Sink knew that the Blue Moons were up to something.”

  Now we were getting somewhere.

  “Who told him?” I asked.

  “He figured it out on his own. His projects were getting bungled because of last-minute donations that were coming from a trust fund called Pookie Holdings.”

  “And he was able to link it to us?” Becca said.

  Reagan nodded. “To Gummy Salzman. The New York Sun obit mentioned her nickname. And he knew Gummy was a big Moon supporter.”

  Diana groaned. “Why didn’t we think of that?”

  “Believe me, I wish you had,” said Reagan. “He was prepared to get flack for the Bridge Towers plan, and he’s smarter than he looks. He’d had his eye on us and he had a feeling we were going to throw a wrench in his plan somehow, so he did research on all of us. And”—her eyes darted away—”he discovered that one of us had a serious problem.”

  One of us had a problem? As far as I was concerned, we were all up crap’s creek.

  “What problem?” Poppy was speeding her along.

  Reagan’s eyes darted away shamefully. “I’d rather not say.”

  But she didn’t need to. My thoughts cast back to the new goodies that always seemed to be at the top of Reagan’s bag—random lipsticks and candies and souvenir pens that nobody in her right mind would actually pay for. And then there was the Whole Foods chocolate-taking incident, and the time she grabbed all the magazines at the hair salon. Reagan made off with pretty much anything that wasn’t superglued in place. And then how could I forget the dream that had started all this? The night I was having my predate wardrobe meltdown at H&M, I’d seen the ship that had led me right to the original girl with the pale hair and sticky fingers: Reagan.

  “Allow me,” I whispered. “You’re a kleptomaniac.”

  Reagan tried to glare at me but her expression didn’t completely harden. “How did you know?”

  “Just a hunch,” I tossed out as nonchalantly as my bad acting gene would allow.

  Reagan looked around the table, as if expecting one of us to arrest her. But the faces that met her carried expressions of concern.

  “I have a little record,” she peeped. “And college admissions committees don’t take kindly to these sorts of things.”

  “So that’s why you were wait-listed everywhere?” Poppy asked.

  “I wasn’t even wait-listed.” Reagan grabbed the nearest full-sugar Coke and drained it. “I just couldn’t face the truth.”

  “So you lied about getting into Dartmouth?” Becca said.

  I thought back to all the times I’d heard Reagan drop Dartmouth into conversation. She had more than one problem.

  “No, that was true.” She grinned joylessly “Sink’s alma mater. He’s, like, their biggest donor.”

  I couldn’t believe it. “So he came to you and said ‘I’ll get you into college if you’ll rat out the Moons’?”

  Reagan breathed in hard. “You have no idea how sorry I am.” Tears gushed down her face.

  Poppy tilted her head. “Sorry doesn’t cut it.”

  I know I should have been basking in post-gotcha victory, but the whole thing just made me feel blue. What did it matter if I’d fingered Reagan? Sink had beat us at our game.

  I tugged on my necklace without really thinking about it. The cameo was the best kind of warm, like freshly drawn bathwater or April sunshine.

  Call me crazy, but it was trying to tell me something. And then lightning struck.

  “Ray,” I said. “Sink has no idea that we’re on to you, right?”

  She shrugged. “Not unless he’s got this bar wiretapped.”

  Even though she was joking, I ran my hands along the underside of the table just to make sure. Never had a wad of a stranger’s chewed-up gum felt so beautiful.

  “So it’s actually the best thing on earth that it’s you who’s collaborating with Sink and not some random stranger,” I said.

  Everyone looked at me like I was off my rocker.

  “We can get the iPod back,” I said. “Ray, where does he keep the cigar box?”

  Reagan fixed a hard stare on me that was meant to freeze me out but instead just gave away how scared she was feeling.

  For a second there, I felt a twinge of compassion. I needed to remind myself of my priorities.

  “Reagan,” I said, shifting to sotto voce. “If you don’t fix this, it’s going to get a whole lot worse than your not being able to go to Dartmouth.”

  She flicked her hair over her shoulder. “How’s that?”

  “How do you think all of this would go over with your dad?” I asked. “You think he’d be happier to hear about your run-ins with the law from you or from us?”

  Reagan’s skin drained of the little color it had.

  “And what about the fact the only way you got into a decent college was by aligning yourself with one of the city’s most notorious scumbags?” Becca threw in. “Not exactly a surefire recipe for improved father-daughter relations.”

  Reagan blinked hard and slumped deep into her seat. “I hope you guys are enjoying yourselves.”

  “Not really,” I said. “I can think of a whole lot more enjoyable ways to be spending my time. I know your problems with your father make it hard for you to see any of this clearly. But try to take a step outside yourself and your college admissions troubles. Imagine yourself in ten years, looking out of the window of your Midtown office.”

  “N-not gonna happen,” Reagan stammered. “I want to live in London when I’m older.”

  “Whatever.” I ignored her. “Imagine you’re on a high enough floor to see that Bridge Towers, the biggest blight on the city, is out there, and the Brooklyn Bridge is all but invisible. And you think to yourself, Ahh, I did this.” Reagan squirmed. “Is that really the mark you want to leave on the world?”

  “Ray,” Becca picked up for me. “This is your chance to dig yourself out of this mess. So what if your dad is mad at you for a little while and you don’t go to college next year? You’re crazy smart and great schools will take you after you’ve come clean and gone into whatever reform program you need to.”

  “That’s easy for you to say,” Reagan replied at last. “Nobody’s going to want to go near me. I’m a walking liability.”r />
  “You’re making it sound like you’re a mass murderer,” Poppy interjected. “You’ve had a few bouts with in-store security guards. Big deal. My cousin Justine got kicked out of Andover for selling booze to freshmen, and she’s at Cornell.”

  “I don’t believe you,” murmured Reagan, fiddling with the buttons on her shirt.

  “Has it ever occurred to you that your dad isn’t the only one who’s too hard on you?” asked Becca.

  Reagan fixed her a confused look. “You’re just saying that because you need my help. What’s it to you if I get my butt into college?”

  “Honestly,” Diana said, “not much anymore. Are you going to get us out of this mess or do you want us making more trouble for you and your dad?”

  Reagan was silent, but her body language spoke volumes. Her slumped shoulders and extended belly could only mean one thing: defeat.

  “Fine,” she whispered. “Happy?”

  Becca looked satisfied, and I felt a wave of pleasure roll over me too.

  I cleared my throat “Okay, Reagan. Now where is the cigar box?”

  It took Reagan a moment to speak. “His office,” she said. “Under his signed Godfather poster. He loves anything to do with gangsters.”

  Takes one to love one.

  “So you can visit him at his office,” I said. “Pretend you’re there to talk about Dartmouth’s freshman orientation and replace the iPod with another one.”

  Becca didn’t even wait for Reagan to agree. “We’ll go to the twenty-four-hour Apple store right now and pick up a decoy.”

  “But—but—it’s not like I’m good friends with him,” Reagan protested. “We’re not on dropping-by terms. And if he finds out that I’m going back on my word, he’ll, like, kill me.”

  “Then we’ll have to make sure he doesn’t find out,” I said. “While you’re in there, we’ll send in something big to distract him … I know what. How about one of your dad’s news crews? I’m sure they won’t say no when the boss’s daughter asks them to bum-rush Sink about some new controversy. Don’t let them waste any time. Tell them it’s something urgent.”

  “Like what?” Reagan said.

  “Those are easy to make up,” Becca said. “It can be about how a bunch of soul stars are protesting Sink’s Showtime Lofts. We’ll just tell Sink there are cries of protest coming from Aretha Franklin and James Brown.”

  “Maybe not him.” I coughed. “He’s dead.”

  “Really?” Diana looked at me. “Wasn’t he just at the Apollo?”

  “Yeah, for the public viewing of his body.” I smiled. “I’d stick with Aretha.”

  “Perfect.” Poppy smiled and slid her unfinished Coke Reagan’s way. “Drink up, sister.”

  { 24 }

  Day of the Dog

  The next week, I could do nothing but fret over the myriad ways the great iPod switcheroo could go wrong. Reagan had promised us she had a tea with Sink scheduled for Thursday after noon, and I was terrified that in those intervening days he’d move the iPod or Reagan would chicken out.

  Thursday evening, my hands were shaking when I turned on the local news. When a segment on hidden fat in Ogo-Yogo frozen yogurt gave way to an image of Sink Landon, I nearly jumped out of my seat. “The reports are completely un-thub-thantiated,” he was saying. “Zeta Equitieth ith nothing if not rethpectful of the thurrounding community.”

  Mom cringed from behind. “He’s so slimy. He doesn’t care at all about the community.”

  “Capitalists can’t be trusted,” Dad threw in. “They just take and take.”

  I shushed them and watched in glee as a platinum-blond girl flashed by in the background. She was going to replace the Moons’ sacred iPod with an empty one.

  Go, Reagan, go!

  Happiness spread through me like wildfire, and I went into my room to call Louis. He’d been trying to get ahold of me for days, but I hadn’t been able to concentrate on anything that didn’t have to do with sinking Sink.

  I picked up the phone and it took me a moment to remember his number. I was riddled with guilty nerves as I waited for him to pick up.

  “Who’s this again?” He was pouting.

  “Now you know how it feels,” I said. “It’s been a rough week, Lou.”

  “And I’m supposed to be sympathetic?”

  “Can we just skip over the guilt trip and make a plan to hang out?”

  “What do you have in mind?” he asked.

  A bike ride through Central Park wasn’t going to cut it. I had to think of something good.

  “I know!” I said after a couple of seconds. “An early-morning bike ride and Gray’s Papaya for breakfast. We’ve always wondered about breakfast there.”

  Louis didn’t answer immediately. “I’ll think it over.”

  I smiled into the phone. “Saturday at eight?”

  “Eight in the morning? You’re joking.”

  “Is that a no?”

  Louis sighed and we made a plan. “The breakfast had better be good.”

  • • •

  On Saturday morning, when I showed up at the hot-dog joint at the appointed hour, the place was dead, and the white-hot fluorescent lighting only heightened the feeling of emptiness. “Hello, Lemonhead.” Louis smiled from his spot against the counter. “Or should I say sleepyhead?”

  I wasn’t feeling sleepy—more like discombobulated. The night before, all the Moons but Reagan had hit a shoebox-sized nightclub in the Little Brazil section of Queens. It had been a good call—not a single fake tan in the room—but the band was louder than a fleet of ocean liners, and the thump-thump of it all was still reverberating in my head.

  I gave Louis a floppy wave and helped myself to a bite of his early-bird hot dog. “It doesn’t taste like meat.”

  “Whoever said it was meat?” A smile played out on Louis’s face. “Nice eye makeup. Very asymmetrical.”

  I smiled. Only Louis could say something so critical and have it come out sounding sweet.

  “Like you’re camera-ready?” I stared at his safe sex T-shirt that showed two safe deposit boxes smooching.

  He grimaced. “I was running low on laundry. I got it for free at a tennis tournament, one of the sponsors is a …”

  “Padlock manufacturer?”

  “How’d you know?” He popped the remainder of his breakfast dog in his mouth and pulled his coat tight. “Ready?”

  That was an understatement. Seeing Louis made me realize how badly I was dying to hang out again, just the two of us.

  When we stepped outside, the sky was brightening. The unmistakably optimistic smell of spring hung in the air.

  Our agenda involved hanging out in Washington Square Park until the Film Forum’s noon screening of Evil Under the Sun, one of the few Agatha Christie classics I hadn’t already seen. Our senior-screening Saturdays were a time-honored tradition that I was happy to revive. I was a little nervous he’d want to share war stories about how we were both dating Shuttleworths, but the conversation never took off in that direction. As we threaded down East Eighth Street, passing all the discount shoe stores, it was like old times. Straightforward. Mellow.

  “Guess what?” I said as we turned onto Fifth Avenue. The park’s arch was just a couple of blocks away, pulling us in like a big white magnet. “Dad finally delivered his book.”

  “The whole enchilada?” He sounded incredulous.

  “No, just the first two chapters. Of course the whole thing!” I felt a surge of protectiveness toward my father and changed the subject. “How’s things chez Ibbits?”

  “The usual… lots of takeout and expensive bathroom tiles you’re not allowed to get wet. Ulrika just went on a two-week career reassessment retreat in the Turks and Caicos.”

  “But what’s there to—”

  “Reassess? You mean because she doesn’t have a career?” He shook his head. “Good question, my friend.”

  We both started laughing, and by the time we reached the park I was feeling good—so what if Louis
and I had complicated things by hooking up with two people who happened to be brother and sister? We were friends to the core, and nothing was going to change that.

  We found a bench in the northeast corner that faced away from the park. Hardly ideal for people-watching purposes, but there was one small consolation prize: somebody had left a folded-up copy of the Post on the seat.

  I leaned back and closed my eyes while Louis read out loud from our favorite gossip column. “‘Which aging Oscar winner was spotted at the Time Warner Center’s anniversary party trying to talk about geopolitics to a Tibetan supermodel? Only in New York.’” I thought he was reciting the columnist’s catchphrase, but then I heard a third party chime in: “It’s a smaller town than you’d think.”

  That familiar voice leached the moment of all its comfort. I opened my eyes and saw Becca and Andy standing over us. Becca wasn’t wearing any makeup, which made her look paler than usual, and Andy was holding on to one of those tank-sized cups from Starbucks.

  My eyes slid over to Louis. “Did you guys plan this?”

  He made an are-you-crazy face and cut his eyes quickly at his T-shirt. Okay, I believed him.

  “What are you doing here?” I asked them.

  “We just picked up Mom’s birthday present at this apartment on MacDougal Street.” Becca gestured to the leather Louis Vuitton duffel bag slung over her shoulder. “It’s so tiny, we had no idea.”

  “That bag is tiny?” I asked.

  Becca rolled her eyes and put the bag on my lap. Something inside it was moving.

  “Open it,” Andy instructed me, and I studied the hazel flecks in his green eyes.

  I’d pulled the zipper a little farther down the line of teeth to find the cutest black-and-white puppy poking its wet nose at me.

  “It was the only thing we could think of that our mom doesn’t already have,” Becca said.

  “It’s polka-dotted!” I exclaimed moronically

  “She,” Andy corrected me. “Her name is Bella Abzug.”

  “Bella Abzug was a famous New Yorker who wore huge hats,” Becca explained.

  Andy rolled his eyes at his sister. “She was also this very cool activist.”