The Girl with the Wrong Name (14 page)

“I honestly don’t know. But I’m going to find out at the wedding.”

“Well, I’m coming with you,” he said.

I shook my head. “You can’t. I can’t bring you with me.”

“Why not?”

“I just told you. Emma’s brother practically threatened to kill me if I brought you anywhere near the wedding.”

“Well, screw Emma’s brother. I’ll deal with Emma’s brother.”

“Andy, I’m serious.”

“So am I.” He pushed himself to his feet, looming over me. “Theo, you’re not thinking this through. Lester Wyatt owns the shelter, right? He’s the only guy besides Mac and a few janitors with a run of the whole place, the only
guy who can go into any one of those girls’ rooms whenever he wants. What if it was
his
face I saw? What if he was the one crushing her against that bed? What if everything I remember was real? I’ll bet you anything if I saw his face, the whole thing would come back to me. All
of it.”

“If you saw his face,” I echoed.

“What?”

A thought, an idea, an epiphany finally emerged from the sludge of confusion. “There is
a way you could see it,” I said. “Without actually being there.”

Andy laughed shortly. “Do you
try
to confuse me, or am I just a dumbass hick?”

“Neither,” I said. “Actually, I can boil it down to one very simple question. Do you have an iPhone?”

“Do I look like I have an iPhone?” he snorted.

“It’s all right,” I said. “We have a spare.”

Chapter Fourteen

[REC]

I can’t describe how
good
it feels to be shooting again. I hadn’t even realized what was missing. Now it’s so clear: I was half myself without a camera; now I am whole. Like Sweeney Todd says, “At last! My right arm is complete again!” Or in this case, my collar. I have carefully sewn the button cam cable down the inner seam of my wedding dress and run it through an incision in the pocket, connecting it to my iPhone.

Yes, I am wearing my wedding dress. But there’s a perfectly good explanation.

As my best friends love to point out, I own exactly two dresses. One is the rumpled, black ball of crusty puke that now resides in a trash bag on my bathroom floor. The other is the vintage wedding dress that, until now, I kept wrapped in tissue paper, creaseless and pristine, inside the cedar Glory Box at the foot of my bed. It’s Sunday afternoon, nearly 3
p.m.
The wedding is at 5:30, and all the dry cleaners are closed. My Ann Taylor puke dress is totally unsalvageable, so . . .

Yes. There are obviously a few problems with wearing a wedding dress to someone else’s wedding.

For one thing, it’s appalling and morally reprehensible. A full Boba Fett costume would be less offensive. Also, it’s not exactly ideal if you’re trying to lay low. But at least my “wedding dress,” while being white, won’t scream,
I’m a deranged wannabe bride
. It’s a weird, funky, A-line thing from the late ’50s/early ’60s that I found at a vintage store and just knew would be my bridal gown. Not a wedding dress per se, but a wedding dress to
me.
More importantly, it has two features that are essential to Operation
FaceTime:

1) The pockets. Ugly/beautiful pockets, one of which is the perfect vessel for my hidden iPhone.

2) A high, structured collar that flares out from either side of the V-neck, climbing toward my chin like two daisy petals. There’s a buttonhole on the left petal, and a small onyx button on the right. They can be fastened over the neck to form a cutout on the chest, but I’ve left the collar open in the flared position and replaced the onyx button with my button cam. A button cam that is finally recording video again.

I am defacing my most prized possession with a button cam and white thread.

I’m committing sacrilege.

But for the potential answers to all our burning questions, and a potential happy ending to
someone’s
strange and beautiful love story, it’s worth it. All I need now is that second iPhone. I am ready to record some test audio and video before the big event.

We waited until after
8
p.m.
to sneak back into the apartment last night. Emilio was done with his shift, and I figured correctly that Mom would still be crashed out on the couch. Todd never checked on me without Mom present—too afraid to barge in on me naked—so Andy and I made it back to my room without them ever knowing I’d gone.

The next bit of luck came this morning. Apparently Mom and Todd had to attend an NYU luncheon this afternoon. Mom was worried enough about me to offer to skip it, but I promised her I’d stay home all day safe and sound. Unfortunately, something was wrong with my phone, I lied. I’d get it fixed tomorrow, but in the meantime, could I borrow the one we kept as a fourth line in case anyone lost a phone and needed a temp? (Because Todd loses his iPhone every three to four weeks? I left that part out.) She agreed. Anything to ensure that I’d be in touch the instant I needed to be.

Now she’s tapping lightly at my door.

“Bye, Mom,” I call to her. “Thanks again for the phone!”

“The luncheon should only go about three hours,” she responds, respecting that I’ve chosen to keep the door closed. “I’ve instructed Todd to forego his usual schmoozing of the dean so we can be home sooner. We should be back no later than six.”

“Sounds great! Have fun.”

“All right, then,” she says.

I hold my breath, listening for their footsteps. There’s only silence.

“All right, then,” she repeats. “Just rest, sweetheart, all right? It’s the most important thing.” Another pause. “Theodore?”

Please just leave already!
I squeeze my eyes shut. “Yeah?”

“Todd and I were having a discussion this morning, and I just wanted to clarify. You’re aware that I love you, right?”

I feel another crack forming in my lungs. My eyes become damp. “Yes, I’m aware,” I say. I was not, in fact, entirely aware. At least now I’ve got the proof on digital audio.

Only then do I hear the fading footsteps and the sound of the door closing.

I exhale, finally able to relax. But almost instantly, I tense again. I’d spent most of the morning convincing myself the wedding would be nothing more than a few mean looks from Tyler and a beautiful moment playing Cupid to Andy and Sarah. I can’t dwell on the unknown, though. To paraphrase Tyler himself, whatever happens . . . happens.

Once I’m sure Mom and Todd are in the elevator, I yank open my bedroom closet, letting poor Andy, the budding yogi contortionist, back out of hiding.

“Okay,” I say, “we’ve got the second iPhone, so I can walk you through Operation
FaceTime for real.”

“You’re sure you want to stick with that code name?” Andy asks with a smirk.

“I admit, it sounded cooler in my head,” I say. “But once you name an operation—”

“Hey, what are these?” he interrupts, peering into my Glory Box.

Stupid
. I left it open when I took out the dress. Andy dunks his head in, clearly delighted he’s discovered a treasure trove of my most personal secrets. All the sketches I’ve made of my dream wedding ring: the six little diamond daisy petals surrounding a gold center. A million sketches of me in my wedding dress, wearing my dream ring, wearing my dream wedding pearls, surrounded by dream wedding flowers. My face grows hot.

“Just some drawings,” I mumble, slamming the box closed.

Andy flashes me a sly grin. “You really love daisies, huh?”

I ignore him by taking the iPhone from my dress pocket. (I made sure to leave enough cable so as not to disconnect the button cam.) I bury my face in the screen, tapping around, checking to make sure I’ve installed all the necessary software, hoping he gets the hint. Then I plop down on the couch, placing the second phone on the coffee table.

“Okay, check this out.” I open FaceTime on my phone and dial Andy’s loaner phone. When it rings, I accept the call, and then I show him the new image on his screen. It’s a video image of my bedroom wall instead of my face. “See. I told you there was a way.”

He sits down next to me for a closer look. “Wait. What am I looking at?”

“I found an app that makes the rear-facing camera the default video source for FaceTime calls. So now, instead of seeing my face on your phone, you’re seeing my button cam feed.” I stand up and do a slow twirl so he can see the pan around my bedroom on his screen. “Now I can keep the phone in my pocket the whole time.” I slip my phone into my dress pocket and continue to twirl. “As long as our call stays connected, you’ll be seeing and hearing whatever I’m seeing and hearing.” I throw my fist out for a bump. “Come on now. Give me my propers.”

I expect a full bump in return, and maybe even a hug, but Andy doesn’t look impressed. On the contrary, his expression grows much darker.

“What’s wrong?” I ask.

“This button cam thing,” he says. “You haven’t used this recently, have you? Like, on me or something? Because I told you how I feel about—”

“On
you
?” I interrupt. “Of course not. Andy, I made a promise.”

He runs a quick visual polygraph on my eyes and thankfully buys the lie. “Okay, then it is a pretty freaking smart idea,” he admits. “But if your phone is in your pocket, then how am I going to talk to you? How do I tell you when I spot Sarah or Wyatt?”

“Ah, that’s what the IFB earpiece is for.”

“The what?”

“The IFB earpiece. It’s right here.” I can’t blame him for not seeing it; it’s no bigger than a pearl, lost in the faded gold etching on my Japanese coffee table. I pick it up and roll it gingerly between my thumb and forefinger. It’s a pale cream color and molded to fit right inside the ear, making it nearly undetectable.

“Sometimes we get to use them on location shoots for the
Sherman News
,” I say. “I’m in charge of the gear. It’s Bluetooth ready, so all I have to do is pair it with my phone and,
voilà,
I’ll have you loud and clear in my ear. Okay, sorry about the ‘voilà,’—I’m just a little excited. Dude, we’ve got to test it. I’m going to the kitchen. Stay here.”

I’m more than just a little excited. I can barely contain it as I run to the kitchen, lodging the earpiece in my ear and pairing it with my phone. I do a slow walk around the kitchen, leaning slightly toward the collar. “Test, test. One-two, one-two. Can you hear me, Andy Reese? Tell me what you see.”

“I see a kitchen.” Andy’s voice pipes into my left ear with perfect clarity.

“Hell, yeah, you do!” I take a moment to do a small fist-pumping dance. He can hear me, and I can hear him. He sees everything I see. Everything works. “So what do you think?” I ask eagerly. “Are we ready for this wedding, or are we ready?”

“I guess,”
Andy says. “Just remind me why we’re doing all this? Do we really need this fancy setup?”

“Andy, there’s nothing fancy about it. Earpiece, button cam, FaceTime. I can’t walk around Battery Gardens shoving my phone in people’s faces till you recognize Sarah or Wyatt. Tyler would see your big face on my screen and go apeshit on me again. No, this is the way to go. Quick, quiet, and under the radar. The Renauxes will never even know I’m talking to you.”

“Okay, fair enough.”

“Good. So, you’re in, right?” There’s a long silence on the line. “Andy?” I press my finger to the earpiece, making sure it’s securely in place. “Andy, can you hear me?”

“Yeah, I’m right here.”

“What just happened? Where did you go? I thought there was a glitch.”

“I didn’t go anywhere.”

“Then what? Are you ready to do this or not?”

“Theo, I can’t,”
he says. “I’m sorry, but I can’t let you go in there alone. It’s too risky. Between Tyler and this Lester Wyatt dude, you need someone there to watch your back.”

I lean against the fridge. “You can’t go with me. How many times do I need to explain this?”

“No, I get that. But can’t you at least bring someone else? You could pass him off as your date. Don’t you have some friend who’d go nuts if he knew you were walking into this weird-ass wedding alone?”

The answer is quite obvious, so I have to lie. “Nope. No, I don’t know anyone who fits that description.”

“What about that dude who came over the other night?”

“No, Andy. Forget it. I’ve been avoiding his texts and calls for the last thirty-six hours. I can’t suddenly call him up and invite him to a wedding with two hours’ notice.”

“Why not?”

“I just can’t, all right?”

“Oh, wait.” I can practically hear him grinning through the earpiece. “I get it. You like him. You don’t want to ask him on a date because you’re afraid he’ll say no. Theo, we don’t have time for that stuff right now.”

“No,
I do not
like
him. We’re not like that. He’s like my goofy older brother.”

“Then asking him to hang with you for twenty minutes should be no sweat.”

“I don’t . . .” My heart starts racing. I press my palm to my chest. “Okay.” I sigh.
“Okay, I’ll call him. But you’ve got to wait in the kitchen while I make the call.”

Andy laughs. “Of course. Those goofy older brother calls always need to be made in private. Everybody knows that.”

Max answers before the
second ring.

“Seriously?”
He barks it instead of
hello
or
what’s up
. Then he repeats it minus the question mark. “Seriously.”

“What?”

“Thee. Seriously?”

“
What
,
Max?”

“Seriously?”

I pull the phone from my ear and let him get it out of his system.

“You come to my house in some deep existential crisis, bordering on losing it completely, not totally sure that you are in fact
you
. Then you sneak out the next day while I’m asleep and don’t answer my calls for two days? You can’t do that. You can’t make a power forward feel like a Jewish grandmother. Like I need to sit in my rocking chair with an afghan on my lap, worrying all day that you’ve been kidnapped by Cossacks or hobos.”