“What did you say? Did you tell her where I live?”
“I didn’t tell her anything—I don’t know anything. I don’t even know what part of Venice your apartment is in.”
“Good. Then they won’t be able to get it out of you.”
“Who? What are you talking about? What’s going on, Arabella?”
“Something deep and dangerous.”
“Can you be more specific?”
“I can’t talk now. They could be anywhere. Listening. Meet me tonight at Club Centrale at ten P.M. and I’ll explain everything.”
Of course. Because a secret assignation with a paranoid person convinced that the Someone after her might try to Get Something out of me was just the kind of thing Model Daughters sallied forth to engage in when they were supposed to be tucked into bed.
What Arabella was suggesting was clearly in violation of both my Not Leaving the Hotel and Not Associating with the Insane (except Dadzilla) policies. But I felt guilty completely turning her down. “I can’t come out to meet you tonight, but if you want to come here, or tell me what’s wrong, maybe I could—”
She lowered her voice to a whisper. “I told you, I can’t discuss it now. You have no idea what it’s like knowing that anyone could be the ONE.” She said it like it was written in all capital letters.
“The ONE what?” I asked.
“The ONE who works for them.”
Oh, that ONE. I should have known. “Do you know why they are following you?”
“I think so, but I’m not positive. I asked someone the wrong question. Somewhere down the line I asked the wrong question. I wish I knew which one because then I would know.”
“Know what?”
“Everything.”
My bafflement quota is high but I’d pretty much reached it. “Okay. Um, what about going to the police? They could help you. Retrace your steps, figure out what question you asked where, maybe—”
“The police,” she snorted. “Did they help you today? Arrest that man?”
“No, but that was because he was only trying to—”
“Exactly. The fortune-teller told me not to trust the police and she was right. They are probably in on it!”
“Fortune-teller? The one who said you were in danger?”
“Yes. And then the cat, my landlady’s cat, looked at me funny. That’s a sign! And—”
She broke off and when she came back she said, “I have to go, that’s my other line. Don’t forget: ten o’clock. I’ll be in disguise. You won’t recognize me, but I’ll recognize you.”
And with that sharp turn onto Delusion Drive, she hung up.
While Delusion Drive is very scenic, one visit per day is probably ample, and I’d already had mine when I got to explain to the police that my invisible friend was afraid of being murdered by a gondolier. It was sad that Arabella seemed to have bid sanity farewell, but it was not my problem. I already had plenty of Crazy in my life. Or at least, that’s what I tried to tell myself.
I didn’t have too much time to dwell on it because at that moment there was a rough pounding on my door followed by my father’s voice bellowing, “Jasmine, it is time for dinner. Unlatch this door or I will break it down!”
Hello, Dadzilla! What exuberant charm you have!
On any other night I might have been tempted to see if he really could break down my door or if he was just all chat, because that is the kind of thing a daughter should know about her father, but not on Surprise Night.
Instead, I practiced both the wide-eyed-wonder and hands-clutched-adorably-to-chest one last time, and went out the door with a glad heart and a carefree step.
Never do this.
The dining room of the hotel was more crowded and bustling than usual, and I kept myself busy wondering which of the Save Venice people had disreputable secrets in their pasts. But as soon as I finished ordering pumpkin tortellini in sage and butter sauce (which I highly recommend if you ever find yourself at the Grissini Madhouse), Sherri! got my full attention by saying, “Hurry up, Cedric. It’s almost time!”
As though I’d written the script myself, my father said, “Jasmine, we know you’ve been lonely, and since next week is the week that seniors at your school get off to visit colleges, we thought it would be pleasant for you to have some time with friends.” I was just getting ready to clutch my hands and raise eyes filled with loving gratitude when three horrifying things happened:
1) I looked across the room and saw two girls my age, with perfect brown hair and perfect makeup, wearing high-collared lace shirts, pinafore minidresses, Mary Janes, and bonnets enter the dining room.
2) One of them looked at me and started waving.
3) My father went on: “So we invited your aunt, uncle, cousin Alyson, and that nice friend of Alyson’s to spend the week with us here in Venice.”
Chapter Seven
Actually four horrifying things. As they approached our table, I realized they were also both wearing frilly shorts. And white gloves.
It was almost too much for my brain to take in all at once. As far as I could tell, instead of me going to California to see my pals, my cousin the Evil Hench Mistress Alyson, who was an expert in TortureJasology and should be marked with both PROTECTIVE EYEWEAR REQUIRED and TOXIC MATERIAL labels, had come to Venice with her best fiend. And she was dressed as Little Ho Peep.
It was like shoulder pads under T-shirts, or putting peaches on ice cream—UNSPEAKABLY WRONG. My mind was screaming, But I was a Model Daughter! I was Trouble-Free Zone! Tiny children could play near me and be safe! And for what? EVIL HENCH TWINS!
Oh, well. At least now I’ll have more time to work on my college essays, I thought.
Or at least, that is what I should have thought. That is what a mature, self-actualized person would have thought. But I wasn’t feeling mature or self-actual. I was feeling my heart trying to plummet through my chair, and my throat closing up, and my eyes getting all throbby, and I realized I was about to cry. I know that sounds spoiled. I mean, it’s not like I’d lost a limb in a tragic badminton accident defending my country’s honor (like the girl Jack might at that moment have been meeting), but I couldn’t help it. I’d been so sure I was going to get to go to California. And so excited. And so ready to see my pals. And Jack.
And so ready to not feel lonely all day every day for at least a little while.
We all sat down then and my father proposed a toast and there was much merriment and lighthearted banter and commenting on how good the tortellini were, but it went on without Jas as a participant. I was making a pact with myself never to try to read anything in a mirror again, because clearly the itinerary I’d seen that said CALLIHAN on it had been theirs and not mine.
I tried to console myself by remembering that although officially Veronique was Alyson’s Evil Hench Twin, she’d turned out to warrant only a MAY CAUSE DISORIENTATION label and could be nice. Esque. To prove it, she leaned over and gave me a little hug and squealed, “I’m so glad to see you, Jas. You look really good.”
Causing me for one misguided moment to think, Maybe this will not be as completely and utterly horrible as I thought. Which is the kind of thought that might signal a rip in the universe.
Fortunately, everything was returned to its normal place when Alyson turned her Hench Gaze in my direction and said, “God, Calamity, you’ve been here six weeks and you still dress like an American. Where did you get that outfit, Antiques Roadshow Last Year edition?”
Little Life Lesson 11: People in pinafores should not attempt to crack wise about other non-pinafore-wearing people’s outfits.
“I am sorry, Holly Hobbie. We cannot all be putting the IT into Italian Fashion the way you and your fancy pants are.” I admit it was not my snappiest comeback, but my eyes were busy trying to flee into my brain to protect themselves.
Veronique said, “They’re called bloomers.”
And because there is no snappy comeback for that, I said, “How was your trip?”
“Totally Visa,” Veronique said. “We met this gigacool guy.”
One of the nicest things about the Evil Hench Twins is that they speak their own language, which forces mere mortals like me to ask what they mean, so they can roll their eyes at us as though we were born with baby-bird brains. “Gigacool?” I asked.
Alyson eye-rolled. “Um, Jas, have you been eating Cream of Moron soup? Iper-slash-very cool.” Another nice feature of the Evil Hench language is the use of slashes to link words together for extra emphasis.
“He’s totally two commas,” Veronique said. “You know, has a bank account with six zeroes behind it,” she translated politely.
I nodded like I had any idea what she was talking about. “Where did you unearth-slash-exhume him?”
“We met him waiting for the water taxi at the airport,” Veronique explained.
“Um, we?” Alyson asked. “I think I was the one he started talking to.”
“Actually, he talked to me first,” Veronique corrected.
“Only because you asked him to fix the clasp on your necklace.”
“You pretended to have something in your eye.”
“I did have something in my eye. That weird mascara you lent me.”
I hadn’t expected to enjoy my time with the Evil Hench Twins quite so much. I guess twelve hours on an airplane is a long time. I was getting quite interested to see exactly what kind of guy could inspire this level of rivalry after they’d only known him for, as far as I could figure out, about half an hour.
“He thought I was totally Jordache. That means I had the look he wanted to know better. It’s vintage,” Veronique explained. “Anyway, he said, ‘I couldn’t help noticing you on the flight from London.’ He has the sweetest eyes and when he looks right at you it’s like he’s—”
“You don’t have to write a five-paragraph essay about it,” Alyson snarled. “Besides, he was looking at me when he said that.”
“He was looking at me too!”
“Maybe he’s cross-eyed,” I offered. Because it is my way to be the peacemaker.
“Shut up, Jas,” my cousin hissed.
A way that is apparently not appreciated by all.
Veronique touched Alyson on the arm and said, “Be nice to Jas, Sapphyre.”
Alyson put up a hand. “This is not your battle, Tiger’s*Eye.”
I paused in the middle of picking up my water glass to look from one to the other of them. “I’m sorry, did you just call each other Sapphire and Tiger’s*Eye?”
“Yes,” Alyson said. “Sapphyre with a ‘Y’ and Tiger’s *Eye with a star in the middle, but the star is silent. They’re our faerie names.”
Little Life Lesson 12: Even shortly after watching your fondest dreams be shredded in front of your eyes, you can still burst into uncontrolled laughter.
Little Life Lesson 13: Water propelled out of the mouth by uncontrolled laughter can go really far. And also backward. Which is easy to see if the woman behind you is wearing a white satin dress.
If that happens, however, do not expect the person responsible for making you spit water to apologize or anything. No, she will turn her blamethrower on you and say, “Can’t you go for just one second, Jas, without totally mortifying the whole family?”
And you (meaning me) will say: “Le not.”
If you are taking the high road.
But I only partially heard that because I’d turned around to try to dry off the woman Alyson had made me spit on. As I bent down to retrieve the silverware that had flipped off the table when she’d leaped to her feet in horror, Veronique bent down with me and whispered, “I just wanted to tell you I think you are so brave.”
“You do?”
“Yeah. The way you’re going on like this, despite…well, you know.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Everything that’s going on with you. All alone here, with no friends. It’s got to be totally hard. But you’re just going along like it’s all normal.”
I couldn’t believe it. Out of everyone, only Veronique seemed to understand what I had been through during the past month and a half. I was genuinely touched. I believe a tear might even have quivered in my eye. I said, “Thank you, Vero—Tiger’s *Eye. I’m really…that’s just really nice.”
Veronique nodded, then went on. “Also, I want you to know that I still have my tonsils. And my appendix.”
I blinked at her.
“I mean, if you need them. I would totally donate them.”
More blinking.
“Well, that’s all. I’m so glad you’re enjoying your precious time.”
“My—what? What are you talking about?”
“Your terminal illness. Sapphyre told me that’s why you moved here right when school was starting. Because you’re dying and your father didn’t want your friends to see you when you were all, like, decrepit. I mean, it’s the only thing that makes sense, isn’t it?”
“Alyson told you I was dying,” I repeated.
“Sapphyre. She told everyone at school. Some of the seventh graders made a supercute card for you. I have it in my room. I was a little scared before we saw you, because Alyson said you’d probably be covered with oozing sores, but you look really normal. What kind of cover-up are you using on them? I bet it’s expensive. Not that you’re not totally L’Oréal. You know, worth it.”
I don’t know how long I would have gone on staring at her if Alyson hadn’t leaned in to say, “I swear, Jasmine Noelle Callihan, if you continue to embarrass me in front of the Italian people I will personally never forgive you as long as you live.”
“That shouldn’t be too long since apparently I’m DYING,” I told her.
“What are you talking about?” my father demanded. “Who is dying?”
“Oh, nothing,” I said, keeping it light. “Just that Alyson went around—”
“Sapphyre. With a Y,” my father corrected.
That was it.
I read once in one of Sherri!’s Buddhism books that out of great suffering comes great inspiration, and I believe it, because that’s what happened to me. All of a sudden it was as though someone had snapped one of those chemical light sticks inside of me and I saw everything with a new kind of clarity. I’d been going about this all wrong. I knew exactly what I needed to do.
At that moment, BadJas was born.
I pushed my chair away from the table, Badly. “I’m going to my room.”
“Before dessert? Are you sick?” Sherri! asked with genuine concern. Which shows what a totally excellent stepmother she is.
But BadJas had no time for pleasantries. BadJas lived a life of emotional independence and scorning. BadJas’s warning label read COLD SURFACE.
With a toss of my hair I said, “I’m fine. Don’t wait up for me.”
“What? What are you talking about, Jasmine?” my father spluttered. “You are not leaving this hotel.”
I just kept on walking to the elevator. I was feeling Badder already. Even though my whole life’s happiness had been shattered, my resolution to go Bad made me feel a lot better.
And I knew what my first Bad act would be.
Chapter Eight
As soon as I got up to my room I turned on my computer to go online, against my father’s direct orders. I admit that this was not likely to win Most Bad Act in a Badath-lon, but when you’re learning to rebel you must take baby steps.
Waiting for my computer to boot up, I did some Deep Pondering, and the more I Deep Pondered the more our coming to Venice did look suspicious. I suddenly wondered: What if Alyson was right? What if I was terminally ill? I’d suspected all along there was an ulterior motive for our trip to Venice, and WHAT IF THIS WAS IT? In fact, I had felt ill at dinner that night, but that could be traced to my Evil Hench allergy. Still—
I only had two emails. One was from someone who wanted to share a secret about improving my love life (get rid of Dadzilla?). The other one said:
To: Jasmine Callihan
From: J.R.
Subject: How is Venice?
It was clever of your father to take you there. I should have guessed.
I’d gotten emails from this mystery person before, and while they were packed full of intrigue, they were low on useful content. But I always found myself writing back, possibly because they often contained strange hints about knowing my mother, and since she died when I was six and my dad won’t talk about her, I am a sucker for strange hints. I tried to stay cryptic in my responses, to keep the tone, so I wrote back:
To: J.R.
From: Jasmine Callihan
Subject: Re: How is Venice?
Why should you have guessed my father would take me to Venice?
I’d just hit SEND when my computer binged. Jack was IMing me!!!
NASCARlad:
Hey, super girl.
DrumGrrrl:
Hi, hot stuff.
NASCARlad:
You’re the hot stuff. You were engaged in a mad chase through Venice today! Are you okay?
DrumGrrrl:
Wait—how do you know about that?
NASCARlad:
Polly called me. I guess she has a Google alert set for anything with the words “blood,” “mayhem,” and “Venice” so she can keep track of you. And a reporter filed a story an hour ago.
All the Not Wondering I’d been doing about why the reporter had followed Arabella began to creep back in. But then I realized there was a way more important matter to resolve.
DrumGrrrl:
How did you know it was me? I used an alias!
NASCARlad:
Let’s see. The combination between a girl saving someone’s life and the alias she comes up with is Jane Doughnut. Of course it was you. No one else would be that cool.
Kitty Kitty Page 5
