Deadly Pink (6 page)

Sure, I'd been foolish, first walking out of eyesight of Emily, then trusting those treacherous pixies, then ... what? Not holding on to that sad excuse of a bush tightly enough? Faulting my lack of upper-body strength didn't exactly seem fair. Still, I managed to squeak out, even before opening my eyes, “Sorry. I'll do better next time, really.”

And then I did open my eyes just in time to see Mom swing around to face me. Her color went from bright, angry pink to what-have-I-done gray. “Oh, sweetie,” she said, her eyes filling with tears as she rushed to take my hand. “No, no, I wasn't talking to you. My poor brave, sweet sweetie.” She was patting my face, being careful of the lead wires that were still connected.

Someone else was also saying she was sorry, and for a moment I thought it was Emily. Had Emily come back, too? Because as far as I was concerned, she
did
have a lot to apologize for.

But then I realized the speaker was Sybella.

She continued, “I never thought ... I mean, a gamer would know...”

Ms. Bennett interrupted: “Sybella, why don't you get Adam to come in here, please?”

Without argument, Sybella left. She looked relieved to be going.

To my mother, Ms. Bennett said, “I am so sorry, Mrs. Pizzelli. That was such an unfortunate thing for her to say, but in the context of games, she never stopped to think—”

“What happened?” I asked. “Has something gone wrong with Emily?” Duh. Of course I meant:
Has something gone MORE wrong with Emily than that she won't come out of what has to be the world's most boring and irritatingly insipid total immersion game—sort of Barney Visits Candy Land and Goes to Visit Mr. Rogers' Neighborhood?

Mom said, “That stupid girl—”

“It was an honest mistake.” Ms. Bennett turned to me and explained, “Your signal went flat, and your mother asked what happened, and Sybella said that you'd died.” To Mom, Ms. Bennett added, very emphatically, “There is no way Grace can be in physical danger here, Mrs. Pizzelli. We told you that already. Yes, Sybella didn't think before speaking, but that's because she didn't take into account your lack of familiarity with gaming. Characters die—and recover—all the time in the context of games. Far from wanting to upset you, Sybella was trying to put your mind at ease.”

Mom had been too badly scared to be willing to forgive so quickly. “Still—”

“Still,” Ms. Bennett said, “she's gone. Adam will help us out from now on.”

Mom is basically a nice person, so—mad as she was—she couldn't help asking, “You're not saying you're firing her, are you?”

Ms. Bennett, basically a clever businesswoman—one who knew she was facing the real chance of lawsuit regardless of what Mr. Lawyer Kroll might want everyone to believe—countered with, “Do you want her fired?”

Mom considered, then said, “No. I just don't want her in here with us anymore.”

Ms. Bennett nodded. “Done.” She returned her attention to me. “So what happened?”

“Murderous pixies,” I explained.

With a quick glance at Mom, Ms. Bennett assured both of us, “There are no murderous pixies in Land of the Golden Butterflies.”

“Yeah, well, tell that to the ghoulish pair of whatever-they-weres that dangled me over a cliff.”

“Do you mean mountain gnomes?” Ms. Bennett asked. “Are you saying they actually held you up over a cliff and then let you drop?”

Gnomes
made me think of those little statues people have in their gardens: solid, chunky bearded guys.

“No, these were more like Barbie dolls,” I said, “but with hair the color of jelly beans.” In what I have to say was a pretty good imitation of their oh-so-cute wee little voices, I said, “Ooo, let us help you: wishes for coins.” Admittedly losing some of the quality of my impersonation, I finished with a certain amount of bitterness, “Never mind that we'll take your money, then drop-kick you from a great height.”

“Sprites,” Ms. Bennett said.

Sprites ... pixies ... whatever. I thought she was being intentionally contrary in refusing to respond unless I got the words exactly right.

She asked, “What do you mean, they drop-kicked you from a great height? They actually pushed you?”

“Well, not so much
pushed,”
I had to admit. What was this sudden need for precision? Had she been taking lawyering lessons from Mr. Kroll? “But they told me I could have a wish, and I asked if they could send me to where Emily was, and they said yes, and instead, they sent me over a very tall, steep cliff.”

A male voice from the doorway asked, “How many coins did you give them?”

I looked up to see a guy at least a few years older than Emily but not yet
old,
maybe twenty-one or twenty-two. He kind of reminded me of Emily's boyfriend, Frank Lupiano, except with better hair. And broader shoulders. And, generally speaking, a more intelligent expression. Actually, he looked a lot better than Frank.

Because I am so quick on my feet and such a great conversationalist, I said, “Huh?”

“Did you give them two coins?” he asked. “Three?” “Just the one.”

I saw him glance at Ms. Bennett.

“What?” I demanded.

Good-Looking—he had to be the Adam Ms. Bennett was substituting for Sybella—said, “Wishes start at one coin, but they get more expensive depending on how complicated they are.”

“So they took my money and tried to kill me for shortchanging them?” I asked.

Adam shook his head. “They didn't try to kill you.” Before I could protest, “You weren't there,” he said, “They only granted you a portion of your wish. The kind of spell you asked for, transporting you ... well, I don't know without looking it up how much it would cost, but more than one coin. You gave them a portion of what the wish cost, so the sprites transported you a portion of the way there. Like getting tossed out of a taxi when your fare exceeds what you've paid for. It was just coincidence that your money ran out while you were passing over the edge of a cliff.”

“So you're saying it was my own fault?” If I'd been more daring, I could have pointed out that Rasmussem seemed to be saying that everything that went wrong was my family's own fault.

“Well, yes,” Adam said. Then he gave a smile nice enough to make me feel inclined to forgive him his lawyerly ways. “But it shouldn't have happened. I've made a note.” He handed Ms. Bennett the clipboard he had carried into the room. To her, he said, “No callbacks from the boyfriend yet, or the roommate, but I spoke to the Residence Advisor at her dorm, and one of the teachers. I asked Sybella to cover Emily's phone contact list.”

Ms. Bennett read over what he'd handed her and said, “Hmmm.”

Mom put things together faster than I did. “You're checking up on the people who know Emily?”

“Yes,” Ms. Bennett said.

“I already told you she's doing well in school and she has lots of friends.”

“So you did.”

Mom shook her head, obviously miffed.

But I could see Ms. Bennett's point. It's like when you've lost something, and you search in all the places it should be, and it's not there. You have to start checking in places it shouldn't be, because if it were where it was supposed to be, it wouldn't be lost. Obviously, we had missed something about Emily.

Since this guy Adam was somewhat reminiscent of Emily's Frank, I figured she had to have hit it off with him, even if— for whatever reason—she had neglected to befriend coworker Sybella. So I asked him, “Do you know my sister?”

“I'm engaged,” he said.

Which was a lot more, and a lot less, than I had asked.

“Congratulations,” I told him.

“I met her.” He squirmed. “We never really talked.”

I glanced at Ms. Bennett to see if she looked as skeptical as I felt sure I looked. But her face didn't give anything away, and she didn't say anything.

Mom didn't seem to have caught that exchange—probably because she wasn't interested in Adam, only Emily. She asked, “So what does Emily's RA say about her?”

“That she's quiet,” Ms. Bennett said. “A bit of a loner.”

Mom snorted—which I would have done, too, except what if I snorted and something came out? I was trying to appear cool for Adam—even if he
was
seven or eight years too old for me, and walking around announcing his prenuptial status. Mom said, “Then this RA doesn't know her well. Or has her confused with someone else.”

Ms. Bennett said, “And the teacher, her psych professor, says she's got a good solid C.”

That didn't sound like Emily, either. Her marks were generally better than mine. And she had been telling our parents all semester long that she was doing fine.

“This is all wrong,” Mom said.

Well, no kidding.

Mom turned to me. “Did you see Emily? Did you learn anything?”

Facing her please-please-please-give-me-something expression, I couldn't tell her how Emily had been so ... so ... Is
underwhelmed
a word? So the-opposite-of-excited to see me. And how she had intentionally ditched me, first chance she got. “Nothing useful,” I told her.

Ms. Bennett raised her eyebrows but didn't ask for details.

Before Mom could put me on the spot, Adam asked, “Ready to go under again?”

“I guess.”

He must have picked up on some subtle clues that my enthusiasm was less than cheerleaderish. “You're doing fine,” he assured me. “Any game takes a bit of getting used to. You're a good kid. And Emily's a good kid, too. You'll connect.”

Maybe this wouldn't have sounded like such a bland, empty platitude if he hadn't just finished saying he hardly knew her, and if he hadn't met me only about seven seconds earlier.

Oh, yeah, seven...

“Seven,” I said before he could ask me. “One hundred and seven, two hundred and seven, three...”

Chapter 7

Some Enchanted Evening

I
WAS BACK
in the gazebo, which I guess was better than being halfway through a fall off a cliff or being back in the maze. But my lack of progress was making me cranky. I almost swatted at the glittery butterfly that alighted on the swing next to me, but then I thought better of it. Sure, one gold coin was just about useless, but if the game's designers were providing so many opportunities to get coins, money must be important. I caught the butterfly and put the resulting gold coin in my pocket.

I'd figured we'd go to total restart, but I guess Ms. Bennett and Adam didn't want me to lose what few experience points I might have accidentally managed to accumulate. Either that or they couldn't restart since I'd interacted—Ha! If you want to call it that!—with Emily. So there I was with the same old clothing I'd been wearing right up to my plummet off the edge of the cliff, the dress sweaty and grass-stained, one silver ballet slipper missing in action. A change out of my Victorian dress with its long skirt and full-length sleeves and waist-nipping torso would make me feel much more comfortable. Not that I'd ever go Emily's route and gold-coin-wish myself into a closetful of frills. Still, for a moment I wondered how much the sprites would charge for a nice-fitting pair of jeans. But I knew dealing with those guys was just asking for trouble.

And what kind of girl frets about her clothing while her sister is in desperate need of rescuing? There were so many levels on which I could be anxious about Emily, starting with worrying about what had happened to get her to write that note, and ending with the almost paralyzing dread of what the result would be if I couldn't talk her into coming back with me. Once the panic from
that
thought subsided a bit, I stopped mentally grousing about my dress, which was when I noticed that things had changed. The sky over the lake was dramatically pink and orange and iridescent: sunset. Pretty, but I could only wonder what night would bring in Emily's world.

Another big difference was that the house was now sparkling with lights. There were candles in every window, and the pillars and railing of the porch were strung with little white Christmas bulbs. Very festive.

There was also music playing—the kind you hear in movies set in the time of kings and queens; as in: the king and queen request the honor of your presence at the royal ball. Not the kind of thing I'd ever have suspected Emily would put on her playlist.

I walked into the house, following the music and the chatter of conversation into what had formerly been the dining room. The furniture was gone. All four walls were lined with mirrors that caught and reflected the candlelit crystal chandelier hanging from the ceiling. Turned out the music was being played by four men—wearing powdered wigs, no less—a violinist, a cellist, a harpsichordist, and an I-have-no-idea-what-ist, who had an instrument that might have been second cousin twice removed to a guitar. Meanwhile, a roomful of men and women in elegant garb chattered and laughed while they waltzed or did a reel or minuet or some sort of dance. It was like I'd walked into one of Marie Antoinette's parties—before she lost her head, of course.

While I was still taking all this in, a young man came up to me. By the gold braid and shiny brass buttons on his coat, I could only assume he must be an officer in the military. And while I was distracted by thinking,
Wow, no wonder people talk about the attractions of a guy in uniform,
he bowed and held his hand out to me.

Well, that was all very nice, but, “Sorry,” I said, “I'm only here looking for Emily.”

The women in the room had these tall, elaborate—but kind of pretty if you overlooked their goofiness—white wigs, and they had dresses that accentuated bosoms while minimizing waists; plus there were necklaces and bracelets and tiaras of diamond, ruby, sapphire, emerald, and probably a lot more gems than I had names for. All of which gave them a kind of sparkly, lovely, grown-up likeness to each other, so I couldn't even tell if Emily was in that crowd. All those mirrors reflecting everything—and reflecting each other reflecting everything—added to the disorienting confusion.

And then, on top of everything else, I felt that soul-draining realization that a girl gets when she notices she's drastically underdressed.

Which was stupid under the circumstances.