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  We browsed the inanimate object area and passed into children’s movies, where Nick cracked a tiny smile and tried to talk me into going as an Oompa Loompa (“I’ll be Willy Wonka”). We moved through the scary creatures section, where he rejected my suggestion that he go as a vampire and I scoffed at his recommendation that I go as a witch-disguised-as-sexy-maid.

  On aisle six, beside an elaborate arrangement of various sorts of Silly String, I found a bin of jelly eyeballs and threw one at him.

  It hit him square in the shoulder. For a long second, Nick didn’t move. Oh, geez, I thought. He’s realized he is Gabe. When he strode past me, I knew he had. But when he turned around a second later, he was holding a Yoda suit.

  He pressed it to me, and I couldn’t help but laugh. “Yoda I am not! Really, you crazy boy. If anyone’s going as someone old and wrinkly, it’s you!”

  Nick grabbed a light saber. I grabbed another. Fifteen minutes later, we were out of there with Leia and Luke costumes, and I was feeling inappropriately lighthearted considering the circumstances.

  When we got back to the bike, I realized there was nowhere to put our costumes. Which led to Nick saying, “Let’s put them on here.”

  Here turned out to be an ice cream parlor named Jimmy’s Yummy, where Nick changed in the men’s room and I ordered us two chocolate sundaes.

  He emerged wearing Luke’s signature white toga-like top over form-fitting tan pants, paired with my dad’s old boots. A wide brown belt defined his waist. It seemed narrow compared to his wide shoulders. He pulled a light saber from the belt and whipped it through the air.

  “Not too fast,” I warned, standing with my own costume in hand. “You haven’t escaped the moisture farm just yet.”

  “Oh, yeah? Who’s gonna keep me there?”

  “Maybe I should.” I eyed his costume.

  “Huh?”

  “Never mind,” I murmured. “Eat your ice cream. I didn’t know what you liked, but you can get rid of the cherry,” I called as I walked toward the girls’ room. Good thing I was walking, too, because—again—my terrible word choice had turned my cheeks red.

  The Leia costume was a form-fitting, long-sleeved, turtle-necked white dress, tall white boots, and a blaster. I’d added a light saber, which she didn’t use in the films, but the store didn’t have a Generic Female Jedi costume.

  I worked my hair into loose braids, then used a pack of bobby pins to mold them into circles on each side of my head. When I stepped back to assess myself and saw how tight my dress fit, I felt a lot like not myself.

  I couldn’t help but think that was because of Nick.

  When I walked out, he was smiling blissfully into his ice cream bowl.

  “Amazing,” he said, with a lazy glance my way.

  “Yeah, their sundaes are the best.”

  “I didn’t mean their ice cream.” He wiggled his eyebrows.

  “Brother! How inappropriate!” I tried to smile, but it was hard when my brain was turning to mush.

  “Ice cream’s not bad, either,” he added.

  He pushed mine at me, and I ate it, glad for the cold to cool my cheeks.

  13

  Annabelle Monroe lived in a castle. No, really. Her house was a replica of a sixteenth century Slovenian castle, copied stone-by-stone by her retired Hollywood costume-designer dad.

  Mr. Monroe was pretty ancient—80, people joked, but I figured more like 65 or 70—and since Annabelle’s mom had left them both when we were in sixth grade, the old guy traveled all the time.

  Annabelle had a housekeeper, Lora, who was supposed to double as a nanny, but Lora had a problem with narcolepsy, and Annabelle had no qualms about slipping Lora a sleeping pill and bidding her goodnight in her teenie tiny room, a tower modeled after the original castle’s servant quarters.

  Annabelle’s bedroom was the largest tower, and I’d heard it was elaborate. I’d seen Lora’s room once when Halah had dragged me to Annabelle’s to pick up some cheer shoes, but I wasn’t tight enough with Annabelle to see “The Lair.”

  As I steered down the winding, tree-lined driveway, my mind was on the stiff figure behind me. I wondered for the hundredth time since we’d left Jimmy’s Yummies whether this was a mistake. Would Nick have fun? Could he have fun, with things the way they were? Beyond that, should he—when his whole family was probably dead? He was in denial, but I wasn’t.

  And what had happened to me? I wasn’t a goody two-shoes or anything, but I was typically responsible. If you ignored the whole continue-my-dad’s-research-in-secret business, which, I remembered, was kind of how everything started in the first place.

  So maybe this wasn’t completely about Nick.

  Spotlights made the castle glow like a brilliant, rocky planet. It winked through the fanned limbs of enormous fir trees. Valets shone flashlights at arriving cars, directing them into two lots: one beside the house (actually the remnants of a private airport) and another beside the Monroes’ tennis courts.

  From the look of the airport lot, half the school was already there. I saw a long-tailed dinosaur, a princess with a glowing wand, a stem of balloon-grapes, and several pirates as a valet waved Nick and I down a pale stone path that seemed to disappear into the mountainside.

  “Park by the other bikes,” he yelled.

  I turned between two maple trees, happy to park somewhere secluded. Our final destination was a tiny courtyard, complete with a topless mermaid fountain; two other bikes stood under a tall cliff side: a battered Harley and a souped-up Kawasaki—of the kind Dad used to call crotch rockets.

  I cut the power on the Agusta and turned around. “You ready?” I asked.

  Nick raised his light saber.

  I took my helmet off, and the soft bass thump grew louder. The air was cold and almost damp; it seemed to hang like a sheer curtain around us.

  I’d never taken Nick for shy, but as we walked I was surprised he didn’t seem more nervous. Maybe he was finally thinking about other things. I quashed another burst of worry—worry that he’d face the truth at the party and somehow embarrass himself. I’d stick close by, just to make sure.

  I grabbed his hand after we stepped onto the manicured front lawn, tugging him back into the bushes. “Just a sec,” I said. I fished my cell phone out of my Leia suit’s pocket and sent my mom a text. She knew about the party, but she probably had forgotten. Then I checked my missed call log: twenty-seven. Geez.

  I scrolled through my unread texts: two from S.K., nine from Halah, one from Bree, and one from Mom (“b hm l8 tonite”). Then I flipped my phone shut.

  “Okay.”

  I took Nick’s arm the way I had outside of Howland’s—this time to soothe myself, not him. I liked big parties maybe once or twice a year, but mostly I went for my friends.

  “You’re my cousin, remember,” I said as we followed a pebble trail around the castle.

  “Cousin Nick from East Egg?”

  “Let’s have you be from... Where’s somewhere you know a lot about?”

  Nick shrugged. “Pick a place.”

  “St. Louis.”

  “I can do that.”

  “Really?”

  Nick nodded.

  I squeezed his arm as we approached two large double doors. “Remember if you want to leave, just let me know. And don’t disappear, okay?”

  “Jedi promise,” he said.

  “Is there one?” I’d never heard of it.

  “No. But I think they’d probably frown on lying.”

  The doors opened to a massive foyer two floors high with a huge chandelier hanging from the roof. There was a formal dining room to the left—with an extra long, extra fancy claw-footed table and some porcelain sculptures that looked more expensive than some people’s homes—but it was closed off by a Japanese partition wall.

  We passed through the massive living space—the great room’s walls also rose two floors above us; its ceiling was deep blue and glittered like there were tiny diamonds on it. There were so many rooms
, I didn’t know the names for all of them. They were decorated like you’d imagine: paintings I’d seen before, in lavish frames, the heads of animals Mr. Monroe had killed, more sculptures… One room—a giant martini bar—was devoted to Andy Warhol. A sitting room was done in Scottish Highlands décor, complete with a cabinet full of scotch. Finally we passed through a long hall lined with plants and reached a wall of windows that, on second glance, were doors to the deck.

  The deck was two levels; we were on the first, where the bass was loud enough to make your head explode. This was the dance floor, obviously. Probably half the party was there, bumping together, making it impossible to squeeze through without holding Nick’s hand. The deejay’s booth was on our right, and there were fog machines and dozens of lights; they squiggled colors and shapes across the air, against the mountain face, then rained down a rainbow of starlight over the crowd.

  We walked up some stairs behind a wall with a movie projection and were immediately assailed by a dance train. Nick jerked me out of the way just in time to avoid getting trampled.

  I smiled my thanks. He smiled back, almost managing to look lighthearted.

  I took out my cell to text S.K.—I would never find my gang in this place without a little help—but before I could open it, something hard bumped into my side.

  “Milooooooo!”

  I jerked around, surprised to see Annabelle. Wait a second—was that Annabelle? She looked like a freakin’ model. She had on a white dress like mine, but rather than a dorky turtle neck and long sleeves, hers was sleeveless and super short; the barely there skirt hung in jagged pieces over her muscular, tanned thighs. A thick, gold belt encircled her waist, round gold earrings hung from her ears, and she wore a snake-shaped golden band around her thin bicep. But what really made the outfit was her hair. It shone like molten gold, piled on top of her head in a series of elaborate knots; some pieces hung down around her neck for an effect that almost reminded me of snakes.

  “Milo!” she cried, bumping me with her hip. She jumped away and sprung into a jumping-jack pose that made her small, lithe body look more elegant than mine would in a pirouette. “Who am I, Milo? Can you guess?”

  She sprung back toward me and pulled her hair off her neck, exposing twin red marks. I frowned, confused. A vampire-bitten figure skater, sans skates?

  “Cleopatra!” she squealed.

  I knew the exact moment she noticed Nick beside me. All the excitement faded off her face, and Annabelle’s pretty hazel eyes narrowed suspiciously. Her tone changed, too. From honey sweet to deep and sharp. “Milo, honey, who is this?”

  I turned toward Nick, feeling possessive.

  “This is my—” friend, I was going to tell her.

  But Nick beat me to the punch. Pulling his arm out of mine, he stretched it out for Annabelle to grasp. “I’m Milo’s cousin, Nick, from St. Louis.”

  Annabelle squealed again. She didn’t just grab Nick’s hand. She threw her body at it. The result was that Nick accidentally groped her huge boobs. Annabelle didn’t seem to notice—or care.

  “Cousin Nick!” she squawked, threading one of those thin hands through his hair. “Nice to meeettt you!” She tousled his hair more, actually bumping me out of the way as she did. “Your hair is just like mine!” she cried. “It’s beautiful!” She laughed, her signature throaty sound. “We’re goddesses! Wait… You’re a god. A ginger god! I’m a golden goddess!” She stumbled back, checking Nick out like she wanted to eat him. “Are you Han Solo?”

  “Luke Skywalker,” Nick said.

  She giggled, and I belatedly realized Annabelle was drunk off her ass.

  “You’re Luke, and I’ll be Padmé!”

  Eww. Luke’s mother?

  Nick just chuckled.

  I avoided scowling by the narrowest of margins and grabbed Nick’s hand. “Annabelle, I want to introduce Nick to Halah. Have you seen her?”

  Annabelle nodded happily, and pointed to the stone ceiling above us. “Top deck. Doing Jello shots and things.” She grinned—at Nick, not me. “What a bad, bad girrrl.”

  I’d expected to have to wrestle Nick away from her, but just then, Carlos Farr (as Neil Armstrong) walked by, and Annabelle launched herself at him.

  I tugged Nick toward the stairwell. “Sorry,” I said, taken by the sudden—generous—impulse to take up for poor Annabelle. “She’s…on the rebound.”

  Nick just laughed.

  The sound system was wired so the stairwell walls were peppered with big, round speakers. As a result, I couldn’t actually talk to Nick until we emerged onto the next deck, a torch-lit barbecue area where people danced in clusters.

  Nick, I noticed, had grabbed hold of my sleeve sometime on the walk up the stairs—probably when we’d passed a group of rowdy, jersey-clad sophomore guys. He was standing close to me, and I felt a happy little rush.

  “You doing okay?” he asked, and I laughed.

  “Aren’t I supposed to ask you that question?”

  He smiled, and to my shock, he laced his hand through mine, bouncing my fingers with the tips of his. “I’m fine,” he said. “You’re the one who’s uncomfortable.”

  “I am? And how do you know that?” I squeezed his hand; my heart was pounding.

  “I don’t know,” he said, his fingers teasing mine. “You’re different here.”

  “Bad different?”

  “No,” he said. “Like…shy.”

  I yanked my hand from his and lightly punched his shoulder. “I’m not shy.” Just then, I wasn’t. I’d been possessed by someone older, surer, happier. I wasn’t sure I recognized this Milo, and that was fine with me.

  Anyway, what did it matter how I was with Nick? It would all be over soon. He’d go back to his life, and I’d stay here in mine.

  “I’m glad you came here with me, cuz.”

  Nick’s eyes held mine, and for a second, my heart stopped beating. “I’m not your cuz.”

  “Who are you?”

  “I’m your friend—or something. Yeah?”

  Or something. “Yeah. Of course.”

  We moved across the deck toward the smell of roasted pork, walking so closely our arms brushed with every step.

  Before we reached the big pit fire, I heard my name and turned to find myself face-to-face with a lanky, dark-haired Ninja.

  “S.K.!”

  She grinned. “Leia.”

  S.K. snaked her hand around my neck, then noticed my escort. She pulled away from me, her angular face drawn in a frown. “Luke Skywalker,” she said deeply, striking a ninja pose. “Confess your true identity or face the wrath of my dark arts.”

  I pulled my hand from Nick’s, and had my mouth open to blurt something out when Nick said, “I’m her cousin.”

  “Cousin…” She shook her head. “Cousin you are not.”

  “Friend you are?” Nick asked.

  S.K. giggled at his Yoda voice—it really was right on—and then said, “I’m her friend, but who are you?”

  “My cousin,” I said, smiling.

  She knew I was lying, of course, but we never got a chance to hash it out. In that way that people have of popping up at parties, Halah and Bree appeared the next second. Bree, a blueberry muffin, lightly slapped my Leia hair, while sexy witch Halah grabbed S.K.’s arm and got all pink and giggly at the sight of Nick.

  “Who are you?” she asked mysteriously.

  S.K.’s brows arched. “This is Nick,” she said, “Milo’s cousin.”

  “Milo’s cousin Nick…”

  “I don’t know of a cousin named Nick,” Bree said.

  And Halah leaned forward, grabbing Nick’s chin. “Actually,” she murmured, “I think I’ve heard of cousin Nick before.”

  The first sparks of jealousy were firing in my chest, but I’d had no time to reconcile our story before Annabelle appeared again—this time surrounded by a mob of giddy cheerleaders. Below us, someone cranked the music even louder, and I was only able to make out something about “Bobby’s balls” be
fore Annabelle lunged toward me, stealing Nick’s light saber, then his hand.

  “Anakin,” she yelled, her fake eyelashes flitting like big bugs. “Do you want to see my lair?!”

  Surprising myself, I grabbed Nick’s other hand, but Annabelle yanked so hard she won the tug-o-war.

  Without a backward glance, Nick let himself be stolen.

  The two of them were engulfed in a sea of cheerleaders, moving toward the other end of the deck—the spot where it attached to the castle. At the top of the castle, I saw six towers—the largest one closest to us; its pink curtains glowed red.