Suite Scarlett (2 page)

“It’s Chanel,” Lola said, even though Scarlett could clearly read the word Chanel on the side. The lipstick it contained was a very dramatic shade of red. It looked like it may have been used once before. The tip was just very, very slightly flattened. Lola sometimes got samples. It was still a really good gift. Lola chose things very carefully, and even if Scarlett didn’t quite understand them, they were undoubtedly
right.

“I think that’s a good shade for you,” Lola said. “You can handle strong color.”

The next came from Marlene, who was picking at her waffle unhappily. It was a coupon for a free dish of ice cream at a store a few blocks away. This shocked Scarlett at first. Marlene tended to have a lot of these kinds of things, but she didn’t share them. Then Scarlett noticed that it was expired. That made a lot more sense.

It was time for the gift that everyone had been waiting for. There was a box on the table, which was passed down, hand to hand, until it reached Scarlett. She already knew what was inside, but it didn’t make it any less exciting. There were many layers of cardboard protection and plastic bagging to get through, but finally, she could see it, tiny and silvery.

“I hope that’s the one you wanted,” her dad said.

It was. She was the last person in her entire school to get a cell phone. Literally. She nodded happily. It was nice to join the rest of the planet.

“And here’s the other part,” her mother said. “Following tradition…”

She passed a jewelry box down the length of the table. Seeing a box like that, most people would have expected a necklace or a bracelet, but Scarlett knew that was not what was inside.

When it reached her, she creaked the box open to reveal a key ring with a silver S dangling from it, along with a single key. A tiny piece of paper, the size of a Chinese fortune cookie fortune, rested at the bottom. It read: EMPIRE SUITE.

“It’s yours now,” her father said. “Take good care of it.”

At age fifteen, each Martin was “given” a room in the hotel to care for. This was not an ancient tradition—it had started with Spencer four years earlier. He had gotten the rough-and-ready Sterling Suite. Lola had the attractive but small Metro Suite. The Empire Suite was something else entirely—the showpiece, and the most expensive of the hotel’s twenty-one guest rooms. It was rarely occupied, except for the occasional honeymoon couple or the lost businessman who couldn’t get a room at the W.

So this was either an honor or a “we don’t actually want you to have to deal with any guests” gesture.

Before Scarlett could even react, her mother was on her feet, sweeping away the grim remnants of breakfast. Spencer was still shoving waffle embers into his mouth when his plate vanished from underneath him.

“We’re just going to go over some of the new cleaning routines,” her dad said. “Marlene, if you want to go…”

It would hardly have been possible for Marlene to leave the room more quickly, at least without the aid of some kind of an engine. It was instantly clear to Scarlett that whatever was about to happen had nothing to do with cleaning. That was just the only topic that could instantly drive Marlene away.

“We all need to have a little talk,” her father said, getting up and sliding the dining room doors tightly shut.

Perhaps it sounds like a wonderful thing to be born and raised in a small hotel in New York City. Lots of things sound fun until they are subjected to closer inspection. If you lived on a cruise ship, for example, you would have to do the Macarena every night of your life. Think about that.

There are always tourists in New York. They come in droves in the fall and winter, cruising in through the tunnels in massive out-of-town coaches. Between Thanksgiving and New Year’s, the city’s population seems to double. There are no tables in restaurants, no seats on the subway, no room on the sidewalks, no beds in the hotels.

But by summer, most of them have gone. The city boils. The subways swelter. Epic thunderstorms break out. Stores have sales to get rid of unwanted goods. Theaters close. Even many of the inhabitants leave. Certainly, most of Scarlett’s friends had. Dakota was at a language immersion program in France. Tabitha was doing volunteer work for the environment in Brazil. Chloe was teaching tennis at a camp in Vermont. Hunter was with his father, helping him run a film festival in San Diego. Mira had gone to India with
her grandparents to sweep temples. Josh was doing some kind of unspecified “summer session” in England.

Every single one of them was off doing something to beef up their college applications—and set them apart from everyone else. Even Rachel, who was the only other person she knew who had to work, was doing it at a gourmet beachside delivery shop in the Hamptons. They were off being developed, molded into perfect applicants.

Only Scarlett was in the city for the summer, not doing anything to improve herself. It wasn’t laziness or lack of ability. She was more than willing and able. The question was entirely one of funding. Hotels make money—but they also bleed it. Especially hotels with fragile decorations and plumbing from 1929 that sit empty much of the time.

This was all part of the reason that Scarlett knew that this “little talk” probably wasn’t going to end up being a discussion about going to Paris or bringing a live koala into the lobby to give hugs to all the guests.

“Scarlett,” her father said, sitting back down, “you’re old enough now to be included in these discussions. I’m really sorry we had to do this today—now—but there’s no other time.”

Scarlett looked at Spencer nervously, and he tapped his foot against hers reassuringly. His expression, however, was anything but relaxed. He shifted his jaw back and forth, and kept puffing air into and hollowing out his taut cheeks.

“As you may have guessed,” her mother began, looking to Scarlett first, “things have gotten a little tight recently. I’m afraid Belinda didn’t call out today. We had to let her go.”

Scarlett was too shocked to speak, but Spencer let out a low groan. Belinda was the last regular staff member. The others had gone over the course of the last two years. Marco, who handled all the facilities and repairs. Debbie and Monique, the cleaners. Angelica, the part-time front desk person. And now Belinda…the last remaining draw to the hotel. She of the spicy hot chocolate and cherry bread that people raved about.

“We’ll get by,” her father said, “just like we always have. But we have to get serious about a few things. We’re going to be counting on all of you. Lola, as you two probably know, is taking a year off to work at Bendel’s and to help us out here, especially with Marlene. And we’re really grateful for that.”

Lola looked down modestly.

“Scarlett,” he said, looking a bit nervous now, “we have a big favor to ask of you. We know you plan on looking for a summer job…”

It wasn’t just a plan—it was a desperate need. A job meant money for clothes, for movies, for basically anything above and beyond eating lunch and getting her Metrocard for the subway. It was the money everyone else in her school just got handed to them in the form of a credit card.

“…but we’re going to need some of your time. Possibly a lot of your time…looking after the front desk, answering the phone, cleaning up. Things like that. We’ll try to up your allowance a little when you go back to school to make up for it.”

It didn’t seem like something that could really be argued. The reality of life without Belinda, with no staff at all, was simply too stark.

“It doesn’t sound like I have much of a choice,” she said.

Spencer and Lola were both giving her looks of pure sympathy. But the meeting was far from over. Everyone turned to Spencer. He drew in his cheeks completely and looked as innocent as you could with a sucked-in face.

“Spencer,” her mother began slowly, “last year, when you graduated from high school, we all made an agreement. You had one year after graduation to get things together. One year to get a paying acting job in TV, or film, or commercials, or Broadway. Something that pays.”

“I’ve been to more callbacks than anyone I know,” Spencer said. “It’s a tough business.”

“And we’re proud of you,” she replied. “We know how good you are. But the year is going to be up in three days. You promised that if you didn’t have acting work, you would accept the offer to the culinary academy. You got a year’s deferment, but in order to get the scholarship, you have to agree by then.”

“Three days,” Spencer said, exhaling slowly.

There was a moment of heavy silence, during which the fumes from the waffles got slightly more intense.

“Having dumped all of that on you,” her mother said, obviously feeling guilty, “we’ll clear up the kitchen, and you guys can talk this out a little. We just needed to put it all in front of you, and this was the only time we could do it. And Scarlett, we’ll talk tomorrow about the specifics. Enjoy today.”

“Enjoy today?” Scarlett repeated, when they were gone.

“Yeah,” Spencer said, shaking his head. “Bad close. Very bad. No points for style. Really, it sucked through and through. In fact, I think that was the most suck ever compacted into ten minutes. You couldn’t cram any more in.”

Scarlett noticed a black car stopping in front of the building. She couldn’t see it very clearly through the window at that distance, but she knew who was in it. So, apparently, did Spencer.

“I stand corrected…” he said, eyeing the car.

“I have to go,” Lola said apologetically. “I had no idea about all of…this…until this morning when I came down to decorate. I have to go to a breakfast with Chip before work.”

Spencer examined the contents of the now cold-and-gluey syrup, sticking his finger in the jug and pulling out the thick film. He seemed to consider dropping this in his mouth for a moment, then decided against it and scraped the tarlike substance off with the butter knife.

“
A
breakfast?” he said mildly. “Didn’t you just have
a
breakfast?”

“It’s for his dad’s investment partner’s birthday,” Lola answered. “They’re having a little breakfast thing at their club before they go out on the boat for the day. I’m not going to eat—I just have to put in an appearance before I go to work.”

Spencer had never quite forgiven Lola for dating Chip, Durban School’s senior class secretary, Gothamfrat.com’s #98 on the “New York’s 100 Top Prep School Scenesters” list. Spencer took a lot of glee from the fact that Chip only made ninety-eight, considering that someone at Durban wrote the list in the first place. That had been his nickname ever since.

“One doesn’t want to be late for one’s appearance at the club,” Spencer said. “One doesn’t want to start talk. Give Number Ninety-eight my love and kisses.”

Lola gracefully ignored this little needling by stacking all the used silverware on her plate.

“It’s free makeover day at the store today,” she went on. “It’s going
to be tragic. Every tourist in New York is going to be there. I’ll try to get back as soon as I can, and we can talk. And Scarlett…happy birthday. It’ll be okay.”

She hurried out, her heels just barely clicking against the herringbone floor. She slid the doors shut behind her gently, leaving Spencer and Scarlett alone with the remains of the party. Spencer got up and watched as Chip greeted Lola outside the car.

“I don’t get it,” he said. “She never even smiles around him. Back when I had girlfriends, I looked happier than that, didn’t I?”

Spencer had never been short of company in high school. He had been quite the ladies’ man. That had dried up in the last year, along with his work prospects.

“I have
literally
been more passionate with a fake streetlight,” he said.

“You were in
Singin’ in the Rain
,” Scarlett pointed out.

“That didn’t make it any less real. The worst part was—that streetlight didn’t even call me the next day.”

Scarlett couldn’t even bring herself to smile at the joke. Instead, she pulled down a balloon and pressed her face into it, letting herself sink into a world colored in cheerful, rubbery yellow. She bounced her chin against the balloon a few times and let it fall to the floor, where it promptly popped on a small piece of splinter that was coming up from one of the boards. That was her summer in a nutshell. Boom.

“I needed a job,” she said. “Everyone else at school just gets cash to spend. Now I’m just going to be stuck here every day, doing the wash and getting evil looks from Marlene.”

Spencer turned from his spying. He had too much respect for her to deny that she had a point.

“I’m sorry this is how your birthday turned out,” he said. “But all jobs suck. You might as well have a sucky job that you don’t have to get up early to go to. Plus, they can’t fire you.”

“I guess,” she said glumly. “But what about you? We only have three days.”

“I’ll do…something. I’m going to call every single person I know in the entire world. Maybe somewhere out there…maybe something will come up.”

Scarlett slumped further in her chair and stared up at the chandelier. From this angle, she could see the thick membrane of spiderwebs that seemed to hold it together.

“Look,” Spencer said, stepping away from the window, “it’ll be…”

Just as he moved, his foot seemed to get stuck. He tripped hugely, taking flight before landing face-flat on the floor with a loud, painful smack. Even though he had been doing that trick her entire life, it never failed to get her. The painful smack was his hand slyly hitting the floor to sell the gag. She laughed out loud despite herself.

“Just checking,” he said, looking up from the floor. “I was kind of worried your face would stick like that.”

He reached for the little table to pull himself up, then jerked and almost fell over again. For a second, Scarlett thought he was doing another gag. Then she saw that no, the table leg had just given. He caught it before it tipped and propped it back up with a whack to hold it in place.

“No matter what,” he said, “promise me one thing. No matter what happens here, no matter how broke we get, promise me you’ll never do that.”

He pointed in the direction of where the long-gone Mercedes had been.

“Get in Chip’s car?” Scarlett asked.

“Date a bank account instead of a person,” he said. “Or anybody I don’t like.”

He looked at his watch, which was currently being held together by electrical tape.

“I have to go, too,” he said, picking up his backpack from the floor under his chair. “We’ll talk later. Don’t worry. We’ll figure it out.”

He ruffled her curls as he passed. He was the only person allowed to do that.

Scarlett picked up the Empire Suite key from the table. This was her fifteenth birthday. No job. No prospects. No exciting, life-changing project. Just an empty hotel room, some leftover balloons, and a bunch of people telling her how it was going to be fine, and obviously lying.

“I need a plan,” she said to it. “Something needs to give. What do I do?”

The key did not answer, because keys generally do not speak. This was probably a good thing, because if it
had
replied, Scarlett’s problems would have taken on a new level of complexity.

And that, she did not need.