Plagued: Book 1 (30 page)

Oh, I sounded clever! God bless creative writing classes.

“Hmm, I like all sorts of music: techno, hip-hop, pop – see how truthful I am being? I admit to liking pop! I sing top 40 songs at karaoke. Badly. Blush. Let's see, I will be 20 in early May, the big 2-0. Taking some time off school.

I am an Old Master kind of an art lover, Renaissance rather than modern, Michaelangelo, Donatello...”

Wait, I paused, who was a Renaissance painter that wasn't a Ninja Turtle? My mind became a total blank. Um, um, I thought back to the Vatican museums in Rome and the Uffizi in Florence. Raphael! No, that was another Ninja Turtle. Wait. Ah, got it! The light in the darkness his trademark.

“Caravaggio...who is not Renaissance exactly. You get the idea, right? Does that disqualify me from the Club? Do you all only like modern art? Modern art confuses me. You can't see me but I have my confused face on.”

Witty,
witty me. I hugged Coco. What was the last book I read that wasn't a textbook? Mostly I had been either lying on the bed staring at the wall in my free time or wandering around Harajuku on my own. I looked on my desk. The Mithen one for Social Anthropology could work. That sounded smart.

“I am currently reading The Singing Neanderthals by Steven Mithen, it is about how music evolved right along with language in humans. I totally agree, don't you?

Looking forward to hearing more about the Club and all of you.

A bien tot, Alexandra”

One finger poised over the
send
button, I hesitated, reading it through again and again, looking for mistakes. God would strike me down, I laughed out loud, kissing Coco's worn spot on his nose. Though there were little truths sprinkled here and there, the lies were certainly big ones. I did like art that wasn't a lie. One of the few interests my father and I still shared. We'd shared so much before. Before what? Before he decided making money was far more interesting than making conversation with me.

A knock on my door and Tina peeked in.

“Miss Alexandra, dinner is ready now.”

Stomach growling, I crossed my fingers briefly and sent the reply before following Tina into our kitchen.

“That smells awfully good.”

“Singapore curry noodles and steamed vegetables in peanut dressing. There is rice too, if you want.”

“Yummy, thank you so much. Are you going to eat?”

“No. I have to help Mrs. Walters with her party, downstairs. Mr. Carpenter said it is no problem.”

“Sure, of course. I can clean up after myself.”

The Walters were our downstairs neighbor. Each floor had just one large apartment. Mrs. Walters was a buyer or something for a major fashion chain. I hadn't really been paying attention during introductions. Her husband stayed home to handle the social calendar, their two toddlers (
mayb
e twins, I wasn't very good with small children) and their apricot poodle, Gigi. I'd seen Mrs. Walters in all her blond, stylish glory walking the poodle in impossibly high heels, a child on each hip. She would laugh and smile, apparently not caring as the kids dribbled cracker bits and Cheerios all over her impossibly expensive designer ensemble. Despite the stereotypes I wanted to heap on her slim shoulders, she was engaged with her kids. I guess I envied them that. The Walters often borrowed Tina or maybe we were borrowing her from them, I wasn't entirely clear on the details of the arrangements.

A few minutes later, I sat with my food and a bottle of fizzy water at the counter in the kitchen staring out the big window that covered most of one wall. It stretched the entire length of the apartment dining and living rooms. Dominating the view, Tokyo Tower glowed red and white, partially obscured tonight by low hanging clouds. The view was the only good thing about the place in my opinion.

Now that I'd sent the email, I began to have second thoughts. Why did it matter that the Club accept me? Why should I care so much? Somehow I did. There was no rational explanation for the strange exercise in self-humiliation I had launched myself on. Lies built upon lies were not the best way to make real friends. I wanted friends though, so much. No use pretending – even though at school I never let them see I was lonely. Never let them see how much it hurt. My eyes teared up. That was the problem with making friends like Isobel and Brianna. It was like falling in love. Afterward, you can never go back to being the same person you were.

The next few days saw more emails, each from a different member, each seeking a little more about me. All clever, upbeat, and absolutely enchanting. Bright people saying and doing wonderful things: Anders, Stephanie, Cameron, or so the emails said. For all I knew, I was talking with a very well-spoken hacker with bad skin from Wisconsin. At least I was smart enough not to send any pictures or my address or phone number, just in case. To their credit they never asked for them, which seemed to encourage and discourage me at the same time.

I made up any answer that sounded right. If I ever did meet them, I would have to stay up the night before reviewing the emails to find out more about the mysterious nineteen-year-old college student, Alexandra Carpenter. Even now, I could hardly keep up.

With every mail I wanted to shout in all caps, “WHEN CAN WE MEET?” It was so hard to be patient.

And then it happened. On a very nondescript, mind-numbingly boring Tuesday where not one person had spoken to me at school, a day when even the Awesome Posse couldn't be bothered to say something cutting, the email arrived.

“Hello Alexandra,

Why don't you meet Vanessa and me for a drink? We will be at '28' the lounge at the Conrad Hotel, on the 28
th
floor. You know the one, I am sure. 8 p.m. Let's say, Wednesday. Does that work for you?

Cheers! Anders”

A meeting! I had a meeting tomorrow. Awesome. More than awesome. Did this mean I was in? Just Vanessa and Anders. It must be a test.
Oh spit!
I had to pass an interview. My mouth went dry. Who was I again? And where the heck was the Conrad?

Chapter 7

Lounge Lizards

My stomach was tied up in so many knots you could have made a fishing net fine enough to catch guppies with it. The hotel elevator rose smoothly and soundlessly to the twenty-eighth floor. I thought I was going to throw up. Coat over one arm, my little black jersey dress with flared sleeves fluttered a bit as the air circulated from the quick ascent. I shivered. My hair was down, hoping to hide that seventeen-ness that must be shouting from every inch of me.

Trailing along after Dad all these years, I was used to hotel lounges. That wasn't why I was nervous. Growing up, I spent
way
more time than any child or teenager should sitting in over-upholstered chairs next to ornate flower arrangements in lounges around the world. Endlessly waiting for him to wind up one of his endless conversations with clients over his cell. Twenty-Eight, the Conrad's main cocktail lounge, stood opposite the front desk. The place had a cool, retro 60s feel to it, the interior in lots of earth shades and white. The real focus, though, were the soaring windows and the view beyond.

I looked around for a table. It was pretty busy, full of foreign and Japanese executive-types accompanied by a sprinkling of women: some decorative, some functional. A group of ladies in sherbet-colored Boucle suits with briefcases that looked like Chanel, and given the location, probably were, laughed loudly.

Inwardly, I cringed at my choice of footwear: a pair of slouchy suede boots. I called them my “pirate boots” because of the jingly noise the little brass rings on the side made. They jingled all the way across the lounge causing people to look up as I passed. Choosing a table, I perched more than sat on the edge of the chair, with my back very straight. Two foreign men at the next table stared at me appraisingly, sitting there alone. Appraisingly, as a
woman
, and I felt myself flush. At this moment, I felt very much like a girl and not ready to be a woman men looked at. Trying not to seem nervous and young and probably looking exactly that, I forced myself to stare out the windows instead of desperately around for Vanessa and Anders. If they even existed.

The view from the floor-to-ceiling windows was spectacular, overlooking Tokyo Bay. A branch of the overhead expressway I took to school everyday snaked along far below. I should have brought my camera. Nearly at eye-level, several planes glided into Haneda Airport a short distance away on the curve of the shore. The nightscape of Tokyo was an endless succession of blinking red lights climbing up and down tall buildings and crowning the tops in spires of scarlet.
Blink
,
blink
,
blink
. Red the only contrast to the hot, white glare from inside office blocks and apartment towers.

Maybe I should have paid attention to those red warning lights.

The waitress came by. At school, I'd overheard the girls saying they almost never carded foreigners in Japan, so I was safe from that humiliation at least. Wondering what I could possibly order when the thought of food and drink made me feel ill; I felt a light touch on my shoulder.

“Alexandra?”

Looking up, I saw a slim young woman with wide-set hazel eyes, clear white skin and long, straight, ash blond hair.

“You must be Alexandra, absolutely, you must! I'm Vanessa,” and she smiled.

Suddenly, I felt myself relax. The terrible tension around my heart loosened ever so subtly with that smile. Standing, I said, “Yes, hello.”

She gave me a kiss on both cheeks. Not an air kiss. A proper European cheek to cheek and a hug. I felt a rush of nostalgia for Paris.

“What a perfect little table you have chosen. However, Anders and I reserved a quiet corner there on the other side of the fireplace, still near the windows but away from....” She gave a little laugh and a dismissive wave at the loud group of ladies and the staring businessmen. Saying something to the waitress in Japanese, she motioned for me to follow and I grabbed my coat.

The lounge was crowded and we threaded a path single-file between the tables. Gliding along in front of me, I followed her brightly-colored short dress like a beacon. It was all swirls of green, yellow, and blue and she wore  high-heeled sandals in matching colors. She had the same retro 60s look as the lounge and I wondered briefly if she planned her outfit around the venue. That would be a cool thing to do. Absently I smoothed my tangled curls that always refused to stay smoothed and straightened my hem. I felt dark and wintery next to her. Why had I chosen black? And why boots?

A young man stood up as we approached. Anders, he must be. He was very tall and fair, features like a Swedish model, blonde hair short, barely touching the top of his gray turtleneck sweater. His dark, slim-fitting trousers had the subtle shimmer of silk and set off the strong athletic lines of his body. Leaning over, he greeted me with a kiss on both cheeks as well, which I returned. He smelled like aftershave and his cheek was very smooth where it brushed mine.

“So lovely to meet you, Alexandra. Thank you for coming out in this cold. I hope the Conrad was not too inconvenient?”

“No, not at all,” I lied. In fact, I wandered around for a number of desperate minutes despite a map printed out from the hotel website, finding every building
except
the Conrad. The hotel was very exclusive and that exclusivity extended to making it difficult to locate for mere mortals on foot from the subway station.

He motioned for me to sit and picked up a bottle of champagne from an ice bucket beaded with condensation. “Moet and Chandon” the label said.

“You like champagne?”

“My favorite drink.” Only a half lie since it was fizzy and I liked fizzy water, right? Besides, anyone can drink a glass of champagne. A weekend dinner at Isobel's always started with a glass of champagne. It wasn't like I had never drunk it before.

Pouring the bubbly amber fluid into a fluted glass, and topping up his own and Vanessa's, he raised his glass.

“A toast to new friends.”

“To new friends,” Vanessa and I repeated, clinking glasses.

The lights ringing the bay formed a sparkling backdrop as we perched aerie-like above the city. We talked about nothing at all, yet seemed to be saying so much. I sat, not too straight this time. Trying to look relaxed, apparently at my ease, though my toes curled up tightly with tension inside my boots every time I opened my mouth. My prepping paid off as I “casually” mentioned a new art exhibit and then answered Anders' question about my favorite building in Tokyo without even hesitating.

“Oh, that's easy, the new National Art Museum near Roppongi Midtown. The architecture, all that fluid glass, like a wave about to break on the shore. And the use of space inside...um, so different from other public spaces here, don't you think? That's a big change in Japanese culture. The sitting and doing nothing, I mean.” I'd memorized the description word-for-word from an online travel site. Actually, I
had
been there a few weeks before and it
was
spectacular. However, my reaction at the time was summed up in the caption on the photos I sent off to my pals in Paris: '
Oh my Gawd! Is this cool or what?'
The travel writer's prose seemed way more appropriate for these two sophisticates.

Another glass of champagne and the two of them got involved in a discussion of Japanese movie directors I could not even pretend to follow – though if they started talking about Japanese
anime
I could jump right in! Somehow, I didn't think Anders and Vanessa watched Japanese animated films. While they talked, I tried not to stare but it was hard. The light seemed to bend around them. They
glowed.
That was the best word to describe it. All their movements were unhurried, graceful. Everything about them seemed better than everyone else around us. Not in a fake, snobbish way, just better.

I wanted that. Suddenly. Terribly.

Much later, running for the last train home after midnight, I felt excited, exhausted, exhilarated and every other amazing “ex” sort of word there was. Alexandra Carpenter, Woman of Mystery. Meeting at the Conrad. Drinking champagne. Looking back on it all now, how childish I seemed. Yet that night, I was on top of the world. Right on top.