Bulletproof Mascara: A Novel (11 page)

CALIFORNIA IX

Cocktails

As this was a dinner event, the class was being held in the common room. Many of the girls were already downstairs mingling, or practicing mingling. The easy camaraderie of the day had been replaced with forced small talk as everyone pretended they didn’t know each other. Mr. Bamoko, the Cocktails instructor, was waiting at the foot of the stairs. He frowned heavily at Nikki’s shoes. Nikki waited as Jenny received her assignment and then stepped forward. She could see Jenny and Ellen holding a brief conversation just inside the common room.

“You know your shoes are the wrong color?” Mr. Bamoko asked, recapturing Nikki’s attention. He was dressed in a pinstripe suit, matching vest, and tie. The crisp white collar of the shirt fit his neck to perfection, with no gaps or airway-blocking snugness. The high shine on his beautifully molded Italian leather shoes reflected a world not half as perfect as their owner.

“Yeah, I know, but I don’t have any other dress shoes,” Nikki said weakly. Mr. Bamoko raised his eyes from his clipboard and
stared as if Nikki had just announced that the Pope would be converting to Buddhism. Nikki tried to smile back.

“Please dismiss the word
yeah
from your vocabulary,” Mr. Bamoko said, just after the point at which his stare had became unbearable. “It is a deplorable piece of slang that has crept into our national speech. Slang is careless speech and a detriment to the language.”

“Slang is a generational marker and denotes in-crowd status. Many people feel it broadens the language, adding depth and character, and is a necessary innovation for language growth.”

Too late, Nikki’s internal editor ran in, waving his hands, and yelling, “Shut up, shut up, shut up, you stupid cow!”

Mr. Bamoko blinked. Twice.

“I am not one of those people,” he said repressively. “Furthermore, if slang denotes in-crowd status, then I can truly state that it is not a crowd I wish to be in. And since none of the said ‘in-crowd’ will be grading your performance in class tonight, I would suggest that you not use the word
yeah
. Have we reached an understanding in this matter?”

Her internal editor held up a cue card with her recommended dialogue, and Nikki read it carefully, word for word.

“Yes, Mr. Bamoko.”

“Excellent. Here is your assignment,” he said, handing her a three-by-five index card.

Nikki read the card. It said: “Discover where the ambassador will be going tomorrow and any pertinent information about her security staff.”

Nikki handed the card back, and Mr. Bamoko handed her a nametag. Nikki pasted
TRIXIE, TEACHER’S WIFE
over her heart and hoped that the sticker’s adhesive material wouldn’t mess up her new dress.

Giving Ellen a subtle wink as she entered, Nikki began to introduce her teacher’s wife persona around. Each time she picked up any information on the ambassador’s security measures, she surreptitiously jotted down a note on the paper hidden in her pocket. She met several “journalists,” two “teachers,” and a “marine” before spotting the “ambassador.” Erica, Jorge’s assistant instructor, was taking her role as ambassador seriously, expounding to a journalist about the leading export of Carrie Mae-land and the importance of mascara in international politics. Nikki smothered a laugh and checked to make sure none of the instructors had caught her slipup.

Mrs. Boyer, Connie, and Mr. Bamoko stalked around the perimeter of the room like judges at a dog show, jotting down notes and eyeing each trainee with deep concentration. Nikki wormed her way closer to Erica and chatted with Cheryl about the unusual customs of Carrie Mae-land. Cheryl was playing a diplomatic attaché, and Nikki took a perverse sort of pleasure in pressing her for details on an “obscure eyelash curling ritual,” knowing that Cheryl would have to make it up on the spot.

“Really?” said Nikki with genuine respect for Cheryl’s imagination. “How do you secure an event like that? With so many people running around it must be hard to protect the ambassador.” Cheryl nodded, but Nikki could see that she was suspicious of the question. Nikki smiled and feigned innocent curiosity.

She knew that Cheryl would have to obey the rules of Cocktails: she had to answer questions; she couldn’t simply turn around and walk away. And although she could misrepresent information, she could not lie outright. Points were given for clever questioning, clever evasions, story consistency, and etiquette. Points were deducted for dropping character, lying, and behaving in a “less than Carrie Mae-like way.” Whatever that meant. At the end
of the evening each girl made her report, and the judges critiqued her technique. If Nikki didn’t discover where the ambassador was going tomorrow, her mission would be stamped with a big red
FAILED
and she would have to do a remedial Cocktails classes on top of her already full schedule.

“Well, generally we like to keep such events invitation-only, so of course we check IDs against the guest list and try to control the access points.”

“Interesting,” Nikki said, fiddling with one of her earrings, a dangling crystal at the end of a thin silver chain. She had liked the chandelier effect and the sparkle it added to her hair, but she was now finding that if she twisted the crystal toward the light she could reflect a rainbow on Cheryl’s cheek.

“Not really,” Cheryl said, trying to change the subject.

Nikki angled the rainbow up toward the eye and Cheryl brushed her cheek distractedly with her hand as if trying to shoo away a fly. The sound of overlapping conversations filled the room as Nikki twirled the crystal again.

“Does the ambassador attend many of these rituals?” Nikki asked, continuing her small rainbow torture.

“I suppose,” said Cheryl distractedly.

“Oh! That must be what all the fuss is about tomorrow!” said Nikki cheerfully.

“Tomorrow, what?” Cheryl said, squinting one eye and tilting her head slightly. Nikki switched to the other eye and watched as Cheryl tilted her head the other way.

“Oh, I heard that the ambassador’s got some big thing tomorrow,” said Nikki carelessly.

“No, no big thing,” Cheryl said. “Just a family party.”

“Oh,” said Nikki, dropping her earring and letting it swing against her neck. “They must have gotten it wrong. Oh well.” She
smiled sweetly and then pretended to notice for the first time that her drink was empty. She noticed that Cheryl’s drink was a different color. The color difference could mean that the kitchen had simply switched to grape Kool-Aid, but there might have been another reason.

“I’d better go get a refill. Nice to have met you”—Nikki paused to read Cheryl’s nametag—“Terry.”

Nikki strolled over to the drink table and got a refill on her Hawaiian fruit punch, noticing that all the drinks were still red.

“Thirty more minutes,” Ellen said, sidling up and picking up a drink.

“What?” Nikki asked, noticing that Ellen was
THERESA, A JOURNALIST
this evening.

“Thirty more minutes, and then I can get out of these panty hose.”

Nikki opened her mouth to remind Ellen that she was recording herself, but then closed it abruptly. Ellen’s mission might be to uncover a spy.

“These events do seem to go on forever,” Nikki responded, opting for a noncommittal reply.

“Unfortunately, so do my panty hose,” said Ellen. Caught off-guard, Nikki laughed louder than she had intended, and saw Mr. Bamoko frown in her direction.

“I sympathize,” Nikki said. “Do you come to many of these state functions?”

“That’s your banter? Your cocktail chatter? Let’s see something with a little more wit,” Mr. Bamoko said sternly.

“Oh sure,” Ellen said, ignoring Mr. Bamoko’s intrusion, but Nikki could see she was starting to sweat. “I’ve been around the world twice reporting for the Associated Press. The food is terrible and the party really only gets good once everyone starts drink
ing. Last year I was at an embassy dinner in Colombia and a fist fight broke out over the oysters.”

“Hmm,” Mr. Bamoko said, making a note on his clipboard.

“I don’t think that’s likely with this crowd,” said Nikki, wondering what Ellen was angling at and trying to ignore Mr. Bamoko, who was now glaring at her.

“Too bad.” Ellen was playing the hard-boiled reporter for all it was worth. “I could use a drink.”

“They don’t allow alcohol in Carrie Mae-land,” volunteered Nikki, as Mr. Bamoko sniffed disapprovingly.

“What! None?” asked Ellen in apparent shock.

“Well, sometimes you can get some illegal stuff imported, but you have to have a connection.” Nikki suspected that Ellen was on the hunt for a smuggler. But whether her mission was to smuggle something or arrest a smuggler, Nikki couldn’t tell. She didn’t know if she was going to get downgraded for helping Ellen or not.

“I don’t suppose you happen to know such a connection?” asked Ellen, managing to look conspiratorial and trustworthy at the same time.

“I don’t drink, myself,” Nikki said, covering all her bases. “But I have noticed that Terry over there”—she pointed to Cheryl—“can usually find something stiffer to drink than fruit punch if she wants to.” Mr. Bamoko nodded and made a note as he moved on to the next set of girls.

“Thanks,” said Ellen with a smile and a wink. “You’re a real pal.” She slid off into the crowd, aiming for Cheryl.

It was fun to watch everyone interact on several different levels at once. Nikki wondered if she would be able to do the same thing at a real cocktail party with strangers. But then again what was a real cocktail party but an effort to discover new facts about strangers? Dating was like that, too. Nikki reached up to adjust
her earring again and stopped, frowning. It occurred to her that all of this felt strangely similar to her lunch with Z’ev. “You know,” said Jenny, who had sidled up to her and was looking both ways for an eavesdropping instructor, “I’ve been thinking about your boyfriend, the one with the funny name.”

“He’s not my boyfriend,” Nikki said, and gulped her fruit punch.

“Whatever. But I was thinking about that crazy story he told you.”

“What do you mean?” asked Nikki, frowning, and wishing she hadn’t told Jenny and Ellen all the details about Canada.

“Oh, come on. ‘I need a fake wife’? I think he was doing this.” Jenny waved at the cocktail party, as if that explained everything. “But for real. Did he say anything else during the lunch?”

“That’s very interesting, Susan,” said Nikki, seeing Mrs. Boyer approaching them behind Jenny. “I can’t say I disagree, but I’m not convinced.”

“Well, Carrie Mae politics are very complex,” said Jenny, covering quickly.

“Dinner is starting, ladies,” Mrs. Boyer said, marking notes on her clipboard. Nikki and Jenny quickly fled into the dining room.

They had barely seated themselves when Dina began to hiccup loudly. Nikki exchanged a horrified look with Ellen across the table as Dina’s hiccups increased in volume and violence. Dina pushed herself away from the table and ran toward the downstairs bathroom, but they all heard the splat as she missed the toilet and threw up on the hard tile floor.

Mrs. Boyer ran toward the restroom, but the rest of the girls remained seated, staring at one another with expressions of mingled horror and amusement.

“Well,” said Ellen, folding her hands neatly. “I suggest we start dinner with a prayer for the health of our friend Dina.” There was a wave of snickers around the table.

“We will delay dinner for a few moments while we assess the situation,” Mr. Bamoko said sternly, trying to squash the rebellion.

Moments turned into thirty minutes, while Dina was helped to the infirmary, the bathroom was cleaned, and Cocktails class was declared finished for the evening. Dinner was reheated and served again, while the girls discussed Dina’s sudden illness. Nikki cringed at the sound of “food poisoning” and made a break for her room as soon as possible, with Jenny and Ellen in tow. Jenny had taken off her shoes, and they thumped against every rung in the banister.

“That was freaking hilarious,” she said around a yawn.

“Not for Dina,” said Nikki.

“Well, it was unfortunate, but it’s probably for the best anyway. At least we don’t have to deal with her during war games tomorrow,” Ellen said realistically.

“I still feel bad,” Nikki said. “I didn’t want to sabotage her.”

“She sabotaged herself,” said Jenny coldly. “Serves her right for being a bitch.”

“Well,” Nikki said, assessing the situation, “karmically speaking, she may have had it coming, but I’m not sure my karma isn’t dented for helping.”

“As long as Dina doesn’t know we helped, then karma is perfectly welcome to have my car stereo stolen at some later point in time,” Ellen said.

“Practical, as usual,” Jenny said, laughing.

The next morning the teams lined up for war games, with Nikki’s team conspicuously short one person. Mrs. Boyer and Connie were still discussing this when Valerie Robinson arrived.

“Tell them to suck it up,” she said, lighting up a cigarette, as Mrs. Boyer told her of the situation.

“It’s an unfair advantage for the other teams,” protested Mrs. Boyer. “Dina was their team leader.”

“Poor babies,” Val said dryly. “You”—she pointed at Nikki—“you’re the new team leader. See, problem solved.”

“I’m not sure that’s a real solution,” Mrs. Boyer began, but Val was walking away from her.

“OK, everyone, you all know the rules,” said Val, picking up a starter pistol from Mrs. Boyer’s gear. There was a general murmur of agreement from the girls, and Val nodded.

“Great,” she said, “then get the hell out of here,” and she fired the pistol.

There was a mad scramble as the teams gathered gear and rushed to get under cover. Nikki looked doubtfully at Ellen and Jenny. Ellen smiled, and Jenny gave her a thumbs-up. With a sigh, Nikki picked a direction and marched out.

It was much later in the evening when Nikki returned to campus. On a whim, she headed up to the infirmary.

Dina looked horrible. Her skin was pasty white, and she had dark circles under eyes. Her usually well-ordered brown hair was one frizz away from total disaster, and Nikki was pretty sure that the dried flaky substance on her shirt was old puke.