So Yesterday (13 page)

She blinked, looking from my
purple hand to my suddenly pale face, recognition gathering with steady
inevitability.

"Hunter?" she
murmured.

"You've got the gong
rye," I said.

CHAPTER
17

"THAT
IS
YOU!" HILLARY SHRIEKED. HER CLUSTER OF FRIENDS
turned toward me, perhaps
expecting some minor celebrity or long-lost cousin of the Winston-hyphen-Smith
clan.

"Uh, hi, Hillary," I said mildly, thinking,
Not
the
name!
Not
the
name!

"My God,
Hunter!
You look completely
different!"

The bald guy was facing me, only yards away, and here
was Hillary shouting my name.

"Oh, not really that different."
Don't
mention
the
hair!

"Yeah, right. What did you do to your
hair,
Hunter?"

I could feel the bald guy's eyes on me, adding up my
height and build, the frequently mentioned name (currently number thirty-two in
popularity), and finally the hair....

"You should really dress up more often,"
Hillary said, her expression adding one more terrifying thought to all the
others going through my head: the possibility that Hillary Hyphen was
undergoing a revelation that dorky little skater kid Hunter was growing up into
a real cutie.

Then she frowned. "But what's with the purple
hands? Is that supposed to be retro punk or something?"

There are times when all you can think to say is:

"I have to go now."

I ignored her surprise and walked away, some
anti-starvation autopilot in my brain stuffing the last of the salmon sandwich
into my face. I didn't have to look back as I walked into the Hall of African
Mammals, the glassy eyes of dead animals tracking me, knowing me for a marked
man.

There was no doubt in my mind: the bald guy was
following me.

My phone rang. Still on autopilot, I answered.

"Yeah?"

A deep voice sent a chill through me: "Hi,
Hunter. Like the hair."

Weaving through the throng still circling the
elephants, I glanced backward. He was close, making his slow, powerful way
through the crowd.

"We want to talk to you."

"Uh, call me tomorrow?"

"In person. Tonight."

I decided to go on the offensive, even as I cowered
behind a passel of penguins comparing cummerbunds. "Where's Mandy?"

"She's with us now, Hunter." He paused.
"Wait a second, I didn't mean that to sound all creepy."

"Well, it did."

I kept moving, bumped into a
woman from behind, and waved an apologetic purple hand when she glared at me.

"Sorry," I said,
pulling away.

"Sorry for what?"
the bald guy's voice said.

"Not
you.
" I looked around, trying
to find him again.

He had disappeared.

My eyes darted from gazelles
to lions to gorillas, trying to spot the guy again, but his bulky frame and
bald head had completely vanished.

"Hunter, this isn't about
Mandy; it's about the shoes."

I backed up, trying to look in all directions at once.
The guy couldn't do anything to me in the middle of the party, but I didn't
want him getting any closer. Dressed like a security guard, he could always
drag me off, pretending to be throwing an unruly guest out.

"What about the shoes?" I said.

"We're trying to do a deal. But we have to keep
it quiet."

Still no sign of him among the swirling mass of
penguins. The cold glass of a diorama window pressed against my back. I felt
pinned.

"So you want to keep me quiet? That sounds pretty
creepy too."

"It's not like that, Hunter. We wanted you here
to show you what we're trying to do. This is about more than just shoes."

"I can see that."

A beeping sound screamed in my ear, demanding my
attention. I glanced at the phone's screen.

Jen.

"Uh, could you hang on?
Call waiting."

"Hunter, don't—"

I switched over. "Jen!
I'm so glad—"

"Turn left, walk."

"Where are you?"

"Go! He's closing
in."

I went. Through the door and then down a passage lined
with photographs of Antarctica. Then I found myself in a hall of huts and
costumes, weapons and tools.

"I seem to be in Africa."

"Go all the way through,
then take a right and down the stairs."

Could she see me? There wasn't
time to ask.

I came to a red velvet rope at
the edge of the party. I looked back.

"Jen?" I called out.

Unless she was disguised as a motionless Yoruba
shaman, she wasn't in this room. But the bald guy was still in sight, following
with measured steps and the annoyed expression of an ignored authority figure.

"Just keep going," Jen said from my phone.
"I'm looking at a map. Run."

I ducked under the velvet rope and turned right,
dashing through a darkened room full of stuffed birds behind glass. A wide
flight of marble steps appeared on my right.

I didn't bother glancing back, knowing the bald guy
was right behind me, and plunged down the unlit steps. My hard-soled shoes sent
echoes off the marble, pattering like disappointed tongue clicks from every
direction.

I would have killed for some sneakers about then. Or
clothes without plastic tags sticking into me.

At the bottom of the stairs I whispered, "Where
now?"

"Turn right again. Through the monkey
skeletons."

I entered a long hall that ran through the entire
course of human evolution—from slothlike primates in trees to a slothlike
Homo
remote controllus
watching television in his living room—all in about
thirty seconds. Among the darkened exhibits I suddenly felt how alone I was
(except for the other monkeys) and began to wonder why I'd left the relative
safety of the party.

"See any meteorites yet?" Jen asked.

"Meteorites? Hang on."

The next archway opened into a large square room
filled with jagged rocks on pedestals.

"Yes," I whispered. "But
why
am I looking at
meteorites?"

"I'm trying to get you out of his sight so we can
leave without being followed."

"But I was safe! They're not going to do anything
while the party's going."

"Parties don't last forever, Hunter."

I looked back through the darkness and thought I heard
slow, deliberate footsteps descending the marble stairs.

"Jen, where are you, anyway?"

"Two floors above you, in a gallery overlooking
the elephants. You are hiding now, aren't you?"

I looked back through the monkeys but still couldn't
see anyone. There'd been no sign of other human beings since I'd come down the
stairs.

Still, hidden was better.

Near the center of the room was a meteorite the size
of a car. Big enough to crouch behind. I peeked my head out, training an eye on
the approach from the hall of monkey skeletons.

"Okay, hidden now."

"You think he followed you?"

"Definitely," I whispered. "But he
doesn't seem to be in a huge hurry to find me. Maybe he's calling up
reinforcements."

"Perfect. Just stay hidden. I've got a few more
things to check out up here now that they're out of the way."

"Uh, hang on, Jen. Are you using me as a
diversion?"

"You can outrun him, can't you?"

"What is it with you and running?"

"Listen, call me if you need me, Hunter. If you
get bored of the meteorites, there're some really cool gems next door. I love
this place."

"I'm thrilled."

"But you should probably
stay put. The gems room is a dead end."

"You mean the only way
out of here is back the way I came?"

"Yeah. So stay hidden.
See you later."

************************************

I stayed hidden, crouching behind the big hunk of iron
from outer space. As always when anxious, I filled my head with useless
information, stealing glances away from the yawning doorway to read the little
plaques around me.

It turned out that the big meteorite had been brought
to New York by Robert Peary, the North Pole guy. It weighed the yawning
doorwaya whopping thirty-four tons, which had made traveling with it by ship
exciting. On top of almost swamping Peary's vessel, the mass of iron attracted
the needle in the ship's compass, so the navigator never quite knew which
direction was which.

I could relate to the feeling.

I imagined the bald guy whipping out a compass and
following it straight to me.

But strangely, crouching in the darkness calmed my
nerves, repairing whatever circuits had been damaged by the Poo-Sham
planetarium experience. After a few minutes of waiting and pondering, I
remembered an old urban legend about a Japanese kids' TV show. One episode had
caused seizures with some kind of flashing effect.

I wondered if the story were true. Whatever the
flashing lights had triggered was more subtle than epilepsy, but they did have
the power to confuse and befuddle.

But why?

I was certain of only one thing: Poo-Sham was a
pseudo-product. Like the bootleg shoes, it was designed to confuse the order of
things, to disrupt the sacred bond between brand and buyer. I looked at my
purple hands and wondered if I could ever squidge anything out onto my head
again without trepidation. The anti-client was very weird, but I was beginning
to see the outlines of an agenda.

A few minutes later the bald
guy appeared among the monkey skeletons. I hunkered lower, peering out from
under the big space rock. His dress shoes glimmered in the darkness.

He wasn't alone.

_{Chapter 18}

THE SHOES
NEXT TO HIS WERE COWBOY BOOTS. IT WAS NASCAR
Man, also wearing the basic
black of security guards at formal functions.

"Hunter?" the bald guy called. "We know
you're in here."

I tried to make myself believe they didn't, but my
heart was beating hard, my palms sweating. (I almost wiped them on my jacket
before remembering the two-thousand-dollar refund I still needed for it.)

There was no getting past them. They stood shoulder to
shoulder at the entrance, blocking any hope of escape.

Maybe they would move on into the gem room and I could
make a break for the stairs. Maybe my black penguin suit would hide me in the
darkened museum. Maybe Jen would appear and save me.

More likely I was toast.

They stood there for a few moments, then I heard the
bald guy mutter, "This should do it."

A soft and irregular beeping reached my ear. A number
being dialed
...

With about two seconds to spare I realized what he was
doing. It was what I'd been set up for since they'd sent my phone back. He was
dialing
my
number. The ring was about to give me away.

I scrambled in my pocket, digging out the phone and
muting it with a swift motion practiced in many a movie theater. Then I stared
in horror at it for a moment, realizing I still had another cell-phone-sized
bulk in my pocket.

Was the phone in my hand mine
or Mandy's? They were exactly the same size and shape, and in the darkness I
couldn't see the color.

I pulled the second one out

Then the
first
phone lit up, happily muted,
vibrating softly, and I let my breath out quietly.

I'd chosen the right one by pure chance. (Or possibly
I had a psychic connection with my own phone. Discuss.)

The men were silent, listening, and Mandy's phone in
my hand gave me an idea. I placed it softly on the short-haired industrial
carpet and gave it a shove toward the entrance to the gem room. It slid like a
hockey puck through the carpeted shadows, zooming out of sight. A soft bump
came from its impact with something in the next room.

"Did you hear that?" NASCAR Man said, and
the bald guy shushed him.

My practiced thumb was already in action, speed
dialing Mandy's number. Seconds later a certain Swedish tune began to play from
the next room.

Take
a
chance
on
me....

"He's in there."

The feet went into motion, cowboy boots striding
ahead, dress shoes slow and purposeful. They walked right past the giant
meteorite and stood at the entrance of the gem room, shoulder to shoulder
again, confident they had me trapped.

The little tune still played with maniacal
Scandinavian cheer.

"Answer your phone, kid." NASCAR Man
laughed. "We want to talk to you."

I started to creep around the meteorite, realizing
that I was painfully cramped from having crouched there for so long. Great.

"Hey, I see something flashing."

"Hunter, quit wasting our time."

I stepped out, taking big, silent steps across the
carpeted floor. They were only about ten feet from me but facing the other way
and squinting into the darkness. NASCAR Man started to move toward Mandy's
phone.

I dragged my eyes away from them and focused on making
my silent way through the Hall of Human Biology and Evolution. As my leg
unkinked itself, protohumans passed, devolving back to the blissful state of
monkeys in trees, and then the stairs were in front of me.

I bolted up them, no longer trying for stealth.

Halfway up a human form loomed in front of me, rearing
out of the darkness. I crashed into it, drawing a curse as we both stumbled,
hitting the floor together.

"What
the...?"

It was the silver-haired woman Jen and I had spotted
at the abandoned building, so close to me that I could see her rocket-shaped
earrings glittering in the light of an exit sign. They'd left her here to guard
the stairs.

I yanked out the Poo-Sham camera and pointed it into
her face, a few inches from my outstretched arm. Shut my eyes.

And popped the flash.

The flickering light pried its way through the red
filter of my eyelids, powerful enough for me to feel a glimmer of its
brain-scrambling effect as I leaped to my feet. She caught it full in the face
but still managed to reach out, her fingers closing on my shoulder.

I tore myself away. Eyes open now, I saw her trying to
blink away the flash, her hands covering her eyes like claws.

"You fiddle lucker!" she cried.

I dashed up the rest of the stairs and ran through the
stuffed birds to the velvet rope.

Stepping past it, I nodded to a cluster of women in evening
gowns.

"Is there more party that way?" one asked.

"Yeah, they're giving out the
really
good
gift bags down there. Just take a right and down the
stairs."

As they flowed past me in an impenetrable mass, I
headed back toward the Hall of African Mammals, speed dialing Jen.

"Hunter! You okay?"

"I lost them downstairs."

"Well done."

I smiled to myself. "Yeah. I did pretty good, now
that you mention it."

"I knew you'd be fine once those bangs were
gone."

"Right, Jen. It was all the haircut."

She managed to miss my tone. "Thanks."

"Listen, they'll be coming up soon. Where are
you?"

"On my way out. Meet me at the bottom of the
front stairs, on the street. I'll gab a crab. I mean, grab a cab."

I smiled, glad to hear that Jen wasn't immune to the
Poo-Sham phenomenon. I wondered if she'd visited the planetarium or whether
the gift bag Poo-Sham cameras had been enough.

As I reached the thick of the party, they were
flashing everywhere. It was like some crazed lightning storm on the African
veldt, lights flickering every second, glinting off the glass that protected
the stunned-looking stuffed animals from a drunken and overdressed humanity.
The floor was sticky with spilled drinks, the layer of Noble Savage rum and
champagne luminous in the flashes. Every scrap of dialog I heard in passing was
garbled and incomprehensible, as if the
hoi
aristoi
were evolving their own language right before my eyes.
The crowd's tone was becoming less human, filling with grunts, screeches, and
peals of insane laughter There were discarded bow ties trodden on the floor,
five hundred years of neckclothitania crumpled underfoot.