The Bake-Off (18 page)

“I'm fine,” Linnie insisted. “And proper spelling is paramount. It's one thing to defile private property, but there's no need to take the English language down with you.”

The officer's expression never even flickered. “How much have you ladies had to drink tonight?”

“Barely anything.” Linnie punctuated this with another body-racking hiccup.

“I'm totally sober,” Amy said, carefully picking up the hem of her ball gown as she made her way across the trash-strewn alley. “And she's only had, like, two glasses of punch. I'll get her inside and under control.”

“You're visiting from out of town.” This was a statement, not a question. “You should be more careful about where you go and what you do at this time of night. And keep in mind that makeup is not meant to be used to commit misdemeanors.”

“Absolutely, Officer. Will do. We apologize, and we appreciate your concern.” Amy maintained an expression of grateful humility and tried to hurry Linnie along.

But Linnie refused to be hurried. She dug in her heels and planted her hands on her hips. “It's not a misdemeanor,” she informed the officer. “It's
copyediting
.”

At this point, the cop's expression shifted just a bit. “Are you waiting for a thank-you?”

“No, but do you have any idea what the crime rate is in this city?”

“Shut up,” Amy said into her ear.

But Linnie was on a roll. “I have to assume you have better uses for your time than harassing some harmless tourists.”

“I'd stop while I was ahead, if I was you, ma'am.” The cop now seemed amused, which Linnie took as encouragement.

She gave him the prissiest smirk in her extensive repertoire. “You mean, ‘if I
were
you.' ”

Amy sucked in her breath.

The officer pressed the button on his radio receiver and said, “I'm at the McMillan Hotel. I've got criminal damage from a female who appears intoxicated. I'm gonna go ahead and tenfifteen her.”

“What's ten fifteen?” Amy asked.

“Turn around and put your hands on your head, ma'am.”

The cop moved fast for a man so bulky. In one fluid motion, he spun Linnie around, captured her wrists, and cuffed her with a rapid-fire succession of metallic clicks.

Amy clasped her hands together and began flat-out begging.

“Oh, please don't arrest her.
Please
, Officer. I know she's obnoxious, but—”

His face was like stone. “She'll go in the holding tank; you can bail her out tomorrow morning.”

“She can't spend the night in jail alone. Just look at her.”

“I'll be all right.” Linnie lifted her chin. “I work in Vegas, remember? I can take care of myself. I'm practically a hood rat.”

Amy stopped begging long enough to roll her eyes at her sister. “Define
hood rat
.”

Linnie shrugged. “A mouse who wears a sweatshirt?”

“I don't have the time or patience for this, ladies. We're leaving.” He escorted Linnie to the sidewalk, opened the door to the cruiser, and helped her into the backseat. “Watch your head, ma'am.”

“I'm going with her,” Amy insisted, offering up her wrists. “Arrest me, too.”

“You're
asking
me to arrest you?”

“Yes, please. You can put me down as her accomplice or whatever.”

The officer shrugged. “Have it your way.”

Amy winced as the sharp rim of steel handcuffs bit into her skin.

“You have the right to remain silent. . . .”

“ ‘
H
ood rat'?” Amy sat down next to Linnie on the cold concrete bench in the precinct's holding cell and grimaced down at the stained cement floor. “What is wrong with you?”

“I had grammar rage.” Linnie huddled by the wall. “What's your excuse?”

“Hey, I'm just here to make sure you make it out of here in one piece. I don't want to have to explain to Mom and Dad and Grammy Syl how you died in a prison riot and I wasn't there to protect you.”

“I don't need protection.”

“Yes, you do.”

“Well, I guess you would know.” Linnie raised one eyebrow. “Until they ran your name through the computer system, I had no idea you had a record.”

“I don't have a record; I have a prior arrest,” Amy clarified. “Big difference. The charges were dropped.”

“When did this happen?”

“Art school. It wasn't a big deal. Getting arrested was practically a prerequisite for graduation.”

“What was your crime?”

Amy sighed. “What I called an urban interactive installation piece, the police called petty vandalism.”

“So you got cuffed for semantics and I got cuffed for spelling. Must be in our blood.” Linnie shifted and scowled down at the ink smudges left on the pads of her fingers. “I had no idea that getting arrested was so demeaning. I understand that the fingerprinting, the mug shot, and the background check are standard procedure, but was the full-body pat-down really necessary?”

“You said you were a hood rat—they had to take you at your word.”

“I've never been so humiliated.” Even clad in a puke-stained polyester dress in a New York City drunk tank, Linnie managed to retain her air of regal refinement, like a Russian princess exiled into poverty.

“Well, the officer who frisked me was really nice.” Amy brightened. “In fact, we got to talking about which museums gave you the best bang for your buck around here. She recommends the Frick gallery.”

Linnie glowered. “Are you going to invite her to join the Confectionistas for martinis after we get sprung?”

“Maybe. I bet she loves karaoke.”

“Speaking of the Confectionistas, are you going to kick Jill out of the clique now?” Linnie grimaced every time she brushed any surface with her hands, as if she could feel the germs accumulating.

Amy shifted position on the bench as her butt started to go numb. “First of all, it's not a clique.”

“Don't give me that. You guys have a gang name and you were talking about getting matching tattoos.”

“Second of all, while I may be annoyed with Jill for overspiking the punch, you're the grown woman who drank it, mugged me for mascara, and got me arrested. So if I'm kicking anyone out, it's you.”

“Fine by me,” Linnie said. “I'm too much of an independent thinker to be in a clique, anyway.”

“Keep telling yourself that.” Amy peered down at the halfmoons of grime beneath her fingernails. “Ugh, I'm going to bathe in Purell when we get out of here. And I'm burning everything on my body. This place smells like Satan's sewer.”

They heard the dull thunk of the door at the main entrance, followed by an auditory tsunami of high-pitched weeping, whining, and the staccato clicking of stiletto heels against concrete. Amy leaned forward, trying to catch a glimpse of the action through the thick glass embedded with wire mesh that ran along the front wall of their holding cell.

A gaggle of willowy, well-dressed teenagers came into view, each more drunk and distraught than the last.

“What happened to my bag?” moaned a whippet-thin brunette in a shimmering silver minidress. “Ohmigod, you guys, I might have left it back at the club.” She addressed the arresting officer with beseeching eyes. “Excuse me; I left my python Gucci clutch at the bar. You have to go back and get it before somebody steals it.”

“You can get ask your parents to take you back to that club,” the officer drawled. “Right after you explain to them why you were there with fake IDs and a bottle of vodka.”

“I'm going to kill Sabrina,” vowed a WASPy blonde in artfully ripped skinny jeans. “She swore those IDs would work.”

“You guys, it is so bright in here.” WASPy blonde number two clasped her palms to her forehead. “I'm seriously going blind right now.”

The brunette wrinkled her nose. “What is that
smell
?”

“Ew w w w, ohmigod, there's vomit on my shoes from when you hurled in the squad car.”

A chorus of squeals. “Eww!”

“These are Balmains, Colette. You owe me nine hundred dollars.”

Amy nudged Linnie and muttered, “Now,
that
is a clique.”

Linnie looked horrified. “What in
Sweet Valley High
hell is this?”

“Your cellmates,” the officer announced as she slid open the metal door and ushered in the teenagers.

“They're going to be in here with us all night?”

The officer nodded. “Judges are pretty backed up right now. They'll probably get to your case in, oh, four or five hours.”

“Four or five hours?” Linnie started to panic.

“Don't worry.” Amy patted her arm. “We'll go deaf long before then.”

“I cannot believe this,” Linnie said. “We're spending the night in a New York City precinct and we're stuck with a pack of prep school princesses from Connecticut? Where are all the prostitutes and junkies and sociopaths?”

“You've watched too much
Law and Order
,” the officer replied.

“Wait!” Linnie cried as the cop closed the cell door. “What would we have to do to get thrown in solitary confinement?”

“Excuse me? Hello?” One of the girls banged on the glass wall with her impeccably manicured fist. “I have to pee.”

“Toilet's in the corner,” came the reply.

The teen regarded the small metal toilet in the corner with horror and revulsion. “I'm getting an STD just
looking
at that thing.”

“My mom is going to kill me,” wailed the Gucci-less brunette.

“Excuse me, could we get some Gatorade, please?” More futile pounding on the front wall. “I can't be hungover tomorrow. I've got an SAT prep class at nine.”

“Gatorade doesn't work,” said the brunette with a put-upon sigh. “You've got to mix Diet Coke, skim milk, and a bunch of crushed ice and then sip it through a straw. Everybody knows that.”

“Am I this annoying when I'm drunk?” Linnie asked.

Amy just smiled. “Don't ask questions you don't want the answers to.”

Linnie stood up, stretched her lower back, cleared her throat, and took the floor like a professor launching into a lecture. “Gatorade might help, since your salt and potassium levels are low,” she informed her captive audience. “But you could also try plain old orange juice. Freshly squeezed, if possible. The vitamin C increases the rate at which your body breaks down and eliminates alcohol.”

The underage drinkers stopped bickering and regarded Linnie with sneers and exaggerated ennui. “Who are you?”

“I'm the Hangover Fairy. Listen and learn, ladies.”

Amy raised her hand. “What if orange juice makes you hurl even worse than a Diet Coke–and-milk slushy?”

“You still can't drink orange juice?” Linnie asked.

Amy shook her head. She'd been prone to carsickness in her youth, but whenever the family set out for an early morning drive, their mother would insist that both girls consume a hearty, balanced breakfast—which invariably included orange juice. Which invariably reemerged across the station wagon's backseat and Linnie's lap. “Just the smell of it turns my stomach.”

“Try hash browns,” Linnie suggested. “Potatoes have a surprising amount of vitamin C.”

“Is that really true?” one of the high schoolers asked.

“Yes.”

They gazed at her with bleary, makeup-smeared eyes. “Are you, like, an alcoholic?” one of them asked.

“No, but she is a certified genius,” Amy said. “Take a good look, girls—this is what happens when Mensa members go bad.”

“I work in Las Vegas, so I've had lots of experience dealing with hungover tourists,” Linnie explained, glaring at her sister.

“See?” The sun-kissed blonde nudged the brunette. “They are. I told you.”

“We're what?” Amy asked.

The girls all giggled, but no one spoke up.

“What, exactly, are we?”

“You know. Escorts.”

Amy started laughing and couldn't stop.

“Is that why you're in jail?” the brunette asked, wide-eyed and earnest. “'Cause I know the rules are different in Vegas, but that's not legal here.”

“If you're a professional escort, you need to hit the makeup counter at Bergdorf before you go home,” said the one with the shredded jeans. “You're wearing the wrong shade of blush for your skin tone. Go to the Chanel counter and ask for Nanette. She'll fix you up. And also, no offense, but your dress looks kind of cheap.”

Amy gasped for breath.

“That's because I found it on the clearance rack of T.J.Maxx for eighteen ninety-nine,” Linnie informed them with pride.

“Ew.” The girls recoiled at the thought of such a garment touching their skin. “After you're done at the Chanel counter, ask Nanette to walk you up to the dress department.”

Linnie planted both hands on the door and called out to the officer at the end of the hall, “Move us to a quieter cell. I'm begging you.”

“When the judge is ready for you, you'll be the first to know.” The officer didn't take a single step in her direction. “But you and your sister can each make a phone call before then.”

“Great. Yes. Here we go.” She turned to Amy. “Call Brandon.”

“No way.” Amy shook her head. “My mother-in-law is spending the week at our house. I'm not waking her up in the middle of the night with a call from the drunk tank. She already thinks I'm a bad influence on her precious son.” She grinned. “Which, of course, I am.”