Inside the Shadow City (21 page)

With Betty's help, I spent a day trawling the finer department stores of New York, choosing items that made me appear more formidable. With a new wardrobe stuffed into a dozen shopping bags, we made our way back to Betty's basement apartment in the East Village. Her parents were designing costumes for two new operas, and their apartment was crammed with headless dressmaker's dummies displaying the latest in Viking fashions and Venetian finery. The walls were decorated with detailed sketches of devious geishas, fat men in lederhosen, and Southern belles imprisoned in whalebone corsets and frilly hoopskirts.

Betty's room was large, dim, and cavelike. A weak beam of sunlight entered the room through a tiny window with iron bars. It landed on a row of featureless Styrofoam heads, each sporting a different wig. Betty sat me down at a vanity in front of her collection of prosthetic noses, ears, and lips.

“Are you sure you couldn't use a beauty mark?” she asked, pointing to a plastic box that held hundreds of fake moles, many of them sprouting long hairs.

“Just a haircut, please,” I laughed.

“Well, then here's something to look at while I get to work.” She tossed a supermarket tabloid into my lap. “I recommend the cover story.”

The cover featured a photo of the Princess kissing her latest boyfriend—a famous actor who everyone agreed (behind her back, of course) was way too old for her. Alongside the picture was the caption:
New York's New “It” Girl.
It wasn't the first cover the Princess had
graced. At age fifteen, she was already famous, though she'd done nothing to deserve it. Swarms of paparazzi waited outside the Atalanta School each afternoon, hoping for a new snapshot of the Princess to sell. She pretended to be annoyed but always offered them one of her six well-rehearsed poses.

Inside the magazine I found a picture of the Princess wearing a stunning silver dress and carrying a beautiful blue handbag.

“How much would a bag like that cost?” I asked Betty, thinking I might like one of my own.

Betty paused from her work and studied the photo.

“Twenty bucks,” she announced.

“Oh come on, I've seen bags like that in other magazines. It's got to cost more.”

“The ones you saw were real. That designer doesn't make handbags in blue. The only place you can get one like that is in Chinatown. It's counterfeit.”

“Really?” I snickered.

“Yeah. You can't hide anything from the paparazzi these days,” said Betty.

I put down the magazine and watched as Betty snipped at my hair with a pair of dangerous-looking scissors. For the first time, I realized how pretty she was with her own nose and hair. If I looked like Betty, I thought, I wouldn't change a thing.

“Why did you start disguising your appearance?” I wondered aloud.

Still concentrating on my haircut, Betty didn't look up.

“I used to be really weird-looking. I had a birthmark
in the shape of Florida on one side of my face. It just got removed a couple of years ago.”

“But what's with all the wigs and things? Couldn't you cover the birthmark with makeup?”

“I tried, but I still got picked on. I was sick of being called a mutant or a monster or having kids ask me what was growing on my face. I complained to a teacher once, and she said I should just ‘turn the other cheek.' She thought that was really funny. So at some point, I realized it would be easier to become someone else altogether. If nobody could figure out who I was, they wouldn't be able to give me a hard time.”

“But why do you still do it? The birthmark's gone. You look great.”

“It's nice of you to say so, but inside I'll always be a mutant.” Betty spun me around and began rummaging through a tool chest filled with makeup. “All right, we're almost done here. Just a dab of lip gloss, a touch of rouge, and a quick brush of mascara and your new look will be complete. Not too much makeup, though. That's the mistake everyone makes. We don't want you to end up looking like some old floozy.”

When she was done, I avoided the mirror and chose a new outfit from the shopping bags. In the bathroom, I exchanged my ratty old clothes for a new skirt, sweater, and boots.

“Wow,” said Betty when I emerged. “This may be my best work yet.”

At first I thought she was humoring me, but when I saw my reflection, I had to agree. I would never be as
pretty as Betty, but I looked better than I ever had. My hair was no longer mousey, my clothes fit me perfectly, and running around the city had helped me lose my last bit of baby fat.

“Do you think I look dangerous?” I asked.

“I'd say you look downright deadly.” Betty grinned.

• • •

My transformation wasn't lost on my classmates at the Atalanta School. Girls who had snubbed me since kindergarten started inviting me to sit with them at lunch or study together after school. Remarkably, few of them seemed to remember my days as a pudgy misfit. A couple of girls even assumed I was new to the school, and sometimes, when I caught sight of my reflection, I barely recognized myself. More had changed than my hair and my clothing. My posture was straighter, my eyes were brighter, and my smile was more confident. I finally looked like someone interesting.

At first I was flattered by all the attention, but once I had visited my classmates' mansions and taken part in their giggly gossip sessions, I discovered that my new friends were hopelessly dull. None of them wanted to talk about books, and they changed the subject whenever I mentioned giant squid. I started to spend more time alone, watching the Princess and her friends, and wondering if Kiki Strike would ever show up.

I followed the Princess though the Atalanta hallways as she yammered away on her cell phone and tossed insults at scholarship students. She grew meaner by the day, treating The Five like servants and humiliating
Naomi whenever she could. She flirted shamelessly with Naomi's boyfriends, and insisted her friend wear only last season's fashions. Behind Naomi's brown-nosing smile, I could see hatred beginning to bubble up to the surface. If Kiki Strike didn't get to the Princess, I figured her best friend might. In fact, had Naomi decided to seek her revenge, I might have helped. But Naomi appeared to have been born without a spine.

As the months passed, I grew desperate for something exciting to happen. For ages, it seemed as if nothing ever would. After the kung-fu poster, our last clue to Kiki Strike's whereabouts came from a photo Betty found in a copy of
Town & Country
. It showed Prince Egon of Lichtenstein and a mysterious girl entering an exhibit of Russian royal jewels at the Metropolitan Museum of Art. The picture had been taken from behind, and although the girl in question was very small and her hair unusually light, it was impossible to say for sure if it was Kiki Strike.

Sadly, with Kiki missing, the Irregulars began to go their separate ways. Betty and I had grown close, and DeeDee phoned at least twice a week, but once I called an end to our weekly meetings, I rarely saw the other girls. DeeDee kept me up to date on Luz. They often collaborated on experiments and had become unlikely friends. But all of us lost track of Oona, who spent long hours at her nail salon and rarely had time to chat. Where she went after business hours remained a mystery. None of us knew where she lived, and Oona seemed to like it that way.

I spent an entire year doing little more than shopping with Betty and keeping an eye on the Princess. Many
nights, I had nothing better to do than my homework. I tried studying the plague to help ease the boredom, until I found that the subject made me hopelessly nostalgic. Even a walk through the streets of New York could send me into a deep despair. Whenever I passed a building that was stamped with the fading logo of the Irregulars, I'd return home misty eyed and melancholy.

The day I turned fourteen, I began to worry that my life would always be dull. The night before, I dreamt of Kiki Strike and the Shadow City and woke up with my heart racing and a smile on my face. Then I remembered that my adventure was over.

Or so I thought.

(I hope you noted the title of this section. It's not about making a
good
impression, it's about making the
right
impression—which in many cases may not be good.)

Each day before I hop out of bed, I decide what kind of impression I'd like to make. If it happens I'm on trial for a crime I didn't commit, I might want to impress the jury with how young, innocent, and harmless I am. If, on the other hand, I plan to spend the day confronting villains, I would likely opt for a look that lets them know that I'm no pansy. But no matter what kind of person the day calls for, all it takes is one trip to the closet to assume the ideal identity.

Choose Your Colors Wisely

The colors you wear say a great deal about you. Pink, for instance, is a fantastic color if you want to appear sweet and harmless. But if you'd prefer to look powerful and mysterious, black is a far better option. Politicians have closets full of navy suits because the color helps them seem honest, even when they're lying through their teeth. Gray is good if you're going incognito, while red is certain to attract attention.

Pick the Right Clothes

Forget about looking “good” or “bad.” Instead, ask yourself how you want other people to react. If you're going undercover, you'll want them to ignore you, so a frumpy pair of sweatpants and an old T-shirt will be ideal. If you want an older person to think you're trustworthy, slip into a crisp button-down shirt and pleated skirt. But if you're trying to intimidate a foe, search your closet for an outfit that makes you look a little unhinged.

Accessorize

Accessories can give your look a bit of a twist. Pearl earrings make any outfit look more prim and proper. Glasses can help you seem smarter. Pin layers of ordinary clothing together with several dozen safety pins, and you're sure to appear unstable. And never underestimate the power of temporary tattoos. They're easy, painless, and give any ensemble an edge.

Don't Forget the Details

This is where most people go wrong. Their clothes say one thing, but their makeup, hairstyle, or manicure says something else. So if you've chosen to be a rebel for a day, make sure you remove the baby pink toenail polish before you leave the house. And if you're trying to convince someone that you really are a responsible person no matter what everyone says, remember that a nice manicure (skip the red nail polish) and simple hairstyle can make your argument more believable.

One Saturday morning in June, almost two years after Kiki Strike's disappearance, I was jolted out of a peaceful sleep by the sound of my cell phone playing the polka.

“Ananka?” said a quivering voice. “It's DeeDee.”

“Who?” I muttered with a mouth full of pillow.

“It's
DeeDee
. Get up and turn on channel three. Quick. There's something you've got to see.”

With my eyes still half shut, I groped for the remote control and flipped on the television. A young reporter stood in front of the Chinatown Savings and Loan. Bright yellow crime scene tape stretched across the bank's front door, and a crowd of tired policemen and eager reporters mingled outside.

I jumped out of bed and turned up the volume, keeping my eyes trained on the screen. It was clearly the young reporter's first big news story, and he was grinning
like a rabid hyena. Several old Chinese ladies stood nearby, making obscene gestures in his direction.

“Good morning, Janice! I'm here in Chinatown at the Chinatown Savings and Loan, site of one of the most daring bank robberies in recent memory! Sometime last night, thieves broke into an underground vault and made off with more than half a million dollars in cash. Police have been examining the crime scene all morning, but a source tells me that they haven't been able to determine how the crooks made it into—or out of—this heavily guarded building.

“In related news, a nearby fur storage facility was also robbed last night, the thieves absconding with more than four dozen mink coats. Police are still searching for clues as to how the thieves gained access to the building, and it's believed that the two crimes may be related. I'll be coming back to you with more information as this exciting investigation progresses! Reporting live from Chinatown, this is Adam Gunderson for News Channel Three.”

As an ad for a revolutionary new hair removal system took over the screen, I closed my eyes and tried to breathe deeply. Adam Gunderson had no idea just how big his story really was.

“Ananka!” DeeDee was still on the phone. “Ananka? Are you there?”

“Yeah,” I said, wishing I could take a minute to think things through.

“Those buildings have entrances to the Shadow City, don't they?”

“Yes. They do.”

“So do you think we were wrong? Do you think Shadow City survived the flood?”

I couldn't help but smile at the thought.

“I guess it must have. Someone's been down there. How else could thieves get inside the vault at the Chinatown Savings and Loan without being seen?”

“Do you think it could be her?”

“Kiki Strike? It's possible,” I said, though my instincts told me it was
probable
.

“What should we do?” asked DeeDee.

“Call the Irregulars. Tell them there's a meeting at my house tonight,” I ordered. “I'm taking a walk down to Chinatown.”

I slid into a pair of jeans and a T-shirt. On my way out the door, I caught myself humming a happy little tune. Finally, life was about to get interesting again. The Shadow City hadn't been destroyed. The Irregulars would soon be reunited. But what pleased me most was the fact that we might have a chance to capture Kiki Strike. I was giddy with excitement.