Loud Awake and Lost (7 page)

“Eeeeee!” Perrin squeaked and hopped for warmth, battling the sudden temperature drop and sounding a lot like the mouse she'd dressed up as tonight. “Let us in already!”

I pressed my finger three seconds longer on the bell of Lucia's chrome-and-glass Tribeca apartment. It was rude, but we were freezing.

“Fancy-schmance building,” murmured Sadie, huddling deeper inside her fake-fur cat coat. “Doesn't Robert De Niro live here?”

“People think De Niro lives in every single building in Tribeca,” said Tom.

Sadie giggled. “Maybe he does.”

“Well, I don't see him up there.” Rachel had stepped back to squint up in the window. “But I am seeing a vast parent conspiracy. Yeesh. What if it's
that
kind of party?”

“Then we all drop the cyanide tablets together,” murmured Keiji-the-Hulk. “After we eat, of course. I bet there's good 'derves.”

“Parents?” Sadie pursed her lips side to side to make her wire whiskers twitch. “What is she thinking?”

“Who knows? Of all the guys at Lafayette, Lucia picked
Claude,
” reminded Rachel. “So who knows what further secret insanity she's capable of?”

Perrin had started a round of jumping jacks. “It's the freezingest night of the year tonight. Why'd I only wear a hoodie?”

I'd underdressed, too, in a bubble-gum-pink overcoat that I couldn't believe I'd ever picked out for myself, let alone wanted to wear in public—but it beat the electric-pink ski jacket that I'd left hanging in my closet. Except the ski jacket would have been warmer, and the left pocket in my overcoat had torn so that its bottom hem was weighted with at least a pound of loose change. My cold fingers dug for a handful of coins stuck in the hem, but then I couldn't manage to pull everything back up through the lining.

At Addington, there was always a nurse or a therapist with a blanket or a warming pad, making sure I was retaining my body heat. Tonight was the first time in months that I was in genuine discomfort—and there was nobody looking to rescue me from it. Which was kind of awful and wonderful at the same time.

“JAY-sus.” Tom grimaced, flashing his Day-Glo vampire fangs. “Answer the door already, Lucia. I can practically taste my mug of cider.”

I've been here before.
The thought knocked the air from my lungs just as the door swung open to reveal Claude in a gold silk shirt and black pants paired with a velvet blazer that gave off a hint of vintage porn star.

“Claude! Is that a costume—or are you merely acknowledging that you're the creepiest person we know?” Perrin made a face as we all stumbled like a flock of badly herded sheep into the warmth of the foyer. I laughed along with the others, but my thoughts raced in a private blizzard.

Yes, I'd been inside this apartment! I'd been here to see something—
what?

Claude gave Perrin the finger. He was overly excited and way too full of himself as he led us through the sumptuous foyer. “Let that dude take your coats. He's their butler, a pretty cool guy,” Claude explained as a uniformed man began to whisk away our coats and stack them under his arm.

“There's a lot of beautiful art here,” I said to Rachel as it struck me. A painting. Yes. That's why I'd been here. To look at a painting.

“Yeah?” Rachel gave me a look. “How do you know? Did Lucia tell you that?”

“Um, I think so.” I'd been here, but not with Rachel. But it was familiar enough that I could have predicted the art deco furniture, the black-lacquered wood polish and gilded mirrors. Blood rushed to my head as I stepped in deeper.

Where was the painting? Someone had told me things about it,
whispered
them
in
my
ear,
when I'd seen it hanging here for the very first time.

We were all following Claude, who was still insisting on playing host. “It's a duplex with the roof deck. It belongs to Lucia's uncle,” he explained, “and he's a big-deal art collector. They're in a house swap. Right now he's living in Bologna with his family, and that's why Lucia's family's here.”

“Was Lucia's family depressed to find out you came with the place, Claude? Kind of like their own pet weasel?” Perrin teased. She and Claude had dated briefly freshman year, and they had a way of dealing with each other that was rude and yet affectionate—the secret language of exes.

“Yeah, yeah, keep on me, Perrin. Like you wouldn't do the exact same thing. Best views in the city. Check out the gold-leaf detail in the doorway. Eighteen-karat.”

I didn't care about gold leaf. Which was the room that held the painting? This party was strange, too crowded and too formal, too many blank faces staring me down into social quicksand. But when I closed my eyes, I could feel myself back here, only in a less-stressed zone, wandering again through these vast, extravagant rooms as if lost in a lovely dream. With him—I'd been with him. The boy who kissed me on the bridge was the same one who'd whispered in my ear.

“We're screwed.” Now it was Rachel whispering in my ear. “This scene is totally old people. Worse than church.
Not
how I saw my Halloween.”

“Give it a few more minutes.” I spied Lucia's kid sister—she couldn't have been more than eight—handling a tray like she was running the party. Cute, but obnoxious. It was definitely that kind of party. But I wanted to explore. The living room was enormous and yet secretive, with long, dark corridors and closed doors in all directions.

The painting wasn't down those halls. It was in a darker room…the dining room. Yes, that felt right.

“Hey, where's the dining room, Claude?”

“I'll show you. By the way, Lucia's parents are totally
prego
about drinking. Italians aren't hung up on stupid legality,” said Claude over his shoulder as we followed him to the far end of the living room, then through an open archway and into the velvet cocoon of the dining room—
yes, this was it
—where the table was a king's feast of runny cheeses, glowing pink sushi, and oysters on their iced, tiered platters. “Try the oysters; they're like fifty bucks a pound. You have to use those tiny forks.”

Right over there.

Goose bumps sprouted over my arms.

Near the corner. You'd miss it unless you were looking for it. The tucked-away, wood-framed square was overshadowed by a pair of old-fashioned portraits hanging above the sideboard. I sidled closer, leaving Rachel to maneuver a cup of punch from the crystal bowl, while Tom clattered up his plate with oysters and Claude bragged about the caviar like he'd harvested it himself.

I moved to the painting as if pulled in by a magnet.

It was a portrait in oil and gouache—okay, and how'd I know this word
gouache
anyway, but I did, both spelling and pronunciation (gwash)—of a young woman. Her fingers were splayed over her face, her skin was dappled in light, her eyes were outlined with feathery, exaggerated lashes. She was lush and unreal, but not artificial. She was like a dream girl, possibly hallucinatory.

But it was the signature that really startled me. The insecty lettering on the bottom right:
A. Travolo.

No. Impossible. But yes, he'd painted this. I yearned to reach out my finger and touch the surface. To trace the shape of the mark. Had it been Anthony's whisper in my ear, then? Had it been his kiss on the bridge? Was it at his invitation that I'd been at this apartment before?

Of course it was. We'd known each other, somehow. But I was too nervous, too uncollected in my head to point out the signature to Rachel. Not that she was particularly preoccupied with my mental state.

“No DJ, no music,” she murmured. “This is worse than my cousin Marva's wedding reception in Palm Springs. What are we gonna do next?”

“I don't know.” I couldn't take my eyes off Anthony's signature. I wished I could be here alone to stare at this painting in silence. But that wouldn't work tonight. Rachel's disappointment was making her clingy.

“And it looks like we lost Sadie and Perrin to a couple of weird Euro-yuppies.” Rachel frowned out into the living room, where I saw that Perrin and Sadie were drinking champagne and madly flirting with two past-college-age guys. “It'll be hard to motivate them. Meantime, Tom's going to eat oysters till he pukes if we don't spring him. Don't you think we should take off?”

“Um…” I did want to go, but I was reluctant to leave the memory. My mind reached back into this new, glowing warmth. The secret brush of an arm against mine. The hush of that whisper in my ear again. Had it been Anthony, or someone else?

“I could call some people,” Rachel continued. “Would it be too awkward to call Holden?” She was fiddling with her phone, dying to use it.

That luminous bath of light and color. Who was that girl in the painting? I had to look away and I couldn't.

“Okay, fine, Holden's a bad idea,” she answered into my silence. “But look over there. I bet Keiji won't leave, either. Check him out, mingling, being charming. Traitor. What is
wrong
with us that we didn't make a Halloween plan B?” Rachel was staring at her phone as if hoping it would beam her a new plan. She glanced up. “And why do you keep looking at that picture?”

“Don't know.” I stepped away, physically removing myself from it. Suddenly the banquet table made me realize how hungry I was. “I think I need to eat.”

“Go nuts; you're in the right place. But what I need is a bathroom. Don't you dare sneak off anywhere. Be right back.” As Rachel slipped away, I reached for a bread wheel and spooned up some tapas. Tahini, black olive, plum tomato—was that fennel? There was a time when I could reel off every ingredient on a first taste. I'd been a champ at that. Had I lost it? Didn't seem so. I could even taste pink peppercorn. I smiled quietly to myself. Cool.

Then I stole another look at the painting, scouring it for answers. It wasn't unfamiliar. What else did I know about it? About Anthony?

“Ember!”

I turned. The girl was boyishly elfin, with pale, silky hair slip-tucked behind her ears. She was staring at me from the way other side of the room, wearing a latex yellow superhero mask that hid half her face. Her eyes were big as drain stoppers beneath it. Immediately I knew that like this apartment, she was someone from the
then
. The blackout pocket. I'd known her once, absolutely. Even if I didn't quite exactly know her now.

“Hey!” I gave a weak wave as I swallowed my last bite of bread. Could she see through my smile, my cheerful “recognition”? Not a single name buzzed my brain.

The girl stared at me another second and then decided to approach, sidestepping bodies down the length of the table to come around and meet me.

“Did you know me?” The way she asked it assumed that I did. “With the costume, I mean?”

“I mean, I'm like ninety percent…” My laugh was an apology, that she wouldn't take it too personally.

“Oh. It's me. Maisie.” Her eyes drank me in. “Wow. I heard you were home. I guess I heard right. You don't look—you don't look as bad as how I'd heard.”

“You might not have said that six months ago.” My mind was flying through the mental filing cabinets. Who was she?

Luckily, Maisie didn't appear to sense my confusion. “The whole thing. Oh my God, Ember. So horrible. And then to think how long you've been away. I'm just so sorry. I can't really.” She paused. “But, just to say, you look great. From what I can tell. Under the zombie-costume situation.”

How
do
I
know
you?
I couldn't make myself ask her a single question. I just couldn't. It shamed me. I didn't want to admit that the accident had stolen every memory of the elf girl, too, when it had already taken so much.

“Look, I'm about to go,” she said. “This party's a little bit, um.” We smiled. On that point, there was no need to elaborate. “But first I'm gonna go pick up Alice—she's in the studio till last minute as usual. We're heading over together. It's supposed to be incredible tonight. Hey, idea.” Her smile was shy. “Wanna join up?”

She seemed to think I understood what she was talking about. I faltered, then confessed. “The thing is, I don't know where you're going.”

“Areacode.” But now something clicked in Maisie. She stared at me like I'd failed an easy quiz. “You can still get sweaty, look sexy, and dance freaky, right?”

I smiled in nonanswer.
Areacode.
Now the word just reminded me of Kai. Beautiful Kai. Stupid jerk who disappeared, who never called me—wrong number Kai.

But Areacode must have been a place I went to before, a routine from before Kai. And Maisie's name was familiar—Facebook, right? I had over one thousand friends on Facebook, and most of them weren't friends. And who was Alice?

“The other thing is,” I told her, “I'm here with other people.”

Maisie nodded, put her hands on her hips, and lifted one leg to stand like a sultry flamingo. She was a girl who wanted to be looked at. She was almost defiant about it. Now I saw her shoes— Doc Martens, covered with a rainbow of spray paint. She'd obviously done it herself. Now she was looking at the painting. Her gaze flicked back to me, as if she was deciding whether to ask me something. “Have you been in touch?” she asked. “With anyone else in his crew, anything like that?”

My throat closed up. Anthony. “Um, not so much,” I managed.

“Are you tight with any of them?”

“Actually, no. I mean, it's not like I knew Anthony that well, either.” It had to be true, right? How does someone know anyone that well, in a space of six weeks?

“Okay, sure.” Maisie's mask made it harder for me to tell what she was thinking. She glanced again at the painting. “At least they didn't take it down. Anyway, it's good to see you, Ember. Come by if you can. But I understand if…that's too hard.” And then she was gone, floating out through the archway, her superhero cape paunched out behind her, just as Rachel cruised up on my side.