Fake (18 page)

“Hey,” she greeted as she strode up beside him.

“Did you have a nice day at school, sweetheart?” he asked dryly.

“Yes, honey,” she played along.

Skyler seemed unaware of their audience. Either that or he was used to being gaped at by the masses.

“Got something for you.” He turned and grabbed two Starbucks cups off the low wall of the stoop, holding one out for her. “Milk and two sugars, right?”

She grinned. “Yep, that's it. You know all my secrets.”

He smiled proudly.

A few nearby students were now blatantly staring
and whispering. Gaia could only imagine the next day's headlines. By the time the story filtered down the rank assembly lines of the Village School Gossip Factory, people would be saying she'd had sex with Skyler right in front of the building.

“Come on,” he said, finally noticing the onlookers. “Let's walk to the park.”

Cradling her coffee, Gaia matched his now-familiar leisurely pace along the sidewalk. Soon their spectators were far behind.

“You know,” he said as they turned the corner, “I'm a little mad at you.”

“You are?” she asked, her brain whirring frantically. What did she do? Had he seen Jake leave her bedroom? Did he hear about her fight in the park?

“You wore your hair up.”

Gaia patted the back of her head, fingering her oval tortoiseshell clip. She'd haphazardly shoved some particularly wayward strands in it that morning, forgetting all about Skyler's preference. “Oh. Sorry.”

“Forget it. I was just—”

A loud, piercing wail suddenly drowned out Skyler's voice. An ambulance was backing out of a nearby depot, its lights on and siren blaring. It didn't scare Gaia at all. But a startled Skyler jerked backward, reminding Gaia that she needed to put on a show of
fear. So she quickly wrenched Skyler's arm and buried her face in his jacket.

“You all right?” he said as the shrill notes of the siren died away in the distance.

She glanced up, smiling sheepishly. “Guess I wigged out a bit. It was just so loud.” She released her grip on his jacket and patted his arm lightly. “Did I hurt you?”

“No,” he said, laughing. “Come on. Let's cross.”

The park lay before them, full of joggers and stroller-pushing urban moms. She and Skyler walked across the street and in through the brick-walled entrance.

Skyler led the way to an empty concrete bench and sat down, his long arms resting regally across the back. Gaia settled in beside him, taking the last, long sip of her coffee.

“I've got a lot planned for us tonight,” Skyler said, absently watching the park activities like a king surveying his kingdom.

“Oh?”

“You'll love it.” He turned to face her. “You should probably call Suko and give her an excuse for coming home late or maybe not at all. Then we might want to stop by my apartment and freshen up first. This restaurant I'm taking you to is really hard to get into, but I know the code. I got us a reservation for seven-thirty. . . .”

Gaia nodded along as he talked, focusing on the thin rims of gold around his pupils. It was mesmerizing—as if the shadows of tiny moons had moved in front of the solar-powered orbs of his eyes.

Just then she remembered something. She was doing it again. That resolute stare. The unflinching eye contact.

Quickly, before he had the chance to notice, she pulled her gaze from his eyes and looked submissively at the ground in front of his feet.

If nothing else, she now had the fear thing down.

As soon as
she opened her eyes that morning, Chloe decided that she would go to Coit Tower instead of Parker S. Shannon High, her usual destination on a Tuesday.

She was turning sixteen in less than twenty-four hours, with no real celebration in sight: Paul spent Wednesdays at his dad's house in Oakland, and—far worse—her mom had said something about “maybe going to a nice restaurant.” What was a “nice” restaurant, anyway? A place where they served blowfish and foie gras? Where the wine list was thicker than her American civilization textbook? No, thank you.

If Mom found out about the Coit Tower expedition, Chloe would be grounded, completely eliminating any possibility of dinner out. Then Chloe would have a
right
to feel miserable on her sixteenth birthday, at home, alone, punished. The idea was strangely alluring.

She called Amy.

“Hey, want to go to the tower today instead of physics?”

“Absolutely.” There was no hesitation, no pause—no grogginess, in fact. For all of Amy's rebel post-punk posturing, Chloe's best friend was a morning person. How did she deal with the 2
A.M
. poetry readings? “I'll see you there at ten. I'll bring bagels if you bring the crack.”

By “crack” Amy meant Café Eland's distinctive twenty-ounce coffee, which was brewed with caffeinated water.

“You're on.”

“You want me to call Paul?”

That was strange. Amy never volunteered to do anything, much less help with group planning.

“Nah, let me guilt him into it.”

“Your funeral. See ya.”

She dragged herself out of bed, wrapping the comforter around her. Like almost everything in the room, it was from Ikea. Her mom's taste ran toward orange, turquoise, abstract kokopelli statuettes, and blocks of sandstone—none of which fit in a crappy middle-class San Francisco ranch. And since Pateena Vintage Clothing paid a whopping five-fifty an hour, Chloe's design budget was limited. Scandinavian blocks of color and furniture with unpronounceable names would have to do for now.
Anything
beat New Southwest.

She stood in front of the closet, wearing a short pair of boxers and a tank. Chloe was finally developing a waist, as if her belly had been squeezed up to her breasts and down to her butt. Hot or not, it wasn't as though any of it really mattered: her mom grounded
her if she so much as even
mentioned
a boy other than Paul.

She threw herself in front of the computer with a wide yawn and jiggled the mouse. Unless Paul was asleep or dead, he could pretty much be located at his computer twenty-four/seven. Bingo—his name popped up in bold on her buddy list.

Chloe:
Ame and me are going to Coit Tower today. Wanna come?

Paul:
[long pause]

Chloe:
?

Paul:
You're not gonna guilt me into it ‘cause I'm not gonna be around for your birthday, right?

Chloe:
:)

Paul:
*groan* ok I'll tell Wiggins I got a National Honor Society field trip or something.

Chloe:
ILU, PAUL!!!

Paul:
Yeahyeah. Cul8r.

Chloe grinned. Maybe her birthday wasn't going to suck after all.

She looked out the window—yup, fog. In a city of fog, Inner Sunset was the foggiest part of San Francisco. Amy loved it because it was all spooky and mysterious and reminded her of England (although she had never been there). But Chloe was depressed by the damp and cheerless mornings, evenings, and afternoons and liked
to flee to higher, sunnier ground—like Coit Tower—at every opportunity.

She decided to play it safe and dressed as if for school, in jeans and a tee and a jean jacket from Pateena's that was authentic eighties. It even had a verse of a Styx song penned carefully in ballpoint on one of the sleeves. She emptied her messenger bag of her textbooks and hid them under her bed. Then she stumbled downstairs, trying to emulate her usual tired-grumpy-morning-Chloe routine.

“You're down early,” her mother said suspiciously.

Uneager to pick a fight this morning, Chloe swallowed her sigh.
Everything
she did out of the ordinary since she'd turned twelve was greeted with suspicion. The first time she'd gotten a short haircut—paid for with her
own
money, thank you very much—her mother had demanded to know if she was a lesbian.

“I'm meeting Ame at the Beanery first,” Chloe responded as politely as she could, grabbing an orange out of the fridge.

“I don't want to sound old-fashioned, but—”

“It's gonna stunt my growth?”

“It's a gateway drug.” Mrs. King put her hands on her hips. In black Donna Karan capris with a silk-and-wool scoop neck and her pixie haircut, Chloe's mom didn't look like a mom. She looked like someone out of a Chardonnay ad.

“You have
got
to be kidding me,” Chloe couldn't keep herself from saying.

“There's an article in the
Week.
” Her mother's gray eyes narrowed, her expertly lined lips pursed. “Coffee leads to cigarettes leads to cocaine and crystal methamphetamines.”

“Crystal
meth,
Mom. It's crystal
meth.
” Chloe kissed her on the cheek as she walked past her to the door.

“I'm talking to you about not smoking, just like the ads say to!”

“Message received!” Chloe called back, waving without turning around.

She walked down to Irving Street, then continued walking north to the southern side of Golden Gate Park, stopping at Café Eland for the two promised coffees. Paul didn't partake; she got him a diet Coke instead. Amy was already at the bus stop, juggling a bag of bagels, her army pack, and a cell phone.

“You know, real punks don't—” Chloe put her hand to her ear and shook it, mimicking a phone.

“Bite me.” Amy put down her bag and threw her phone in, pretending not to care about it. Today she wore a short plaid kiltlike skirt, a black turtleneck, fishnets, and cat-eye glasses; the overall effect was somewhere between rebellious librarian and geek-punk.

The two of them were comfortably silent on the bus, just drinking coffee and glad to have a seat. Amy might be a morning person, but Chloe needed at least another hour before she would be truly sociable. Her best friend had learned that years ago and politely accommodated her.

There wasn't much to look at out the bus window; just another black-and-white-and-gray early morning in San Francisco, full of grumpy-faced people going to work and bums finding their street corners. Chloe's reflection in the dusty window was almost monochromatic except for her light hazel eyes. They glowed almost orange in the light when the bus got to Kearny Street and the sun broke through.

Chloe felt her spirits rise: this was the San Francisco of postcards and dreams, a city of ocean and sky and sun. It really was glorious.

Paul was already there, sitting on the steps of the tower, reading a comic book.

“Happy pre-birthday, Chlo,” he said, getting up and lightly kissing her on the cheek, a surprisingly mature, touchy-feely act. He held out a brown bag.

Chloe smiled curiously and then opened it—a plastic bottle of Popov vodka was nestled within.

“Hey, I figure if we're going to be truants, why not go all the way?” He grinned, his eyes squeezing into slits zipped shut by his lashes. There was a slight indentation in his short, black, and overgelled hair where his earphones had rested.

“Thanks, Paul.” She pointed up. “Shall we?”

“What if you had to choose just one of these views to look at for the rest of your life,” Chloe said. “Which one would it be?”

Amy and Paul looked up from each other, almost intrigued. The three of them had been sitting around for the past hour, not really doing much, with Chloe's two best friends occasionally exchanging giggly glances. That had grown old real fast.

Half of Coit Tower's windows showed spectacular, sun-drenched San Francisco scenery, the other nine looked out into a formless, gray-white abyss.

“I'd wait until the sun cleared before making my choice,” Amy said, pragmatic as ever. She swirled her cup of coffee for emphasis, mixing its contents. Chloe sighed; she should have expected that answer.

Paul walked from window to window, game. “Well, the bridge is beautiful, with all the fog and clouds and sunset and dawn—”