The Girl with the Wrong Name (8 page)

“Theo.” Andy stood. “You were right.
It’s not over. This is way better than a clue. We know
exactly
where she’s going to be and when.
Sunday, at Battery Gardens for Emma Renaux’s wedding. Hey, are you okay? You’re shaking like a leaf.”

He was right. I was shaking. Maybe the sleep deprivation and the trauma of the Magic Garden and the way I’d handled Max were catching up with me. But right now, something was wrong. I felt like I’d been dropped into a bathtub full of ice, a child with a raging fever. I was freezing and burning at the same time.

“Are you okay?” Andy was still smiling, but his eyes began to narrow with worry. “Is something wrong?”

“No,” I said. “No, this . . . this is amazing. This is all we need.” I took a deep breath and forced myself to return his smile. Even in my current state, I was sure of one thing. “We don’t have to wait till Sunday to find her. I think I know a faster way.”

My extensive knowledge of
New York Times
wedding announcements is the closest thing I had to a superpower. I’m not bragging; it’s the truth. Where some might have only seen a two-inch photo of Emma Renaux, I saw an opportunity for some expert deductive reasoning.

1) The solo bride pics appear in less than ten percent of the
Times
wedding announcements. 2) When they do appear, they are almost always Southern brides because 3) bride-only pics are mostly an old Southern tradition. Therefore, it was more than likely that 4) the Renaux family were fans of all the classic Emily Post wedding traditions. Ergo, therefore, and thus, I was ninety percent confident that 5) Emma Renaux would be hosting a traditional bridal luncheon before the wedding.

If I was right, then Andy had found her just in time, because the luncheon would most likely be happening tomorrow.
It was just a question of where and when.

Chapter Eight

That morning, I did the unthinkable. I dressed in the exact same outfit as I had last night. I wore my funeral smock and pretty makeup to school.

True, it helped that I knew Emilio wouldn’t be on duty when I left. But even if he had, I couldn’t be stopped. I had a plan.

When the lunch bell rang, I walked a safe distance from school, about a block and a half, and Googled both of Emma’s parents: James and Sally Renaux of Charleston, South Carolina. I cross-referenced their separate listings to confirm a shared phone number. The entire extended family would probably be in New York by now. I felt reasonably confident that they were a wealthy bunch, based partly on Emma’s fancy Exeter education and partly on their affluent location and regal-sounding French name (admittedly not an exact science).

If I was right about the wealthy part, then I was willing to bet they had a maid or a housekeeper watching their place while they were away. I crossed my fingers, dialed the number, and held my breath through four long rings.

“Hello? Renaux residence,” a woman with a heavy Southern twang answered.

“Oh, yes,
hi
,” I said, trying to mimic her accent. “This is Jenny Robinson. Who’s this?”

“This is Vonda,” the woman said. “I’m the housekeeper.”

Jackpot.

“Oh, hi, Vonda! I’m guessing Jim and Sally are already in New York, right?”

Why the Southern accent? You sound like a mash-up of Scarlett O’Hara and Larry the Cable Guy.
Don’t you think they might have invited a few guests north of the Mason-Dixon Line?

“Oh, yes, Miss Robinson,” Vonda answered politely. She was one of those people you could hear smiling over the phone. “The family flew out a few days ago.”

“Oh, Vonda, honey, I sure hope you can help me out,” I said. “I am in
such
a pinch. I lost that little card with the invitation. Would you happen to have the details on Emma’s bridesmaids’ luncheon? I’m praying to sweet Jesus I’m not late already.” I bit my lip.

“Well, don’t you worry,” Vonda said. “I’ve got all the info on the fridge right here. The luncheon, let me see . . . Oh, you’re golden, honey—it’s not a luncheon, it’s a cocktail party. Seven o’clock tonight. The Rise Bar and Terrace at the Ritz-Carlton Battery Park Hotel. Fourteenth floor.”

Double jackpot.
Maybe you’re not so bad at being an over-the-top Southerner after all
. “Vonda, sweetheart, you are a life saver!”

“Well, I’m just glad I could help!” Vonda said. “I’ll let Ms. Renaux know you called. Your first name is—”

“Ooh, Vonda, honey, my cell is breaking up. Hold on now; just let me—”

I killed the call. I couldn’t help but smile. I’d completed my undercover op and ascertained the time and location of Andy’s date with destiny. Seven o’clock at the Ritz-Carlton. Fancy-schmancy, I knew it. I wasn’t one to pat myself on the back, but my smile grew wider as I turned around to head back to school.

That’s when I nearly crashed into Lou.

“Who was that?” she
spat. I think she’d gotten about as much sleep as I had—somewhere between sixty and ninety minutes, tops. Her eyes were underlined with dark, puffy circles, but they didn’t make her look tired; they made her look poised for battle.

“No one,” I said, watching her nostrils flare. “It was a wrong number. How long were you standing there?”

“Where were you last night?”

I needed a second to process the second question. “I’m not—”

“Just tell me where you were,” she snapped. Her voice was hoarse. “No, forget it. I know where you were. You were with him all night, weren’t you? All night and all morning.”

“With—with who?” I stammered. “No—what are you talking about?”

“Thee,
don’t
,
okay. Don’t. I’ve been up all night.”

“Lou, I swear I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

She smiled bitterly. “Really? Then maybe you want to tell me why you’re dressed like that.”

“Like what?”

“Thee, you own exactly two dresses. Why are you suddenly dressed like a girl?”

I laughed suddenly—not because anything was funny, but because she and Max must have had some kind of mind meld. I’d have to work on lying to my friends; they knew me too well. “Because . . .” My mind raced for explanations. This was what came out: “Why shouldn’t I dress like a girl?”

“Ugh, you’re the worst
liar. You can’t even make something up. Why didn’t you text me back last night? I wrote you both, like, a hundred times. Tell me what he said to you. Why wouldn’t either of you text me? You obviously never went home—you didn’t even get a chance to change your clothes.”

I shook my head. “Lou, I’m sorry. I am so confused right now. Can we just start from the top?”

“Fine!” she yelled. “From the top: You both went to Shanika Butler’s party last night, but you left before I got there. You probably went out for falafels at Mamoun’s afterward and laughed about me for two hours, and then you went back to his place for one of your marathon ‘sessions,’ and you
finally
got it out of your systems.”

“Sessions? Wait . . . Are we talking about
Max
right now?”

She threw up her hands. “
Yes
,
we’re talking about Max. Who else would we be talking about?”

“You think I went home with Max last night, and we had . . .”

“
Sex
.
Yes, it’s called ‘sex,’ Thee. I guess you found your Mr. Right after all!” She pumped her fists in fake celebration.

“Okay, stop,
stop
—”

“Please tell me you at least found a decent rabbi to marry you first, otherwise you’ve wasted a year of quality celibacy.”

“Lou, stop it. He’s
Max.
I wouldn’t do it, period. Neither would he! With
me
?
Not in any parallel dimension on any planet in any universe.”

“Well, then
why
are you dressed like that?”

Maybe it was my impulse control problem, or my lack of sleep, or maybe I just wanted to tell the truth for a change. Mostly I wanted to disabuse her of any more ludicrous notions about Max and me. “Okay, look.” I glanced around and lowered my voice. “You have to swear this stays between us. Swear?”

She nodded. Her eyes slowly lost their warrior aggression.

“I was
with a boy last night. But it wasn’t Max.”

Her sleepless scowl began to melt away and reshape itself into a smile of amazement. “Oh my God.” She stopped in the middle of the street and leaped on me, grabbing me in her skinny arms. “She went on a date! She’s all grown up! She’s all—”

“No, it’s not like that,” I groaned, breaking free from the hug. “I’m just helping this guy find someone. It’s more like a missing persons case. Sort of.”

“Oh, no.” She grimaced. “Oh, Thee. Please tell me you’re not trying to help one of your iDoc subjects. Theo. Are you trying to help one of your newlyweds find a long-lost brother for his wedding or something?”

“No,”
I said, and even though it was sort of the truth, I knew I sounded like a liar. “I’m working on a totally different project now. I have a new subject.”

Lou placed her hands on her bony hips and narrowed her eyes. “Thee, you know better. You can’t help your subject. You can’t be part of the story; that’s, like, Rule Number One. You know what Mr. Schaffler would say. You’re tainting the narrative.”

“I am not. I’m just helping this guy out.”

“Come on, Schaffler does the Observer Effect speech every year at News orientation. It’s hard enough to get an unbiased portrait of your subject when he knows you’re filming him. People always change when they know they’re being filmed.”

“Yeah, that’s why I don’t
tell
my subjects I’m filming them. Usually.”

“No, what you’re doing is way worse. You’re putting yourself in the story. It’s worse than the Observer Effect, it’s the Butterfly Effect. You’re changing his future when you’re just supposed to be documenting it.”

“I am not!” I took a few deep breaths and forced myself to remain calm. “I’m just making sure he ends up with the girl he’s supposed to be with.”

“How do you know who he’s supposed to be with?”

“I just do.”

“How do you even know him? What’s his name? Where did you meet him?”

“His name is Andy. I met him at the Harbor Café.”

“So you just started shooting this Andy guy at the café, and now you’re his personal private eye? How do you know he’s not an ax murderer? How do you know he’s not reeling you into the Long Con? Has he asked you if you’re rich yet?”

“The
Long Con
? What is this,
House of Games
?”

I was hoping to make Lou laugh with the reference to one of our favorite David Mamet movies. I could tell from her angry smile that she was reliving the movie in her head: a slightly fat Joe Mantegna spends days conning a slightly mannish Lindsay Crouse into giving him eighty thousand dollars. Lou seemed to get the point: I was absolutely sure I was not Lindsay Crouse to Andy Reese’s Joe Mantegna.

“Lou,
enough
.” I grabbed her hands and squeezed. “You don’t have to worry. This guy is totally harmless. Besides, none of this matters anymore because the project is over. The whole story ends tonight. I found her. I found the girl he’s looking for. And once I get them together, he’s not going to need me anymore.” My throat caught. Without a hint of warning, I found myself fighting off another ambush of tears.

Lou leaned closer. “Sweetie, are you all right?”

“People really need to stop asking me that.” I took a deep breath. “I am fine. Don’t pay any attention to this.” I pointed to my moist eyes. “This has no actual meaning; it’s just a thing that happens to me now. Just ignore it.”

“Oh, God, Theo. Are you in love with this guy?”

“
What?
God, no. If I were in love with him, would I be helping him find his girlfriend? Hel-
lo
?”

“I thought we outlawed ‘hel-
lo’
last year?”

I laughed in spite of myself. “Well played. How about this? I’ll come over to your place around nine tonight, and you can help me start logging all the footage.”

“Okay, fine,” she said, still sounding unsure. “But you promise you’ll come? You can’t bag on me—not now.”

“I swear,” I said. “All I need to do is shoot the final scene.”

Chapter Nine

It’s 6:52
p.m.
The sun has already sunk below New Jersey, leaving a dark violet sky in its wake. Andy and I are standing in a pocket of shrubs outside Wagner Park, across the street from the Ritz-Carlton Battery Park Hotel. Yes, we are hiding in the bushes.

I’d realized something crucial in my run-in with Lou. I’d gotten so involved in this search for Sarah that I’d forgotten my real purpose here, and that is to make a fantastic documentary. I’d let my obsessive mind throw me off course. I’d told Lou about the great footage I’d be showing her at nine o’clock, but I hadn’t shot a stitch of video since our creepy visit to Bergen Street. So I stopped home after school, grabbed my jacket with the button cam, and plugged myself back in for the grand finale, the dramatic reunion of Sarah and Andy Reese.

Maybe it will be beautiful. Maybe it will be a disaster. Either way, it will be high-octane cinema, and that’s the only reason I’m here. Camera-shy Andy doesn’t need to know I’m shooting.

“I feel sick,” he says now. “I shouldn’t feel sick, right? I should be excited. Or maybe I’m so excited, it’s making me sick? What do you think?”

It’s too damn dark out. The button cam doesn’t do well in low light. I should have picked a spot under some direct streetlight. I want to peek into my jacket pocket and check the screen, but I can’t risk Andy catching on.

“Theo,” he says, “throw me a bone here. This isn’t the time to go quiet on me.”

“Sorry. I feel queasy, too. I think it’s excited-queasy. I mean, I’m sure it’s excited-queasy.”

“Totally,” Andy says, wiping his clammy palms on his Oxford shirt. He spots two women across the street. They could be twins with their shiny elegant blonde hair and designer coats, shuffling their way into the Ritz-Carlton lobby on their Christian Louboutin stilettos. (Okay, I can’t be sure; I just assume they’re Christian Louboutins.) “You think those two are going to the party?” he asks.

“I am ninety-nine percent sure. Ninety-nine point nine-nine percent.”

The lame semi-humor doesn’t go over well. “Oh, man.” He runs his hands through his sweat-slicked hair and shambles over to a nearby bench. “They’re so freaking fancy. She’s rich, isn’t she? She’s
rich
. I never even thought about it.”

I sit down next to him. I reach to pat his knee, to comfort him, but hesitate at the last second. “Andy, who cares if she’s rich?”

“I care. What if I can’t give her the life she’s accustomed to?”

“She’s not going to care about that; she has
you.
Besides, we don’t even know if she’s rich. Just because Emma’s rich doesn’t mean all her friends are, too. Anyone can look fancy for one night.”

“That’s true,” he says. He turns to me. “You look fancy tonight. Are you all secretly rich?”

I snort. “My parents are English professors. Do the math. They sure can’t. And I don’t look fancy. I look like I’m going to a gym teacher’s memorial service.”

“Well, I think you look beautiful.”

He says this with zero irony, and the world goes still. Downtown New York City is suddenly so quiet; I can hear my own voice echoing in the back of my head.
He said it to be nice.

I know that.

You were fishing for a compliment, and he responded in kind. He said, “
Well
, I think you look beautiful.” It was a response, not a statement. If he’d just said, “I think you look beautiful,” it would be entirely different, but that’s not what he said.

Yes, I
know
. I just want to stop and remember the moment he said it, that’s all.

No, you don’t, Theo.

I need an industrial-size jug of TUMS.

“Okay, I’m ready,” he announces, getting up from the bench. “I’m ready for this. She can love me or she can hate me, but I am going in.”

“No, Andy, wait.” I stand, blocking his path.

“What?” he asks. “What’s wrong?”

“Maybe I should go in first.”

“Why?”

“Because . . .”
Because why?
“Because this party is just for the bridesmaids. It’s ladies only. If a guy walks in, there will be a huge spotlight on you. You could cause a huge commotion.”

His shoulders drop. “You think she doesn’t want to see me?”

“No,
I
know
she wants to see you. Look, I wore this dress so I could blend in at the party and scope out the situation first. I can find her upstairs and tell her you’re down here waiting for her. That way you don’t have your romantic love scene in the middle of Emma Renaux’s party.” I smile at him. “You know that the second-worst crime after murder is stealing a bride’s thunder.”

Why are you doing this? You
want
maximum drama, or at least maximum carnage. Why are you trying to keep him from going upstairs?

“Shit, maybe you’re right,” he says. “Maybe you should go up there first.”

“Good.” It’s so preposterous, I almost laugh when I tell him, “I still have no idea what she looks like. I can’t find her if I don’t know what she looks like. I know she’s tall and blonde, but what else?”

He arches an eyebrow. “Sarah’s not blonde. When did I ever say she was blonde?”

I tilt my head, at a loss. “Of course she’s blonde.”

“No. She’s not blonde. She’s got dark hair, kind of your color, but much longer. And she’s not tall. I don’t think she’s much taller than you are.”

Now I can’t move. I’m in shock. Not as much shock as when I thought he was a coke dealer at the Magic Garden, but more shock than the moment he pointed to Emma Renaux’s picture in the paper. Sarah is not a blonde. How is that humanly possible? Never could I have pictured her as anything but a stick-thin, towering blonde with alien-size blue eyes—like every other woman filing into the lobby right now from their taxis and town cars and limos.

“What else?” I ask.

“She has dark eyes,” he mutters uncertainly. “Definitely dark eyes. But it’s the lips. That’s how you’ll recognize her. From her lips.”

“What about her lips?”

“She has those—what do you call it?” He lifts his finger to my mouth and traces along its curves—not touching my upper lip, but hovering close enough to wake the writhing Ridley Scott alien in my chest. “What do you call this part here? Where the top lip kind of rises and falls in little arches?”

His finger floats over the peaks and valleys. He is very close.

I duck my head and back away.

“You know,” he goes on, “kind of like a—”

“Bow,” I say with a fraction of a breath.

“Right.”
His eyes twinkle. “Cupid’s-bow lips. That little dip in the middle.”

“Okay, I got it. I’m ready.”

“No, Theo, wait.” He steps in front of me, forcing me back on my wobbly granny-pump heels.

“What’s wrong now?”

“I don’t know,” he says. He nervously massages the back of his neck. “It’s just . . . I think I’m lying to you. I mean, I know I am. I’m lying.”

I clutch at the bench rail for support. “About what?” It comes out more a croak than a question.

“About this feeling. I don’t think it’s excited-queasy. This is the other kind of queasy. The kind you get before a final exam. The kind you get when you drive into a bad neighborhood after midnight.” He looks up at the treetops swaying over the edge of the fourteenth floor’s outdoor terrace. “Maybe neither one of us is supposed to go up there. I don’t know anything about this Renaux lady or this Wyatt dude, but I’ve got a bad feeling about them. I don’t know. I don’t think you should go.”

I let go of the railing, feeling better. He’s just stalling. “Is it because they’re rich?”

“No.”

“Is it because they like R. Kelly?”

He doesn’t even crack a smile. “No. It’s just a voice in my head, and it’s saying, ‘Don’t let her go up there.’”

Standing this close to him, I can almost hear the voice, too.

“Is that it?” I ask.

“The voice, you mean?”

“No, is that the only thing you’re lying to me about?”

His eyes meet mine. “Yeah,” he states. “That’s it.”

“Okay. Ominous feeling noted and totally respected. And if I am not back down here with Sarah in twenty minutes, then I give you full permission to bust in there and ruin all of Emma’s precious wedding memories.”

The bell strikes fourteen,
and the golden elevator doors slide open to the sound of women laughing. The laughter is tasteful. It’s the exact opposite of the laughter I heard at the Magic Garden. This is definitely a Rich People Party. As if to drive the point home, I hear a string quartet playing Bach somewhere down the hall. (I think it’s Bach. Lou would know for sure.) I check the iPhone screen in my pocket and straighten the button cam on my collar. Picture and sound are good to go.

Before I can take another step, a waiter with a skinny tie offers me a tray of pink champagne. “Welcome,” he says with a practiced smile. “There’s a coat check—”

“I’ll keep it,” I blurt out.

“All right, then.” He smiles, taking a tiny step back. “The ladies are straight ahead.”

“Thanks,” I reply, wondering if I qualify as one of “the ladies.” My nerves get the better of me, and I grab two glasses from his tray. I feel like I’m gliding through a long dolly shot—the Art Deco walls falling away on either side of me as mahogany tables and bouquets of white orchids float past. The champagne hits my tongue with a sweet, delectable fizz, and I down the first glass without thinking. I can barely feel the blue-and-gold runner beneath my feet. I ditch the empty by a vase full of calla lilies and start on my second as “the ladies” begin to take shape at the end of the tunnel.

It’s a bigger crowd than I’d thought.

Emma didn’t just invite the bridesmaids; she invited all of her female friends and family. Staying hidden in the crowd will be much easier than I thought, but finding Sarah will be harder. I search the sea of flawless faces for a girl with dark hair, dark eyes, and Cupid’s-bow lips. They all share a sort of high-society sameness, but there is one pocket of girls that stands out.

Two of the five are African American, one Latina. That’s the first thing that catches my eye, but it’s not what keeps my attention. They’re the only ones not laughing or smiling. They’re fidgety and uncomfortable. They’re the outcasts, so I feel an instant kinship with them, even from twenty feet away.

I bring my glass to my lips as I study their faces. I tip it all the way back. That’s two full glasses of champagne in less than three minutes. I haven’t had a sip of alcohol in three months. I need to stop; I’m not here to get shit-faced.

I grab another beautiful and perfectly coiffed waiter as he passes, placing my empty on his tray and taking a fresh bubbly.

“Enjoy,” he says with a wink.

It’s not for enjoyment; it’s for self-control. Hopefully, it will keep the camera steady for my first interview.

After two sips, I stride forward and pause at the two-foot social moat surrounding the girls. I look for the friendliest face in the bunch. I decide on the mocha-skinned Latina girl with the frumpy floral dress and the dried-out platinum-blonde ponytail. Her friends are all wearing ill-fitting, conservative floral dresses, too. Something is wrong with this picture—aside from the fact that they don’t occupy the same tax bracket as the other guests—I just can’t place it yet.

“Hey, do you know if Sarah is here yet?” I ask the girl.

She flashes a quick glance at her friends, like she’s checking to see if it’s cool to talk to me. “I don’t think I know any Sarah,” she says, sizing me up. She has a strong accent, Brooklyn or the Bronx. “Why?” she asks. “Are you with cops?”

I almost spit my champagne back into the glass. “Cops? Why would I be with—?”

“No, not
cops
.” She laughs. “That’s a giveaway. So you aren’t K.O.P. I thought you might be the sixth ambassador.”

Are we speaking in CIA code now? The sixth ambassador? It sounds like a bad political thriller that couldn’t get George Clooney and had to settle for one of the Affleck brothers instead.
They thought diplomacy was dead. They hadn’t counted on
. . .
THE SIXTH AMBASSADOR. This Fourth of July, Casey Affleck IS
. . .
The Sixth Ambassador.

Okay, I’m drunk.

“I’m sorry,” I say, trying not to smile and failing. My cheeks feel hot; the room swirls with a warm glow. “You lost me.”

“No,
I’m
sorry. Oh, shit, you look so freaked out right now.” She clamps her palm over her mouth, and her friends laugh. Her hand falls away. “My bad,” she says. “Let’s start again. I’m Helena.”

I’m so tipsy that my real name leaks out. “Theo.”

“What’s up, Theo?”

“So . . . what’s K.O.P?”

“The place that Mr. Wyatt and Ms. Renaux run on Parker Street . . . ?”

All the outcast girls are staring at me now. I’m obviously supposed to know this. Everyone else at the party knows this.

“You know,” Helena continues in the buzzy silence. “It’s, like, a place for girls. Like, girls who are going through sh—stuff back home or whatever, and they need a place to stay.”

“You mean a shelter?” The question sounds overly loud in my ears.