Illuminate (9 page)

“Sure,” I said, now certain that my eyes were closed. But I just couldn’t open them.

“Uh-oh, someone’s crashing.”

“Who?” I felt myself slur.

It was after two when I made it back to my room, with great assistance from Dante and Lance. I remembered little between my talk with Dante in the ring of fire and getting tucked into my bed. But I did notice as we crossed the lobby to the elevator bank to descend to our rooms that the chandelier in the center of that majestic entranceway looked even better at night than during the day. Those white lights that Lance had counted were reflected in the skylight, making the night sky appear even more star-studded. Of course, some of the stars may have been provided by my own jumbled and slippery consciousness. Everything around me had begun spinning before I left the club and bursts of light that I knew no one else was seeing twinkled in my periphery.

Dante had nestled me into my bed, still in my party clothes, and flipped off the light, saying something that I heard only muffled, but that seemed to be a promise to check on me in the morning. My head was a lead weight crushing the pillow. Now that I was in bed, my body completely dropped its defenses. Everything ached. I was sweating torrents. My muscles felt like they were contracting and tearing, twisting like wet rags being wrung out. My stomach swam and lurched, a toxic pool threatening to rise up. But I was too drained to get up again so I just tried to imagine away the nausea. With my eyes closed I could still feel the rush of the spinning—it felt like I was being whipped around on that ride they had at the summer fair every year, the Scrambler. I let myself drift into sleep knowing I had to feel better on the other side of this.

6. It’ll Probably Be Just Hideous

I didn’t know where I was when I woke up. I scanned the room and then slowly it came back to me: the Lexington. My body tested out movement, shifting, rolling to my side.
Ow,
everywhere,
ow,
but especially my head. I touched my fingers lightly to the spot near my right temple—
ow
again—it felt a little mushy, like a rotten banana. What was wrong with me? I retraced my steps: the room spinning, the club, Lucian and that drink—that drink! Was this my first hangover? Was it possible there was enough booze left in that drink to have done this to me? All of yesterday flooded back. I hadn’t called Joan, had I? How had I let that slip? Was it too early now?

The bedside lamp was still on and it seemed blinding. The numbers of the clock looked my way, the hands pointing with rigid urgency. It had to be wrong, didn’t it? It was just 2:00 in the morning a second ago. I pulled it closer to me: it was, in fact, 7:45 a.m.

I took the world’s fastest shower and didn’t even bother washing my hair. I threw on my nice gray pants and a sweater, ran to the elevator, rode up to the lobby, and sprinted to the ottoman that sat like a sundial below the skylight. My watch read 8:02. I was alone. I breathed a sigh.

My body slunk onto the ottoman, shoring up strength for the day to come. I felt like I had been hooked to the back of a truck and dragged along the road. If I weren’t here, I would have stayed home from school—and I never did that. Sun streamed down from the skylight, all blue and cloudless above. I raised my face and closed my eyes, letting the sunlight warm me, and felt myself drifting for a moment. I really needed to call Joan. If I didn’t watch it, she’d be down here to check on me. I could see it now, her pulling up out front in the old Camry, strolling in, claiming she just happened to be in the neighborhood. I laughed to myself, which hurt my ribs, but the smile was still on my lips.

As sick as I was last night, and unsettled as my footing was in this strange place, the past twenty-four hours were probably among the most exciting of my life. This is what I had needed—to spring from the comfortable and protective confines of home, even to stumble. And there would be more of that, I was pretty sure. A telltale swishing rustled in the distance, from the direction of the elevator bank. I opened my eyes. Aurelia in heels and an elegant sleeveless black wrap-dress sashayed toward me, arms strong and firm. I stood, hands folded behind my back, trying to look the part of the perfect employee.

“Good morning, Ms. . . . Aurelia.” I caught myself.

“Why, yes it is a good morning, isn’t it, Haven?” she said as she reached me, just a hint of a smile. Her light waves brushed at her shoulders and her sapphire eyes twinkled, in a way that suggested she was looking forward to putting me through the wringer. “We have so much to accomplish today. I trust you’ve eaten and you’re ready to get started?”

The idea of food made my stomach wrench. I still didn’t feel quite ready for solids. If I had been hungry and had had more time, I would have explored the kitchen near the Parlor. She had told us yesterday that we were welcome to take meals in there whenever we pleased, at a table back near the meat locker, where we could park ourselves away from the customers. We weren’t supposed to frequent the other restaurant, Capone—the more upscale dining room—where the kitchen would be harried and hectic. Aurelia had given us the impression we would be getting in the way if we were ever anywhere near there.

“I’m, uh, just fine, thank you.”

“Very well, come to my office. I have some materials for you.” She had already started walking, so I hustled to catch up.

“Thanks,” I said shyly, then remembered. “Oh, um, speaking of materials, you didn’t by chance leave a notebook for me in the library?”

“Did you lose something already, my lamb?” She sounded both annoyed and confused.

“No, I just . . . sorry, never mind.” It appeared that empty book hadn’t been from aurelia. She pushed open a door—the door I had seen her and Lucian step out of twenty-four hours ago.

At first glance, the room looked like it should be the office of a grizzled old man who smoked cigars and told tales of drinking his way through Prohibition. The walls were paneled in the same cherrywood of the library shelves, and the floor was dominated by a battleship of a desk, a thick, boxy piece that must have consumed a forest of trees. It looked antique, with etched vine-like designs creeping along the sides and bordering the top, but it had been shined and polished. Behind the desk on a TV screen old and new shots of the hotel alternated on a loop. The only feminine touches were a sleek red-velvet sofa with gold feet and goldenrod and tiger-striped pillows and two matching tiger-print armchairs.

Aurelia settled in behind the desk and I quickly took a seat in one of the chairs facing her.

“Today you will photograph the members of the Outfit, Lucian, and your fellow interns, just as you photographed me yesterday. I’ve made a schedule here.” She handed me a printout with an endless stream of poetic names—some I already recognized from last night and new ones like Genevieve and Celine, Sebastian and Finn—and times beginning at ten o’clock. “Everyone will be coming to you ready to go. I have your attire for today as well. I trust you’ll be able to photograph yourself or will you need someone to do it for you?”

My questions bubbled up. We were going to be included in this project? And what did she mean by “attire”? But I answered, “Sure, there’s a timer and I believe I saw a remote control too.”

“Excellent. With the exception of our chef, everyone else is here and you should be able to complete the shoot today.” She tucked a strand of hair behind her ear and leaned back in her chair. She was so certain, and she spoke in such a controlled, firm way. “We won’t trouble ourselves with the process of selecting photos until tomorrow. If there’s nothing else, you’re free to go.” She slid a slim keycard across her desk leaving it on the edge for me.

“Thank you.” As I rose to leave, she had already begun flipping through a stack of papers.

The photo studio had been left almost exactly as it had been yesterday. The only difference today: a white ribbed tank top had been folded and left neatly on the stool with a piece of paper pinned to it reading “Haven.” I held it up, letting it unfold. It had a bit of a scooped neck, which made me nervous. I couldn’t tell how it would lie on me. I set it aside and tried not to think about it.

Raphaella appeared at 10:00 on the nose, slinking in without a sound. I just turned around and there she was. “Hi,” I said. “I guess this’ll be a cakewalk for you, right? You’re a pro.”

“I’ll do my best,” she said. Somehow, she seemed even more reserved than last night. Maybe she just didn’t like me. I’d hoped her casual dress would make her more laid-back, but I guess I was wrong. Today, she was in dark, slim jeans that clung to her with great affection, and a similar white tank top—which would look far different on me. On her, it was an event. That necklace, the amethyst, glinted in the light.

“Did you stay late last night?” I tried again. “I was pretty wiped out when I left.”

“A little while,” she said, perfectly polite, but something was still off. Maybe it was just that necessary divide between an intern and someone so much more established at a workplace. Maybe this was how it was in every office. I guess, now that I thought about it, some of the doctors at the hospital could be a little aloof. I tried not to take it personally. She took a seat on the stool, and I decided to focus on my job instead of my hypersensitive feelings. I snapped my shots. In no time I had what I needed, Raphaella was out the door, and my next subject had arrived.

They filed in all day long, impeccably punctual, unflappably silent—a parade of designer jeans, collectively representing the denim departments from the nicest shops on Michigan Avenue, with the men in immaculate white V-neck T-shirts and the women in tank tops. All but two or three had that same tattoo, the eye with the pentagram pupil and fiery lashes. A handful of girls wore that amethyst necklace, and a few of the guys had thick beat-up black leather cuffs on their wrists featuring a small skull and crossbones in silver, with tiny black stones in the skull’s eye sockets. I’d have to find out where these people shopped. The tattoos I wasn’t so sure about—one of those might look ridiculous on me. Besides, Joan, I was quite sure, would kill me.

I gave up trying to talk much when very few responded to me. Even Calliope, who had shown brief signs of warmth the night before, was a little more standoffish today. “I’d love to see some of your artwork sometime,” I offered. “It would be amazing to be able to paint or draw, but I really never could.”

She just smiled and said, “Maybe sometime.” It was almost as if she wanted to say more but had to shut her lips tighter to keep from interacting with me. I just let it go. What can you do?

On the plus side, at least none of these people required any direction: they knew how to move and pose; it seemed second nature to them. If Aurelia wanted to turn this place into a modeling agency, she had all the natural resources she needed.

The Outfit members adhered so firmly to the schedule that by two o’clock I had finished the last session. It was Beckett, the doorman from last night with the shoes Dante had loved so much. I had never seen arms like that so close up—rippled and straining the short sleeves of his shirt. He had just left and I began flipping through a few of the photos on the camera to see what I got—so far, so good—when Dante burst through the door.

“I’m ready for my close-up, darling,” he announced, bowing as he entered. “But you’ve got to get rid of this bad boy in retouching.” He pointed to a minuscule zit on his chin. I just shook my head, laughing.

***

Afterward, Dante, Lance, and I decided another leisurely lunch was in order and took our table in the Parlor for grilled cheese and fries, intended as a cure for my hangover. My appetite was finally returning.

“I hear my boss comes back tomorrow, so we’d better do this while we can,” Dante told us, his voice tinged with a nervousness I wasn’t used to hearing.

We finished up and Lance changed into his white T-shirt and met me back in the studio. He knocked, to be polite.

“Hey, all set?” I waved him in.

“I think so. Didn’t realize we were going to be part of the decoration around here.”

“Yeah, tell me about it. I’m as thrilled as you are.”

“That’s good to hear.” A few seconds of silence passed. He didn’t budge from the doorway. “So what do I do?”

I pointed at the setup in front of the camera. “You can sit or stand or anything and I’ll just snap a few and we’ll call it a day. Sound okay?”

“Sure. So, like, stand here?” He took his place beside the stool, moving as if his slim arms and legs didn’t have any joints.

“Perfect.”

He stood in that pose I’d seen him strike so often, with his hands plunged in his pockets, slouching. He smiled only slightly and he didn’t move an inch. I snapped a few shots and then noticed a problem: not only did his glasses cast a shadow on his face, they also reflected the light in a way I knew I wasn’t skilled enough to fix. Not that I wanted to let on.

“Great!” I coached. “We’re almost done. I feel like I should get a couple without your glasses.” He tensed up, his arms straightening as he took a step back. “It’s just that,” I spoke softly in case anyone was in earshot, “I sometimes have trouble with glare, and Aurelia will kill me if this comes back with flashes of light where your eyes should be.”

He eased. “That wouldn’t be so bad; it would just be a little more in the vein of modern art, right?” he joked—I think.

“True . . . but I don’t think we’re going for avant-garde here.”

“Well, in that case.” He took them off, blinking a few times to adjust and then hooked his frames so they hung on the V of his shirt. He looked in my general direction but not quite at me. He put one hand in his pocket and awkwardly held that forearm with the other; he was ready for this to be over. I centered my shot and, for the first time, noticed a slim line the length of a stick of gum just under his right eye where the bottom of his glasses usually hit. After several minutes of snapping, I looked up from the camera and nodded.

“Good enough?” he asked.

“Yes, definitely.”

He smiled shyly, putting his glasses back on. He looked at me and then away. “Thanks. I guess, I’ll . . .” He pointed to the door, already walking away.