Lulu Dark Can See Through Walls (3 page)

“His name’s Alfy Romero,” Daisy said. “Didn’t you read his profile in last week’s
YM?
” I shook my head, then turned back toward the band. Daisy continued in my ear. “If you think he looks cute in a tank top, you should see him in a bathing suit.”

The music grew more intense, and I let it sweep me up, up, up.

I was getting into the groove to an embarrassing degree when Alfy Romero looked down and flashed me a smile that could have powered all of Halo City. I tried to be cool, meeting his gaze and letting the corner of my mouth tilt the tiniest bit. But it was hard not to melt. I was disarmed, and let me tell you, it takes a lot to throw
me
off.

It could have been my imagination, but I swear he held the look for the rest of the song, and when it was over, I elbowed Daisy excitedly. “Did you see that?” I asked while Alfy studied the set list.

She grinned and raised her eyebrows. “Everyone saw it,” she said. “Marisol and Rachel are green with envy.” She gestured over at the girls, who had unfortunately wound up a foot or two away from us in the pogoing mob, arms folded dyspeptically across their chests.

Charlie had noticed too, I guess.

“Will you two give it a rest?” he grumbled. “You’re acting like giggly little schoolgirls.”

“We
are
schoolgirls,” Daisy said. “And you’re acting like a jealous boyfriend.”

“Jealous! What do I have to be jealous about?”

“Maybe you have a little crush on Lulu yourself.”

“Ha!” I exclaimed.

“Get real, Daisy,” Charlie said with a scowl. “Lulu and I took baths together when we were babies. Having a crush on her would be like having a crush on my sister.”

“Except that your sister’s an evil fink,” I pointed out, slightly offended by the comparison.

“Well, at least my sister doesn’t burp all the time, like you do.”

Daisy listened to us, swinging her head back and forth like she was watching a tennis match. “Please, you two,” she interrupted. “This is too much. If I wanted to watch a Meg Ryan movie, I would have gone out with my mom tonight.”

“Shut up, Daisy,” Charlie mumbled, totally blushing at this point.

“Fine. I’ll say no more,” Daisy shouted above the music. “Let’s just be happy for Lulu. Mr. Many Handsomes is quite smitten!”

“What was that you just said?” the eavesdropping Rachel Buttersworth-Taylor interjected.

“Nothing,” Daisy told her. Too bad Daisy is a terrible liar. I’m pretty bad myself, which is why I never lie, not even white ones.

“That’s funny,” Rachel said, her eyes sparkling wickedly. “I thought you just told Charlie that Alfy Romero has a crush on Lulu.”

“Um, no. Uh-uh. Not at all.” Daisy shook her head emphatically, which made her seem even less convincing.

“Well, just remember, Lulu has a tendency to imagine things like that,” Rachel began, going in for the kill. “Remember when she thought that Mr. Adams, the Latin teacher, was in love with her—and then he gave her a D?”

I gasped. It was a cheap shot. Plus it was so obvious that the reason he gave me a D was because he was trying to throw everyone off the truth.

Unfortunately, bringing
that
up wouldn’t exactly help my case.

I was at a loss for an original comeback, so I went for a low blow of my own. “No way, Rachel. Your head’s all screwy. Must be all the boozing your mom did when you were in the womb.”

Rachel’s smirk disappeared. Her eyes turned to steel. Even though the band was playing louder than ever and the crowd was going crazy, you could feel the air escaping from the little circle we were standing in.

For the first time that night Marisol spoke up. “You know what, Lulu? You’re a real piece of work.” She took Rachel by the hand to usher her away, then turned back for a final retort. “You should be ashamed of yourself.”

I’ll be honest: it’s not like what she said was devastating or anything, but something about her icy tone gave me goose bumps.

Daisy turned, grabbed my shoulders, and practically shook me. “Lulu!” she scolded. “That was not cool. Just because you know the most hurtful thing to say doesn’t mean you always have to say it.”

I frowned in confusion. “What’s the big deal? On the Richter scale of insults, what I said barely even registers.”

“You don’t remember?” Daisy asked.

“Remember what?”

“The time Rachel’s mom showed up sloshed to the eighth-grade potluck dinner? Rachel’s sensitive about that stuff!”

“Oh,” I said. “Right.”

Truthfully, I didn’t remember the potluck dinner at all. Then it occurred to me—eighth grade was the year I had mono. I probably missed the entire thing.

A strange, hollow feeling settled in my stomach. I hadn’t been trying to do any
real
damage. I do have some decency. It’s like, I only make fun of people for being fat if they’re totally skinny. You don’t want to cut too close to the bone; otherwise you end up looking like a jerk.

But Rachel and / are always bickering,
I told myself. There was nothing to do now except put it all out of my mind. For the rest of the evening I tried hard not to think about what I had said. Dwelling on it gave me a bad case of guilt-induced anxiety.

The music the band was playing was shaking me from the inside out, humming with a warm, dreamy drunkenness. I felt it in my knees and lungs, and I closed my eyes, letting the thrill of the room blanket me. There it was again: another glimpse of the perfect.

I was still stuck in it twenty minutes later when the Many Handsomes’ last song ended. It took a couple of seconds of listening to the crowd going wild for me to realize that the set was over.

The stage lights blinked off, and I was struggling to see when I felt a tap on my shoulder from above. My heart somersaulted when I realized that I was face-to-face with Alfy Romero.

He was bent down, leaning over at me from the stage. All I could make out was the vague outline of his chiseled jaw, his perfect lips. His breath, which didn’t even smell bad, grazed my cheek. He put his hand on my shoulder. I nearly swooned.

“This one,” he called to someone in the wings.

For once I was dumbstruck. I opened my mouth to speak and realized that I had no idea what to say.

It didn’t matter, though. A second later the stage lights faded back on.

As the rest of the band returned to the stage, Alfy stood up and strapped on his guitar for the encore. He stood wide-legged in a warrior stance, bounced once, and strummed a big, echoing power chord before the drums and the bass kicked in.

 

When the show was over, we were sweaty and breathless, glowing with energy. I was still getting my bearings when a big guy in a dirty T-shirt and cargo shorts came sidling up next to me.

“From Alfy Romero,” he said. He handed me a piece of folded-up paper before shuffling off to the stage door.

Surreptitiously I looked down and unfolded the paper he’d handed me. It was the Many Handsomes’ set list, printed in messy, boyish, Sharpie scrawl. At the bottom a note:
You’re beautiful,
it read, in the same adorable chicken scratch.
Call me. XOXO Alfy R.
Then—prize of all prizes—his phone number! I gasped and stuffed it quickly into my purse.

Suddenly I felt eyes on me. Daisy and Charlie were both staring.

“Lulu,” Daisy said, slack-jawed. “You are brilliant! How did you make that happen?”

I shrugged. It was a total mystery to me.

Charlie shook his head. “I hope you’re not actually considering calling him. I mean, musicians will give their numbers to anything in heels.”

My smile quickly evaporated. “But I’m wearing hot pink cowboy boots!” I argued weakly.

“Charlie, don’t be such a jerk,” Daisy stepped in. “It’s obvious that Alfy noticed Lulu because she’s one of a kind and he happened to be nervy enough to do something about it!”

“Whatever,” Charlie said. “Believe what you want to believe. I’m outta here.”

“You’re not going to stay for another coffee?” I asked.

“Nah, I promised my sister I’d take her dog for a walk before I went to bed.” He gave us each a quick kiss on the cheek, zipped up his sweatshirt, and booked for the door.

I was still trying to figure out what to make of the situation when I heard a giggle behind me and felt a cold wetness on my butt.

“Oops!” came a shrill, familiar chirp. I twirled around. No surprise; it was Rachel and Marisol again. Rachel was clutching an empty glass to her chest, barely hiding her jubilance.

“What the hell . . . ?” I exclaimed, craning my neck to survey the back of my skirt. A huge wet spot was quickly spreading across my butt. In a second I knew what had happened. Rachel had accidentally on purpose spilled her iced coffee all over my favorite pink-fringed vintage skirt! It was dripping down my legs—and into my cowboy boots!

“I’m
so
sorry, Lulu.” Rachel snickered. “I can be such a klutz sometimes. Don’t worry, though, the iced coffee blends right in with the pattern.”

Marisol was standing behind her friend, looking amused but sort of embarrassed.

No time for arguments. The clock was ticking. I beckoned urgently to Daisy.

Daisy took one look at the sludge dripping down the backs of my legs and flew to my rescue. “Quick,” she said, shooting Rachel and Marisol a reproving glance. “If we work fast, we might be able to salvage your skirt!” We rushed to the bar, where she swiped a pitcher of water and some napkins and got to work cleaning.

It was a lost cause; I could tell from the start. I loved my poor little fringed skirt. I’d bought it at a flea market for only five dollars. Now it was gone.

A small part of me realized that maybe I had it coming.

“Sorry, Lu,” Daisy said after a valiant effort. “I don’t think there’s much more I can do. If only I could remember that Swedish trick with the egg whites and tonic water that my mother taught me. . . .”

“It’s fine.” I shrugged. “Just clothes, right?”

“That’s the spirit,” Daisy cheered. “Let’s go. We are so done with this place.” She made a move for the door.

“Wait!” I exclaimed, patting myself down. “What did I do with my purse?”

“Don’t panic,” Daisy said. “You probably left it on the stage.”

“Right,” I answered. “Follow me.”

We waded against the exiting crowd toward the area of the stage where Alfy Romero first fell under my spell. We were nearly there when the girl we’d dubbed Sally Hansen emerged in front of us.

She narrowed her eyes when she caught sight of me.

“Cow,”
she murmured under her breath, leaning close to whisper in my ear. Then on her way by she slammed her shoulder into mine, coming close to knocking me over.

“Whoa,” Daisy breathed.

Then as quickly as she appeared, Sally Hansen was gone—lost in the crowd.

“Weird,” I said, disconcerted to say the least. “What did I ever do to her?”

Daisy shrugged. “You’re just not making any friends tonight.”

“Except Alfy!” I winked at her.

We reached the stage and glanced around for my purse. There were a few discarded cups, some crumpled flyers, and a puddle of unidentifiable liquid but nothing close to a handbag anywhere in sight.

I searched harder, looking for any sign of the telltale pattern. Still nothing. “My purse!” I yelped. “I know I left it here!”

A terrible thought occurred to both me and Daisy at the same time. “Alfy Romero’s phone number!” we exclaimed together.

We dropped to all fours and scoured the floor. Then we ran to our booth and dug into the seat cushions.

But it was no use.

The number, along with my purse, was gone.

 

That was the beginning. If I was any sort of girl detective, I would have seen it coming.

ON SATURDAY IN DAGGER PARK, the neighborhood where Rachel Buttersworth-Taylor lives, the jammed tree-lined sidewalks were filled with little dogs and fifty-something ladies wearing tailored black suits. Everywhere you looked, the place glittered with platinum-streaked coifs, huge, garish pins, and the glinty eyes of silver-haired men.

It was noon, the morning after my purse was stolen. Daisy and I had jetted up there, to the northwest corner of Halo City, to give Rachel the shakedown. After what had happened the night before, I was more than positive that she’d taken it, either for revenge or because she wanted Alfy Romero’s phone number for herself.

It was probably a combination of the two—though I don’t know what she would have done with that number. If Alfy had wanted to give his number to a fink like her, he would have, so what’s the point in stealing?

Anyway, it was a yellowish spring day, and the sunlight bursting through a leafy filter gave the streets in Dagger Park an aspect of unreality—like they’d been built for Disney World or something.

Daisy and I were standing outside Rachel’s house, where she lived with her mom.

Casa Buttersworth-Taylor is a tricked-out old town house with a big oak door and ivy crawling the walls. Daisy and I found ourselves staring at that door together. We’d come all this way, and now neither of us wanted to push the buzzer.

“You do it,” Daisy said. “It’s your purse.”

“No, you do it. Rachel hates you less. Maybe I’ll just hide here in this shrub.” I gestured nervously at a tiny neon azalea at the foot of the granite stoop.

“No way,” Daisy scoffed. “If this is happening, you’re going to have to be the one to do the deed.”

I hesitated. Much as I hated to admit it, Rachel was a worthy foe. She had a crazy recklessness that I almost—that’s
almost—
admired. Who else would have had not only the nerve but the straight-up, messed-up, evil spark to pull that trick with the dead fish?

 

It happened freshman year, during the school production of
Fiddler on the Roof.
Because our school’s so small, participation in the stupid play was always mandatory. Daisy, Charlie, and I all wound up in the chorus, which ironically is where they stick everyone who can’t carry a tune. Basically, if you’re in the chorus, you just stand around a lot with some kind of prop—in my case a bottle of Manischewitz (empty, unfortunately)—and you sort of sway and mumble along while everyone else is singing. Sometimes you have to do really humiliating stuff like skip around in a circle and curtsy fifty times in a row, but in general, chorus seemed like the best place to be. I was so mortified to be in a lame school musical in the first place that as far as I was concerned, the tinier the part, the better.