Wherever Nina Lies

by Lynn Weingarten

  “Seeing my day like this is such an eye-opener,” Amanda says, grinning. It’s a few minutes later, and Amanda and I are sitting in Morgette’s office, watching the Attic surveillance tape on fast-forward. “Because I kinda thought I actually did some work during the day sometimes, but as it turns out…nope!”

  I nod and smile, even though I’m not really listening. All my attention is focused on the tiny little people zipping around on the tiny little TV: There’s Amanda putting on lip-gloss, there’s a girl walking in, there are three girls going through the clothes racks, there’s a couple who seem to be fighting, there’s a girl around our age popping a zit in the mirror when she thinks no one is looking. There’s Amanda experimenting with many different hairstyles.

  “It’s kind of hypnotizing,” Amanda says, shaking her head. “I should have stopped at the high pony, that one looked best.”

  A few people come to the counter with bags of stuff to drop off, but so far no one has appeared with the big white box. The big white box that contained the book that contained the drawing that just might somehow lead me to Nina. Some guy walks in carrying a big box. I inhale and hold my breath. But he puts it down near the door, tries on a belt, goes to the counter with the belt, discusses the belt with Morgette, picks up his box, and leaves.

  Amanda takes a deep breath, she lets it out. “El, I’m not trying to be a bitch here, and you know that I would do anything that I could to help you, but what exactly do you think watching this is going to do? Even if we see someone dropping off a box full of what looks to be books and maybe one of them is the book that you found Nina’s doodle in, then what? You’re going to track him down how? Because unless he has his name and address tattooed on the top of his head, it’s going to be pretty impossible…”

  But I tune her out completely then because there he is.

  Stop. Rewind. Play. He looks a few years older than us, wearing longish cargo shorts and a white T-shirt, pale blond hair, skinny arms covered in tattoos, holding a big white cardboard box up at the counter. I stop the tape and put my finger over the tiny guy on the screen, pressing so hard my finger turns white. I hit play and watch as he puts the box on the counter, says something, Morgette nods, he hands the box to Morgette, she takes it to the scale, weighs it, comes back to the counter, hands him some money. And then he starts walking toward the door and then, right past where Amanda is trying on hats, then turns back and…this is the perfect part—he goes over to this community bulletin board that Morgette has hanging near the door, takes something out of his pocket, and sticks it up on the board. And then he’s gone.

  I turn toward Amanda who is looking at me with her eyes wide. “Oh!” I say.

  I run through Morgette’s office, out into the main room, and stop in front of the bulletin board. Amanda is at my side.

  “Ellie?” Her voice sounds strained. She puts her hand on my arm and when I turn toward her she’s looking at me with such concern that for a second I think she’s maybe about to cry. “We don’t have any idea how her drawing got into that book, or when she drew it, or how the guy who brought the book here even got it, I mean he could have bought it at a garage sale or found it on the street or…something.” She stops herself and shakes her head. But I don’t let it hurt me. I know why Amanda is saying this. We’ve been down this road before.

  When Nina first vanished, finding her was all I talked about and all I thought about. And there were at least a dozen times when I was sure I was this close to finding her. Like the time I saw a girl on the street with hair the exact blue color Nina’s had been when she left and spent an hour following this girl so I could ask her questions, as though maybe she and Nina were part of some Girls With Blue Hair club and by locating one member I’d be led to the rest. (The girl turned out to be visiting from Russia and didn’t speak a word of English.) Or the time I found a crumpled-up ad for an art supply store in the pocket of an old pair of Nina’s jeans and spent three hours each way on the bus going to this store, only to find that they’d gone out of business. For each of these occasions and the dozens like it, Amanda was always right there with me, as supportive as a best friend could be. And each time when the “clues” led nowhere, as they inevitably did, and I was newly crushed as though Nina had just vanished all over again, Amanda was right there helping put me back together. As time went on, the possibility that one of these mazes might actually lead to my sister seemed smaller and smaller. And I guess eventually Amanda decided that helping me wasn’t actually helping me at all anymore.

  So I know what she’s trying to say, but I’m also not going to listen.

  I turn back to the bulletin board. I feel my face spreading into a smile.

  “Ellie…”

  I reach my hand out and take the flier off the wall. I’m not sinking anymore. I’m floating up, up, up, because here it is. Bright red paper covered in bold black handwriting. This is so obviously his. And I know there can be only one explanation for this—this is fate. So whatever happens next, it’s going to work out, and it’s going to be perfect. I’ve waited far too long for it not to be.

  YOU HAVE HEREBY BEEN CORDIALLY INVITED TO A HOUSEWRECKING PARTY AT THE MOTHERSHIP (349 Belmont Ave) Come help us tear this sucker down.

  For 15 years we’ve been home to a rotating band of musicians, artists, transients, travelers, angels, devils, do-gooders, and ne’er-do-wells.

  But we’ve lost our lease , an era is ending, the time has come to say goodbye.

  Bring your hammers, your crowbars, your spray paint, and your cameras, because after tonight your pictures and your memories will be all that’s left.

  Friday, June 27th, from dusk til dust

  Six

  We can hear the party long before we see it. The boom boom boom of the music, the hum of hundreds of human voices blended together, it sounds like all parties do from far away, except for the occasional loud, crashing noise, followed by even louder cheers.

  We’re near the top of a giant hill, Amanda and I. It’s lined on either side by a thick forest, trees curling over the road, threatening to topple over on the dozens of parked cars. This part of town is only ten miles from Amanda’s house, but it feels like an entirely different world out here. The houses are huge and far apart, and they all look ancient, but perfectly preserved like this place exists outside of regular time. Behind us it’s pitch-black, in front of us tiny points of light blink on and off like fireflies, only they’re cell phone screens and the cherries of lit cigarettes.

  “Are you sure that this is a good idea?” Amanda asks.

  “There’ll be lots of guys at the party I bet!” I say. I sound so pathetically earnest. I feel a stab of self-pity just hearing myself. And then I swallow that pity back down my throat, because stabs of self-pity are stupid. And incredibly unproductive.

  “Just please, please, please, please,” she says. “Please don’t get your hopes up, okay?”

  I look away. And then I look back and I give her this small half smile and she shakes her head slightly because we both know it’s already far too late.

  To our left, two girls get out of a dented green car. One of them has short white hair, and is taking sips from a Poland Spring bottle filled with purple liquid. She’s wearing silver lamé boy shorts and a silver bikini top. Swirling silver dragon wings rise up out of her back and point toward the sky.

  The other girl is leaning over, looking for something in the backseat, her face obscured by the mass of black hair that’s piled on top of her head. She’s wearing what looks like a black rubber tank top that stops right below her butt, a pair of fishnets, and giant black boots.

  “Come on, Freshie,” says the white-haired one. Her voice is clear and sweet. It’s easy to imagine what she would sound like singing. “My psychic powers are telling me your boyfriend is this close”—she holds her thumb and first finger up, pressed together even though Freshie can’t see her—“to hooking up with some other girl. If you don’t hurry up, you’re going to find someone else att
ached to the end of his tongue when we get there.”

  “Well, use your psychic powers to tell him he can attach his tongue to whatever he wants!” Freshie laughs. “His tongue is his business. And my business is…THIS!” She stands up, a sledgehammer clutched in her right hand, its gnarled wooden handle is as thick as her skinny arm. “Smashing time, baby. Let’s go!”

  “Wait!” The white-haired one reaches down and fishes a tiny digital camera out of her boot. “Excuse me!” She’s looking right at me. “Would you mind taking a picture of me and Freshie?” Her head is tipped to the side. Her bright green eyes are lined in black and silver. She’s holding out her camera.

  “Sure,” I say. I take it. I can feel myself blushing in the dark, embarrassed to be caught staring. But they don’t seem to mind.

  Freshie comes over and they put their arms around each other.

  “Smile,” I say. Their smiles are dazzling. They’re exactly the type of people Nina would have been friends with. The flash goes off. At the last second, Freshie opens her mouth wide and licks her friend’s cheek. Her friend bursts out laughing.

  I hand the white-haired girl back her camera.

  My heart is pounding.

  “Hey,” I say. “Can I ask you guys something?”

  I take the photograph out of my pocket, the one I always carry with me. It’s this snapshot of Nina that I found in her room shortly after she disappeared. It might be my favorite picture of her. I don’t know who took the photo, but the way she’s looking at the camera, her green eyes twinkling, her enormous sunny smile taking over half her face, it’s as though she’s sharing ajoke with whoever’s behind it. Sometimes when I look at the picture, I pretend that person is me.

  I hold the picture out to Freshie and her friend.

  “Have you seen this girl here before? Maybe at another party or something?” Freshie looks at me, and takes the picture from my hand. She leans down so she can see it by the car’s interior light. Her friend leans over her shoulder. They look at it for about five seconds, during which time I do not breathe. Then they stand back up.

  “Sorry,” Freshie says, shaking her head. “Never seen her.”

  Her friend shrugs. “Yeah, sorry,” and then, “but I like her hair!” As though that’s a consolation.

  “Well thanks for looking,” I say. I feel Amanda reach out and squeeze my arm.

  “Thanks for taking our picture,” Freshie says. And then Freshie slams the car door shut with her hip and the girls walk hand in hand down the hill.

  We follow them silently, our eyes slowly adjusting to the light. The back of my neck starts tingling. I look around. It’s so deserted out here.

  “Hey,” I say quietly. Amanda looks over at me, I can see her eyes shining in the dark.

  “Yeah?”

  “Thanks for coming,” I say. She nods and links her arm through mine, and we walk, the sounds of the party getting louder with every step. A few minutes later, we round a corner, walk past a clump of bushes, and then, there we are.

  Up ahead is an enormous, eerily beautiful mansion out of another era, the sort of place where there would be uniformed servants inside, silently serving tea cakes on expensive china to immaculately dressed people with perfect table manners. But what’s actually in front of us is a futuristic art carnival on acid dressed up for Halloween, sprinkled in glitter. There are so many people spilling in every direction we don’t even know where to begin looking. Right in the middle of the front lawn is a giant guy with a shaved head, standing behind a giant folding table, wearing an enormous set of headphones. The table in front of him is covered in laptops and various other pieces of electrical equipment, all the wires leading to a black van that’s parked behind him. On top of the van is a row of a dozen giant speakers facing in every direction, blasting what sounds like traditional Indian music backed by heavy electronic drums, loud and fast. I can feel my heartbeat speeding up to match it.

  Off to one side a few dozen people dressed up as an assortment of sea creatures—mermaids, mermen, giant glittering starfish—are dancing under a massive silver net.

  Off to the other side a half-dozen girls with Bettie Page haircuts and little sailor suits and a half-dozen guys in vintage motorcycle helmets are jumping on a giant trampoline.

  Up ahead a girl on stilts walks by wearing a flowing dark green wig, holding a long clear plastic tube that leads into a large green backpack. She stops in front of a cute guy who’s dressed as a pirate and holds the tube up over him. He tips his head back and opens his mouth just in time to catch a gulp of gold-flecked drink.

  And about twenty feet straight back two shirtless guys are emerging from the front door with a green velvet couch hoisted up on their shoulders on which two girls are sitting dressed in jewels and elaborate ball gowns. The guys lower the couch down in the middle of the grass and the girls step off, like princesses exiting a carriage.

  Amanda and I just stand there, staring at all this. “I guess it’s now or never,” I say. And we walk toward the door just as the girls in the ball gowns rev up a pair of chain saws and start chipping away at the front of the house.

  There’s a boom, a crash, loud cheers, and then all around me, tiny bits of plaster detach themselves from the ceiling and flutter to the floor like snowflakes. The white plaster flakes are everywhere. I can feel them on my skin and in my hair. When I breathe, I can taste them.

  The last three hours have been a series of tiny disappointments. Since we got here I’ve shown exactly sixty-four different people the photograph of Nina. And twenty-one of them said she was pretty and nineteen of them liked her hair, but sixty-three of the sixty-four people told me they had never seen her before. And the sixty-fourth couldn’t answer because he was too busy puking an inch away from my shoe.

  I know I shouldn’t be surprised. It was a long shot anyway, finding someone who’d remember a girl they might not have seen for two entire years in a house full of probably six hundred people. I knew that coming into this. But there is still one person I really need to find, the guy from the video, and so far there’s been no sign of him. I once heard if you’re looking for someone in a big crowded place, the best way to find them is to stand still, because they’re bound to pass you eventually. I’m not sure if this is true or not, but I figure this standing-still thing is worth a try, since moving around wasn’t working out too well.

  About twenty minutes ago Amanda went outside to talk on the phone to Eric. So here I am standing by myself against the wall while people swirl around me, part of a chaotic dance of big blinking eyes and wild arm gestures. Only there’s one other person who is not moving. And he’s been staring at me for the last five minutes. A guy, in loose jeans, a black T-shirt, and black skater shoes. His face is covered by a big rubber-person face mask. It’s pretty damn realistic looking and I would have thought it was his regular face, except the features are just a little bit too big and the hair is plastic. The eye part of the mask has been cut out and his real eyes show through. They’re dark gray, the color of wet slate. The crowd parts and joins together and parts and joins together and parts, but every time I catch a glimpse of him, his eyes are locked on me.

  Under other circumstances this might have been mildly intriguing, but I have already determined by looking at his arms, which are not covered in tattoos, that he is not the guy from the video. Therefore, he is a distraction, taking attention away from my mission of watching people until I find the one I am looking for.

  To my right is a girl with a perfect doll-like face, with choppy hot pink hair, dressed all in pink. She’s speaking what sounds like Swedish crossed with Japanese to the guy next to her, who is nodding and smiling although I kind of get the feeling he has no idea what she’s talking about. To my left is a tall thin girl wearing a dress that only a very tall thin person could wear—a stiff-looking piece of industrial-looking yellow fabric, secured to the body with pieces of twine. The back is totally opened with two pieces of what looks like twine crisscrossing in the back.
She’s standing with three friends.

  “Yeah,” says a guy with a slight British accent. “But with more synth and eighties backbeats!” And then he rolls his eyes; everyone cracks up laughing.

  The crowd parts again and there’s Rubber Head, still staring. This time he starts walking over.

  “Finally!” he says. He stops right next to me. “You’re here.”

  I stare at his eyes. They don’t look familiar, and I don’t think I recognize his voice. “Do I know you?”

  He shakes his head. “Well…no. But you are here, aren’t you?”

  I raise my eyebrows. “It would seem that way.”

  “Well, this is just great news then, isn’t it.” His eyes crinkle in the corners. He’s grinning. “So how’d you end up at this crazy place? I mean other than the fact it was fated that we should meet, written in the stars long before either of us was even born, of course.”

  I stare at him. I feel myself blushing. If he’s hitting on me—and it’s hard to tell if he is—at least he’s original.

  “Okaaaaay,” he says. “I’ll go first. So picture it this morning: The sun was shining and the birds were singing and I was at the gas station paying for gas. I was looking around in the little mini-mart, for an iced-coffee drink for me and a gift for you, of course, but didn’t see anything I thought you’d like. So I paid for my coffee and I went back outside and what do you know! Someone had stuck a flier for this party on the windshield of my car. And I’d heard about this place, and had always kind of wanted to see it, but had never been here before tonight. But then I figured it would be my very last chance so…here I am! Clearly I was right in deciding to come, although now that I’m here talking to you I’m really wishing I’d gotten you that sixty-four ounce travel mug, or at the very least that classy lighter that was shaped like a pair of legs.” I can hear him smiling again. “Sorry,” he says. “I promise I’ll make it up to you.”