So Over My Head (31 page)
“Oh, man. You don’t.” She covers her eyes with her hand. “The book warned me of times likes these. When all your superpowers would go to your head.”
I make a mental note to introduce this book to a blowtorch. “We’ll figure it out when we get up to Mercedes’ room. I just need to get in there so I can talk to her.”
“And what are you going to say?”
“Would you quit asking these questions?” These questions that make . . . sense!
We ride the elevator to the eighth floor in silence. I chew on a glossy nail.
“You’re kinda molting.” Ruthie points toward some stray feathers on the floor.
“I don’t have time to worry about this stinkin’ dress right now.” I tug on a plumey strap and try to hold it in place. “We need to get in, force the truth out of her, and get out in time to stop the biggest disaster of my dad’s life.” Otherwise it will be the biggest disaster of mine.
“I still think we could’ve gone with my idea to hang Marisol up by her toes until she hurled up the truth.”
I did give that one some serious consideration. But so far my questioning of that kid has gotten me nowhere. She’s a locked box.
The elevator dings and comes to a whooshing stop. My breakfast jumps on my stomach like a trampoline.
“We could pull the fire alarm.” Ruthie steps out and scans the walls of the hallway. “Pull it, and she’ll come running. You can tackle her and—”
“Get arrested?” I guess that would give me a great excuse for missing the wedding. “I can’t think.” I’m so stressed!
God, I know I’ve
got some dubious behavior going on here, but I checked my Bible last
night. And there’s nothing in there about causing a big stir to drive out a
mysterious lady in hopes of stopping your father’s nuptials
. For a second I thought I had found something in that chapter on animal sacrifices . . . but no.
“I’ll be back.” Ruthie turns back toward the glass elevator.
“Wait!” I lower my voice. “Where are you going?”
“Just hang onto your feathers. I’ll be right back.”
This could be bad. Very bad. “Nothing illegal. And keep your clothes on!” I don’t know why I needed to add that. But this is Ruthie. Anything is possible.
As she disappears behind the gold double doors, I walk down the hall and find the potted tree Hunter must’ve spent a good deal of time with. Easing down in the tight dress, I park it on the floor. And wait. And wait.
This must’ve been what Hunter felt like. No wonder he was so whiny. Ten minutes and my butt’s already numb.
In the distance I hear the elevator ting again. “Bella?” comes a stage whisper. “Bella!”
I jump up, rub my tush and peek my head around the corner of the hall. Sighing with relief, I see Ruthie. And then I see the cart. “What in the world are you doing?”
She wears a white smock, a billowy chef ’s hat, and pushes a metal food cart. “Getting you into that room.”
“How did you get that stuff?”
She moves her head in a jerky shake. “Don’t ask. Just climb on.”
I glance at the covered serving dishes on top. “Maybe we should pull the fire alarm.”
Ruthie lifts the white cloth draped over the cart. “Get under here. Sit on the bottom, and I’ll cover you up. When I push you inside the room, you can jump out and talk to her.”
I guess it doesn’t matter if we pull the fire alarm or not. Either way, I will not survive this day without being hauled away in cuffs. But desperate times call for . . . mug shots.
“Okay. Let’s do this.” I slip under the tablecloth and with a few tries, finally get situated good enough to be covered up. “Oh, my gosh. I’m like a pretzel in here.” I’m so going to need a massage after this. And a really strong latte.
“My name is going to be Mavis.” Ruthie says above me. “Mavis Durbinkle, the food service girl.”
“Whatever gets you by.”
“Mavis has had such a hard life. She needs this job.”
I pull up my sliding foot by the pink heel. “Write your autobiography later, Mavis. I have a wedding to stop.”
My world goes black as Ruthie flops the white material over me and the cart. I hear her inhale big . . . then she puts us into motion. Oh, shoot. Oh, shoot. Oh, shoot. Moment number 1,981,642 my mom would not be proud of.
My butt bounces with every rotation of the wheel, and the dishes clank a clumsy tune above my head.
Knock! Knock!
“Room service,” Ruthie calls.
“Nice country accent,” I whisper.
“Thank yew, sugah.”
The door opens, and a loud
thunk
tells me it caught on the safety latch.
“Yes?”
I swallow hard and pray none of my feathers are showing.
“Room service, ma’am. Just fer yew.”
“I did not order room service.”
“It was sent up. Compliments of someone who said you’d need a little pick-me-up right about now.”
Nice job, Ms. Durbinkle
.
“I—I don’t know. Who sent this?”
“The woman just said you’d know, and that she would talk to yew later. She popped her sweet li’l head in this mornin’ and gave us the order. Dark-headed lady. Real nice.” Ruthie stretches the syllables out like Laffy Taffy. “I think we have some chocolate goodies in here.” My friend taps a serving dish, and I can feel it vibrate all the way to my Jimmy Choos.
“Okay . . . I guess come on in.”
Ruthie pushes the cart, and it bounces over the carpet. “Oh, I see yer packin’ up here. Are you leavin’ us?”
“Yes.”
“I hope it’s nothin’ we did wrong. We here at the . . . um, the . . .”
The Broadway Heights! It’s the Broadway Heights!
“The
hotel
wants to make sure all our customers are happy as a pig in the mud. At least that’s what my ex-boyfriend would say.” A beat of silence. “Before he left me for another girl. But she was a hunter and a fisher like him. And Ezekial never could get past the fact that I couldn’t skin my own possums.”
Shoot me now.
Achoo! Ah-ah-choo!
Oh, no. Mercedes sneezes three more times. It’s my feathers!
“That’s strange.
Achoo!
I had the hotel take away all the down pillows, but—
achoo!
—I seem to be—
achoo
!”
“Um, here we go. Here’s some—oops! That’s pea soup. That ain’t right. I specifically asked for chocolate cheesecake.”
“I’m afraid you’re going to have to leave.” Mercedes makes a whirling noise in her throat. “I seem to be allergic to you.”
“No!” Ruthie cries. “It’s not me. But I gotta serve yew some dessert now. Let’s just uncover this other dish right here.” Ruthie sticks her foot under the cloth and shakes it. It makes contact with my knee.
“Ow!” I slap a hand over my mouth. I have to move. I have to bail out of here and confront this Mercedes woman.
“I must insist you leave. I’m to catch a plane in a few—
achoo!
— hours to leave the country.”
“Oh, I’ve always wanted to travel.” More kicks beneath the cart. “Where are yew goin’?”
“None of your business.”
“I’ve never been there.”
“Please take the cart and leave at once!” The woman sneezes again. And again. “I’m calling management if you don’t walk out of here right now.”
“Yeah? Well, not before you see this!”
Light explodes in my eyes as Ruthie flings the cloth away. The tall woman’s eyes go wide. She mutters a curse and reaches for the bedside phone.
“Stop!” I yell. “Stop. I won’t hurt you.” I move closer.
She doubles over and launches into a sneezing fit. “Get. Out.”
“I know who you are.”
“I don’t care!” Her face is turning purple.
This isn’t going well. I probably should’ve thought this out more. I figured she’d see me, see the dress and know I was part of the wedding party, then fall at my feet, confessing the truth.
Ruthie lunges for the phone, but the woman knocks her hand aside. “Get away!” she screams.
“Mercedes, I just want to talk to you.” I spy three framed photos across the room. The one in the middle is of her, Christina, and a younger Marisol. Surrounded by pictures of others I’m assuming are family.
“I don’t know who you mean.” Her left eye is swelling shut. It’s not pretty. “But you have broken into my room, and I am calling the police.”
Ruthie makes another try for the phone, but the woman throws herself on Ruthie and digs in her long nails.
“Ow!” My friend howls in pain. “I
knew
I should’ve brought my brass knuckles!”
I jump into the fray, only to trip over the train of my dress. Stupid feathers!
In a move worthy of any professional wrestler, Mercedes clotheslines me with an arm, and down I go. She grabs the phone receiver and punches a button. “I need security. Room 857. Now.”
From my position on the floor, I see her other eye taking on a gargoyle quality as well. Praying she can’t see me, I race back to the cart, dig into my purse for the camera and snap off some shots. But who would ever recognize this swollen creature?
“Come on!” Ruthie yanks hard on my arm and drags me toward the door. “Sprint like an Olympian!”
We run like mad to the stairwell. My heels dig into the carpet, and my feet cry out for mercy.
Please don’t let us get caught! Please
don’t let us get caught!
I lose a shoe at the fifth floor. “We need to separate!” I yell, kicking off the other heel. “They’re going to be looking for two girls together. I’m going to get off at the fourth floor and ride the elevator. You go to the bottom floor and go through the kitchen. I’ll meet you at the coffee shop half a block down. I won’t leave until you show up.” I wheeze out more instructions.
“Bella?” Ruthie calls as I pull open the fourth-story door.
My chest heaves. “Yeah?”
“I will never forget this.”
“I know. I’m sorry, Ruthie.”
Her face splits into a grin. “Are you kidding me? This is the best graduation present ever!”
“Remind me of that when we’re wearing stripes.” I shoot through the door and run down a series of halls until I reach an elevator.
It’s all I can do not to shout a hallelujah when the elevator pings open and I step inside with a group of Asian tourists. When we hit the lobby, I shuffle close to them, completely invading their personal space until I’m emptied onto the street.
Freedom! Yes!
My dress straps long gone, I hold up the bodice with one hand and use the other to propel me down the street. At the sight of Manhattan Mocha, I slow down, and sag against the building.
Thirty-one minutes later, I sit at a bistro table inside and drum my fingers on a cup. Where is Ruthie? What if she got caught? What if the police have her? What kind of friend am I that I even dragged her into this twisted mess?
I lower my head to the table and bang it twice. “I’m the worst friend ever. I’m the worst—”
“If you get a bruise on your schnoz, that is
not
going to look good for the wedding pics.”
I lift my head in a rush, “Ruthie!” Throwing my arms around my friend, I hug her close. “You made it! Thank God. You’re the best sidekick ever!”
“Dude!” She goes limp in my arms. “Back off, okay? I don’t even let Budge get
that
handsy.”
“I’m so glad you made it. I was freaking out.”
“When I went down to the kitchen, they wanted me to unload the dishwasher.” She shrugs and straddles a seat. “I thought it was the least I could do.”
I rest my head in my hands. “The wedding’s in thirty minutes, and I’ve got nothing. I could try and show those pictures to my dad or people who know Christina, but who would even recognize that woman with her face all swollen?”
“Seriously. That chick looked like a bloated up shar-pei.”
“It’s over. I have to admit defeat and let the wedding go on. It was a half-baked plan anyway.”
“The guide book said you’d have times of self-doubt.” Ruthie reaches into her shirt and pulls out a frame. “Maybe you can show your dad this.”
I snatch the picture and stare at Christina and her smiling family. “Aw, Ruthie. You’re the best.”
“Even without my slingshot.”
Failure spirals in my gut. “But what does this really prove? Let’s face it. I got nothing.”
Ruthie takes the frame, unlatches the back, and hands me the photo. “Check it out.”
I flip it over and read.
Marisol, Christina, and Sadie Vasquez
. “Omigosh.” I dig through my handbag with frenzied hands until I find my phone. With trembling fingers, I pull up my ex-boyfriend’s number. “Hunter?” I suck in a shaky breath. “I need you to meet me at my dad’s wedding. Make sure your father is there . . . I think I just found their money-stealing accountant.”
S
adie Vasquez. Of course. It was staring me in the face the whole time.
“Can’t you drive faster?” I yell to the cabbie.
“And roll up your window.” Ruthie sputters and spits. “It’s like a wind tunnel of feathers back here.”
I press the phone firmer to my ear. “Hunter, Christina De Luna is actually Christina Vasquez, sister of Mercedes.”
“Sadie Vasquez.” His words are sharp as knife points. “The psycho who took my dad and yours for millions.”
I grab Ruthie’s wrist and check her giant alligator skin watch. “You have to stall the wedding. I’ll never make it on time.”