Also Known As (9 page)

“Like a hole in the head. What’s up?”

I sighed deeply, just like I had practiced in the mirror the night before. “I just wanted to apologize to you.”

She frowned. “For what?”

I sighed again and drew a line on the ground with my toe, just like I had seen Roux do when she was so contrite the other day. “Oh, you know, just bugging you about the party. I know it makes you uncomfortable and you probably don’t want to go to parties anymore.”

“Well, it’s not that I don’t want to go—”

“And you’ve probably got better things to do than show me around my first party. I’m sure I can get the hang of things from the other girls there.”

She raised an eyebrow. “The other girls? Sweetie, you’ll be innocent chum in the shark-infested waters. Remember what I said about dirt? The only thing worse is a person
who goes to a party
alone
.” She made it sound like being alone was on par with having a bedbug infestation.

“Whatever. I’ll survive. Everyone has to go to their first party sometime, right? I’ll be making memories that’ll last a lifetime.” Now I was completely improvising and starting to sound like a bad Hallmark commercial. “Gotta build up that party callus, after all.”

“Did you just call it a party
callus
?” Roux looked toward the sky. “Give me strength, you’re going to be socially murdered.”

“I’ve survived worse!” I said brightly. “At least we can be social outcasts together!”

“Okay,” Roux interrupted me. “I cannot in good faith, or in any sort of faith, let this happen.” She put her hand on my arm and sighed. “You owe me
so
big.”

“So, does that mean you’ll go with me?”

She closed her eyes for a few seconds before answering, “Yes. You’re practically a lion cub all alone in the African grasslands. You’ll be eaten alive by wild hyenas and—”

“Okay, can we just cool it with all the
Lion King
metaphors about how I’ll be murdered?”

“They’re actually similes.”

“Whatever. So, you’ll come with me?”

“Yes. Against all of my better judgment, yes.”

“Yay!”
I leaped into the air, then started to hug her again, but Roux stepped away and put her hand out.

“Whoa, chief,” she said. “I’m still bruised from the last time you hugged me.”

“Sorry, sorry. I just get excited. This is going to be so much fun! Our first party together!”

“Waaaaaait a minute.” Roux crossed her arms and gave me a look. “Did I just get reverse psychology’d into going to this Halloween crapfest?”

“You promised you’d go!”

“I
did
get reverse psychology’d!” she shouted. “I’m such a moron, oh my God!”

“It’ll be fun,” I promised.

“I’m going to kill you.” She glared at me. “And that is
not
a metaphor.”

“Simile,” I reminded her. “So what’s your costume going to be?”

“Someone who’s plotting to murder her best friend.”

We both stopped short.

“Wait,” I said. “I’m your best friend? Really?”

“Well, there aren’t exactly a lot of candidates,” she admitted. “So don’t get all excited.”

I could feel the stupid smile already stretching across my face. “I totally accept,” I told her. “Maybe we can wear matching costumes, bestie!”

But Roux was already starting to gather her bag and walk across the quad. “You owe me!” she repeated as she walked away. “A lot!”

“Yes, I do,” I said. “A lot.”

Chapter 8

I had the Halloween party lined up for next Friday. I had Roux agreeing to go with me to the party, which was sort of like an early Christmas miracle, and with any luck, she’d cause enough of a ruckus that I could get into Daddy Oliver’s office and start snooping around. Things were looking good. I felt good.

And then I realized that I needed a costume. A spy costume.

Here’s the thing about dressing as a spy: an authentic spy costume doesn’t exist. Yeah, it looks cool in the movies, but when we’re working, we dress like everyone else. I mean, can you imagine? You’re just walking down the street and you see a guy creeping around wearing a trench coat, hat, and night-vision goggles. C’mon. Chances are you’re looking at either a conspiracy theorist or a terrible accessorizer, not a spy.

Basically, I had no idea what to wear. The last time I dressed up for Halloween, I was a four-year-old ghost, and
all you need for that costume is a sheet, a pair of scissors, and Band-Aids for your knees after tripping over the sheet every six feet. (Totally not bitter, though. Scarred, but not bitter.)

On Friday morning before school, I did some searching online for spy Halloween costumes, if only to get some ideas about what I was supposed to wear. The first costume that popped up involved way more latex than looked comfortable, and the second costume came with a push-up bra and garters. Another website suggested that I wear a sleek ballgown or better, a belly-dancing outfit.

Two minutes later, I was still laughing hysterically. “What’s so funny?” my dad yelled from the kitchen.

“Nothing!” I yelled back as I started deleting my browser history. “Do people really wear these things?” I asked the computer. “How are you supposed to run in these outfits? It’s like how Wonder Woman always saves the day in hot pants and a bustier. Give me a freaking break.” The computer, of course, didn’t have a response, so I kept searching. “Stupid Halloween,” I muttered.

I thought about my costume all day, even consulting Roux in the hallway before her French class. “So what are you wearing tonight?” I asked her as she shoved books into her locker and pulled out new ones.

“You’re looking at it,” she said. “I’m going as an outcast. I told you.”

“No, seriously.”

“No, seriously. What are
you
wearing? Do you want to borrow my costume from last year? I was a cheerleader.”

I couldn’t picture Roux cheering for anything. “Does it involve a crazy push-up bra or something?”

“Of course. Why else would you wear a cheerleader costume if your boobs aren’t going to look good?” She glanced into the classroom to see if anyone was in there yet. They weren’t, of course. We were all standing just outside, waiting for the final bell. I learned on my first day that only the nerdiest of nerds went into class before the bell.

“Oh, dear Jesus,” Roux said, turning back to me, “please tell me you’re not going as, like, a pioneer girl or an extra from
Little House on the Prairie
.”

“No, no, I’m allergic to calico.” She didn’t get the joke, so I moved on. “Anyway, I already told Jesse Oliver—”

“Why do you always say that? I know who you’re talking about if you just say ‘Jesse.’”

“I don’t know, it’s weird! I can’t help it. Anyway, I told Jesse Ol—I told him that I was going as a spy.”

“Oooh, sexy.” Roux wiggled her eyebrows at me. “A catsuit for sure.”

“It’s entirely too impractical,” I replied without thinking.

“What?”

“It’s entirely too uncomfortable. So now I don’t know what to wear.”

“Well, sister friend, you’re on your own. Get a fedora or a trench coat—a sexy trench coat—or something like that. Best of luck.” She patted me on the shoulder and strolled down the hall to class while I stood there and tried to figure out what a sexy trench coat would even look like.

Finally, that night, I managed to pull together a costume.
I put on black jeans and a black turtleneck, then found a Burberry trench coat in the back of my closet that could only have come from Angelo. I wasn’t sure if it was sexy, but the label would probably count for something. I added a pair of binoculars around my neck and some dark sunglasses, then added a fedora that I found at a thrift shop on Crosby Street.

It wasn’t a belly-dancing costume, but it was better than nothing.

My parents were in the kitchen when I came out, blueprints of floor plans opened on the table in front of them. “Oh, good, you’re here,” my mom said. “This is the Olivers’ house. Here, look.”

I glanced down at the mess of lines and numbers. Even on paper, the house looked huge, four stories with wide staircases linking them together. “Wowsa,” I said. “Nice digs. How come we never get to stay in places like this? I want a mansion next time we move.”

My parents ignored me. “We think this is his bedroom here,” my dad said, pointing toward a space on the fourth floor. “There’s a cutout in the wall—are you looking? You’re not looking.”

“I’m looking, I’m looking. Cutout at the end of the hall in the room on the left. Got it.” My fedora was starting to make my head itch.

My mom was tracing an exit path with her finger. “There’s a balcony off the second floor. If you get stuck, go out here and signal for Angelo.”

“What?” I cried. “No! No way! I don’t need a chaperone! I’ve never had one before!”

“Yes, but this is your first party and there’s no adult supervision and—”

“No, no, no,
no
. And frankly, I’m insulted.” I crossed my arms over my chest, but the trench coat was a bit tight so I dropped them back down to my sides. “If I get stuck, I’ll do what I always do, which is get myself unstuck. Remember when we were in Buenos Aires and that one guy broke into the hotel room? I got out of that situation just fine.”

“Yes, and it took ten years off my life.” My mother sighed. She doesn’t like to talk about Buenos Aires. Things got a little wonky during that assignment. Mixed signals and such. Occupational hazard; it happens.

“I’ll be fine. The worst that can happen is that someone gets drunk and pukes on me. Which would be
terrible
,” I added, “but not dangerous.”

“Well, Armand is in Los Angeles on business—”

“Lucky duck,” I said. “When do we get to go back to LA?”

“Maggie, honey, please focus,” my dad said. “Armand’s in Los Angeles, but there are probably a few housekeepers, butlers—”

“Do you think they have a butler named Jeeves?”

“Maggie.”

“Sorry, okay, focusing.” I tend to get a rush of adrenaline before going into an assignment, and now that there was my first official high school party on top of everything else, it sort of felt like my veins and arteries were exploding.

“Do you see this?” my mother said, pointing to what looked like a long hallway. “This is an elevator.” She looked
up and glared at me. “You do not use it. You do not even think about getting into it.”

“Fine, fine, okay. No elevators. I’m a Luddite tonight.”

My dad was about to say something else, but then he stopped and frowned. “What’s your costume supposed to be?”

“Is that a Burberry trench coat?” my mom asked. “I told Angelo, no designer labels.”

“Yes, and I’m going as a spy. It’s a long story, but don’t worry, I’ve got it covered.”

Both of my parents’ faces went blank. “A spy?” my dad said.

“Yes. Is that okay?” Maybe I should have checked first.

My mom was the first one to burst out laughing. “Is that how people think spies dress?” she howled. “Oh my goodness, this is hysterical!”

“The fedora!” my dad cried, collapsing in laughter next to her. “Are those binoculars? Tell me you’re not wearing night-vision goggles, too!”

“Stop! My sides hurt!” My mom was laughing so hard that tears gathered in the corners of her eyes.

“I hope you realize how damaging this is for a teenager’s self-esteem.” I glared at them. “But no, go ahead and laugh at me. It’s cool.”

“I’m sorry, sweetheart,” my mom said, now wiping her eyes. “You look adorable.”

In a world of push-up bras, garter belts, and potential belly-dancing costumes, “adorable” wasn’t exactly what I was going for. “So do I look like a spy or not?”

“You look like someone who has never been a spy, trying to dress as a spy.” My dad’s face was red, a sure sign that he was trying not to laugh any more than he already had. He’s terrible at hiding his emotions. That’s why he always does the behind-the-scenes work.

“Well, good, that’s what I wanted.” I belted my trench coat, then made sure that people could still see my binoculars.

“You’re like a cuter version of Kojak,” my dad told me.

“Who-jack?”

He just shook his head. “You have no appreciation for the classics.”

“Can I go now, please? Roux’s meeting me on the corner and I’m going to be late.”

“What time is the party?”

“Roux said that parties just sort of start. There’s no time.” I left out the part where I asked Roux if I should RSVP to the party for both of us or for just me, and she stared at me for a full minute before asking if I had been raised in a barn.

“And where’s the safe again?” My mom straightened my hat and I pushed it back.

“Fourth-floor bedroom. Have a little faith in my memory skills.”

“Fine. Love you.”

“Love you, too. And tell Angelo to stay away!”

Roux and I had agreed to meet on the corner at eight thirty, and the streets were already full of people in costumes. I knew there was a parade over in the West Village, but it seemed like the parade was everywhere in the city. I
even passed another trench-coated and fedora’d “spy,” and he tipped his hat to me as we passed each other.

Roux was in front of the Dean & Deluca on Broadway, wearing sparkly devil horns and looking a little wobbly. She seemed small surrounded by the hustle and bustle of the street, but when she saw me, she lit up and gave me the biggest smile that I’ve ever seen her give.

“I’m the devil!” she cried. “Look! Horns! Like a bull!” She mimed trying to stampede me.

Oh no
.

“Are you drunk?” I whispered. “Seriously?”

“I’m
happy
,” she said. “Drunks are sloppy. I’m
happy
. And why are you whispering? Hey, are those binoculars?” She grabbed them from around my neck and looked through the larger lens. “Whoooa, you’re so far away! Hi, Maggie!” She waved in front of my face as I grabbed them back from her.

“Are you crazy?” I snapped. “You could get arrested for public drunkenness.”

“On Halloween in New York? C’mon. And there is no way that I was going to this party sober. If I’m lucky, I won’t remember
anything
.” She wobbled in her platform heels, which sent her devil horns a bit askew.