She couldn’t believe that this guy thought she was cool. That this guy was the guy she’d had a secret adventure with. It was beyond. Beyond. She threw herself into it, because sooner or later Ned was going to figure out Dorry was just Dorry, that she was, at best, medium cool, and she wanted to enjoy this wicked-cool boy wanting her attention as long as it lasted.
And it would last at least as long as it took Dorry to introduce him to Tuesday.
Dorry fluffed her hair again. It fell, resolute, straight down.
Tuesday probably had some kind of hair gunk.
She was embarrassed to go over there. She was scared to talk to Tuesday. Things were still strained, and Dorry knew she’d made them worse by skipping Tuesday Thursday. Not feeling good, cancel? she’d texted, which was a total lie, but there was no way she was going to text the truth: squashed in rush hour on the T, $13,000 in my bag, Ned’s arm against my arm is super-warm. She was vaguely grossed out by what she’d done, name-dropping Tuesday to get in with Ned, and also by the fact that she had no intention of introducing them, or telling Tuesday that Ned even existed, or that Dorry was his partner and would be attending Pryce’s funeral as his date (!), until – she didn’t exactly know. Until it was too late. Until they were all at the funeral, and there was nothing to do but see it through to the end.
Dorry had information. The information gave her power. The power to move people around on the board, move them to the spaces that allowed her path – her path to the Earhart goggles, to the dream, the chance of seeing her mother again – to be clear. It would be dangerous to go next door and ask Tuesday for big-hair styling tips. It would be the first maneuver that might require a direct lie.
It would be the first test.
Tuesday woke up the Wednesday morning after she was fired, and for the space of a breath, for as long as it took to open her sticky eyes – which took a long time; she had the category of headache that makes you wish, with the very first flush of consciousness, that you weren’t – for one final moment, she did not remember.
Then she did.
The memory walked up her body and settled heavy on her chest and got heavier and heavier until her lungs were crushed flat and she couldn’t breathe.
Then her headache reasserted itself, and she closed her eyes and pressed her palms hard against her temples, which usually did something, but today did nothing other than shoot orange stars across the black backs of her eyelids.
The mattress jiggled as Gunnar hopped up by her feet. He walked up her body and settled heavy, but not as heavy as the memory, on her chest, then tucked his front and back paws under and began to purr. She got up and fed him. She scooped his litter. She sat down on her red love seat and said, “Well that’s enough for one day.” Her voice felt like an echo in her mouth.
She had been so mean to Dex.
Why had she – who had she been yesterday?
Who had she been these past few weeks?
She wasn’t wearing any pants, but she still had on the shirt she’d worn to work. Button-down and basic black.
Her last work shirt.
Stop being so melodramatic, said Abby.
Tuesday pulsed numb.
She hadn’t—
No. No no no no no no no—
Yes, said Abby. Yes yes yes yes yes yes yes.
Tuesday sat up straight. “It’s just my head. It’s just my stupid head,” she said. “It’s not real. It’s stress, it’s a stress, uh, manifestation.” Gunnar gazed up at her. “Of course I’m stressed. Of course I’m stressed, this is – this is – I need some coffee. And a plan.”
You do that, Tues, said Abby. Drink all the coffee. Make all the plans. I’ll still be heeeeeeeeeere.
It was uncanny. How well Tuesday’s deepest brain could reproduce that voice. That voice she hadn’t heard in half a lifetime. That voice she’d recognize until the day she died. And the voice itself didn’t frighten her. The voice itself—
On that morning, that awful morning after, hearing Abby’s voice softened the raw edge of her heart.
Maybe it wouldn’t hurt to listen for a while.
I’m sorry about your job. I mean that. I really do. For an auditory hallucination of terminally undigested grief, Abby did sound legitimately sorry. You gonna tell your parents and Ollie?
Tuesday fell sideways on the love seat, covered her head with a pillow, and screamed into the seat cushion.
She certainly could tell her parents. She could call and talk to them both right now, at home, before they went to the store in the afternoon. She could tell them that she’d been reckless, that she’d fucked up. She had lost her job, and she could tell them why and how. She could listen to the monologue that followed, that did, to its credit, begin with concern (Oh Moonie, we’re so sorry, are you okay?) before it segued into implicit blame and disbelief (How could you, you know better—we know you know better—!) and dipped into their anxious code that was, for once, completely correct (… have you been … hearing … anyone?) before it rounded the corner to the finish line: You can always come home. If you refuse to settle down into a recognizable adult life (which, obviously, was best defined as a spouse, a house, two cars, two and a half kids), you may as well settle down with the store.
She could email Ollie, but her brother was terrible at keeping secrets, especially from their parents. Which she had always thought was kind of funny, but that was Oliver Mooney: you squinted at him, and he confessed to crimes you didn’t know he’d committed; often that you didn’t even know were crimes.
So, yes: she could tell her family. But today of all days she couldn’t bear to give them the satisfaction of knowing that she had entertained the idea of returning to Salem. Working at the store. It was entirely possible she had burned all her professional nonprofit bridges forever, and unless she wanted to lose whatever soul she had left to finance – the only other experience on her résumé – she had no direction. No path. No purpose. No prospects.
Other than Vincent Pryce.
His game.
His money.
Atta girl, said Abby.
She took a shower.
It woke her up. And now that she was awake, she was halfway between terrified and galvanized. Maybe getting fired was what she needed. Maybe it was good. She could wear comfy jeans and a T-shirt. She could put on a fresh pot of coffee, good coffee; she wasn’t beholden to those crappy off-brand coffee pods they had in the office. She could do the work she wanted.
All she had to do was shove a certain voice to the background.
Dude. Rude, said Abby. I’m not a certain voice. I’m your best friend.
Tuesday looked at her phone, silent and dark. She wanted to apologize to Dex, and while she knew texting was his preferred medium, it felt wrong. Inappropriate, given the gravity of the situation. She wanted to take back everything. She wanted to tell him, and Rabbit, that they deserved each other, and the tonelessness of texting would only reinforce the sarcastic, nasty way that sounded in her head—
It does sound pretty sarcastic, said Abby.
She thought about Rabbit the Banker. She thought about the underground decoder room. She thought about thirteen thousand dollars. She thought about the queen of diamonds and fifty-one envelopes.
It was Wednesday. Vincent Pryce’s funeral was two days away.
On her desk, under an electric bill she hadn’t paid yet – not because she’d been worried about having the funds, but because, before yesterday, she’d had the luxury of laziness – was Pryce’s wax-sealed manila envelope. She turned it upside down. The stack of bills and the playing card flopped out.
Tuesday, said Abby. You’re rich.
“I’m not rich,” said Tuesday.
No, said Abby. You are.
“Thirteen thousand dollars will last exactly six minutes,” said Tuesday, “in this town.”
I bet you can do a lot, said Abby, in six minutes.
“And it’s not the point of the game for me to keep it. I don’t – at least I
don’t think that’s the point.” Tuesday inhaled. “It feels … not right.” She examined the queen’s face on the playing card. “What the hell am I supposed to do with you?” she asked the queen. She flipped it over. The back wasn’t a recognizable brand; no cupids on bicycles for Vincent Pryce. It was a custom design in red: a border of large rectangles, and in the center a circle with many spokes. A pie cut into twelve pieces. She focused on the circle and let the rest of her vision go a little lazy. She stared at it so long and so hard, the pattern began to wiggle.
She had seen this somewhere before.
Where had she seen it?
(Had she seen it?)
She put the card down.
“Abby,” she said, “what would you do?”
The math, said Abby.
“What math.”
All the math.
Tuesday got out a pencil and paper.
Hours later, she didn’t know how long – research, or more specifically, the internet, had a habit of swallowing great swaths of her life; she could only mark the time by pots of coffee (three), thoughts about ingesting more than coffee (four), sandwiches made and consumed (one), texts from Dex or Archie (zero), and albums played on Repeat (only one, because the CD happened to be in her stereo and OK Computer fit the mood) – someone knocked on her door.
Tuesday didn’t hear it. When the knocking started, she’d moved on from the math – 51 envelopes times $13,000 equaled $663,000, over half a mil free-floating around the city – to more general research, into Edgar Allan Poe, the other Vincent Price, and for a while she’d gotten sucked into the long and storied history of playing cards—
Knock.
Someone was knocking on her door.
She shook her head. Who the hell would be knocking? It was barely five. She stood up, stretched, rolled her neck on her shoulders. Had someone buzzed a FedEx guy in? But she hadn’t – she didn’t think she’d ordered anything online. If she had, and had forgotten, she was going to have to send it back. This was not the time for impulse internet spending.
She opened her door and Death was on the other side.
“Ohmygod,” she said, and ducked, coffee-juiced, back behind the door.
“You like?”
Death was Dorry. Just her tweenage neighbor home from school, dressed up like Dream’s perky goth sister Death from Sandman, because it was almost Halloween and also the universe was a bastard. Tuesday stepped out from behind the door. Her heart was a hammer, but she smiled.
“I like,” she croaked. “I like a lot.”
“I like your glasses,” said Dorry. “I’ve never seen you wear them before.” She paused. “I heard the music. Home sick?”
“Yes,” Tuesday said, without even deciding to lie. “Been napping, so I never put in my contacts.” Truthfully, she didn’t remember what had happened to yesterday’s contacts – if she ever found them again, they would be someplace bizarre, like in the toe of her slipper or under the dome of the butter dish. She hoped Gunnar hadn’t eaten them.
“I’m sorry,” Dorry said. “You’re not contagious?” She covered her face. “I hope?”
Ha! said Abby. Don’t sneeze your crazy all over her.
Tuesday shook her head. “Not the way you mean,” she said. “Come on in.”
Tuesday was lying to her. Dorry felt it, really felt it – Tuesday was home in the afternoon and she wasn’t sick, at least not the kind of sick that you could see. Dorry made a list in her head of everything that was off, so she could think about it later: Glasses. Lying. Not sick. And now, by inviting Dorry in, forgetting what she’d promised Dorry’s dad. Or maybe deliberately disregarding. She was stunned. It made her bolder. Dorry, since her dad had freaked about Tuesday’s picture in the Metro, had been toeing the line (literally): she hadn’t so much as put a toe inside her neighbor’s apartment for any reason other than tutoring. Now she stepped in for hair goop.
“Do you have any, like – my hair.” Dorry held her hands out on either side of her head, miming the bigness that was missing. “Should be a lot bigger.”
“I’ve got some paste, I think.” Tuesday disappeared into the bathroom and returned with a flat, round jar. “Maybe try drying your hair upside down? I’m sure there are videos online that tell you how to make your hair big.” She handed the container to Dorry. “I’m lousy when it comes to this stuff. If you can’t figure it out online, I’ll ask—”
She froze.
“Dex,” she said, and sniffed a little. “He’s the guy for proper product deployment.”
Now that Dorry had, in her hands, what she’d come for, and it had involved so little subterfuge, she went from bold to worried. The music didn’t help. It was odd, something Tuesday hadn’t taught her about yet. It sounded hurt and nervous. The guy’s voice was high, barely a whisper.
Her Tuesday would have already asked eight million questions about her costume and where she was planning to wear it. This Tuesday was – not defeated, maybe, but definitely distracted. Dorry had been braced for a duel of wits with a tiger and she’d gotten a drowsy housecat.
Tuesday’s forehead wrinkled. “Hey,” she said, “I have a question for you.”
Dorry smiled, so happy to see a recognizable Tuesday peek out, she didn’t care if it gave her away.
“Yeah?” she said.
“What would you—”
Tuesday stopped. Looked not at Dorry but toward the corner of the room, and her eyes were far away, and her face was still. Like she was listening to something.
Something that wasn’t the music.
Dorry had seen a lot of things in Tuesday since the day they met, and before that, when she was the anonymous woman in black haunting her apartment building. She’d seen a friend, a teacher, someone cool who knew all kinds of cool things. She’d seen a kind of future that looked great.
But today Dorry looked at Tuesday and saw someone who wasn’t quite herself. Who had lost control and focus. Today Dorry saw someone she could fool. And move around the board. To get what she wanted.
Tuesday Mooney, Dorry saw today, was her competition.
Dorry went very still. As a realization, it shouldn’t have been shocking; it made sense – this was a game they were all playing, wasn’t it? Hadn’t it been a game from the beginning? The point of games, and of teams, was that you were playing against each other. To win. And since her dad had decided she couldn’t play with Tuesday anymore, and Tuesday had agreed (silent partner, her butt), and Dorry went out and found another partner for herself – that meant Tuesday was her rival.
“What would you do with thirteen thousand dollars?” Tuesday asked.
Dorry blinked at her.
Was Tuesday honestly going to pretend Dorry didn’t know why she was asking that question?
Dorry’s brain thumped, pounding like it had traded places with her heart.
“Just, like, off the top of your head.” Tuesday shrugged lightly. “Today. What would you do?”
“About what?” Dorry said – too fast, she couldn’t control her voice.
Be cool, she thought. Be ice.
Tuesday said, “Not about, with. With thirteen thousand dollars. Cash.”
“Vincent Pryce’s cash, you mean,” said Dorry.
Tuesday froze again. Like an animal, cornered. “Yes,” she said. “Of course. Didn’t I – didn’t I tell you? What the – rules. The game?”
“I read about it online,” said Dorry, which was, technically, not a lie. “The Globe has been posting little bios. Of anyone who comes forward as a – player.” The Globe had been covering the treasure hunt with something like glee. Short profiles of treasure hunters, those who chose to self-identify, had been appearing all week: Two brothers from Southie, both carpenters. A sound engineer and her boyfriend, a boot camp trainer. A redheaded writer from Somerville. An ancient woman, kinky silver hair yanked back from her high forehead, wearing a high-necked blue sweater and an antique silver necklace of linked stone scarabs; she owned an antiques shop in the B
ack Bay. Her name was Verena Parkman, and Dorry immediately liked her best. She looked like a witch. And like she was playing to win.
Dorry and Ned didn’t identify. Instead, the two of them gathered as much information on the other players as they could find. They collected the data in a glorious poster-sized chart Ned drew in purple ink and taped to the back of his bedroom door. Dorry had seen the chart because she had been in Ned’s room. After they came back from the Garment District, pink plastic bags full of costume loot.
Ned’s bedroom was a museum. It was hard to look at any one thing. There were shelves and shelves of books; of stacked white cardboard boxes he’d labeled, in as many colored markers and fancy letters as there were boxes, COMIX; posters for things Dorry had never heard of, and didn’t know if they were comics or movies or what, but one – her head went light – she did: Sandman; and one wall, the entire wall, floor to ceiling around two windows, was a painting of the tops of the houses across the street, the edge of a tree in full summer leaf, birds, a cat watching from a high balcony, as though the wall itself were one huge window. “I do a new one every year,” Ned said. “This was my first tramp loyal,” and Dorry spent a good hour that night online, figuring out that he was saying trompe l’oeil.
Dorry was still processing that afternoon’s information. The notes about the other treasure hunters were just part of the overload. Ned’s chart had columns for name, age, residence, job (if known), alone or team, and size of team (if known), intensity (casual or dedicated), possible Pryce connections, game strategy, and, last but not least, card suit and number, drawn in corresponding red and black. The chart was beautiful. What it contained was a mess.
Game players, card players, whatever you wanted to call them, were people of all ages, with a slightly higher tendency to be students, undergrad and graduate, but also a dental assistant, a teacher, a mail carrier. There were people from all over the city (Dorchester) and the state (Peabody) and the country (Flagstaff, Arizona) and the world (exchange students from Belfast). Some of them had clear strategies – to spend the money on another item for Pryce’s collection, or on fancy costumes for the funeral; to save the money for college or a house; to donate the money to a charity. Some of them had no idea whatsoever – I’m still working that out – and some of them were keeping their plans to themselves (from a crew of Harvard students: We could tell you, but then we’d have to kill you).
Tuesday Mooney Wore Black Page 27
