“I don’t think we have to worry,” Spencer said, while she was doing this.
“What? Why?”
“Because Chip’s Mercedes just pulled up. And everyone is getting out. I believe the phrase ‘game over’ applies.”
Scarlett wasn’t giving up just yet, though. She flung herself at the dining room door.
“Everybody!” she screamed. “Turn off the lights, keep quiet, and don’t move!”
She slammed the doors shut and threw herself against them just as her parents came into the lobby.
“Hi,” she said, brushing the curls back from her eyes. “Nice ride?”
THE GREATEST SHOW THAT NEVER WAS
Lola was much paler than usual, and Scarlett got the impression that she had thrown up more than once during her day. She looked around at the deserted lobby warily.
“It was fine until it started to rain,” her dad said.
Spencer came over and joined Scarlett in her door-leaning.
“You came home in your costume,” her mom said, taking in the sight of his baggy, shortened suit. “And half your makeup.”
“Oh, yeah,” he said. “Long day, so I thought…thought I’d just come home. You get a better seat on the subway this way.”
He reached up and rubbed some of the white makeup off his face with his fingers, as if he didn’t have a care in the world.
Spencer held no real surprises for them. They had, after all, also seen him arrive home from the “opera singing weekend” in high school with none of his own clothes, wearing only a tiny pair of pink girl’s pajamas. They nodded and busied themselves at the desk, sifting through the mail, checking the computer and phone for messages. When they were both bent over the desk, Spencer jerked his thumb toward the dining room door and mouthed the words, “They’re still in there.” Lola looked staggered and bit her lower lip.
“Why is the desk so sticky?” her dad asked, retracting the elbow he’d set on it.
“That was me,” Scarlett said. “I…spilled a Coke. Sorry. Have to clean it up.”
A noise came from the dining room. It could have been anything. A piece of the stage giving out. A sword hitting a wall. A unicycle falling over. And just under it, a tiny, tiny laugh. Spencer reacted almost as quickly as it happened, breaking into a massive coughing fit that drew even more attention.
“Ugh,” he said, banging on his chest. “God, so many smokers in the cast. I think, I think I have secondhand smoke disease.”
Again, their parents stared at him for a moment, and decided to dismiss it as Spencer doing something a bit odd, probably to cover up something he had personally done that they really didn’t want to know about.
“I put some mousetraps down in the kitchen earlier,” her dad said, walking to the door. “I’m going to check them, then I’m going to bed.”
Spencer and Scarlett unconsciously moved closer together to guard the way. There was nothing to be done to stop him. And then…Marlene spoke.
“There’s something in my room,” she said. “I think it’s a mouse, too. You have to come there first.”
“There’s one in your room? Why didn’t you tell me before?”
“Don’t worry about these,” Spencer said. “I’ll get them. I’m in the mood to kill something tonight, anyway. Why don’t you guys go to bed? You look beat.”
“Yeah,” her mother said with a yawn. “They’ll be there in the morning.”
The three of them went to the elevator, leaving Scarlett, Lola, and Spencer behind. When the coast was clear, they opened the doors and released the cast.
It had been decided to keep as few people in the hotel as possible, to reduce the risk of being heard and getting caught. Only Eric and Trevor remained behind. While Lola and Scarlett carefully restored the Metro and Sterling Suites to order, Spencer, Eric, and Trevor worked all night taking apart the stage. They formed a human chain at four-thirty, passing all the pieces of the now-dissembled set down the line to the illegally-parked van. All the bedding and curtains that had been taken down were replaced in their respective rooms.
By a little after five, Scarlett was feeling like a zombie, making her way up and down the basement stairs in the endless cycle of moving tables. She had mostly been partnered with Trevor in the carrying sequence, but this time, she turned to face Eric.
“Hey,” he said. He sounded as tired as she felt.
“Hi.”
They’d been working side by side for almost eighteen hours, so the greeting was technically pointless. Eric sat on the edge of one of the remaining tables and rubbed at the traces of white makeup around his jawline. His bruise was barely visible in the dim light.
“I feel like we were talking just a minute ago,” he said. “I was trying to explain myself, and then everything blew up around us. Nothing ever goes normally around here, does it?”
“I guess it depends on what you think normal is,” Scarlett said, not looking up. Looking up would be a disaster. She pretended to have an unnatural and absorbing interest in the containers of chemical de-icer on the ground by their feet. When you really put your mind to it, you could get interested in anything. You could almost like chemical de-icer.
It was a good thing, too, because it was only through the power of de-icer that she could withstand the next sentence.
“All I want to do is kiss you,” he said in a low voice. “It’s taking all I’ve got not to do it.”
Scarlett could almost hear a circuit in her brain sizzling its way to extinction.
“So why don’t you?” she asked.
“Because I don’t know if you want me to. Do you?”
More than anything. Almost anything.
“Do you really think you’ll dump me when you get to NYU?” she asked.
“Right now, no. But I don’t know who I’ll be then, once I’m there, once it all starts. Does that make sense? Am I the worst person in the world?”
There was probably some stupid self-help book out there that said this particularly brand of honesty was healthy and wonderful, and if Scarlett ever found that book, she was prepared to rip out those pages and eat them.
“I kind of hate that you tell the truth,” she said, her voice cracking a little.
“Me, too.”
“Eric?” Spencer called from the top of the steps. “You down there? You and Trevor need to get the van out of here.”
“Got it,” Eric said over his shoulder.
“I guess you’d better go,” she said, coughing and getting her voice back to normal. “We should take this table up.”
“I guess.”
He made no move to kiss her. They each stood their ground on opposite sides of the table, staring at each other.
“It has to be up to you,” he said in a low voice.
There were footsteps pounding down the basement stairs, and Spencer appeared. He regarded them both slightly suspiciously, but clearly had other things on his mind.
“The cops are coming down the street,” he said to Eric. “The van is about to get ticketed. You have the keys. I’ll get the table.”
“Right,” Eric said. “See you guys later.”
It was probably better that it ended so abruptly, because Scarlett had no idea what to think. Spencer had to pry the table from Scarlett’s grip.
“Do I even want to know?” he asked.
This is where the witty reply would have gone if she’d had one, but she didn’t.
THE THING IN THE BOX
Scarlett woke to a clap of thunder. Outside of her bare window (the sheers had been brought up but not rehung), the sky had gone green. Lola was awake and standing at her bureau unstrapping something unfamiliar from her wrist.
“What’s that?” Scarlett asked sleepily.
“Nothing,” Lola said, shoving her hand into the Drawer of Mysteries, obscuring whatever it was. She moved something around and pushed the drawer closed firmly—so firmly that Scarlett was worried for a moment that whatever the thing was, it was alive and wanted out.
>
“I was wondering if you’d ever wake up,” Lola said. “It’s almost one in the afternoon.”
Scarlett reached her arms over her head and stretched, then leaned over to look outside. The clouds were heavy and low. Naked Lady was bending over low to drag her potted tomato plants to safety, giving Scarlett a very clear view of her posterior assets.
“She’s got to be doing that on purpose,” Scarlett said under her breath. “No one bends like that.”
Out of the corner of her eye, Scarlett saw Lola open the drawer again. Whatever she had in there, it was causing her intense interest. She almost seemed afraid of it.
“What’s wrong?” Lola asked. “I thought you’d be thrilled today. You don’t look happy.”
“Has your life ever been…complicated?” Scarlett asked.
Lola quickly applied some facial toner, then sat down on the foot of Scarlett’s bed.
“Talk to me,” she said. “Is this about Eric?”
“Is it that obvious?” Scarlett asked.
“Kind of. I saw the way he was looking at you, both the night he came for dinner and last night. I figured you’d tell me when you were ready. So what’s the story?”
“I don’t know,” Scarlett said.
“Did you kiss him?”
“Yeah.”
“More than once?”
Scarlett nodded.
“Is that what Spencer was being so weird about a few days ago?”
“Sort of,” Scarlett said. “Spencer kind of…punched him.”
“Spencer punched him? Our brother? Punched Eric?”
“Yup.”
“Oh, my God,” Lola said. “What did Eric do to you?”
“Nothing. I was upset, and Spencer just…it was kind of an accident. Sort of. Like I said, it’s complicated.”
“It sounds complicated,” Lola said sympathetically.
“Eric seemed to like me, then he broke up with me because he was breaking up with his girlfriend…that’s when Spencer punched him…and now he wants me back…except he’s not sure if he does. He’s afraid that we’re going to start dating, and then he’ll meet someone when he starts NYU and hurt me. So he told me it’s up to me whether or not we go out. Got anything in your magic drawer for that?”
The words came out in such a rush that Scarlett ran out of breath.
“I wish I did,” Lola said, giving Scarlett’s hand a squeeze. “On the good side, it sounds like he’s being honest, and we like honesty. He’s saying he doesn’t really know himself right now.”
“But shouldn’t he just know? I know I like him. Why is this so hard?”
“Look, you saw Spencer in high school. He had loads of girlfriends, and they were always crazy and passionate, and then they would split up in a week. It doesn’t always happen fast. Sometimes, you have to give yourself a chance to get to know someone, to figure out what you really want.”
It was very much Lola’s style to use Spencer as an example, pointing out things he had done wrong in the past, but she said it without any judgment in her voice. In fact, Scarlett got the feeling that she wasn’t really talking about Spencer, or her, or Eric anymore. She was talking about Chip.
“What do you think you’re going to do?” Lola asked softly.
There was a sharp knock, and once again, Spencer broke in just as this question was floating in the air. It was like he knew on some level that she needed rescuing from her own deep confusion. He had worked a full shift on no sleep, after a very long day, and it was showing in his face. Despite the comment she had just made about his past relationships, Lola gave him a look of respect as he yanked off his sopping T-shirt. Evidently, the punching thing had made a good impression.
“Any news?” he asked. “Anything online? Why aren’t you looking this up?”
Scarlett pulled the computer over from her bedside stand while Spencer wrung his shirt out into their wicker wastebasket.
“Nothing, nothing…wait…Something titled ‘Hotel Elsinore.’ It says…”
She skimmed down the part that explained the strange circumstances of the play in the hotel, blah, blah…
“Here we go. ‘Eric Hall and Spencer Martin performed some of the best physical comedy I’ve seen on stage in years. Martin, in particular, is spectacularly gifted in everything from combat to clown, with razor-sharp timing. He is certain to be an actor to watch.’ That’s good!”
“Spectacularly gifted,” Spencer said, pulling his damp shirt back on. “Razor-sharp timing? Actor to watch? Was that The New York Times? The Village Voice?”
“It was some guy named Ed,” Scarlett said.
“Ed?” Spencer repeated.
“On a blog called Treading the Boards with Ed Mordes.”
Spencer came over and took the computer to read the article for himself. Lola started messing around inside her special drawer again. She stared at something inside of it very intently, and then closed it.
“I think it’s great, whoever he is,” she said, turning around. “It’s a great review. I’m going to take a bath—I’ve been cleaning all morning. Let me know if you find anything else.”
When she had taken her robe and gone next door and started running water, Scarlett got up and quietly slid the drawer open.
“What are you doing?” Spencer asked.
Scarlett shh-ed him and pointed at the wall. Spencer nodded in understanding of the fact that Lola could hear them—but still looked puzzled by her actions. Scarlett carefully pushed aside the pack of fabulous wipes and some mysterious tubes of cream. She knew what she was looking for the moment she laid eyes on it. It was a dark red box marked “Cartier.” She removed it carefully from the drawer and brought it over to Spencer.
Inside the box was a white-gold watch with a single diamond on the face.
“Holy…” Spencer said under his breath as he took the box. “This thing even smells expensive. This is probably a few grand worth of watch.”
“She’s not wearing it,” Scarlett said.
“But she took it. She accepted it. I have a bad feeling that Number Ninety-eight is going to…”
Scarlett elbowed him.
“What?” he asked.
“You’re not allowed to call him that anymore,” she said, taking the watch and carefully replacing it in the drawer.
“In front of Lola.”
“He saved you yesterday,” Scarlett said. “You have to be nice to him now. We both have to try. We have to practice.”
“But…”
“You made Lola cry,” Scarlett said, dropping her voice even lower. “Remember?”
Spencer looked like he felt a little betrayed by this remark, and then held up his hands, admitting his shame.
“Okay,” he said. “Okay. I will be nice about the watch that Chip spent many thousands of dollars on to impress my sister, who he isn’t even dating right now. And should she decide to date him again, I will never call him Ninety-eight or ask him whether his major is Letters or Numbers.”
“Thank you,” said a voice from the doorway.
Lola stepped around Scarlett, removed some product that she had forgotten to bring to the bathroom, and pushed the Drawer of Mysteries closed. She didn’t appear to care too much that Scarlett and Spencer had been going through her things.
“And no,” she said, “I haven’t made up my mind yet about what to do about Chip or the watch. It is worth about eight thousand dollars—I know you’ll just look it up online later. But I did just see Dad on his way down to their room, and they want to talk to you about the plans for tomorrow night. You know, when you give them tickets to a show and perform Hamlet for them, and they can see that you have an acting job?”
“This is where I take a long, long nap,” Spencer said. “And in my happy, happy dreams, this problem goes away. And those Dutch twins who love tall and weedy New York actors come and offer to help me prepare for my role. And we all put on the fuzzy squirrel outfits and get big bags of nuts…I’m revealing too much about my internal lif
e, aren’t I? It’s weird between us now, isn’t it?”
He yawned hugely.
“I’ll call Mrs. Amberson,” Scarlett said. “She’s supposed to be doing all the follow-up.”
“This is the good part about being this tired,” he said. “You stop fearing for your life. This is it, beloved sisters of mine. This is the day that it really all gets decided or it all falls apart. So do me a favor…”
He got up and left the Orchid Suite with a slow, dragging walk.
“…don’t wake me up. I have a bad feeling those Dutch twins are the only fans I’ll ever have.”
THE GIRL IN THE MOON
Mrs. Amberson had left a voice mail for Scarlett while she was asleep.
“Please tell your parents I will be coming along to family dinner night, as usual,” she said. “They very kindly extended me an invitation. I have some very exciting news.”
Scarlett’s multiple attempts at calling back to get this news were unsuccessful. Mrs. Amberson was simply not answering.
By five, she had to go rouse Spencer, who was deeply asleep fully dressed in his wet clothes. For some profoundly disturbing reason, he shouted the word “peanuts” when Scarlett finally shook him back to consciousness.
“Anything?” he asked, rubbing his eyes.
“Mrs. Amberson is coming over,” Scarlett reported. “Something happened, but she won’t say what.”
Spencer shook his head hard to get the blood flowing and blinked at her a few times. There were still tiny specs of white makeup around his ears that he hadn’t gotten off—the last evidence of the show that probably was no more.
“No matter what happens tonight,” he said, “even if I walk out of dinner as a culinary student and not an actor…I owe you. I want to tell you this now, because I have a bad feeling that I’m not going to be the best person to be around for a few weeks. I won’t forget what you did. And we had fun, right?”
He smiled, but it sounded like he was conceding defeat in his mind.
Downstairs, two pans of the lasagna of death had been roasted into existence. The rolls and salad had been purchased premade, so they were edible. A cab rolled up and Mrs. Amberson stepped out, wearing her brown karate ensemble. Scarlett met her on the sidewalk.
Suite Scarlett Page 27
