Infatuate (2 page)

There had been endless news stories about the tragedy. In the immediate aftermath, they eulogized the impossibly glamorous owner, Aurelia Brown; her second in command, Lucian Grove; and their beautiful but sinister staff, known to us as the “Outfit”—all assumed to have been turned to dust in the flames.
Lucian.
Even now, it was hard to think of him, to imagine what had become of him. Whenever he crept into my mind, I had to swat those memories away. The loss of him stung. I had printed out every article, read them just once, and tucked them away in an envelope under my bed.

Far easier to read were those more recent pieces speculating about what might be done with this hallowed ground. There was talk of reopening the hotel one day, but now the site stood completely untouched. At least like this it still felt like ours.

With charred chunks of terra cotta, stone, and brick crunching beneath our sneakers, we wound our way up our favorite hill of debris to nestle in against a twisted metal beam that was like a bleacher seat. From here we could look down into a gully where, on a sunny day, you could see the crystals of the chandelier sparkling from where it had crashed to the floor of the lobby. It was the very last sign of the opulence of the place where each of us had been swept off our feet, had fallen in love, before discovering that the people we were so enamored with were trying to recruit us for their dark ways. And in fact, they weren’t people at all; they were devils, who had started out like us but had lost their way and were now in the business of buying souls, granting grand wishes, and finally committing their converts to an eternity below.

In a matter of days, we would, I had no doubt, be thrust back into some version of that world all over again. That’s what awaited us in New Orleans and we all knew it, even if we hadn’t spoken of it yet. It just made sense. I touched my necklace—a golden angel wing—for strength, then warmed my hands around my paper cup. Lance tightened his arm around me as I huddled close.

“To easier times in the Big Easy,” Dante said, his voice heavy as he held out his cup of hot chocolate in a toast.

“To voluntourism, New Orleans–style,” I offered, holding mine out too.

“Cheers,” said Lance.

Added Dante, before sipping: “Thank you, Mr. Connor Mills, student coordinator extraordinaire.”

Volunteer tourism, or voluntourism, had been a brainstorm of ours last summer. If we were graduating early, we reasoned, we needed to do
something
with all that time. The three of us were far too Type A to sit around for a semester, and we hadn’t really wanted to race off to college early. That felt like . . . too much. We already had enough on our minds without jumping into any sort of intense academic pursuit just yet.

The idea originated when I had returned to my old candy striper job at Evanston General Hospital in June, working alongside Joan. One afternoon, a pickup basketball game landed an out-of-towner, one Connor Mills, in the ER after he took an elbow to the eye. It was ugly, but it could have been much worse. It didn’t hurt that he was the type who could pull off the disheveled look: rugged and athletic, he had dirty blond hair, the scruffy good looks of a pro mountain climber, and an easy charm, even after a head injury. It was a busy day at the hospital, and since they wanted to monitor him for a concussion, he was there until after nightfall. I was removing his dinner tray, enjoying a fleeting lull in the day’s activity, when he started talking.

“So, you’re in med school over at Northwestern?” he asked me in a southern drawl. He wore a gauze patch over one eye. “How long y’think till this heals up?”

“You must not be able to see very well,” I said, smiling. “I’m just a volunteer here. I’m in high school. So I can’t give any medical advice but I
can
hook you up with the really good cookies from the break room down the hall if you’re still hungry. Sometimes the night nurses steal ’em, so I always hide a few.”

“I might take you up on that.” He laughed.

“Where’s the guy who did that to you?”

“My buddy.” Connor shook his head. “I’m in town a few days, seeing friends. Didn’t expect to spend it here.”

I felt sort of bad for him, and since I wasn’t needed anywhere else at that moment, I hung around and challenged him to a game of poker.

I had just won a round and was gathering up the vending machine M&M’s we used for betting when Connor said, “So you’re a volunteer? I help run a program in New Orleans. City kids, Katrina victims, all sorts of community outreach. Bet you’d like it.”

“How much would you bet?” I held out a handful of M&M’s.

He laughed, taking one and popping it in his mouth. “We call it voluntourism down there.”

“That’s catchy.”

“You should apply. You can come hang out. Winter’s much nicer there.”

By the time Connor was released, he had won me over, and he promised to e-mail me the application. Dante and Lance hadn’t needed much convincing to join me. As soon as we were accepted we began wondering what might really be waiting for us in New Orleans.

“So . . .” Someone had to break this silence as we stared at the ruins. “Anyone getting any fabulous graduation gifts?” I asked, my voice as light as possible. Joan was taking me for a girls’ day of shopping and spa treatments in the city before I left, in her continuing effort to make me less of a tomboy. I loved her for that.

“Still trying to convince my mom the chef’s table at Alinea is a worthwhile investment.” Dante, our resident gourmand, laughed quietly to himself.

Lance pulled his arm from me and leaned forward, elbows on his knees as he studied the building’s mountainous remains. A harsh gust blew a gritty spray of brick and mortar dust into our faces. “No,” he said finally, his tone flat. “But actually, I kind of have something for you guys . . .”

How about
Seventeen
? And one of the gossip magazines; those are fun.
Us Weekly
? I should’ve raided the hospital gift shop.” Joan shook her gray ponytail and grabbed the magazines off the newsstand in front of the cashier.

“I feel so bad I’m leaving again. You’re sure they’re all okay?” For the second time in a year I was taking a leave of absence from my volunteer hospital job and I couldn’t help but feel guilty—I grew up at that place, and I didn’t like to let down the people there. They were like my extended family.

“It’s fine. They love you,” Joan assured me as she scanned the titles again. “How long is the flight?”

“Just under three hours. Not bad.”

She plucked a third magazine—
Entertainment Weekly
—and slapped it on the counter. “We’ll take this one too,” she said to the woman ringing everything up. “Nothing worse than running out of reading material on a flight.”

“Thanks, Joan.”

“Of course, sweetie, it’s the least I can do.” She paid for the magazines and handed me the bag, then put one arm around me, wheeling my suitcase with her other arm as we walked out and found seats near the security checkpoint. “I’m very proud of you, you know.” She squeezed my arm. “Even if I’m not one hundred percent thrilled with this trip.” I nodded. Joan had had to put up with a lot in the years she’d spent with me, aside from watching the place where I interned in the spring burn to the ground. She had taken me in when I was just a five-year-old kid left for dead on the side of Lake Shore Drive with no memory and no one looking for me. It probably hadn’t been the easiest way for her, then a single nurse working the late shift, to begin her tenure as an adoptive mom.

“I still don’t really know why this is so important to you, but I do understand it’s a good opportunity,” Joan continued. “But I did tell you that New Orleans happens to be the murder capital of the world right now, didn’t I?” She whispered this last part, as though she didn’t want to offend the city. And, yes, she had told me this a million times, and it wasn’t even true.

“It’s not the murder capital of
the world.
It’s more like it sort of leads the nation.” I wasn’t exactly helping my cause. I tried again. “Every city has crime.”

“Well, it should be leading the nation in SAT scores. Or random acts of kindness.”

“I don’t think there’s any way to measure for that. Who knows, maybe it does.”

She put her hands on my cheeks, looking in my eyes. “I’m just going to miss you so much.”

“Me too.” I tried to steady my voice and steel my nerves, but O’Hare Airport wasn’t exactly the most Zen-like place. Lines snaking endlessly, people running for their gates as though competing in a track and field event. I felt a sharp pang, wishing to be under the covers of my bed at home, but fought it back. “You really don’t have to wait, though. Dante and Lance will be here soon, I’m sure. I mean”—I checked my watch—“they have to be here by ten fifteen or they’re getting left behind.” I hoped Dante, forever fashionably late, wouldn’t make us like those frantic people racing for their flights.

“I don’t want you waiting here alone. Besides, I’ve got to soak up all the time I can with you.” She put both arms around me. “And, by the way, can I get a little credit for letting you go on this trip with your boyfriend?”

“Joan,” I said, rolling my eyes. This was also well-covered territory. “You love Lance.”

“I know, I know. I just can’t believe I won’t see you for so long.” We had planned for her to come visit midway through the trip, since she’d never been to New Orleans.

I nodded but was instantly distracted by four numbers— proclaiming the new year, which was about fourteen hours away—bobbing toward me. They were attached to springs and a headband atop Dante’s head. I always felt relieved having him near. It settled my queasy stomach.

“Hey, Ms. T!” He reached down and gave Joan a hug.

“So good to see you, dear! And aren’t we looking festive?”

“Thanks!” He shook his head for effect.

“Will they let you through security like that?” I joked, flicking one of the numbers. “You look like a threat for sure.”

“Flattery will get you everywhere! And relax, I brought a pair for you, too.”

I had to laugh. “Lance oughtta be here soon.”

“I saw him. He’s, like, two minutes behind me. He was still trying to talk his mom out of escorting him in here. I had to run to keep mine from following.”

“See, Hav, I’m not the only one,” Joan piped up.

“I can’t get rid of this one.” I pointed to her. I couldn’t help but feel how I’d miss her. I still wasn’t entirely sure about this new life I was leading, and I didn’t like keeping secrets from her. But what was I supposed to say?
So, it turns out I really have to go because, you see, I’m an angel in training—all three of us are—and this trip is somehow part of the second of three tests we need to pass to get our wings. And, by the way, if I fail, I basically . . .
I couldn’t even finish the thought. My stomach churned and I broke out into a cold sweat.

Joan was still talking: “And besides, you wouldn’t want to have to buy your own magazines, would you?”

“There he is,” Dante piped up as Lance ambled in through the doors with his oversize duffel bag.

“Sorry, guys,” he said. “Hi, Ms. Terra. How are you?”

“Why, hello, Lance! So good to see you. You’re looking dapper today,” she said, sparkling. He wore jeans and a hoodie poking out from under his fleece.

“Um, thanks, Ms. Terra.” He smiled shyly. “Hey, lemme get these,” he said as he grabbed my bags.

“Oh, thanks, you don’t—” He just shook his head. I still tended to protest gestures like that out of habit, but I was secretly glad that Lance didn’t listen. “So, I guess we should probably get going, right?” I proposed. Joan gave the boys hugs and wished us luck and then, as they started walking off to security, she held me in a long embrace.

“I’m proud of you, Haven, honey. Remember to call.”

“Promise.” I nodded and, with a wave, began walking away, to catch up with the guys.

In the distance, Joan called out: “Let the good times roll, sweetie!”

I waved again.
“Laissez les bon temps rouler,”
I said to my compatriots. Lance slowed his pace a second to give me the quickest of kisses.

“But not too much!” Joan’s voice rang out again.

2. Laissez Les Bon Temps Rouler

I let Dante have the window seat, taking the middle myself, and within moments of nestling in, he already had all three of my magazines in his grip and a pillow tucked beneath his closely cropped hair, with his eyes closed. On the other side of me, Lance pulled out his copy of
Popular Mechanics
and his earbuds. He leaned in, his eyes alive with excitement and what looked like an undercurrent of fear. “Next stop, New Orleans . . .”

“Your second attraction on the Metamorfosi tour,” I whispered back, using the word we had learned in the spring for the passage of angels and devils earning their respective stripes. A chill swept over me.

“We got this,” Lance whispered. “Promise.” He craned his neck for a peek at Dante slumbering then inched closer to me, resting his hand at my jaw and kissing me. It was enough to make me forget for just a moment about what lay ahead. He cradled my neck and placed one of his earbuds in my ear, the other in his, and slouched in his seat, then opened his magazine as one of his favorite songs cued up. I watched him for a moment and noticed a crease forming between his brows, evidence that he was losing himself in the details of an article on math and science and architecture, subjects that made sense to him.

I sat back and fooled with my mysterious new smartphone. Lance had presented the phones to Dante and me at the Lexington ruins on the last day of school.

“Wow, this is a pretty extravagant graduation gift. Maybe I should’ve treated to the hot chocolates?” I said, puzzled, when he handed mine to me. Like theirs, it had the initial of my first name engraved in gold on its black case. I still had a strictly utilitarian cell phone. Joan always said she didn’t think a high school kid needed all the bells and whistles. Maybe she had a point, but nevertheless, it could be embarrassing to take out my completely boring little phone at school.

The eyes of gadget-obsessed Dante lit up instantly. “This is sweet!” He grabbed his phone and began hitting buttons. Then he frowned, shaking it as though he might hear something loose inside. “Dude, I think mine’s broken already.”