Scarlett Fever (13 page)

“So,” her mom began, “you go to school with Scarlett?”

“I’m her lab partner,” Max said, taking the napkin from his place and dropping it on his lap. “We do science together.”

“What were you in detention for?” Marlene asked. “Cheating?”

“No,” Max said. “Physical violence.”

Mrs. Amberson laughed. Spencer gave Max a quick sideways examination, and looked uneasy with his findings.

“You’re going to explain that later, right?” Scarlett’s mom asked, trying to remain calm. Her nerves were already so tattered.

“I can explain it now,” Max said, leaning back to make way for the appetizer, which the waiter said was some kind of salad with “ash-rolled” goat cheese. “She knocked me off my chair.”

“Shut up,” Marlene said.

Scarlett’s dad put a hand over his forehead. It sort of looked like he was trying to wipe his eyebrows off.

“It was an accident,” Scarlett said.

“Yeah,” Max said, grabbing his fork and tucking in. “It was. But it was really loud, so we both got detention.”

Once again, he was letting her off the hook. Her parents seemed to believe this, or at least pretended to…but Spencer and Marlene clearly did not. They were all capable of knocking people over. They knew their own blood.

“I understand from your mother that you’re also in the performing arts?” Mrs. Amberson said. “You’re a musician?”

“Nope,” he said plainly, eating away.

And that was it from Max for a while. Mrs. Amberson took the cue to start talking and never stop.

There was a dinner of seven perfect, tiny courses, with lots of glass-switching and wine-pairing and utensil-updating. The food was intimidating: roasted pigeon with braised lettuce, halibut with poached quail eggs, baffling combinations of violet artichokes and lardons and foie gras and pickled shallots…every dish containing a velouté, confit, or foam of some kind or other. Two dedicated servers hovered around them, moving things whenever Scarlett least expected it. It almost seemed like their entire function was to confuse, making the diners doubt their every move and keep them on edge. The band droned on in the background, running through low-key standards and old Sinatra songs.

“This sucks,” Marlene said.

“Language,” her mom said, halfheartedly.

Under the table, Max’s leg casually bumped Scarlett’s. It looked like an accident, something he just did while he was shifting, but Scarlett felt it was intentional. Especially when it happened a second time. Had he come just to exact revenge for the stool-tipping by starting a leg war with her at Lola’s party? Because she would win that. She slipped a fork under the table in her napkin and had it ready for the next time he moved. Max showed no signs of the impact in his expression, but from the way he pulled back quickly, she knew she had gotten him well. Not enough to cause damage, but enough to get the message.

Spencer picked up on the fact that something strange was going on and gave her a “What are you doing?” look. She just shook her head.

The band started to slip into a faster dancing mood by playing a weird swing version of “Cabaret.”

“Actually,” Mrs. Amberson was saying, “this reminds me of one night at Studio 54. Liza Minnelli had just taken off her…”

The Martins were a lonely little island in a sea of strangers. They were guests at this party, surrounded by socialites, bankers, politicians…all important people who had things to say to one another. Across the room, in full view of everyone, Chip and Lola sat at a table of their own. Chip’s friends kept coming over to talk. Lola stared over the room, landing most of her looks on her family’s table, catching Scarlett’s eye and trying to smile.

“…and I said that yes, I was pretty sure we could get the horse in there. Not in the bathroom
stalls
, but certainly over by the sinks and…”

The waiters came over to threaten them one last time with oversize pineapple ravioli with mint au jus. The band changed gears, signaling that the time for dancing had begun. Scarlett saw one of the servers grab another by the sleeve, point at Spencer, and whisper. There was quiet talk, nodding, surreptitious glances.

“You’ve got fans,” Max said to Spencer in a low voice, while prodding his ravioli with a fork.

Spencer looked over. The servers looked panicked, then busied themselves with stacking some plates on a tray.

“It’s not just them,” Max went on. “Those people behind you have been staring at you the whole time and taking pictures of the back of your head with their phones. Price of fame, huh?”

“I have to go…somewhere,” Spencer said, getting up. People must have been talking about the fact that David Frieze had been sitting in their midst, because Scarlett saw many heads turn as Spencer passed through the room and out into the lobby.

“Sorry,” Max said when he was gone.

“Not your fault,” Scarlett’s mom said.

“I think I know that man over there,” Mrs. Amberson said, pointing to some random older guy in a suit, one of many random older guys in suits. “It’s going to bother me if I don’t find out from where. Excuse me.”

The Sutcliffes came over as they began their post-dinner circuit of the room and asked Scarlett’s parents to accompany them.

“You guys all right here for a minute?” Scarlett’s dad asked.

“Sure,” Scarlett said, speaking as the remaining senior Martin child.

“It totally wasn’t an accident,” Marlene said when they were gone. “When she hit you, right?”

“No,” Max admitted, sitting back in his chair like he owned the place. “She knocked me down.”

“What did you do?”

“Nothing,” he said.

“He’s lying,” Scarlett said.

“I had cancer,” Marlene said.

“What kind?”

“Leukemia.”

“Still have it?” he replied.

“No,” she said, playing with her mint leaves. “Were you lying about the thing about performing, too?”

“Yep,” Max said.

“Do you guys want some privacy?” Scarlett asked. This was mostly to Max, and was intended as a slight, but Marlene nodded.

“Why don’t you go find Spencer or something?” Marlene said.

“Fine,” Scarlett said, getting up, booted from her one place of safety in this whole room. “You two have a good time.”

“We will,” Max said. “I have lots of things to tell your sister.”

Marlene’s eyes glistened. She was in love. Scarlett’s night was complete.

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ACT V

A
SPIES OF NEW YORK
EXCLUSIVE!

WE LOVE A DEBUTARD WEDDING…as much as anyone else. Probably more than most. We love the spectacle of New York’s richest and dumbest making the tie that binds. Like all the royal families of the world, our Society Friends always fail to notice that constant inbreeding makes Mother Nature cross, and this amuses us. Also, they have open bars full of top-shelf booze.

EVERY ONCE IN A WHILE…we get a truly exceptional account of one of these anti-Darwinian extravaganzas. Our in-boxes were exploding with reports of such an occasion. It seems that on Saturday night, Charles “Chip” Sutcliffe III, age 18, celebrated his marriage to a certain Lola Martin, age 18.

We would have enjoyed this story just as it was, honestly. Some early morning Procrastination Googling turned up the fact that “Chip” Sutcliffe is ranked number 98 on the “New York’s Top 100 High School Scenesters” list on Gothamfrat.com. This list provided us with much joy! The little scamps had gone and ranked themselves! It’s like those videos of cats eating with utensils—it’s adorable when they try to act like people, even as they do it all wrong.

But that was hardly the end of this story…because the bride happens to be the younger sister of doughnut-magnet Spencer Martin, aka David Frieze, killer of our dearly departed Sonny Lavinski. Yes! He was there! And he didn’t disappoint!

For reasons known only to himself, Martin took to the dance floor and performed an astonishing solo number, which concluded with his taking flight and doing a full body slam on his sister’s massive wedding cake.

We would not have believed this story had it not been accompanied by many, many photos…photos we stared at for hours last night. Had the stress of murdering Saint Sonny finally broken him, we wondered? Had he grown tired of having other people throw food at him and simply decided to do it himself?

OUR SPECULATIONS WERE INTERRUPTED…by even more news of Martin. Our contact on the set of
Crime and Punishment
called to tell us that his name has mysteriously vanished from the call sheet and no one in charge is talking. What could possibly be going on?

We beg you to send in your tips. In the meantime, please enjoy our favorite photo of the wedding celebration. We have a selection of prizes for the best captions.

DAWN OF THE DESPERATE

Sunday was a murky day. A moody day. The sky was the color of the rinse water that Scarlett used to produce when playing with her watercolor paints when she was little, each dip of the brush leaving a milky touch of pigment until it was a thin, gray mess. Her dress from the night before lay deflated on Lola’s bed. Her own bed was littered with all things Biology—a desperate scramble of notes on papers and cards, notes on her computer, her textbook, a mess of handouts. Much of this information was in her head, but in pieces—pieces that didn’t connect together to make a picture.

And it was almost evening.

She could call Dakota. Dakota was at home studying as well, and Dakota knew what she was doing and had two Biology professors in her house. As Scarlett reached for the phone, she realized that if Dakota picked up, she was going to have to talk about last night. She would have to explain what she had done.

Aside from the possibility of her friends calling, which would obviously result in an immediate confession…there were other horrors. Mrs. Amberson would probably try to call her today about something. That was extremely likely. Or what if Chelsea chose today to call and tell her all about her wonderful new relationship with her good friend Eric? Or Eric. What if he tried to call again and get it all off his chest?

Or Max. What if Max called? That seemed least likely, but held the most terror. What if he wanted to discuss what went on out there on the terrace?

What
did
happen out there on the terrace?

Well, what happened was that she made out with Max behind a wall of topiary for about a half hour, that’s what happened. And the only reason they stopped is that they were interrupted by a girl with a tray, who was startled by them and screamed.

The more she thought about it, the more she realized that the phone was her enemy.

There was only one thing she could think to do. She picked up her phone and walked it down the hall to her parents’ room. On the wall just inside the door, there was a little chute that dropped five floors down to an opening in the basement ceiling. This is where they tossed sheets and towels; they fell into a wheeled bin that was usually positioned just under the chute. She opened the chute and tossed the phone inside, for a six-floor free fall. If someone had actually decided to wheel the bin over to the washing machine and do the wash, the phone was history. She stuck her head into the dank and stale void, but there was no sound, nothing to indicate that her phone had fragmented into a hundred pieces. It was probably alive down there somewhere. She hadn’t quite figured out what she would have done if it had broken.

Probably ask Lola to buy her a new one. Maybe that’s how things were done now.

As she walked back to her room, Spencer stepped out of the elevator. He also looked a bit lost.

“You didn’t take any deliveries, did you?” he asked.

“Deliveries?”

“My script. It’s not here yet. I called, and they keep saying it’s on its way. They won’t tell me what my call times are for this week.”

“No,” Scarlett said. “Sorry.”

He nodded absently.

“I just took my suit over to get it cleaned. Mrs. Foo got really excited when she saw it. She loves a challenge. What are you doing? You look spooked.”

“Studying,” she said. “I have a Biology exam tomorrow.”

He rubbed his unshaven chin, which was just starting to develop a shadow, and then poked a finger into his ear.

“Frosting got in there,” he said. “I can’t hear right.”

On that, he drifted off to his room, and she went to hers and sat on the bed again. She closed her eyes, just to see what appeared in her mind—where her brain wanted to go.

It wanted to go to Max. It wanted to replay the whole experience over and over again.

She opened her eyes with a jolt and grabbed her textbook as protection. She had to learn. There was no more time, no more room in her mind for anyone.

Dakota was waiting for her on the front steps of the school the next morning.

“Can you just do one thing for me?” she asked. “Can you just explain…this?”

She held up her phone, revealing a large photo of a cake-covered Spencer.

“Oh yeah. Spencer, um…” Scarlett rubbed her eyes hard. “…he, um, the cake. At Lola’s party. Sorry, I didn’t…”

“Did you sleep?”

“Not really.”

“I figured this might happen. Look what I have for you.”

Dakota produced a large cup of coffee and pressed it into Scarlett’s hand. This was the kind of friend Dakota was. Always one step ahead. Always with the provisions.

Scarlett took the coffee and sipped it, letting it burn her mouth. The morning was overly bright. She had a floaty feeling for a moment, and as she drifted back into her body, something seemed off.

“Oh my God,” she said. “I’m not sure if I’m wearing underwear. I think I am. But I have no memory of putting it on. Dakota…
what if I forgot to put on underwear?”

“Can’t you feel it?”

Scarlett couldn’t. She tried to get some sensation, but all was numbness. She shook her head.

“Reach around in the back and see if it’s there,” Dakota said.

Scarlett carefully reached around and felt just underneath the waist of her skirt, until her fingers hit a ridge of elastic.

“Why can’t I feel my waist?” she asked.

“Everything will be fine.” Dakota put her arm over Scarlett’s shoulders. “Drink your coffee. I’ll quiz you. We’ll get through it.”

“I made out with Max,” Scarlett admitted.

Dakota slipped her hair out of the crooked ponytail it was in and played with the band, stretching it between her fingers for a few moments.

“In detention?” she finally asked.

“At Lola’s party.”

“At the party?”

“He just kind of showed up,” Scarlett explained.

“And you made out.”

“That about sums it up,” Scarlett said.

Dakota finger-flexed a bit more.

“Have I always been like this?” Scarlett asked.

“You’ve always been entertaining, if that’s what you mean.”

“Of course,” Scarlett said, picking up her notes and staring at the words swimming on the page. “That’s exactly what I meant. And maybe…maybe he just won’t show.”

Max showed.

He had on a black sweater and jeans—slightly more neat and tidy than usual. He didn’t say a word. In fact, he didn’t even
look
at her. He just paged through his notes, and then when they got the word to clear their spaces for the test, he just put them away and looked at the model embryo in the corner.

She found herself burning with the need to speak to him, but just then, eight pages of exam were dropped in front of her, along with a look of “I don’t know what the hell is wrong with you, but get it together” from Ms. Fitzweld.

Scarlett pulled the exam closer and opened it to find a lot of familiar-looking gibberish. In the first rush of panic, everything appeared broken. After flipping uselessly through the pages, she finally found something on page three that she felt like she could answer. The fetal pig diagram on page four
should
have been easy, but all the different pieces kept getting mixed up in her mind. Kidneys? Pancreas? Aorta?

She had to look through it three times to figure out where to begin, her brain working in starts and fits. She had just decided to answer the short fill-in-the-blanks on page five when she became aware of the fact that Max was moving, getting steadily closer, in millimeters. Her first instinct was to throw her arm around her test protectively, even though there was nothing written there.

Then she realized, he wasn’t trying to copy. Max was offering her his test to cheat from. He was filling everything in with certainty.

Her head felt light and funny, and there was a pulse beating over her left eye.

Scarlett kept her eyes averted for the rest of period. As the time went on, more things came back into her head. At the thirty-fiveminute mark, information came flooding back, and she tried to go back and fill in as much as she could. But it was too late. The bell rang.

“Bring them up,” Ms. Fitzweld said.

Max said nothing as he slipped off his stool, and he didn’t turn around when he walked out of the room. Apparently, whatever had happened was something he was prepared to sweep aside as brusquely as he did everything else—and maybe in the bargain, he would leave her alone.

“What the hell?” Dakota said, sliding up to her station. “What the hell was that? On page six?”

“I have no idea,” Scarlett said. The test had been over for thirty seconds, and already the experience was fading.

“Did he bother you?” Dakota asked, indicating Max’s empty seat.

“Nope. He acted like it didn’t even happen.”

“Thank God.”

This bothered her, this indifference of his. How could he just walk away from her, ignore her, and act like they hadn’t kissed? And, though she could never, ever admit this to Dakota, those kisses had been very good. So at the very least he owed her some sarcasm and contempt. Was that too much to ask? Would it kill him to display a
little
snide and inappropriate behavior?

“Yeah,” Scarlett said, forcing a smile. “Imagine if I started dating someone you hated more than Eric.”

“Don’t make jokes like that,” Dakota said. “The way things have been with you? Anything could happen. And I would hate to kill you. You’re so pretty.”

When Scarlett stumbled home, she found Lola in the Orchid Suite, going through her dresser. There was a pile of objects on Scarlett’s bed—two sweaters, some pajamas, a scarf, a winter hat, a number of things from the Drawer of Mysteries that Lola had acquired during her stints working at the spa and the makeup counter.

There was no point in asking what this stuff was. She already knew. Lola was casting off her old things. Her clothes. Everything that was broken, shantylike, about the hotel. There would be no more hoarding of free samples of moisturizer or half-empty testers of fancy lotions.

“Hey!” Lola said brightly. “I’m just doing a little sorting out. How was your day?”

Scarlett decided not to answer that question. She sat down and looked at the neat little piles of Lola stuff.

“Are you…” Scarlett had no idea how to phrase this question. “Coming back? To sleep, or…Where do you
live
now?”

“Well,” Lola said, refolding a sweater. “Chip went back to Boston today. I’ll spend maybe four days a week up in the apartment in Boston, and the other three I’ll be down here. Chip is going to transfer schools next semester. So I have until December to find an apartment for us. The Sutcliffes are…getting us one. Not a big one.”

Even a small apartment in Manhattan ran to a million or two—at least any apartment that the Sutcliffes would consider buying. There were many things Scarlett could say about this, but she decided not to.

“I want you to know,” Lola said. “I respect that this is
your
room now. I can’t just barge in whenever I want. I’ll always let you know, or stay in another room.”

“No,” Scarlett said quickly. “This is your room, too. I mean, when you’re just staying here. I’m not going to move your stuff.”

Lola looked over at her shyly and bit her lower lip. She shook out the sweater she had just refolded and did it yet again.

“I have to go over to the Sutcliffes’. We have some presents to open. Sounds like a lot of presents, actually.”

“So what does that look like, when the Sutcliffes’ friends give you presents?” Scarlett asked. “Is it kind of like what they find when they open up a pyramid? Do you go blind from all the gold?”

“It’s a little like that. But I’m staying here for dinner. I think we’re having pizza. Want to go down and ask Spencer what he wants on his? I think I just heard him come in.”

Scarlett dutifully stood and went down to Spencer’s room. He was standing by his bureau in a very strange position, leaning down on it, grasping his head in both hands as he intently read a script.

“So they finally sent it?” Scarlett asked.

Spencer said nothing.

“I’m supposed to ask you what you want on your pizza.”

Spencer said nothing.

“Is there still frosting in your ear?”

He finally looked over at her, but again, did not speak. Instead, he held out the script, open to the last page. Scarlett took it. There was only one bit of dialogue on it. It read:

BENZO

That was Frieze’s lawyer on the phone.

They just found him on the floor, beaten.

He’s dead. The son of a bitch is dead.
The son of a bitch is dead.