Modelland (5 page)

Then Lizzie began to search the ground. “Lizzie, don’t,” Tookie said, knowing what was coming next.

Lizzie ignored Tookie and continued her search, finally locating a sharp rock. She picked it up and then brought its jagged edge down to her inner arm, near her wrist. Blood flowed from the fresh slice in her skin. Tookie grabbed her arm. “Stop it! Why do you do that?”

Lizzie lowered her eyes. Her face was a ballet of twitching and wincing. “Because it hurts so much and I feel better when I do it,” she said desperately.

Tears came to Tookie’s eyes. She felt helpless seeing her best friend so tormented.

“Lizzie, what hurts so much? You can tell me,” Tookie begged. “I can handle it. And you know I’m not going anywhere. Ever. You know you can trust me. Does it have something to do with … that place?” She pointed to the embroidery on Lizzie’s gown.
SHIVERA COUNTY HOSPITAL
. She both wanted to know the answer—and feared it.

“It’s better you don’t know,” Lizzie whispered.

Tookie took a step back.
The Melancholia Ward
, she thought. That had to be where Lizzie had gone—that was surely where she always went. Officials probably repeatedly hunted down the paranoid orphan girl and dragged her off to the infamous mental ward in Shivera County Hospital, since she was too unstable to work in a factory. People in Metopia whispered that the staff at Melancholia ignored the atrocities that went on between the patients. Some said it was worse than the Shivera prison, which housed Metopia’s deadliest criminals. There was never any way Tookie could look for Lizzie in Melancholia either—the Shivera hospital kept no records, as though it didn’t exist.

During the five years they’d been friends, Lizzie had taught Tookie many things: not to be afraid to spelunk into the hidden Peppertown caves, which offered a stunning view of the undiscovered Peppertown platinum mine. How to sneak into the ritzy, no-tourists-allowed areas of LaDorno without getting caught—“It’s all about attitude,” Lizzie had said, donning a hand-me-up dress from Tookie’s closet. And what with Tookie’s strange SPLDs and writing-but-never-sending-letters habit and Lizzie’s screams and paranoia, it was like they were the only two happily crazed screwballs in a sea of sanity.

“Try not to think about where I disappear to, Tookie,” Lizzie whispered, pulling the gown’s sleeves back over her arms. A wistful look floated across her face. “Think about Exodus instead. Sleeping on the beach every night.”

Tookie smiled weakly. “And swimming whenever we want to.”

Lizzie poked Tookie’s thigh. “The whipped cream factory we could build for you, right on the shore.”

“So we’d be in the dreaded factory business, huh?” Tookie
said playfully. “Grow what we know. We’ll build a grilled-cheese-dipped-in-strawberry-jelly factory for you.” Grilled cheese dipped in strawberry jelly was Lizzie’s absolute favorite food. Tookie snuck Lizzie sandwiches whenever she got the chance.

“And we’d own the factories, not just work in them,” Lizzie added. “Our workers would be part owners too. And we’d treat them with respect, not like the workers are treated here.”

“And Theophilus would be our mayor!” Tookie swooned.

“And we’d give our leftover lunches to Zarpessa as she waited outside every night in the cold ocean air for our staff’s scraps,” Lizzie said with a devilish grin.

“And there’d be
no
sharp objects anywhere near our factories,” Tookie said strongly, forcing Lizzie to look into her eyes. “Right?”

Lizzie locked eyes with Tookie, then looked down and rubbed her arm. “Right,” she said. “Okay, so … when?”

Tookie looked off into the distance and her mind flashed with the memories of what she and Lizzie had talked about so many times—leaving Metopia together, forever. Who knew where they’d go? Who knew how they’d get there? But they’d figure it out. They’d be two Forgetta-Girl peas in a pod. They called it their Exodus plan. Their secret code for it was X-O-2; Tookie would write this symbol on the front door of her home when it was time to go.

“I don’t know, Lizzie. I don’t think I’m ready.” Tookie had never been out of Metopia. How could she live in a tree and scavenge for food as Lizzie did?

“Of course you’re ready,” Lizzie said. “You’re stronger than you think.”

Tookie looked away. She didn’t really believe that. Then Lizzie
scanned the alleyway, probably looking for pursuers again. It was empty.

Tookie touched Lizzie’s shoulder. “Lizzie? If I go away with you, will you tell me the truth? About what happened to you?” Her gaze fell to Lizzie’s arm, the hospital sleeve now concealing the burns. She thought about how she both wanted and didn’t want to know this dark secret of Lizzie’s.

Lizzie’s lips parted. She blinked silently for a moment, thinking, running her fingers slowly along her forearm. “No. They’ll kill you if I tell you. You have to trust me.” Then she shuddered and wheeled around. “I have to go. They’re getting close.”

“But I just got here, Lizzie. And you’ve been gone for so long! Don’t go yet!” Tookie pleaded. “Where are you going? Do you need water, more clothes? I can steal some blankets from my house. You know how she gets rid of stuff that’s hardly been used.”

“I’ll be okay. I’ll wait for you to be ready, Tookie. And I know you will be soon. Exodus. Think about it. For real this time. I love you, Tookie.”

Giving Tookie a hurried wave, Lizzie quickly ran down the hot Peppertown sidewalk. Tookie’s eyes tracked Lizzie as far as she could see. Her last view of her troubled friend was of Lizzie stooping to pick something up from the ground. Tookie shut her eyes, devastated, when she realized what it was.

Another sharp rock.

3434 Pepper Lane, the home of Tookie De La Crème. Ah, the De La Crème residence! A splendiferous, luxurious palazzo of a dwelling with a marble façade, grand archways and columns, wrought-iron balconies at its second-floor bedrooms, and a fountain in the center of the yard, complete with a nude male statue with rippling musculature. Truly glorious! The crème of the De La Crèmes! We all wish we could abide in such a grand abode!

But be careful what you wish for, dahling. All that glitters is sometimes gold-plated
.

What’s that? There, in the corner, in the foundation near the koi pond and the birdbath made of bronze. That zigzagging line shaped
like a witch’s profile. Is that … a crack? And there, next to the crack, that silvery mass crisscrossed on the stucco—that can’t possibly be duct tape? Watch your head! Did a chunk of slate just fall off the roof?

Surely your smoky eyes have deceived you. Surely these patterns of fissures in the foundation are just decorative elements. The De La Crèmes have nothing to hide
.

Or do they?

Tookie walked up the seven stairs that led to her front door, tripping on the crooked third step. Another piece of slate broke off from the roof and fell to the ground, nearly slicing her skull in two. “Oh my God,” she murmured. She’d have to tell her parents about how the roof almost tried to kill her.

After steadying herself, she stood with her fingers on the door handle, hesitating before she entered, wishing she didn’t have to cross the threshold but knowing she had nowhere else to go. This was her home.

She opened the door and tripped again, first over a cardboard box that said
CREAMY DE LA CRÈME
on the shipping label. When she shut the door, goose bumps immediately rose on her skin, and her sweaty locks nearly turned into coil-shaped icicles. Tookie’s mother insisted that their home’s thermostat be kept at almost subzero temperatures at all times to combat the blazing Peppertown heat. Plus, she said people looked “fresher” when they were cold. Tookie then heard the banging of pipes and the whoosh of water spewing through taps. It sounded as though all the sinks, showers, and bathtubs were running simultaneously.

“Brown spot,” her mother’s voice rang out. Then a hollow
clunk. “Brown spot,” her voice called again. “Ach! Another brown spot!” Clunk.

Tookie swept into the kitchen, which looked gleaming and new if one didn’t peer very closely. The unused appliances shone. The pots and pans hanging over the island had price tags on them. The teapot was resting on a stovetop burner, tape covering the spout. A knife set still lived in its shrink-wrapped packaging. But if one were to go around the room with a not-very-strong magnifying glass, it would soon become clear that duct tape, electrical tape, caulk, industrial-strength glue, and other binding agents held the walls upright.

“I am having a panic attack right now!” Mrs. De La Crème exclaimed. Tookie’s mother loomed over the kitchen counter, holding a bunch of bananas by the fingertips of one hand, examining their skins with a photographer’s loupe. Her other arm held Bellissima, a lifelike baby doll dressed in a multilayered butter-yellow dress with lace trim, complete with a pacifier in her mouth. Bellissima was Mrs. De La Crème’s favorite doll from her extensive collection. “I thought this banana was spotless, but it has one tiny brown speck! Yuck!” She tossed the banana into the trash.

Today, Mrs. De La Crème—or Creamy, as she insisted everyone call her, including her children—wore a perfectly tailored white one-piece pantsuit with dramatically pointed shoulder pads and a cinched belt to accentuate her small waist. A badge hanging around her neck said
REGIONAL MANAGER
, followed by the logo for Perfecta-Fecta, the beauty department store for which she worked. It was a very good job for a Metopian, a million steps above working in a factory.

She’d pulled her dark hair into a Très Jolie twist that was so
severe it stretched the skin around her forehead and eyes, making her look startled. And though her body and soft, lineless, tan-skinned hands were remarkably well preserved, her face was a different story. Thick makeup clumped heavily in permanent lines on and around her mouth. Deep crow’s-feet fanned out from the corners of her eyes all the way to her ears. Even her nose was covered in wrinkles.

Tookie hoped that whatever her mother’s affliction was wasn’t hereditary.

“And this one? Too yellow!” Mrs. De La Crème went on. “I need green ones only!”

Her gaze fluttered to Tookie. For a moment, she looked through her daughter the same way everyone at school did. Then she blinked, bringing Tookie into focus. “Ah. Hello, dear. You haven’t been picking bananas out of the garbage bin and putting them back onto the counter, have you?”

Tookie blinked, her mind struggling to shift directions. “Um, n-n-no …”

“Well, someone has.” Then Mrs. De La Crème thrust a small jar of pickles at Tookie. “Can those baby fingers of yours dig out a gherkin for me? I’m starving.”

Tookie wiggled her small, slim fingers. Her mother was always talking about how delicate and dexterous they were, perfect for sewing small stitches or digging items out of tight jars. Tookie eyed the lush fruit in the waste bin. Bananas weren’t the only items in the trash pile. There were mouthwatering grapes, two perfectly ripe avocados, and three tomatoes whose skins had just turned from green to red.

Then Tookie moved over to turn off the sink faucet, which
was indeed gushing brownish water. “Don’t you dare!” Mrs. De La Crème screamed, and Tookie froze. “I’m keeping all the taps open until T-DOD! Water must flow continuously into this house! And when our SMIZE comes, we must catch it!”

Tookie stepped away from the faucet. Every year, on the eve of T-DOD, the world’s reservoirs ran dry because
everyone
kept their taps open, looking for a SMIZE.

The television was on behind them, and a reporter, coincidentally, was reporting on the hidden SMIZEs. “Now
four
SMIZEs have been found,” the man said excitedly. “A gang of hooligan females spotted the device floating in a condemned swimming pool in PitterPatter today. They rushed the barbwire fence and dove into the murky, stagnant, unfit-for-human-contact water. An underwater riot broke out, severely injuring three girls. One is in critical condition at Shivera hospital.” The screen showed the girl who’d battled for the SMIZE and won. She was covered in pond scum and had a mix of black muck and blood all over her face and body, but she held a glittering, golden glasses-shaped object over her head and whooped with glee.

“Hmph,” Mrs. De La Crème said, folding her arms across her chest. “That disgusting creature does not deserve a SMIZE. Not like The Myrracle does.”

Then the news shifted to a different story. “There is still no word on what has happened to the world’s most famous Intoxibella, Ci~L,” the anchor said. “The official word is that she’s gone on hiatus, but rumors have surfaced that something darker has happened to her. Abduction. An airborne terminal illness. A mental breakdown. Keep in mind, this is a woman who has been very forthcoming about how her childhood was spent in a place without a single mirror. One can only assume how that might psychologically
impact a person as they reach adulthood. But let’s pray that our formidable Triple7 is soon on the mend!”

Mrs. De La Crème glowered at the picture of the effervescent Ci~L that had popped on the screen.
“Uch,”
she said, wrinkling her nose. “Let’s pray that she stays missing forever.”