“Thank you,” she said, relieved. “What I should have said was that you look fantastic. Really.” She sounded sincere. “I only meant that I’m not surprised you chose the more conservative style. That’s who you are: a serious young man. But you look absolutely perfect in black! It’s very flattering.”
“Thanks.”
The PAL in the face parlor had washed and trimmed Claude’s hair and applied a light layer of makeup (to hide the circles under his eyes and accentuate his lips) but he’d refused the PAL’s suggestion to green his eyes or dimple his chin with a subcutaneous lift. Mom, on the other hand, had apparently had the full treatment. Her hair was a new color and shape—dark red instead of black and styled in a halo of soft curls instead of straight. Her cheeks were smoother and more taut, and her eyes looked larger. The overall impression was that she looked like a younger, cuter sister of herself.
“You look beautiful, as always,” Claude said.
She kissed him on the cheek. “Thank you, dear. I’m so glad you’re here.”
“Me, too, I guess.”
“Don’t sound glum. You can eat and enjoy yourself while I’m required talk to these pin people—what is it you call them?”
“Pin-striped nokopfs,” he said. “But I thought these pin people were your friends.”
She smiled wearily. “Some are nice. Most are bores, or they seem boring after one too many parties.”
“Ha, really? That’s great,” he said, happy that the dissatisfaction he’d heard in her voicemail hadn’t been an aberration. “I mean, I’m sorry you find them boring, but it’s great that we agree about something. That hasn’t happened in a while.”
“No,” she said, looking sad. “It hasn’t.”
Not wanting to start a serious conversation, Claude quickly asked, “So what’s the inspiration for tonight’s festivities? You didn’t say in your message.”
“I didn’t? Bill Watson is officially announcing that’s he’s running for president.”
“Of the United States?”
“No, the Egotistical Idiots Society. Of course the United States!”
“Scheisse.”
“Don’t curse. And don’t worry. He won’t win. How could he? Ted says it’s purely a business decision. Congress will be more flexible if they really think Bill’s going to challenge President Marsh.”
The ballroom was beginning to fill. Several women wore shoes that lifted them nearly a foot off the ground, and a man with green hair and Cleopatra eye makeup wore a bright red jumper that expanded and contracted as he walked, reminding Claude of a beating heart. “Who’s that?” he asked, pointing at the heart.
“Profit if I know. He looks ridiculous, like a blob from outer space.”
“Or a pimple that needs popping.”
“Hey, what’s this?” Mom lifted his shirt to look at his belt.
“Hey.” He swatted her hand away.
“Oh Zeus. Where’d you find that?” Her voice dropped to a whisper. “Ted’s in the dressing room looking for it. He went neutronic when he couldn’t find it.”
“Really?” He liked that Millstone was upset. “What’s the big deal? I mean, he has so many belts. I’m surprised he even noticed it was gone.”
Mom smiled mischievously. “I’m surprised, too. It’s not even attractive. Probably one of his idiot consultants recommended it. Must have said it makes him look smarter,” she said. She leaned forward and whispered in his ear: “Just don’t let him see it.”
“Sure,” he said, even though the prospect of angering Millstone tempted him to do otherwise.
Mom tugged at the edge of his shirt to hide the belt under its fold.
“Stop,” he said, stepping back.
Mom winked. “Why? Worried your little friend might see that you’re Mama’s pet?”
“What little friend?” he asked.
“I heard you added the name of the Hilovasian’s very perfect looking son to the guest list. Is he someone special?”
“Mom!”
“Speak of the handsome devil,” she said, lowering her voice.
Claude turned around. Jayesh stood in the entrance archway, wearing a bright green jacket and clear shoes through which his bare feet were visible.
“A real heartbreaker,” Mom said.
“Stop, please.”
“Right-O. This is a party, so let’s have fun.”
“Whatever you want Mom.”
“Ooo, I wish you would say that more often,” she said, her larger-than-normal eyes sparkling.
“Whatever you want Mom. Whatever you want Mom.”
“Music to my ears,” she said happily. She pecked him on the cheek and shot off on her conveyor-belt shoes—a bit too abruptly, if her fluttering arms were any indication—toward a group of laughing women, whose bejeweled hair and arms reminded Claude of pictures he’d seen of the exotic roosters bred by the King of France to match the lawn furniture at Versailles.
As Jay made his way across the room, Claude watched other partygoers examine him, their expressions reflecting emotions that spanned the narrow range from envy to admiration. He felt proud that Jay was his, although he recognized how strange it was to think of Jay belonging to him. Of course, people didn’t really belong to each other, not in a material sense at least, and yet that’s exactly what he felt as Jay drew closer: that over the last 24 hours, he’d come to own Jayesh Hilovasian in the same way that he owned Trax or his favorite sweater.
“Don’t you look smashing,” Jay said, grabbing Claude’s forearms and pulling him into a kiss. Claude inhaled deeply, filling his nose with Jay’s ever-changing scent, which tonight brought to mind a mouth-watering mix of watermelon and almonds.
“Please don’t eat me too fast,” Claude said, pulling his head back so that he had just enough clearance to speak.
“I’d start by unbuttoning your shirt if I wasn’t so pleased to see you in such finery,” Jay said. He ran his fingers cover Claude’s jacket. “A 500-thread count silk SolarWeave blend, if I’m not mistaken.”
“I have no idea. My mother chose the suit,” he said, instantly regretting it. Did he sound like an idiot, letting his mother pick his suits?
“Your mother has excellent taste.” Jay turned and looked at Claude’s mom, whose laughter and grand gestures had placed her at the center of the rooster women’s attention. “She’s a knockout.”
“Thanks, I think. I try not to think of my mother as a sex object.”
Jay spun around and grinned wickedly. “You’re the only sex object in your family as far as I’m concerned,” he said, leaning in for another kiss.
“Why don’t we go somewhere more private?” Claude asked.
“We can anchor off anytime. First let’s have some party.”
“I’m not much for parties,” Claude pouted as he tugged at Jay’s jacket.
“This place is amazing,” Jay said, gazing around.
“It’s ridiculous.” In addition to the projections of APU products over their heads and the constantly changing wall-sized moving pictures, holographs of life-sized animals had begun to meander through the crowd. A giraffe in the middle of the dance floor appeared to be eyeing two women who were laughingly spinning each other, and a troop of baboons was squatting next to and on top of a nearby buffet table laden with hors d’oeuvres.
Jay went over to the largest baboon, which looked up as he neared.
“Hey monkey. Come here,” he said, reaching toward it.
The baboon leaned back, puffed its chest and bared its teeth.
“It looks mad,” Claude said, coming up behind Jay.
“I want one. How does it work?” He tried to touch the animal’s head, but it rose on its legs and bellowed. Jay stepped back. “Hades. What’s wrong with it?”
Claude laughed and walked up to the baboon, which shrieked even louder. A few people turned to stare as Claude tried to punch the beast, whose mouth looked wide enough to swallow his fist. As soon as he made contact with the baboon’s irate face, it disappeared,
vanishing with the satisfying pop of a soap bubble. There was a ripple of motion among the onlookers—a palpable release of tension—and a few people applauded.
“My hero,” Jay said.
Claude had expected the animal to retreat or, at the very least, shriek as his fist plunged harmlessly through its head. He hadn’t realized it would disappear, and it felt disconcerting, as if he’d killed a living thing. “I didn’t know it would do that,” he said guiltily.
Jay kissed him, an action that elicited more applause.
Claude pulled back. “OK. Let’s not make a scene.”
Jay grinned tightly. “You’re right. That would be silly.”
“Hey, relax. What’s the big deal?”
Jay shrugged. “Nothing. I’m fine. Want something to drink?”
“Not really.”
“I’ll get you a beer. Meanwhile, say hi to your buddy. He looks lonely.”
Claude followed Jay’s gaze to Cooper Patina, the principal of Vita-Lite High School, who was standing by a Picasso, his squat frame dwarfed by the large painting.
The principal was wearing a blue suit that was too tight and an orange beret that looked like a wilted flower. For some reason, the sight of Patina looking so silly made Claude sad.
A holographic lion wandered toward Patina, who eyed it nervously.
“He doesn’t bite,” Claude said, walking into—and through—the lion, causing it to pop into nothingness.
“Ah,” Patina nodded. Sweat shimmered on his forehead and cheeks. “It’s a great idea. A lot of fun.” Although “fun” was his favorite word, he said it as if someone were holding a knife to his throat.
“You should get holographic teachers. Save you a fortune on salaries.”
Patina’s eyes widened. “I guess your father mentioned it, that we’re trying that. Next year. An experiment, of course.”
Claude was startled for a moment at the mention of his father but then realized that Patina was referring to his stepfather. “Actually, my stepfather hadn’t mentioned it,” he said, wrinkling his nose as if he’d just smelled something offensive. “We don’t have that kind of relationship where he tells me every little horrible thing his company is inventing.”
“Ho, ho,” Patina said, scanning the room as if to reassure himself that no one of importance had heard Claude refer to APU as horrible. “Yes. Well.”
“Well,” Claude smiled wanly. “Glad you could make it.” He struggled for something to say. “That was quite a storm yesterday.”
Patina didn’t appear to be listening. “Of course, it’s an honor to be invited,” he said, sticking a finger in the collar of his shirt to loosen it.
“Is it? I mean, of course. Well. See you at school.”
As Claude stepped away, his phone chimed. It was Jay.
“What?” Claude muttered into the receiver.
“My mother insists I meet about 10 different dick-slobs, including her hairdresser. Tell me where to meet you, and I’ll be there in 15 minutes.”
“Tell your mom to buzz off,” Claude said.
“Um, no.”
“Fine. Meet me… I don’t know. In the library. Ask a PAL for directions.”
“15 minutes,” he said and clicked off.
People had begun drifting toward a platform on the far side of the room. The music had stopped and suit-wearing nokopfs were filling the stage. Among them was a stern looking Ted Millstone and a pale Bill Watson. Watson’s family, including a nervous looking Eric, was standing behind them.
Someone started yelling, “Bill, Bill, Bill, Bill,” and others picked up the chant. “Bill, Bill, Bill, Bill.”
Watson smiled, showing large white teeth, and waved. Millstone grabbed a microphone and began to speak, but Claude could only make out a few words: “thrilled…, brilliant…, right direction…”
“Bill, Bill, Bill, Bill.”
Defeated by the chanting, Millstone lowered the microphone.
Claude wanted to leave—leave the party, leave the mansion. The chanting sounded angry, as much in favor of Bill Watson as against President Marsh or anything that might get in Bill Watson’s way.
“Bill, Bill, Bill, Bill.”
Turning his back to the stage, Claude walked toward the archway that led to the south wing. Two droopy-mustachioed party PALs stood like guards on either side of the exit. The lights around their necks flickered as he approached. “Good evening Claude Altide,” they said simultaneously.
“Um, hi. Listen, my friend Jay—Jayesh—Hilovasian is going to meet me in the library. Will you make sure he doesn’t get lost?”
Their lights flickered again. He imagined they were accessing the full-body image of Jay, which must have been filed away when he arrived. After a moment, they said, “He must be authorized to enter the south wing.”
Claude grunted, annoyed. “He’s my friend,” he said, but immediately realized how stupid that sounded. He looked around and spotted his mother listening attentively to a man in a suit with chainmail sleeves. He marched over to her. “So sorry,” Claude said, putting a hand on his mother’s shoulder. She looked relieved to see him.
“My son, Claude Altide,” she said, presenting him to the tall man whose beard was divided into two long strands, one green and one red, that stretched to his belly button.
“It’s a pleasure to meet you,” the man said in an unexpectedly high-pitched voice.
“This is Frank Van Dyke, the director of the City Opera and Philharmonic,” his mother said.
“Great. Nice to meet you,” Claude said hurriedly, offering his hand. “Do you mind if I steal my mom?”
“By all means,” Van Dyke said, trying hard to smile as if nothing could please him more than to lose the audience of one of the Philharmonic’s biggest donors.
Claude pulled his mom toward the entrance to the south wing. “Is everything OK?” she asked.
“That guy sounds like a fucking mouse,” Claude said.
She laughed. “And as boring as one.”
“Can you tell these things that Jay has permission to meet me in the south wing?” he asked, as they approached the two PALS. “They say he isn’t authorized.”
She looked delighted. “Have you planned a tryst?”
“Mom!”
“Never mind,” she said quickly, though clearly pleased to be privy to what she perceived to be the details of Claude’s romance. She turned to the PALs. “Mr. Jayesh Hilovasian has authority to enter the south wing, the east wing, the family wing. Anywhere he wants to go, just like my son—without being bothered or questioned or stopped.”
“Yes Mrs. Millstone,” they said.
She turned to Claude with a smile. “Anything else?”
“No Mom. Thanks.”
She kissed him on the cheek. “Have fun,” she said and glided off.
Claude turned back to the PALs. “So you got that? You’ll help Mr. Hilovasian find his way to the library?”
“Yes Claude Altide.”
He suddenly found it odd that they knew everyone’s name but they themselves were nameless.
“Do you guys have names?”
“In the house network, I am referred to as 301,” said the PAL on the left. Without missing a beat, the one on the right said, “I am referred to as 243.”
“I see. Catchy. Well, thanks 301 and 243.”
“You’re welcome,” they said simultaneously.
Stepping past them, he entered a long hall. The thick carpet made him feel as if he were floating, a ghost. The hallways led to a series of living rooms, parlors, and lounges, many of them themed. An Arctic room contained polar bear skin rugs, furniture that looked as if it were made of ice, and snow falling from the ceiling. A jungle room was lined with sunken planters filled with large-leafed plants and roosts for colorfully plumed birds. There were several entertainment rooms with battle simulators, hunting arcades, billiard and ping pong tables. One room contained the original set of the game show Scan that Product, which Millstone bought at a charity
auction
The library was at the end of the hall, so far from the ballroom that the party was reduced to an occasional vibration.
“Light,” Claude said. A circle of lights embedded in the ceiling popped on, making him squint. “Dim, please,” he said, and the lights dimmed.
The library was Claude’s favorite room. It was where he spent most Wednesday afternoons, doing homework while waiting to be called for his once-a-week dinner with his mom and Ted. The antique furniture and old books made him feel as if he’d stepped back in time. Even the air, spiced with the odors of musty pages and leather bindings, made him think of the past, an era before filtered air and centralized odor control.
He dropped into a creaky swivel chair and spun around. After several rotations he stopped. It wasn’t the ideal room for mashing: there was no couch, just hard oak chairs. But they didn’t have to stay. They could go elsewhere: there were countless lounges and studies, or they could go outside and settle in a corner of a dark garden, far from people and PALs.
He glanced at the grandfather clock that stood like a sentry in the corner and wondered how long he’d have to stay under Millstone’s roof. That, of course, depended on how long his dad was gone. The thought of spending even a single night in Millstone’s sterilized guest room with PALs patrolling the halls left him queasy.
He opened his cell and dialed his dad’s number, but the call jumped to voicemail. There was a decent chance his dad’s cell had died or he’d forgotten his charger or his cell entirely.
He pulled out his wallet and retrieved the note, unfolding it carefully and laying it on the desk. Reading it over, the words seemed more peculiar than ever.
claude: again, un-timely
interference; over night call at last lousy minute; emergency meeting; sorry! away ‘til—unknown; really not
opportune; please eat nicely son; stay at finley—eek! take elegant Donna my best. always, dad
As he absently redialed his dad’s number, something caught his eye. It was a book, one of many on a shelf next to the desk. Claude couldn’t have said what specifically caught his attention, only that the book looked familiar.
At first he thought it was something he’d recognized from school—the Narrative of the Life of Frederick Douglass, perhaps—but as he stepped closer, he remembered. He didn’t even have to see the title to know that it was a copy of the book that his dad had just shown him, Einstein’s The Evolution of Physics.
The Alternate Universe Page 9
