Erika Combing
I go home and am confronted by my parents at the front door. At first, I think it's because of my secret visit to the police station, but I realize with a jolt that today's the day I'm being fitted. I sigh and step into the house, and am dragged into the living room, where my personal fitter and her horde of assistants are waiting. My older brother is already being fitted by Howard, one of his stylist's assistants. I hop up onto the platform, and Merle's assistants swarm around me while she starts to take notes. My dad sits down at the taking, plucking up an albino strawberry and popping into his mouth. Blowing out a puff of air, I let my mind drift while pondering over the case. Mom pops open some pale pink champagne, offering me a glass. I decline absently. If vaporizing ray guns are legal, why are the police hunting him down for that? Or are they investigating him in general? Or did this case push them over the edge? For all we know, he's probably somewhere in the heart of Madagascar in a hut with some native eating a coconut. Or, he could be in Russia, drinking five million shots of vodka everyday. Merle has been chattering my ear off for the past seven minutes, and I can't answer her question, wincing as she smacks my ankle with her clipboard.
"Linen in pineapple-yellow or coral pink, or both?" she demands. "I'm taking it easy on you."
"Both, please," I say, knowing she would be delighted. "What's it for?"
"Boot-cut palazzo pants," Merle answers. "And they're to be with a linen blazer in another color. Next, we have to discuss your formal ball gown. Shall we talk over lunch?" Without waiting for an answer, she waves all her assistants away and steers me off from the platform out onto the shaded third-floor patio. She presses a button and a sushi-style revolving platform rises up around us. A round table rises between us, and Merle grabs a plate of smoked salmon-wrapped white asparagus tips.
"Eat, eat!" she says. "I'll do all the talking." I grab a plate of caprese as it glides past me and start to munch on the creamy cheese and fresh tomatoes, savouring the smooth butteriness of the cheese. Merle pops an asparagus tip into her mouth before launching into a speech about my gown. I let my mind float off as I chew on the cheese slowly. After the caprese, I have a small serving of feta tomato pasta, a fresh Caesar salad, chocolate-dipped fruits, and a single oven-baked chicken breast with rosemary, quenching my thirst with iced strawberry tea. All throughout, Merle talks on and on about silver thread and not enough periwinkle tulle in stock (we only need five hundred layers) and how spaghetti straps won't compliment my neck. She interests me for about five seconds by talking about a diamond necklace, but then she crushes my dreams by telling me how it would clash horribly with my hair.
"I like my red hair very much, thanks." I mutter, and return to the case. Merle's voice is so loud that after a while I imagine the gang leader in a periwinkle-twilight blue tulle dress with silk. Abandoning my glass of tea, I stand up, itching to get away from Merle.
"Not yet," she says, to my dismay. "We still need to discuss your art gallery look."
"But that's three months away!" I protest.
"Nevertheless, we must plan out the outfit. I was thinking sort of chic French, but on account of your red hair we should go more to the country style."
Unexpectedly this gets a rise out of me.
"Who says I can't pull off French style?" I demand.
"No one. Me. Your mom. You'd look better with country style anyway." Merle blusters, picking at her Roubachka wine-colored manicure. I manage to endure her verbal diarrhea of flowy dresses, moccasins, flowers and sunset-orange for fifteen more minutes, with the help of cheese fondue and bread cubes, but I eventually lose it and manage to get out of there without hurling Merle over the edge of the patio into the pool. I race up the stairs and into my room, and blow off a bit of steam in the shower, where I start to think about the case again. I blimp out of the shower and am changing into a pair of blue-and-white striped shorts when my phone chimes with a text from Eddie. Where are you? Sliding on a white knotted top, I grab my phone, one hand laboriously tapping away at the keys, the other raking through my wet auburn hair. My room, duh. I text back. Can you come over? Robyn wants everyone over. Ed texts rapidly. What and why? I demand, rubbing my hair with the towel and pushing on a white knotted headband. I don't know, he responds. Just be over fast. Don't wanna be clobbered by her. I sigh. Fine. Be right over. Slipping my phone into my pocket, I reluctantly get up and head down the stairs, sliding on a pair of white sneakers before hurrying down the street to Robyn's house. I knock, and go up the stairs to Robyn's room, where Eddie and Devin are already sprawled. Devin's on his light, thin laptop, typing furiously, and Eddie is almost concealed by a huge encyclopedia. I sit by Robyn, who's looking at a sketch of a trident-looking sign. Finally Devin looks up.
"The gang has recently deserted a hideout in downtown Los Angeles-" Robyn makes a face- I assume it's because we live practically right next to Los Angeles in a small town where vaporizing ray guns are/ might be legal.
"-But their whereabouts are suspected to be around the northeast of America."
Eddie's curly brown head emerges slightly from behind the huge book.
"Very specific." He quips, before disappearing again. Robyn tosses a pen at him, hitting his forehead. She draws and 'ouch!' from him, and he emerges with a red mark on his forehead. Robyn turns to Devin.
"Can't you reach the- dark web- or something?"
"I'll need to do it with my PC at home, because this laptop doesn't have enough power to reach that place… why don't you- you all come with me?" He suggests, flipping his laptop closed and getting up from his beanbag. We all get up and file out of Robyn's room, trekking behind Devin as he heads back to his house. There, we all huddle behind his chair as his fingers fly across the keyboard and seven million tabs pop up on the page. Without even glancing at them, Devin closes all of them and taps a few more keys, then he grins in triumph as a suspicious-looking browser pops up.
"Hack into-like- a personal account of his- or something." Robyn directs. Devin dutifully types away as the rest of us continue to gawk at the screen. Soon he pulls up an innocent-looking page with about five thousand unread emails on it. Devin starts to scroll through them at an unbelievable speed, scanning the emails and occasionally clicking on one. Suddenly he stops. Grins. Turns to Robyn. Shows her the screen. Robyn stares, then shrieks.
"Devin, you are a GENIUS!" she screams. Eddie and I practically climb onto his desk to stare at the screen. The entire email is chock-full of all the information of where the gang is, what they plan to do next, and their weapons. The strange thing is that the email isn't addressed to anyone. I frown a bit over that, but everyone's celebrating so loud I can't bring this to light. Finally when we all quiet down, I bring it up. Devin brushes it off.
"Probably so excited he forgot who he was sending it to." He turns back to Robyn, basking in the glow of her admiration. I roll my eyes and sit back on his side desk, knowing he hates this. I wrinkle up my forehead, wondering about the case. Could it get dangerous?