Angels on Sunset Boulevard (11 page)

“I guess he doesn't like
kapusta,”
Mama Fay joked. She rubbed Taj's hair affectionately “Don't sweat it, pumpkin. Boys are sensitive creatures. What happened?”

She shook her head. “He's upset. His sister's missing.” She told Mama Fay what Nick had told her.

Mama Fay made a tsk-tsk sound. “So many kids getting lost these days. A pity. You know, in my day we'd all just run away to go to the East Village. That's where we were. Your granny, she ran off to the Haight-Ashbury. I'm sure that's all it is. They'll all come home soon. You'll see. When they run out of spending money. But don't you go anywhere, doll.”

They ate their dinner in silence.

Later that night, Taj dialed a familiar number.

“Speak.”

“Hey, Div. Wanted to ask you a question.”

“G'head.”

“You know on Friday night?”

“Yeah.”

“In the back room. Did anything … I don't know … did anything happen?”

Div hooted. “Lots of things happened. You know what it's like. By the way, why'd you bail so early?”

“Complicated.”

“Anyway, why are you asking?”

“There were a bunch of young kids there—you know? Eighth graders?”

“Maybe. I didn't really notice.”

“Anyway, one of them's missing. A friend of mine's sister.”

“And this has to do with the back room why?”

“I know, I told him there was nothing there that would cause that … I mean, shit. You know? But I just thought … I don't know, if you'd seen anything weird.”

“Everything's weird. That's the great thing about the ritual. You know that.”

“Okay, then.”

“Wanna know what we got this week?”

“What?”

“Plane tickets to San Francisco! Cool, huh? And Deck got this crazy expensive watch. Some kind of Swiss thing. Patek something. He saw it in some magazine and put it on his list.”

“You guys are out of control.”

Taj hung up the phone. She dialed another number.

“Hello, TajMahal,” the voice drawled.

“Sutton. Wanted to ask you something.”

“Sure, baby, anything for you. But in answer to your question, I have not heard from Johnny. I'm sorry. I think he's all right, though. I can feel it.”

“It's not about Johnny.”

“No?”

“What did you tell Maxine?”

“Maxine?”

“Yeah. About Johnny's songs.”

“Nothing, baby. I just told her you inspired them. I mean, you did, didn't you?”

Taj exhaled. “You know, if it gets out, Sutton …”

“Trust me, baby, everything's cool. Trust Sutton. Johnny did. Aight?”

“There's some kid missing. Did you see the papers? It said she was last seen at your party, Sutton. At a TAP party. And all those other kids who've been reported lost were last seen at one of your events. What's the deal?”

“Saw it, sweetheart. Nothing to worry about. Lots of kids go to my parties.”

“This one is different. It's a friend's sister.”

“Who's the friend?”

“Nick Huntington.”

Taj heard Sutton whistle between his teeth.

“Shut up, Sutton. Haven't you done enough to the guy?” Taj asked, meaning Maxine.

“Not nearly enough,” Sutton grumbled. “Is that all?”

“No. I mean, yes. I mean … you will call me if you hear from Johnny, won't you?”

“Of course. Good-bye, Taj.”

Click.

WHEN NICK ARRIVED HOME, HE IMMEDIATELY
went to his room, turned on his computer, and logged into TAP Something about what he'd said to Taj that night had bothered her.
What makes you think it's part of TAP?
There had to be something in that.

He studied the site intently and noticed something in the upper corner of his home page. A logo. Shaped like angel wings. He'd never noticed it before, but then he'd never really looked before. Like a lot of kids, he used TAP to get in touch with people, put up some fun stuff, but he never really thought twice about it.

TAP had always had a somewhat hokey feel—there were no ads on the front pages, and the whole site looked like something designed by your kid brother on Dreamweaver. It was part of its charm.

He clicked through the home pages of all his friends. Each one had the same angel wings in the upper left-hand corner. He checked blog pages, mail pages, video pages. There it was, over and over again. Right behind the “Welcome to TAP.com” box. Come to think of it, the logo looked a whole lot like the angel wings tattoos everyone was sporting. What gave?

Nick studied it thoughtfully. Then he sent an IM message to the one guy he was sure would know the symbol's provenance. Eric was always connected, he IMed from his cell.

HunterN:
Hey e, what up. Have you seen this before?

He cut and pasted the angel wing sign onto the screen.

crashnburn:
looks like a logo

HunterN:
yeah I know it's a logo, see, it's in the upper left-hand corner of all TAP pages. Is it theirs?

crashnburn:
dunno

HunterN:
doesn't YourPage own TAP?

crashnburn:
Yar. but their logo is the little people all lined up.

Nick had seen that logo before—it was all over TAP as well. It looked like a bunch of restroom door icons lined up together. Seeing it always made him want to find a bathroom.

HunterN:
so what r u sayin

crashnburn:
maybe someone else owns YourPage?

HunterN:
could u check it out?

crashnburn:
Sure.

He waited a few minutes, clicked on a couple of music sites, read some gossip on TAP. Maxine was talking shit about him all over the Web. Ugh.

A few minutes later, there was a ping on his screen.

Instant Message from crashnburn: ACCEPT?

Nick clicked yes.

crashnburn:
Found it.

crashnburn:
YourPage is owned by Werner Records, the big music conglomerate.

HunterN:
You mean they bought out YourPage when it was getting big?

crashnburn:
No. the opposite. They set up YourPage to put out TAP.

HunterN:
That's weird, isn't it? Didn't those two guys Jim Freestone and Mark Riley set up TAP at USC?

crashnburn:
nope. looks like they were hired to start TAP. From the corporate docs I was able to hack.

HunterN:
Thanks e. I owe you.

crashnburn:
No worries. Hey, did you hear about the bear and the bunny shitting in the woods?

HunterN: No.

crashnburn:
mr. bear asks mr. bunny, mr. bunny do you find shit sticks to yr fur? mr. bunny says, why no, mr. bear, it doesn't.

HunterN: uh-huh

crashnburn:
so mr. bear picks up mr. bunny and wipes his ass.

HunterN:
classy, e. real classy.

crashnburn:
i do my best. LOL. Hey, any word on your sister?

HunterN:
no. it sucks, rents think she's just pulling a ‘fish.'

crashnburn:
sorry bout that, sure she's fine.

HunterN:
hope so.

crashnburn:
All right. Be strong. Later.

HunterN:
Bye.

Odd that one of the most popular websites online was actually created and owned by one of the biggest music conglomerates in the world. That certainly deviated from the standard Silicon Valley success story—two college kids set up a site and got all their friends to join, then their friends got all of their friends to join, and before you knew it, local newscasters were talking about how dangerous the site was, and there were hundreds of articles written about the safety of kids online, but by then the college kids had sold out and collected their millions.

Eric was telling him the complete opposite—that the company had hired two college kids to set up a site to front TAP.

But why?

GOD, THIS HOUSE WAS HUMUNGOUS. IT WAS ALMOST
as big as Sutton's spread, if not bigger. How did people even live in such vast palaces? Didn't it get lonely? Or scary? She wondered what it would be like to wander around those infinite rooms. She sat on the sidewalk and waited for Nick to come home. She hadn't thought of ringing the bell, being too shy to announce herself. She was betting on catching him when he came home from school.

Their conversation the other night was bothering her, and she wanted to apologize, even if it was he who had been rude. When Nick found her, she was just sitting on the sidewalk, her board at her feet, like a lost soul.

“Taj?” he asked, rolling down the window to his convertible. “What are you doing here?” He looked more than surprised. Maybe he'd thought after the stunt he'd pulled he would never see her again. But then, Taj wasn't like other girls.

“What does it look like? I'm having a chocolate chip cookie,” she said cheerfully, holding aloft a damp bag of Mrs. Fields. When Nick still looked confused, she set him straight. “I've been waiting for you, what else? Took you long enough! Doesn't school let out at three?”

“I had practice. Why didn't you call me?”

“I would have, if I had your cell. And you guys aren't listed.”

“Well, get in,” Nick said, unlocking the door.

Taj jumped in. “Nice car.” She whistled.

Nick drove them up the winding driveway.

Taj looked sideways at Nick, admiring his profile. If you'd told her a few weeks before that she would be hanging out with some Bel-Air preppie, she would have swatted you with her skateboard.

“Jesus. It looked huge from down the hill, but up close it's even more enormous.”

“Yeah,” Nick said, a little embarrassed. “It's been in my dad's family for years.”

Taj shook her head. Nick parked the car in the garage and led Taj into the house through the kitchen.

Nick excused himself to his room, citing a need to change out of his sweaty soccer uniform, while Taj looked around at the kitchen, admiring its immaculate emptiness, the appliances only peeking out from behind roll-down doors. The countertops, honed in onyx, didn't sparkle but glowed with a soft, calibrated light.

It was a beauty that she had only seen in the pages of glossy, oversized magazines. Flowers sat under focused spotlights, their petals and leaves stapled and arranged into elaborate shapes that contrasted the starkness of the modern kitchen.

She had been to her share of rich-kid parties, had seen these houses close-up—this was just as impressive as Sutton Werner's, if not more so. But she had never known anyone who actually lived in one of these houses; she had always thought of those people in the abstract. Sutton didn't count. She didn't
know
Sutton. But she was starting to think of Nick as a friend, and to realize that he came from this—she couldn't decide if it made her like him more or less.

Nick came down the back stairs, a towel around his shoulders, dressed in a clean white T-shirt and jeans. He was drying his hair.

“I don't even want to know what you thought of
my house,” Taj said, suddenly feeling painfully embarrassed at how proud she'd been of their backyard view.

“What are you talking about? Your house is awesome,” Nick said, completely sincere.

“Okay, you don't have to lie to me—I've seen your house now,” Taj joked, feeling relieved. Maybe it wasn't so bad that he'd seen the way she lived.

“Can I get you anything?” he asked.

“No, I'm good, thanks. Want a cookie?” she said, offering him a nut-brown one.

Nick began to shake his head—his stepmother had raised them to prefer wheat-free, carb-free organic snacks, but the sight of melted chocolate proved too tempting. “Sure,” he said, picking it up.

“I loooove these,” Taj said, licking chocolate off the side of her lip.

He was charmed. He'd only ever known girls who shrieked at the sight of an ice-cream cone and subsisted on dressing-free salad.

Taj removed a pint of milk from the bag as well. “Want a sip?” she asked, offering him her drink.

“No, thanks,” he replied, holding up his trusty can of Red Bull.

“How can you drink that stuff? It's gross.” Taj shuddered.

Nick looked at the can in his hand. It
was
gross. It was too sweet and sugary, and most of the time it gave him a headache. But somehow he couldn't help ordering it, buying it, drinking it. One day it was the only thing he would drink, the only thing his friends would drink. He tried to remember what he used to drink before reaching for the Red Bull, but he couldn't remember. “I like it,” he said dubiously, putting down the can.