The Birthday Girl

by Melissa de la Cruz

  Why did Harry need her to call him? What was going on? A cold feeling of dread snaked up from her heart to her throat.

  She glared at Nathaniel. This was why they used to kill the messengers. No one liked bad news, and she had a feeling this was going to be awful.

  “Another?” asked Victor, materializing at her elbow with another martini.

  “Yes,” she said gratefully. For once, she was glad he made the drinks too strong. She would need a lot more vodka before the night was through.

  SIX

  Some Kind of Something

  October 19

  Twenty-Four Years Ago

  6:00 P.M.

  Nordstrom’s Brass Plum sold cheap shit to teenagers while their mothers shopped in the designer sections. It was by far the nicest store they’d ever been in, and there was a guy in a tuxedo, playing piano in the middle of it. The soothing tinkle of the keys even sounded more expensive than the cheap pop songs blasting from overhead speakers at the other shops. Maybe if they were more ambitious, they would have shopped in the fancier sections, scored bigger game, but Mish warned that they’d stand out too much. Better to keep to a place where people expected teenagers to be.

  Leo riffled through the racks, humming along to the Cats theme on the piano, letting her touch linger on a particularly soft wool jacket, or a nubby leather one. She’d cleaned up in the bathroom beforehand, tied her hair back, pulled her shirt down, and tried to look like just another rich kid from the south side, thinking of Shona’s offhand, casual style, like she wasn’t even trying to look good but did so anyway. Mish was already in the dressing room, loaded up with loot.

  Shoplifting wasn’t their idea, at least not at first. They’d stolen it from a girl they’d noticed one day at Macy’s. The girl didn’t go to their high school, and she looked just like all the other teenage girls at the store, nondescript, a little sloppy. She was carrying a big slouchy handbag, and Leo would never have noticed anything amiss if the girl hadn’t nonchalantly plucked one of the Mother’s Day perfume-and-lotion gift boxes from the glass countertop right in front of them and placed it in her bag. Leo had elbowed Mish, and the two of them followed her around the store, watching keenly as the little thief methodically took another perfume bottle, a bracelet, a pair of earrings, and an eye-shadow kit.

  On the second floor, the girl selected a large amount of clothing and soon disappeared inside a dressing room, only to reappear with a much smaller bundle, which she returned to the saleslady. The girl didn’t look guilty or innocent, her face was blank, and she didn’t notice the two of them practically stalking her. They looked around to check if anyone was following the girl. Did anyone see? Was security aware? But the girl waltzed out of the store with her big bag of pilfered goods, and nothing happened.

  No alarm bells rang, no security guards ran out to apprehend anyone.

  The girl had gotten away with it.

  Leo and Mish turned to each other and grinned.

  So now, when they went “shopping,” this was what they meant. Shopping without paying. But they had to. Come on, they had no money, and it was so expensive to be a girl. They needed mascara, and lip gloss, and cute clothes and pretty underwear. Everyone else had all the right things, the right jeans and the right shoes and the right makeup. It wasn’t fair.

  So whatever they couldn’t afford, they took. They couldn’t afford a lot, so they took a lot.

  The first time Leo tried, it didn’t even count. She’d found a cashmere sweater without a price tag or even one of those security clips. She carefully put it around her waist, and walked out with it. A real cashmere sweater! For nothing! She couldn’t believe it. The high was amazing. She couldn’t wait to do it again.

  Mish was even better at it. Mish was shameless. She took electronics, Nintendo game consoles, fancy headphones, and once even a portable telephone. Mish tended to wear baggy sweaters anyway, and stuffed her pants with lip liners and designer sunglasses and winter scarves. She was like a hibernating bear, fat with stolen goods.

  Leo tended to be pickier about what she stole, although with shoplifting, timing played into opportunity, and even if she didn’t really want those leather gloves, or an alarm clock, or a hand massager, she took them anyway, because no one was looking. Right now, she was shopping for her birthday outfit. No way in hell was she celebrating in worn jeans and a flannel shirt that had been washed way too many times. She had the black dress her mom had made in her bag, and she wanted cute cowboy boots and maybe a jacket to go with it.

  She understood that if she got caught, it was over. She’d heard the rumors—that if you didn’t carry ID, you could give them a fake name and they would let you go. But Mish had worked at Sears one summer and told her that wasn’t true; they just took you down to the station and booked you there. Then you had a record. Then if you ever committed another crime, they would see that it wasn’t the first time, and once you had a rap sheet, it would be harder and harder for anyone—the police, the judges—to take pity on you. At least that’s how Mish explained it. Leo should know this too, since her dad was still in jail, but Mish seemed to know more about the criminal justice system.

  One of the tricks Leo had learned was to pretend to glance at the upper shelves of merchandise, when really she was looking for security cameras. She glanced up, and the nearest camera was several feet away, so she took a small handbag and stuffed it into her own larger one, and grabbed three leather jackets and five pairs of jeans and headed to the dressing room.

  Mish was already walking out of it empty-handed, but with a bulging backpack. “What’d you get?”

  Leo showed her. “I want to see which size fits,” she said, as cover for taking three identical jackets, in case someone was watching.

  “Cool.”

  There was no one in the dressing room; all the rooms were open and unlocked, with nary a salesperson in sight.

  Once inside a room, Leo changed into her black dress, clipped the price tags off the jacket she wanted and tossed them into her bag, then slipped the jacket on. It fit perfectly. Real leather. Even if she saved all her money, she would never be able to afford anything like this. It was why they’d shopped at thrift stores until they started doing this instead.

  Leo sucked in her breath, willing herself calm. She deserved this. She needed this. It was her birthday. She wasn’t going to jail. Not today! Not ever!

  She thought about heading over to the shoe department. New shoes might be too much to hope for. Those were harder to steal, as salespeople tended to hover while you tried them on. She ended up deciding not to risk it. She had her jacket; that was enough.

  They walked out of the store. Nothing happened. They’d gotten away with it. Again. They smiled at each other as if they’d accomplished something.

  “Hey, you weren’t at the food court, so I thought I’d meet you here,” said a tall, handsome boy at the entrance. So close that Leo bumped into him, her elbow brushing his chest. She looked up and smiled softly at him before she could hide it from Mish.

  But Mish saw. And Mish narrowed her eyes.

  Leo felt guilty, but a little part of her was defiant. Sure, he was with Mish now. But he’d wanted Leo first.

  * * *

  —

  Because Leo was the one he’d seen, that afternoon, when Brooks had walked off the field, sweaty and cute from lacrosse practice, almost a year ago now. The weather was just starting to change, getting a little crisp in the air, and that afternoon, the light was hitting her hair just so, and she knew she looked good, dewy and young and pretty and innocent, in her jean skirt and a plain T-shirt and her tan. He’d said, “Hey.” And she’d said, “Hey,” back.

  “You’re a freshman, right?” he asked.

  “Yeah, just started,” she told him.

  “How do you like it so far?”

  She’d shrugged. “Same old crowd, new bullshit.” She blush
ed; her mother had taught her, begged her, not to curse.

  He’d grinned. “Not a fan of school, I take it.”

  They’d had a conversation that day, and over the next weeks, they had a couple more. He’d invited her to a party, and she told him she’d go and he promised to look for her.

  But the night of the party, Leo had stayed home because her mom was strict and didn’t like the sound of it, and Leo hadn’t been brave enough to sneak out, to defy her. She’d stayed home like a good girl, but she’d told Mish about the party and Mish had gone alone.

  The next morning, Mish had a row of hickeys around her neck, and she said Leo would never guess whom she’d made out with, and of course, without even guessing, Leo knew. She knew in the pit of her stomach. She knew who’d given Mish all those hickeys. Because they were supposed to be hers, supposed to be around her neck.

  Because Brooks had chosen her first. He’d wanted Leo but ended up with Mish.

  Mish got him. Because Mish always got what she wanted. And she’d always wanted Brooks.

  The worst part, the part Leo couldn’t deny, couldn’t avoid, was that they actually liked each other. Maybe Brooks had been sort of interested in Leo once, but it was clear that he wasn’t anymore. Maybe Mish was like a sex drug, maybe she had, like, a wonder vagina, a vagina that did magic tricks or something, because he was obsessed with Mish. He always had his hands all over her, and maybe it was just hormones or maybe that wonder vagina, but that boy was gone.

  Brooks wrapped his long arms around his girlfriend and nuzzled her cheek while he spoke to Leo. “Hey, before I forget, happy birthday.”

  Leo looked down so they wouldn’t be able to see her eyes. “Thanks.”

  “PICTURE!” Mish demanded, pulling away from his embrace. “Okay, you guys get together,” she said, pushing Leo next to Brooks.

  Leo grimaced a smile as Brooks gave a peace sign.

  “Can you put that away?” she begged her friend.

  Mish ignored her. “So, dude, what’s the plan?” she asked Brooks.

  He shrugged. “I dunno.”

  Mish wheeled around. “You don’t know? Wait, where is everyone? I thought you were going to bring the guys.”

  “Um, they’re all going to Stacey’s,” he said sheepishly. “But Dave’s here. He’s at the food court.”

  “Dave?” asked Leo. There were a bunch of Daves at school. One of them was kind of cute.

  “Yeah, David Griffin? You guys know him, right?”

  Leo shook her head. The name didn’t ring a bell.

  “Brooks!” Mish swatted him playfully. “You were supposed to bring a bunch of guys! Not just Dave! Come on, it’s her birthday!”

  “I know, I know; ow, you don’t have to hit me! I tried, babe!”

  “Are you going to be this lame for my birthday next week?” Mish teased.

  “Of course not,” said Brooks, then realized he shouldn’t have said that, considering Leo was right there. “I mean, this isn’t lame . . . I mean . . .” he stammered.

  One thing Leo couldn’t stand more than anything was pity, and there was plenty going around right now. “You guys, it’s fine,” she said. “It’s fine. Let’s go meet Dave.”

  Mish rolled her eyes. “You sure?”

  Leo widened hers. “It’s so not a big deal. You know me!”

  “Only if you’re sure!” Mish insisted, and Leo could tell she was a little mad at Brooks for not coming through, that she did care, that she did want this to be a special night. Mish was her best friend.

  “I’m sure.” At least it wouldn’t be just the three of them on her birthday. At least she wouldn’t have to be the third wheel again.

  Leo buried her feelings like she’d buried a silver bangle deep in the recesses of her handbag after pilfering it from the jewelry counter just a few hours ago, and smiled at her best friend and her best friend’s boyfriend.

  SEVEN

  Twin Terrors

  October 19

  The Present

  7:00 P.M.

  Todd Stinson couldn’t wait until this whole party, and this whole weekend, was over. It wasn’t that he didn’t want to celebrate his wife’s achievements, her life, and entertain all her friends. He was proud of her and her success, and agreed it was important to take the time to mark the occasion; they had done the same for him five years ago, so it was all fine. And god knows they had attended enough over-the-top fortieth-birthday extravaganzas during the years. You’d think none of them had ever turned sixteen. There was that private island in Belize for Sanjay, yacht hopping in the Greek isles for one of her girlfriends, a bohemian weekend in Marfa for two artist pals; and Mean Celine had taken over the entire Amangiri hotel, with a dinner overlooking all of Canyon Point, including the famous Grand Staircase-Escalante. So he was used to excess. What he didn’t like was being kept in the dark.

  He sure hadn’t liked it when Ellie bought this house on a whim without discussing it with him first. It was August. She was out here with her girlfriends, the four of them sharing one room at the V downtown—one of those nice-enough motel renovations. It was an odd choice, since it wasn’t even one of the newer or more luxurious properties in the area, but Ellie explained that even middle-aged women liked to feel like they were on a college trip, like they were young again at a big slumber party, and it amused everyone to pay so little for a room. Mean Celine had even smuggled in her Chihuahua because she refused to pay the pet fee since she wasn’t staying the night. Rich people. Todd had rolled his eyes. The plan was to shop Rancho Mirage and maybe check out the Chanel and Gucci outlets if they had time. Ellie wasn’t supposed to come home with a new house.

  Sterling had been her coconspirator on this endeavor, pressing her to agree to a short escrow, no inspections, and fourteen-day close, and Todd would have held a grudge against him if he were that type. But Todd understood his wife’s bulldozer mentality. Sterling knew nothing and no one would have stopped Ellie from having anything she wanted, and Todd should just be relieved Sterling was a legitimate broker and not a sleaze. When he’d sold his condo in LA, his neighbor had offered to list it, and Todd had agreed; the guy seemed nice enough. It was during the height of the bubble, when banks were handing out loans like lollipops, and the guy came back with an offer from a buyer that was way above market value. Except it was all a scheme—if Todd agreed to it, there was someone at the bank who would approve the buyer’s loan, and all Todd had to do was kick back ten percent to his broker; oh, and leave the televisions. Todd was so insulted he threw the guy out and kept his TVs, even though they would end up buying a whole new set of flat-screens for the new layout in the new house. (And he ended up selling his condo for a fair price.)

  He led Sterling to the master suite in the opposite wing. “We carpeted,” he said, showing off the bedroom and the lush, creamy wall-to-wall. Todd liked stone in the public areas and Ellie had insisted on carpet for the private sections of the house. The stigma against carpet was an upper-middle-class tell. They were much richer than that; they could do whatever they wanted.

  “Gold Calcutta marble,” said Sterling admiringly, as Todd opened up the double doors to the master bath.

  “We kept the Roman bath,” said Todd, noting the step-down, built-into-the-ground Jacuzzi that was one of the most charming fifties aspects of the house.

  The bathroom was all white and gold, with a crystal chandelier. They hadn’t done much, just changed the ceramic tile to stone, but it had made a huge difference. Ellie looked even blonder in the bathroom.

  “And you kept the vanity,” Sterling said, admiring the built-in mirror and desk off the closet. “I’m so glad. Most people buy these legacy houses and just tear everything up. You kept all the bones.”

  “Ellie’s a designer,” said Todd.

  “She told me you studied architecture,” said Sterling. “How’d you get into TV?”

&n
bsp; “I moved to LA,” said Todd with a shrug. He’d studied architecture as an undergrad, then pivoted after finding out exactly how little first-year architects made. After business school, he had vague plans to go into real estate, or finance, but the network was hiring. Turned out he had a knack for it, and he fit the part—he was as handsome as the actors he hired and fired.

  “Mr. Todd, Mr. Todd!” Citlali, their Palm Springs housekeeper, who had come with the house (as did the gardener and the pool man, bequeathed to them by the former owners), ran into the room, looking harried.

  “The boys! They spilled . . .” she said worriedly.

  “It’s all right, Citlali,” said Todd. “Sterling, if you’ll excuse me. Twins are a handful.”

  Sterling raised his glass. “I’ll give myself the rest of the tour. I know the house.”

  * * *

  —

  Todd followed Citlali down the length of the hallway. The house was laid out in a U shape, eight thousand square feet around the pool, with the golf course behind the hedges. Like most of the mid-century contemporary houses in Palm Springs, it was a one-story, sprawling. A few guests had begun to arrive, and he waved at them cheerfully but motioned to the housekeeper, making it clear he couldn’t stop and chat right now. Citlali’s slippers flip-flopped on the terrazzo as she jogged back to the game room.

  Todd figured if the disaster was confined to the game room, nothing too terrible could have happened since it was furnished with comfortable sofas, billiard and foosball tables, and arcade games. What could those boys have spilled or broken?

  The game room was empty and the twins were nowhere to be found.

  “Hey, man,” said the second DJ, a stoner from Cathedral City whom a friend of a friend had recommended.