The Dragon Keeper (19 page)

Meg sighed. The reception almost felt like prom except, unlike her high school prom, she couldn’t skip it. It was the day after tomorrow, and every time she let herself think about it, her insides twisted into nervous kinks. Antonio and Ben were going to be in the same room, her hatchlings were being put on display like trophies, she had to wear formal wear, and, to top it all off, she had to stand up in front of hundreds of people and actually talk.

“Chuck asked me today if I’d written a speech,” she said from somewhere inside the torso of the next dress, before finding her way clear of the thing. “A speech! He wanted to review it and make some comments.”

“Yeah?”

“I don’t do public speaking. I might vomit up there, and then, hey—I could invite him up to review that. Give me some pointers, maybe. God.”

“You give the reptile tours every week. What do you call that?” Gemma’s voice sounded muffled from her dressing room.

“I call the tours babysitting. An unfortunate hour of my week.”

“Then just call this an unfortunate evening and think about better things. Your body is perfectly capable of working while you groove your mind elsewhere.”

“Isn’t that a prostitute trick?”

Gemma laughed. “Yeah, I picked it up at that whorehouse over on Seventh.”

“What’s a whorehouse?” Allison asked from outside Gemma’s door. Meg stifled a laugh while Gemma backpedaled and made something up before shooing her back out into the front of the store. Meg waited until she was sure Allison was gone, then poked her head out the door.

“I have to tell you something.”

“What? Damn, I need to step up my Pilates.”

“I slept with Antonio.” It was barely a whisper.

“I can’t hear you.”

“Antonio Rodríguez.”

“Yeah? What about him?”

“Me. On top of him.”

There was no reply for a minute. Meg stepped back into her dressing room and leaned against the wall. Gemma’d heard her this time; Meg could tell by the deliberate, absorbing silence between their rooms. She screwed her eyes shut and waited, ready for the worst.

“How was it?”

Meg laughed once and caught herself. “Really? That’s all?”

“Well, I could say lots of things.”

“Go for it. Please, I need someone to say them out loud.”

“You hate each other.”

“Not really, not anymore.”

“He’s a complete womanizer.”

“True.”

“He’s probably got a dick full of STDs.”

“No rabies, though.”

“You’re in a relationship. At least what you call a relationship.”

She dropped her head. That one got her every time. “I know.”

“When did it happen?”

“Just after the eggs started hatching.”

“And you didn’t tell me. Until now, when—oh, I see, when both of them are going to be at the reception together. Now you tell me.”

“I didn’t know how to tell you. I’m no good at this stuff.”

“At this human stuff, you mean? Relating to people? Not shutting everyone down or biting their heads off?” There was an edge to Gemma’s voice, but there was warmth, too. Meg spoke to the warm side and tried to ignore the rest.

“Yeah, all that. I’m sorry I didn’t tell you. The next time I cheat on my boyfriend, you’ll be the first to know.”

Allison came back again with an armload of new selections. A pile of animal print appeared underneath the door, and Meg sighed, bracing herself to try the thing on. From Gemma’s giggle next door, Meg guessed Gemma must have gotten something equally ridiculous.

“Hey,” Gemma whispered in the hallway when Allison went down to the dressing room mirrors to wait for them. Meg poked her head out.

“You never answered my question.” Her eyebrows shot up in expectation.

“What?”

“How was it?”

A smile spread over her face; she couldn’t help it. “Raw and dirty. Like the world is ending, you know?”

“Apocalypse sex,” Gemma breathed. “Fantastic.”

They grinned at each other, then Gemma nodded, ending the discussion. “Now go try on your pretty animal skins.”

20 Days
after
Hatching

S
ometimes, standing on the south walkway that overlooked the river, Meg could sense a bad storm rolling in. There was no hint of it on the horizon or in the thin, white clouds overhead. If anything, the air was too still, the sun too warm. The whole day was playing perfect, Simpsons-opening-credits kind of stuff, but somehow she knew it was coming. The great white egrets spiraled up into the sky like bird tornadoes, calling to one another, gathering close. The raptors stopped circling, and the roar of traffic from the bridge seemed hollow, eclipsed by the absence of some quality she couldn’t name, a normalcy that governed the day-to-day interactions of the refuge and the wide, lazy river. She looked to the northwest and could almost see something stirring, an echo of thunder rippling upstream, a psychic rumbling that spread the eerie knowledge that this nice day in the river valley was coming to an end.

That’s how the air felt as she walked into the zoo grounds for the Komodo reception. “Damn.” It was the only word in her vocabulary when she and Ben stepped through the double doors of the baby building.

Someone—marketing or PR, whoever handled this crap—must have seen one too many awards shows because the entire place looked as if the Oscars had thrown up in there. They stood on an honest-to-God red carpet flanked by red ropes and two bronze statues of S-shaped lizards propped on their hind legs, apparently PR’s idea of a Komodo.

The baby building was a circular space, with exhibits lining the curved outer walls and a big multipurpose area in the middle of the room where the animals could be brought out for display and educational talks. Tonight the benches had disappeared, and in their place was a stage with a podium and a giant screen elevated above the crowd. Dozens of people had already packed into the room, their combed and sprayed heads bobbing around a portable bar in front of the baby sea horse tank. Music played, an instrumental version of “In the Jungle” that floated over the crowd while waiters in white suits carted trays of food.

They walked in a little farther and stood off to the side of the growing crowd. Meg didn’t recognize anyone and felt increasingly conspicuous, as if she’d grown way too many hands and had nothing to occupy them. It wasn’t fair that men got pockets on their dress clothes and women didn’t. The short, black dress she’d finally chosen was simple, wide-necked, and sleeveless because she couldn’t move her arms in any of the ones with sleeves. Apparently women at cocktail parties had nothing to reach for more than a foot away from their hips. She’d pulled her hair back into her usual ponytail and applied a tinted ChapStick, which was all she could find for makeup in the bathroom vanity. Even though it was still April, a permanent tan line circled her biceps, and her legs looked awkward and pale. She’d shaved, but no power on earth could make her wear nylons. They could throw her into the bear exhibit soaked in barbecue sauce first. She eyed Ben’s dark brown suit, which was short in the sleeves and begging to be stained before the night was over. They didn’t match, she guessed, with his brown suit and her black dress, but she’d never understood the color thing. Brown and black always looked fine together on the python.

It was only seven o’clock, and the presentations didn’t start for another half hour. Chuck had taken her through the whole lineup earlier. Gerald Dawson, the director of the zoo, would speak first and welcome everyone, then they would play the video of the last egg hatching, then Meg was supposed to talk about Jata, and finally Antonio would talk about parthenogenesis. Then she could escape.

“No sign of Channel 12 yet,” Ben said, scanning the room.

“Maybe they won’t show up.” Please, please, if there was a God who didn’t already hate her.

“It’s only a matter of time. People like that can’t stay away from spotlights.” He pointed at the stage. “Let’s go check out your babies.”

She led the way to the side of the building, where a small group had already gathered in front of the exhibit. Most of them were lining the glass and leaning down to look through the tree branches for the hatchlings, but Meg stopped short when she saw Antonio sitting on the exhibit bench. Hunched over, he faced the nearest section of the exhibit with a look of dazed concentration. A blonde stood in front of him wearing a dress that looked as if it were made out of red wads of Kleenex, tapping her foot impatiently and staring at the top of his head, but he didn’t even seem to notice her. He stared straight through her, and his lips were moving slowly, talking to no one.

“What is it?” Ben asked.

“It seems a little crowded there right now. Let’s get a drink instead.”

Thankfully, Ben was never one to turn down a drink. They snaked over to the bar and met Gemma on the way there. She glided in a leopard-print sundress and had a white flower in her hair.

“Hey, you crazy kids,” Gemma said as Ben punched her lightly on the arm.

Someone bumped into Meg’s back, and the music switched over to a medley from
The Lion King
. If they played “Puff, the Magic Dragon,” she was out of here.

“You look fantastic, Meg. Stop fidgeting.”

“I look like an asshole.” Her throat started to close off as she eyed the stage. “I really need a drink.”

Ben squeezed her arm. “I’m on it.”

He dove through the crowd. For a big man, he could really shimmy through tight spaces—one of the many random skills he’d picked up from working fairs and festivals for the last four years. She watched his head until it disappeared, then turned back to Gemma, whose eyebrows were practically hiked up to her hairline.

“Well, Bachelor Number One is in good form tonight. Where’s Bachelor Number Two?”

“Over by the hatchlings. He seems … distracted.” She glanced that way but could only see straight into the cleavage of a tall woman who was gesturing to several people with an olive from her martini. The group laughed at something, and Meg looked away, in case the funny thing was her.

“Distracted by that blonde I saw him with earlier?”

“No. I mean, maybe. I saw her, but he just looked preoccupied. He must have stage fright, too.”

Gemma laughed. “Yeah, and maybe his teeth are naturally that white.”

“You don’t think so?”

“And maybe he’s gay.”

Meg rolled her eyes. “Fine. Sue me for not wanting to be the only one scared to death of the fundraiser brigade.”

“Just remember you’re here to work. This is a job, and you’ll get it done and then go home.”

Ben returned with three glasses of champagne and handed one each to Gemma and Meg.

“Thanks, Ben.” Gemma toasted him. “What got into you?”

“Can’t a man support his lady during her shining hour?”

“God.” Meg started to drink, but he held her arm.

“Wait, wait.” He raised his glass and waited until Gemma and Meg followed suit. Clearing his throat loudly, he said, “To Meg, the best zookeeper and dragon mother that any little dragons could want.”

He continued on like that, his voice too loud even amid the thunder of conversation around them. Meg lost track of what he was saying as the memory of the last time she drank champagne bubbled to the surface of her mind—Antonio’s champagne the night the first hatchlings were born. Had it really been only three weeks ago? So much had changed between them since. If he didn’t have stage fright, what was his problem? Even though he’d blown her off the last few days, she still wanted to talk to him, to see if she could get him to forget about that stupid fight. There had to be a way to lose Ben for a few minutes, and the blonde—she didn’t give a shit about the blonde.

Gemma and Ben clinked their glasses into hers and she jolted, coming back to the present, then flushing with shame as Ben smiled at her and she realized she hadn’t heard anything he’d said. Maybe he proposed. Maybe he broke up with her. Maybe he was moving to Guatemala to make hats for the tourists. She smiled back, and it felt weak on her face, a nauseous smile.

Shifting away, she caught sight of the Channel 12 news team from a few weeks ago. The scruffy guy looked completely different now—he wore a nice suit with flashes of cuff links, and his hair was slicked back. Completely comfortable surveying the crowd, he chatted to the cameraman amid the flux of jewelry, dinner jackets, and money-crusted greetings called back and forth around them. He barely resembled the wrinkled-khaki onion lover. Bees did that, too, she reminded herself. Most people knew that bees had specific roles in the colony, but they didn’t realize that bees shifted into different roles during their lifetimes—house bees became guards, and guards became scouts. They evolved into whatever was needed in order to best serve the hive. Scruffy Guy here must have been upgraded to the entertainment beat.

Just then he looked over and caught her staring. He started to lift a hand in greeting, then paused and nudged his partner. Freezing, the two traded some words and then darted toward Meg’s group, squeezing blindly past everyone in their way. The cameraman walked with his head down, adjusting dials on his equipment, but the reporter had a dead lock on Meg. She downed another gulp of champagne and wondered how obvious it would look if she bolted for the bathroom. As he got closer, though, she saw his eyes darting back and forth between her and something else behind her.