The Girl with the Wrong Name (15 page)

“I only understood about half of that,” I say. “What is a power forward, and why are you wearing an afghan?”

“Jesus, what’s the difference?
Just tell me what
happened
. Where have you been, and how hard is it to answer
one
call? See, I’m already speaking in Grandma! That’s what you do to me, Thee.”

I knew this was what it would be—Max yelling about what a bad friend I’d been, having every right to do so. I park myself on the bedroom floor, leaning against the side of my bed, in it for the long haul, pillow tucked between my chin and knees as protection from his general pissed-offness.

I regret not stopping the recording before I made the call. I’d figured all drama was good drama—at least on film. But not so much in real life, I’m learning. Anyway, I won’t be able to hear his side of the conversation in the footage, so this scene won’t even make the final cut.

“Theo, are you there?”

“Max, do you have a suit?”

“What?”

“A suit. Do you own a suit? You know, like a suit that people who wear suits wear.”

“Yeah, I know what a suit is. I don’t wear track pants twenty-four hours a—”

“Max.”

“What?”

“I’m going to say something, and it’s going to take a while, so just let me finish before you interrupt. Can you promise you’ll do that?”

Silence. Then a deep breath. “I’m all ears, Thee. Whatever it is can’t be any weirder than the last session.”

“Do you think there is any way I could ask you to go with me to a wedding today? As a favor? A friend favor? Without it evoking any of the clichés of girls asking guys to weddings, or being confused in any way with me asking you out on a date, and without it being romantically suggestive in any way, or implying that it might become romantically suggestive later on, like—to—”

“Wait,” Max interrupts.

“No, you promised you wouldn’t interrupt me.”

“I said I was all ears. But let’s back up a second. Did you just ask me to a wedding?”

“Yes.”

“And the wedding is today?”

“In less than two hours.”

“And whose wedding is it?”

“Not relevant. A friend. A friend of a friend.”

“And how do you know this friend of a friend?”

“Not relevant. Can you go? I mean, given all my conditions, can you go?” I don’t hear any nervous fumbling on the other end.

This was a terrible idea. I should never have listened to Andy. “Max, I’m going to hang up now. Please, if you can just forget we ever had this conversation—”

“I’ll go.”

I blink several times. “You will?”

“At least I’ll know where you
are
,” he groans. “Just give me a time and place.”

I blink rapidly again and realize my eyes are moist. But I’m smiling. It’s the generic effect of weddings—all weddings, any weddings—that’s what it is. “Five thirty. Battery Park. Meet me in front of the Harbor Café.”

Only one thing remains
to be done before I leave. I’d avoided it for as long as I could. But now the time has come.

I step into my bathroom, lock the door, and look in the full-length mirror.

I’d always imagined I’d look like Audrey Hepburn when I finally put it on. That was before I was disfigured. I thought I’d look like Audrey Hepburn in that white Givenchy dress from
Sabrina
. But once I finish concealing the scar and applying the lipstick and dusting on the blush and rolling on the mascara and gelling the curtain, I take in the dress.

I do not look like Audrey Hepburn. I look like Elvis.

I am ’70s Elvis in drag. No, I’m a ’70s Elvis impersonator in drag. All I need are some giant rhinestones down the neckline, and it’s straight on to Vegas. And the ass . . .

Let us not speak of the ass. Let us just call the dress a “tragic epiphany,” and leave it at that.

Chapter Fifteen

I am a Theo-Cam. A walking, breathing camera. The impartial observer I was born to be. I am Andy’s eyes and ears, his remote-controlled drone. I’m keeping my distance, hovering in front of the Harbor Café, zooming in on the entrance to Battery Gardens, scrutinizing the guests as they stroll through the ivy gates, framing each young brunette in my crosshairs.

This is it, Sarah. This is the day we meet.
Operation
FaceTime is a go.

“Anything yet?” I murmur into my collar.

“Nothing yet,”
Andy’s voice replies in my ear. “You know what? I’m not worried about finding her. That’ll be cake. She’s so much more beautiful than all these girls. She’ll stand out like a Disney princess. It’s him, Wyatt. I need to see his face.”

“I know.”

It’s a bigger wedding than I’d expected. Probably more than three hundred guests. I take a seat on a stone bench on the Harbor’s front lawn. How many times have I shot this scene? How many Sundays have I spent shooting the newlyweds coming in and out of Battery Gardens? And it’s always a variation of the same themes: the bride with her smile frozen and her bridesmaids shuffling alongside her, guarding her hair and dress from the elements. Then the groom, silent with his groomsmen, his smile tinged with terror. And then without fail, one or two hours later, they emerge from that second-story balcony overlooking the water, posing for classic, windswept photos that their children and grandchildren will admire.

I glance around for Max, nervously tapping my heels. Andy was wrong; this is not cake. If Tyler spots me before I make it inside, the whole thing could be blown. Or maybe I’ll make it inside just fine, only to be cornered by the mysterious Lester Wyatt. Will he answer all my burning questions, or will he chloroform me and drag my limp body down to the basement? Maybe Helena will step in and protect me again. The problem is, I haven’t spotted her yet, either.

“Theo!”

It’s Max’s voice. And someone is hurrying toward me across the lawn. I squint, not trusting my eyes. This clean-cut, dapper stranger is not Max Fenton. This person in the tailored black suit, spotless white shirt, and silver tie is
not
Max Fenton. But it is. And he has shoes. Actual shoes.

“What?” Max asks, stopping in front of me. He does a quick examination of himself for stains and/or bird poop. “What’s wrong? You don’t like the suit?”

He even got a haircut. Short, but not enough to lose those trademark dark ringlets.

“What? The hair?” Max asks. “I told the guy I only had fifteen minutes.”

“Okay, wait, wait, wait!”
Andy’s voice pipes into my ear. I flinch and nearly fall off the bench. “
This
is the goofy older brother? Are you kidding me right now?”

“Shit, it’s the hair, isn’t it?” Max runs a hand through it, annoyed. “Too short, right?”

“I mean, he is a good-looking dude,” Andy says. “And I don’t even like dudes. Not even a little.”

“Okay, shut
up
,” I mumble into my collar.

Max frowns. “What did I say?”

“I said, shut up, because your hair looks fine,” I mutter, lamely fighting to recover. “You really didn’t need to get a haircut. At least let me pay for it.”

Max laughs. “Okay, I knew Theo Lane was hiding in there somewhere.”

Andy laughs, too. “I like this dude. All right, I’ll shut up now.”

I begin to wonder if Operation
FaceTime
was the best idea. But we’re committed now, and once I have my answers, I can go back to my old life, writing love letters for Lou and lying in Freudian position with Max. I stand and take my first steps toward Battery Gardens, but Max doesn’t follow. I turn back, and now he’s staring at me.

“What’s wrong?” I ask.

Max’s blue eyes cloud over. “It’s . . . you’re wearing your dress. That’s the Dress, isn’t it?”

It’s not until he says it that I realize how monumentally bizarre a decision it truly was. To wear the dress that’s supposed to stay enshrined in a cedar deep-freeze until that very special day when I awaken it from its slumber, to wear it once and only once.

“We’re not eloping, are we?” Max asks. “Because I should at least call my mom.”

His straight face does the trick. I giggle. For the first time that day, I relax. If only for a fleeting second. “I told you to shut up, Max. This is literally the only dress I own right now. The other one was destroyed in an unfortunate . . .”

My voice trails off. Someone has pressed the
pause
button on Max Fenton. Like a victim of Medusa, he has seen his first full-length view of ’70s Elvis in drag and has turned to stone. Did I screw up my concealer? My hand flies up to my face. “Let’s just go, all right?”

“Right behind you,” he says stiffly.

I turn away, feeling ill.

“Keep your boy close,”
Andy whispers. “Keep him real close.”

Something is wrong. I
can feel it as we climb the winding white staircase and enter the main hall.

“This is weird,”
Andy murmurs, as if reading my mind. “Why is everyone so quiet? And why’s the band already playing?”

There’s a twelve-piece orchestra at the end of the hall, playing Glenn Miller’s “In the Mood.” A few uncomfortable-looking guests dance halfheartedly on the parquet floor. The center of the room is so empty that the band’s blaring trumpets echo like a coach’s whistle in gym class.

This is not what the pre-ceremony is supposed to be. There should be a charming violin quartet welcoming us in with prelude music. People should be hugging and laughing.
“Oh, darling, it’s been too long! Why do we have to wait for occasions like this to get together?” “Well, look at you! You know, I haven’t seen you since you were
this
tall!”
But there is no laughter. It’s more like one of those morbid concession parties when a candidate loses an election.

I’m two parts disturbed and one part disappointed. I never would have admitted it to Andy, but some part of me has been dying for this moment. The moment I would finally step through those ivy gates into Battery Gardens—not as a distant observer, but as a real-live guest. Granted, I’m the real-live guest of a total stranger who may be a vicious psycho, but beggars can’t be choosers.

It’s too bad, because the place really is beautiful. A timeless kind of beautiful. Wide-open spaces, cream-colored walls, luxurious curtains that sway and flow in the breeze from the river. It reminds me of those huge, airy beach houses that the stars own in East Hampton, the kind I only see in the
Times
real estate section. A view of the Statue of Liberty, even, right across the water.

Max leans in and whispers in my ear. “Why did you bring me to the most depressing wedding ever?”

“Let’s find out.” I grab his hand and pull him through the sparse, uneasy crowd. I catch a few double takes as I scan their faces. It’s the dress. I’m not just the Mystery Guest no one knows; I’m the ’70s Elvis impersonator no one knows. Why did I wear my wedding dress again? Oh, right, because
I don’t own another dress, assholes.
It’s a concept people with walk-in closets wouldn’t understand.

Of course, for some here, I’m also the raving tweaker who crashed their rehearsal dinner and accused them of rape and collusion. I guess I might steer clear of me, too.

I finally find someone who doesn’t cower from me when I draw close, a twenty-something girl, alone, with a dark brown shag haircut and a half-drunk clueless gaze. She clutches an empty beer bottle. Definitely not one of the Renauxes’ inner sanctum.

“Do you know what’s going on?” I ask quietly.

“I’m not really sure,” she says, breathing beer into my face. “Someone came out and told us there were delays and that we should all drink and be merry. I think it was Emma’s dad, but I honestly don’t know.” Her eyes flicker over Max, and her voice drops to a scandalous whisper. “I don’t know if anybody else heard it, but I thought I heard screams downstairs. I think that’s why they had the band start playing so loud. Just to drown out all the screaming.”

“
Jesus,
”
Andy hisses. “Get down there.
Go.
”

I back away from the girl and Max, searching for the way downstairs. “It’s not her,” I whisper, trying to calm Andy down. “I’m sure it’s not her.”

“Not who?” Max asks, trailing after me.

“No, nothing,” I mutter. “I just . . . I need to get downstairs.”

“Are you kidding?” Max says. “You can’t go down there while they’re fighting. And by the way,
who
are they again? And what are we doing at this weird-ass wedding? I think I deserve an answer now.” His voice takes on an edge. “Seriously.”

“Theo,
GO
.”
Andy’s voice crackles, reverberating through my skull. I cup my left ear and stumble back two more steps from Max.

“I’ll—I’ll explain it all to you in a minute,” I say. “I just to need to find the bathroom.” I’m still backpedaling. Suddenly there’s a burst of static in my ear, and I bump into a middle-aged couple on the dance floor. I freeze in place, straining to listen to Andy.

“Theo, I can’t . . . something hap—Just keep . . .”

“Theo, what the hell is going on?” Max demands, staring at me along with the couple I’ve just bumped into.

I turn and bolt for the stairs. The music from the orchestra fades as I clatter down the steps, and I can hear something else now, a kind of wailing. A woman sobbing. Static crackles again in my ear, and I grab the sides of my dress to keep from falling.

I leap down the stairs in twos and threes on my never-before-worn wedding shoes. The banister saves my life twice before I spill into a long white hall with doors on both sides.

Now the wailing fills the air. There is no worse sound in the world.

“Oh, God, that’s her,”
Andy says, suddenly loud and clear again. “That’s Sarah’s voice. Theo, hurry.”

I force myself to run—around a corner down another hall and through an open doorway. And then I see them.

Emma Renaux is in a strapless Vera Wang gown, a long train bunched around her feet. She leans tearfully on her brother’s shoulder as he comforts her with a hug. She spots me and looks up. Then Tyler looks up, too, and the three of us freeze.

I have made a mistake. I’ve made a terrible mistake.

“How did you get down here?” Tyler snarls.

“Theo,” says Andy, “I think I remember . . .”

I shake my head. I can’t focus on Andy right now.

“Who let you down here?” Tyler demands. “Who let you in?”

Emma takes one last look at me and rushes into a dressing room, slamming the door behind her. Tyler starts to advance. His beady eyes blaze with the same rage I saw last night.

Oh, shit.
Shit, shit, shit.
I whirl around and launch myself back down the hall, swinging around the corner and racing up the stairwell.

“Hey!” he barks, breaking into a run. “Hey, psycho!” His gruff voice echoes up the steps. “I told you to stay the hell away from here!”

“Mr. Wyatt invited me!” I shout back pointlessly.

I reach the top and bolt out into the deafening
rat-a-tat-tat
of a drum solo. The horn section hits its final chord to “In the Mood,” and they start right up with the next song. A slow ballad this time, which just makes it easier to hear Tyler’s heavy stomping. Two of Tyler’s Boarding Stools are hanging by the entrance, my escape route, nursing beers. They see me, so I turn back around, but Tyler is already on the dance floor, snaking his way through the crowd.

Without thinking, I take off for the circular hall that runs along the perimeter of the ballroom, bumping my way through a flock of guests who shower me with hateful glances. I’m ruining this wedding more than it’s already been ruined, but for no justifiable reason, some tiny part of me is, I don’t even know what to call it, relieved? Why am I relieved?

“Andy,” I pant into my collar, cupping my ear. “Andy, are you still there? You said you remembered something? What did you remember? Talk to me.” All I can hear is heavy, labored breathing. But is it in my head, or is it coming through my left ear? Is it me, or is it Andy? “Please, Andy, if you—” I slam into someone and let out a yelp.

“Whoa!” Max catches me in his arms. “It’s just me, just me.”

“Max.” My muscles go lax.

“Did you find a bathroom?” he asks suspiciously.

“I . . . did.” My eyes dart around the hall and spot possible salvation: a pair of glass terrace doors. I drag Max after me without looking over my shoulder. Blinding sun and a gust of wind hit us as we step through the doors to an outdoor patio. I quickly close them, grab Max’s lapels, and place him directly in front of the glass, hiding my body behind his tall frame. Then I flatten myself against him like a human shield. My arms cling to his waist under his jacket, chest pressed against his stomach, face pressed against his chest.

“Theo, what are you doing?” Max asks. I can almost feel his fingers hovering over my back, trying not to touch me. “Is this a test?”

“Shhh,” I whisper. “Just be quiet.”

The seconds tick by. I strain my ears, listening for Tyler and his bros. Nothing. The seconds stretch on, marked by the gentle rise and fall of Max’s chest. Andy is silent. The sun warms the back of my neck, and the wind cools it down. I can hear the clarinets crooning faintly from the ballroom. It actually brings me some peace. I open my eyes just a crack, peek over my shoulder, and realize for the first time where Max and I are standing. I can see the entire front lawn of the Harbor Café.

This is the balcony that overlooks the river. We’re standing at the very spot where all those newlyweds posed for their classic shot. I’m in my wedding gown, and Max is in his suit. He’s pressed against me, and somewhere along the way, he’d let his long fingers rest on my back. And somewhere along the way, I guess we’d begun to sway to Glenn Miller’s “Moonlight Serenade.”

And I let us stay that way. At least for a few more seconds. Because Max understands something that very few guys understand. He knows when not to speak.

But he’s not the only one. Andy has gone silent, too. I picture him at home—waiting, impatient. I pull away from Max, and then . . . the horror.