Finding the Forger (8 page)

To make matters worse, Kerrie had on an outfit almost identical to mine. Except instead of a miniskirt, she had on tight khaki jeans. But her black long-sleeved tee hugged her body in ways mine never would, so whatever beauty points I got for my hair were canceled out by Kerrie’s other points.

Life wasn’t fair.

Yes, Doug eventually noticed my hair, but mentioned it only in a perfunctory way, and only after Kerrie said something about it. And I’m not sure he would have said anything at all if she hadn’t done a little gushing. Then, he chimed in with a soft “yeah, looks great” and a nod.

So this tainted my entire visit to the mall. It beat in the background of my afternoon like an annoying itch I couldn’t scratch. I wanted to get Doug alone so I could be the center of his universe for a few hours. And I wanted to get Kerrie alone so I could tell her I wanted to be alone with Doug. And neither possibility seemed possible.

We took the usual route—from CD store to bookstore to clothes
store. But even then Kerrie stole the limelight. I thought I’d get Doug’s take on a few dresses for the Mistletoe Dance. Sure, my mom was sewing something special for me, but I knew if I saw something really hot, I could get it and she’d probably say okay. When I saw a black velvet number in The Limited, Kerrie oohed and ahhed over it so much that Doug said maybe she should try it on, too. Need I tell you who filled it out better?

By the time our afternoon was over, I was ready to curl up and cry. At least I had the consolation of knowing that Doug would probably suggest he and I do something alone together that evening. In fact, I viewed the whole Saturday afternoon date as a warm-up to the real thing that evening. I’d even looked at the movie schedule and picked out a few flicks I thought we could catch together.

You can imagine my surprise, then, when he dropped me home first, and not Kerrie! When he first pulled onto my street, I just figured it was another manifestation of Doug’s Driving Affliction—he drives slow, is easily distracted, and has an inner compass perpetually askew. He then announced he had to get the car back to his parents because they were going out and their other car was in the shop, so he figured he’d loop around and drop Kerrie off after me.

Because of his lack of parking skills, he once again had to double park, which meant no “walk to the door,” no intimate words of regret about not being able to go out together that night (and why didn’t he tell me this earlier?—I could have gotten Tony to take us somewhere!), no nothing. At least I was sitting in the front seat by this time. But with Kerrie in the back like some chaperoning grandma, do you think Doug was going to lean over and give me a sweet smooch on the kisser?

“I’ll call ya,” he said a little wistfully. Yup.
Wistful
’s all I got out
of this expedition. And
wistful
does not feed a girl’s soul, let me tell ya.

To make matters worse, Connie wasn’t home when I came in, so I couldn’t pepper her with questions about the museum situation. And I didn’t want to call or IM Sarah about it because Connie’s little hint about Hector would just upset Sarah. Sarah probably suspected Hector, too, but was too besotted by him to admit it. Sheesh. Life sucked.

The house was as empty as my heart. Mom had left a note saying she was out shopping and there were leftovers in the fridge.

The fridge. Emblazoned across it, using my poetry magnets, was the following free-form ditty, which perplexed and angered me:

Beauty Style Whatever Drama is in the Hip

“Drama is in the hip”? Who was doing this and why wouldn’t they tell me? Why couldn’t I get together with Doug—alone? Why was Kerrie turning into my nemesis? And how come it didn’t matter that I finally felt pretty?

Little did I know that it would matter, a great deal, the very next day.

T
HE NEXT DAY, I went to Mass with Mom. Sometimes I don’t get up in time for church, but that morning I was up before anyone else in the house. Anger does that to you. Turns you into an early riser. Connie and Tony on the other hand, were sleeping in, or at least pretending to, so they didn’t have to go through the lowered-eyes routine when Mom asked if they wanted to go to church with her.

I figured I needed all the help I could get, so I tagged along, wearing my khaki skirt and black tee again. And it was worth it. At least two people noticed how good I looked. One was old Mrs. Pompano, whose kids grew up with my grandparents. She squinted at me after church and said, “Is that Bianca? My, my, she has grown up so fast,” which, in old person’s speak, means “that bod’s smokin’!”

The other was Richard Goldolfi, the choir director, who saw me after church and asked me to join the choir. While this might not seem like a compliment at first blush, you have to understand Goldofi. He’s in his early twenties, just graduated from college, and is looking for a “little woman” big-time. He’s been on more blind dates than, well, a blind person. His asking me to join the choir
meant I was moving into the “eligible” category.

The real payoff, though, came that afternoon when Doug and I joined Sarah at the art gallery party. But let me back up a minute and share something strange.

When I got home from church, Connie told me Sarah had called.

Sarah had called on a Sunday morning? Early Sunday morning? Early Sunday morning wasn’t chat-with-your-friends time. It was eat-cinnamon-buns-and-read-the-comics time. Or it was go-to-church-with-family time. If Sarah had called me this early, it was because something was wrong. Immediately, I thought it was another fight with Kerrie.

“She said she’d catch up with you later,” Connie said when I tried to bump her off the computer to call back.

By the time “later” rolled around, I’d worked myself into what I’d call a “productive simmer.” It was productive because I couldn’t sit still, and so I finished a project for Music that wasn’t due until Friday, got a head start on a book I needed to finish reading by Christmas break, did some cyber-shopping for Christmas gifts, painted my toenails and fingernails, and shortened a long black dress.

The black dress was originally long because we had to have black dresses or black pants for school chorus. Kerrie had given me a long black skirt she didn’t like any more, and I used that for chorus now instead of my long black dress. So I actually hemmed the darn dress in about an hour and had a new addition to my wardrobe. It looked really good, too—just a plain sleeveless thing. So good, in fact, that I decided to wear it to the art gallery.

Normally, I’m not a dress person. I’m more of a slacks or skirt person. But I was still so miffed about my day yesterday, and still
wanting that “ooh-aah” payoff from Doug about my hair, that I decided I would overcome my dress phobia and look nice for a change. I paired the dress with dangling gold earrings and a thin gold chain my mom gave me last Christmas. After borrowing Connie’s strappy sandals (she wouldn’t miss them), I waited at the door for Doug so he wouldn’t have to park.

When my mother saw me, she practically did a double-take.

“Bianca, you look very sophisticated!” But then she had to also throw in her usual “Mom” warning (every compliment is followed by a warning). “But you’ll get cold. Take your jacket.”

My jacket was not a jacket. It was a parka—no, make that an inflated balloon costume that made me look like the Michelin tire guy—and if you think I was going to put that over this black race-car of a dress, you’re nuts. Heck, I’ve had buyer’s remorse over that parka since the day after I bought it. My eye-rolling must have instantly communicated all this because Mom left the room and returned a few minutes later with a dark green pashmina shawl.

“Here,” she said, handing it to me. “I was going to give it to you for Christmas, but it’ll look so nice with that dress.”

Before I had a chance to say more than a shocked “thanks!” Doug’s blue Honda was inching into view, so I hopped on out, pulling the soft shawl around my shoulders.

Once in the car, I got my payoff. Doug looked at me for a full five seconds while someone honked behind him. Then he said, “You look great.”

My bad mood evaporated.

In fact, after we got to the museum, my previous bad mood joined the Witness Protection Program. In my shortened black dress and new hair, I turned heads. Literally. As soon as we entered the building, a few folks by the door turned and looked my way.
The ladies in the group scrunched their eyes up a millimeter, which I immediately recognized as envy-scrunch. Some blonde-pageboy woman came over with her hand extended. She was dressed in a black velvet pantsuit and plastic smile.

“Welcome. I’m Fawn Dexter. You must be Jean Connelly.”

So this was Ms. Dexter of the flirtatious voice and mysterious secrets. She didn’t look like the mastermind of any grand criminal plot.

Just then, Sarah came over. “No, she’s not Jean Connelly. These are my friends you said it was okay to invite.” Then she introduced us. Fawn looked disappointed. She hastily retracted her hand as if I had cooties, then just as quickly left us alone.

“Who’s Jean Connelly and why does Fawn Dexter want to meet her?” I asked. Sarah popped a crab puff in her mouth and balled up the green napkin that had been holding it. She was wearing a neat navy skirt, white blouse, and clunky platform shoes.

“Fawn’s my boss. Community and development director. Jean Connelly’s some bigwig financier who’s underwriting our next exhibit. Fawn’s never met her but seen her picture.” She looked over her shoulder. “Come on. I’ll show you where the food is. Then I have to check in with Fawn to see if she needs me to do anything.”

Sarah led us to a terrific spread of party food near the museum restaurant. A long table covered with a green cloth held silver platters of crab puffs, vegetables, and dip (and not just carrot slices—there were snow pea pods, scallions, cucumbers, and stuff I didn’t even recognize), and a whole array of Japanese-style hors d’oeuvres, since this was an exhibit of Japanese prints. I passed on the sushi and went for the crab puffs. So did Doug.

“I heard you called,” I said to Sarah, but she took a quick glance at Doug, immediately signaling to me that whatever she’d
wanted to talk about was private.

“Doug, would you get me some of those strawberries down there?” I said, pointing to the far end of the table. While he moved away, Sarah whispered to me.

“Hector and I . . . went out on a date. He’s an art student.”

“So?”

“So that’s why Fawn’s so suspicious of him!” Sarah sounded exasperated. We only had a few seconds before Doug returned. I saw him standing in line by the strawberries. “She must think he can pull something off.”

“You mean
forge
something.”

She nodded her head.

“Did you ever talk to Fawn?” I asked. “You know, like I suggested.”

“I tried,” she said mournfully. “But I never could figure out how to do it. I managed to find out they’d hired your sister, though.”

“Has Fawn mentioned Hector any more?” I already knew the answer to that one. Connie had told me they thought he was a good suspect.

“No. And I think that might be because she saw Hector and me talking.”

“So she knows you’re friends?”

“Yeah.”

Doug was finished loading up a little plastic plate with berries, so we had to wrap this up fast.

“You really like Hector, don’t you?”

“Yes.”

“Then talk to him.” Suddenly, I realized it was Hector who was the friend with “troubles”—the friend she’d IM’ed me about. “Tell
him to come clean if he’s done something wrong. Maybe it was just a prank.”

“Okay.”

Okay?
That one word spoke volumes. She thought he
had
done something.

This whole conversation made me nervous. If Hector was involved, Sarah needed to stay far away from him. She wouldn’t get many more second chances.

Doug returned and handed us plates. While he and I ate, Sarah disappeared to check in with Fawn. I was just beginning to enjoy myself again when a familiar voice greeted me.

“Bianca?”

It was Kerrie! She was there with her dad. Mr. Daniels smiled at Doug and me while Kerrie frowned. She was dressed in black pinstripe slacks and a black top. Black must be the color for exhibit openings. “What are
you
doing here?” Kerrie asked.