2. Has she ever made you laugh so hard that you peed your pants?
+50
3. Does she litter?
−25
4. Can she be trusted with your secrets? (No matter how frivolous or twisted they might seem to her.)
+100
5. Or would she sell you out for popularity/a plea bargain/a stick of gum?
−150
6. Is she pretty and/or popular?
0
7. Does she have skills you admire?
+75
8. Does she have hair you admire?
0
9. Is she rude to waiters?
−100
10. Is she cruel to animals, small children, or people who are different?
−200
11. Does she give good advice?
+100
12. Is her advice likely to get you arrested/grounded/beaten up/excommunicated?
−100
13. Do your parents like her? (This is a trick question. Only you know if your parents can be trusted.)
0
14. Is she imaginary?
−25
15. Does she make you feel superior?
−50
16. Does she make you feel inadequate?
−50
17. Would she go to jail for you? (Don’t let her.)
+100
Chapter 11
Things Get Hairy
NEW YORK CITY: MONDAY, FEBRUARY 16
If you’re a woman of means and you live in Manhattan, there is only one place to go for a manicure. The salon doesn’t advertise. There’s no name on the door. But if you know the right people—and they like knowing you—eventually someone will whisper these words in your ear: Look for the Golden Lotus on Seventeenth Street. Make an appointment, but leave your secrets at home. The ladies employed by the Golden Lotus have an ear for gossip—and a boss who’s made a fortune collecting rich women’s scandalous stories.
I was pounding on a door that opened night or day for the wealthy, famous, and indiscreet. But that evening, the blinds were pulled at Oona Wong’s exclusive nail salon, and a CLOSED sign had been hung in the window. Behind the locked door, someone was moaning in pain.
“What’s going on?” Betty appeared behind me. “Who are they torturing in there?” For some reason, she was sporting a UPS uniform. I let the disguise pass without comment.
“Beats me. I was on the train back from West Virginia when I picked up a message from Oona. She says she’s heard from Kiki.”
“I know! I’m so relieved!” Betty gushed. “How was your trip to Boreland?”
“Educational, to say the least. Molly agreed to go along with the plan.”
“She did?”
“Yeah. With a little too much enthusiasm, if you ask me.”
“Well, if we’ve found Kiki, maybe we won’t need Molly’s help after all,” Betty noted as Iris opened the door and peeked through the crack.
“There you are!” the tiny blond girl whispered. “Come in! Come in!”
The salon was furnished with plush chairs and state-of-the-art manicure tables. At the far end of the enormous room, three white-smocked cosmetologists huddled around a reclining chair. All I could see of their patient was two twitching feet.
“Arrrrrrgh!” came a groan.
“Geez, Oona, is it really supposed to hurt that much?” Luz grimaced. Both girls were watching the action from a safe distance.
“There usually isn’t this much hair to remove,” Oona said with a shrug. “We’ve never lasered a real bearded lady before.”
“Maybe we should give her a break,” Luz suggested squeamishly.
“Ladies!” Oona called out to her employees. “Take ten. Get some coffee. This could be a very long night.”
“What’s going on?” I asked. “Are you guys training for jobs with the Spanish Inquisition?”
“Hey, Ananka. Hey, Betty,” Oona said. “Take a look at this.”
The white-smocked women had vanished into the break room, leaving their patient behind in her chair. Slowly, DeeDee pulled herself upright, hiding one half of her face with a hand.
“Don’t laugh!” she warned.
“We won’t,” Betty promised prematurely, because when DeeDee dropped her hand, I began to cackle. Half of her face was covered in thick black hair.
“Ananka!” Luz chided me as she attempted to keep a straight face. “It’s not funny.”
“How … how …?” I gasped, hoping the contents of my bladder wouldn’t start trickling down my leg.
“Clearly, Miss Morlock ignored your orders and sampled some of her own medicine,” Oona said, biting her cheeks to keep the grin off her face.
“DeeDee! I told you not to experiment on yourself! Why didn’t you listen?” I couldn’t stop laughing long enough to give her a proper lecture.
“You know I don’t believe in animal testing,” DeeDee replied sheepishly. “And it would have been unethical to give the cure to another human being without making sure it wasn’t totally toxic. So I put a little of the stuff on my cheek, just to see if it did anything.”
“Well, I guess we know it works,” Betty remarked. “But how do we know it’s not eating your insides?”
“That’s just what my mom said. She and my dad hauled me to the hospital as soon as they saw the beard. I spent all day getting tested. The doctor says I’m totally fine.”
“How did you explain your condition?” I wasn’t laughing anymore. “I really hope you were careful.”
“Of course I was!” DeeDee insisted. “I told the doctor I was working on a science fair project and it got out of control.”
“How many times are you going to use that tired excuse?” Oona asked. In the three years since she’d joined the Irregulars, DeeDee had been injured in dozens of “science fair” experiments.
“It usually works like a charm,” DeeDee said. “No one wants to hear some kid ramble on about her silly little science fair project. But the doctor today asked more questions than most. For a second, I think he hoped I might be his ticket to fame and fortune. But I played dumb and told him I didn’t even remember which chemicals I’d used.”
“And he believed you?” I asked.
“I think so,” DeeDee replied.
“Good.” I exhaled with relief. “But please, let’s all try to be a little more careful from now on, okay? We’re already down an Irregular. Speaking of which, what’s this about a message from Kiki? And why didn’t she send it to me?”
“It came to the Golden Lotus e-mail address,” Oona said. “I guess Kiki was being careful. She didn’t want to give the boy any of our names.”
“The boy?”
“The message wasn’t sent straight from Kiki,” Luz informed me. “It was from some French kid who said he’d found Kiki locked in a bell tower.”
“What?”
“He claims she’s fine,” Oona said. “But she needs the cure ASAP.”
“What did I tell you?” Luz gloated. “Livia must have kidnapped Kiki. Now she wants something to bargain with.”
“Did our French friend give us any delivery instructions?” I asked.
“No,” Luz said. “He just told us Kiki would be back in touch soon.”
“Well?” Oona asked DeeDee. “Do we have something to give her?”
“I’d say the cure works pretty well,” DeeDee said, stroking the remains of her lustrous beard. “But how are we going to get it to Paris? I’m assuming the US mail isn’t an option.”
“We have a way,” I announced. “Want to tell them, Betty?”
“I’ve been offered a job at L’Institut Beauregard,” Betty began to explain to the group.
“The school for robots in training?” Oona broke in. “Do you have any idea what they do to girls there? I’ve heard some terrible things, Betty. Two women came in for a pedicure the other day, and one was bragging that her kid just graduated with honors from the institute. Now mommy and her little snuggle bunny enjoy wearing matching outfits and co
llecting commemorative plates. Thing is, I know the girl they were talking about. She used to be one of my favorite clients. Until a few months ago, she was a first-class delinquent. If that Beauregard woman can turn her into a dream child, imagine what she’ll do to someone like you!”
“Someone like me?” Betty repeated. “I’m not even going to ask what that means.”
Oona cocked her head and caught my eye. “You know what I’m talking about, don’t you, Ananka?”
I did. But I’d been so focused on getting an Irregular to France that I hadn’t considered whether sweet Betty Bent was really up to the job.
“Here’s the deal, you guys,” Betty announced with a huff. “Madame Beauregard is going to Paris. She wants me to go with her. If I’m there, I can deliver the cure to Kiki. It’s as simple as that.”
“You really think your parents will let you go?” Luz asked.
“Let me? When they heard, they practically insisted I take the job,” Betty said. “Madame Beauregard is good friends with their boss at the opera.”
“But you can’t go to Paris!” Iris squealed. “Kaspar just got here!”
“Wait. Kaspar’s here? In New York?” I practically stammered, and Iris gave me the evil eye.
“That was his Valentine’s Day present,” Betty told me. “He got someone to take care of his pet squirrels, and he’s staying here with his friend Howard for the rest of the week.”
“Maybe one of us could go to Paris in your place?” Iris asked.
“Are you kidding?” Luz scoffed. “Have you met my mother?” There was no way Mrs. Lopez would ever give her daughter permission for a jaunt across the Atlantic.
“I can’t use my passport until I’m hair-free,” said DeeDee. “The girl in the photo doesn’t have a beard.”
“Don’t look at me,” Oona said. “I’ve got a business to run and a twin sister to hunt down.”
“I’m twelve,” said Iris.
“Kiki put me in charge while she’s gone,” I reminded them all. “I have to stay here to oversee everything.”
“Well, then, I guess that settles it,” Betty declared. “I’ll accept Madame Beauregard’s offer tomorrow.”
“Are you sure?” DeeDee asked her.
“What if she tries to brainwash you?” Oona asked.
“Maybe I should ask my mom after all,” Luz mumbled.
“Thanks for the vote of confidence,” Betty finally snapped. “For your information, I’m a lot tougher than you think.”
Chapter 12
Ananka’s Story Hour
In her world-renowned etiquette manual, Savoir Faire, author Amelia Beauregard states:
Unless you were raised by a pack of feral dogs, you know there is no excuse for tardiness. A lady is on time for all appointments and engagements. Should a true emergency prevent her from reaching her destination at the appointed hour, a lady will always telephone ahead. True emergencies include earthquakes, appendicitis, and civil war. They do not include broken heels, fashion dilemmas, or faulty alarm clocks.
It’s too bad that Savoir Faire was the only book in existence that my mother had never allowed in her house.
I figured I was in trouble when I arrived home from the Golden Lotus and picked up the scent of massaman curry wafting down the stairs of my apartment building. It was my father’s signature dish, and the only meal either of my parents cooked well enough to serve to unsuspecting guests. The problem was—it wasn’t their guest they were feeding.
“I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m so sorry, so sorry,” I chanted as I burst through the door. When it slammed behind me, a thousand piles of books wobbled like Jell-O. Seated across from each other at the dining room table were my father and Theodora Wickham, principal of the Atalanta School for Girls. “Did I miss dinner?” I slid into a chair with my coat still on.
“It’s only seven thirty,” my father informed me, pointing to a clock on the fireplace mantel. He was wearing his very best corduroy jacket, and he might even have combed his hair. It was a sign of just how far my parents were willing to go to help my academic career. “Dinner hasn’t been served yet.”
“Oh good,” I said, slumping back in my chair and breathing a sigh of relief.
“Now that you’ve made it home, perhaps you can explain why you missed school today?” The principal put on her glasses and examined me closely. “You don’t look ill. Perhaps you’ve sustained some sort of internal injury? Or maybe you’ve developed a painful boil that prevents you from sitting still and learning your lessons?”
“It’s a long story,” I told her.
“One we all look forward to hearing over dinner,” my father said. “Now go help your mother get everything ready while I finish talking to Theodora.”
I know what you’re thinking. How many fifteen-year-olds hang out with their high school principals? Perhaps you’re picturing me with a pocket protector, a brown nose, and an unctuous smile. I’d be the first to admit I’m a bit of a geek, but I’m not entirely hopeless. And Principal Wickham was never your average authority figure. Despite my disastrous grades and risible attendance record, she had decided to make me her personal protégé. Girls who had previously held my position had grown up to be the most powerful women in New York City.
In return for Theodora Wickham’s personal guidance, I had agreed to a single condition. Every month I would sit down for a meal with my parents and the principal. Over dinner, I would provide a detailed account of my activities—both academic and extracurricular. The principal knew about the Irregulars, and she insisted I stick to the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth. So I did. I never fibbed or exaggerated. I always told all three adults in my life exactly what the Irregulars were doing. Principal Wickham believed every word. My parents called it “Ananka’s Story Hour.”
I set a heaping platter of rice on the table and took my seat next to Principal Wickham. Once I had straightened my silverware and rearranged it into the proper order, I carefully folded my napkin into my lap. I looked up to find my fellow diners staring at me as if I had dipped my fingers into the curry and used it to finger-paint dirty pictures on the walls.
“Ananka?” my father asked. “Are you all right?”
“Yep,” I assured him.
“Was there something wrong with the silverware?” my mother inquired.
“No. You just had the positions of the spoon and the knife mixed up. But don’t worry about it. It was probably just an accident.”
“I’ll try not to worry,” my mother snipped.
“I never knew that you were such an expert on etiquette, Ananka,” Principal Wickham noted wryly.
“I’m not. …”
“She’s fallen in with a bad crowd,” my mother butted in. “The girls at L’Institut Beauregard.”
“I have not,” I argued. “I just helped Betty get a job there. That’s all. I’ve only met Amelia Beauregard twice.”
“So, you’ve met Amelia?” the principal asked. “May I ask what you thought of her?”
“You really want to know?”
“Certainly! I’ve always valued your opinion, Ananka.”
I set my fork down, wiped my lips, and prepared to let loose my honest opinion. “Amelia Beauregard has the personality of a pit viper,” I told everyone at the table. “And she isn’t teaching her students how to be ‘ladies.’ She’s training them to be mean little zombies. She’s brainwashing them to believe that there’s only one right way to dress or behave. Madame Beauregard thinks that if you cross your legs at the knee or chew gum in public, then you should be treated like you’re some sort of cave dweller. I don’t know much about etiquette, but I never realized that the point of having good manners was to make other people feel like dirt.”
My mother beamed. My father nodded thoughtfully. But Principal Wickham only sighed.
“Yes, it’s sad,” she said. I could tell by the look on the principal’s face that it wasn’t a meaningless turn of phrase. “Amelia wasn’t always so stuffy.”
“You know the Wicked Witch of Tenth Street?” my mother asked.
Principal Wickham’s eyes twinkled, and for the briefest of moments, she could have passed for someone sixty years younger. “She and I were best friends growing up. Back then, she was the last person I would have expected to run an etiquette academy. If anything, Amelia was known for being a bit wild.”
“Oh, do tell!” my mother exclaimed. I’d never seen her so excited outside of a rare book store. Usually Lillian Fishbein had no time for gossip.
“Amelia was quite attractive and terribly smart,” Principal Wickham began. “She did things that the rest of us only dreamed of doing. She took flying lessons and raced cars with boys from bad neighborhoods. Once, during a blizzard, she made it to a New Year’s party by skiing across Central Park in her ball gown. All the girls were terribly jealous of her. Amelia had a wonderful boyfriend, too, a handsome army officer. Her parents didn’t approve of the match, but the two of them were engaged to be married when he returned from the war. Unfortunately, he never came back. His name was …” She made a show of trying to remember. I had a sneaking suspicion that she hadn’t forgotten.
“Gordon Grant?” I offered.
“I do believe that’s it!” she exclaimed, lurching backward a bit, as if the name had hit her with the force of a rubber bullet. “How did you … oh, you are a good detective, aren’t you? How did you find out?”
“I met Madame Beauregard at the Marble Cemetery. She was leaving flowers in front of a plaque with his name on it.”
“That’s odd,” said the principal, pausing with a spoonful of curry three inches from her mouth, “because …”
“There’s nobody in the grave. She told us so herself.”
“So, where’s the corpse?” my dad asked.
“The army never found Gordon’s body,” Principal Wickham explained. “And there were some who claimed there was no body to find.”
“I don’t understand,” said my mother.