Читать книгу: «The Boy Who Could Fly»
For Steve, for making order out of chaos.
- Laura
“I am always at a loss to know how much to believe of my own stories.”
Washington Irving, from Tales of a Traveller, 1824
Contents
Title Page Dedication Mr Fuss Makes A Fuss Chapter One: The Saddest Little Rich Girl In The Universe Chapter Two: Eight Arms To Hold You Chapter Three: Pinkwater’S Momentary Lapse Of Concentration Chapter Four: Bad Chapter Five: Punk Rock Chapter Six: Patience And Fortitude Chapter Seven: The It Club Chapter Eight: Good Dog Chapter Nine: How Much Is That Demon In The Window? Chapter Ten: Mega Megatherium Chapter Eleven: Hero Chapter Twelve: Maybe It’S The Fangs Chapter Thirteen: Old Crow Chapter Fourteen: Mandelbrot Chapter Fifteen: Running Amuck Chapter Sixteen: The Queen Says “Stupid!” Chapter Seventeen: Hitting The Books Chapter Eighteen: Woof Chapter Nineteen: Ok, Potato Chapter Twenty: Hello, Hewitt Chapter Twenty One: The Book Of The Undead Chapter Twenty Two: Like You, Like You Chapter Twenty Three: Art Appreciation Chapter Twenty Four: Hangman Chapter Twenty Five: The Temple Of Dendur Chapter Twenty Six: Goddess Worship Chapter Twenty Seven: Chaos Fussy Also By Laura Ruby Copyright About the Publisher
The Chapter Before the First
Mr Fuss Makes a Fuss
He was too old for this, far too old. The storm drain was cold and damp and smelled of mildew. A thin trickle of water that wended its way down the concrete tunnel splashed each time he planted one of his feet. At first, he’d tried flying, but found it too exhausting to do for very long. Instead, he’d settled for this ungainly shuffle-run. The floor was slippery and he’d already fallen once, his knee bleeding through a tear in one trouser leg. (Lord, how he hated wearing trousers.)
Still, he struggled on. In one arm, he held what looked like a human hand mounted on a black marble base; in the other, a tiny gilded birdcage in which a blue budgie twittered and sang. Various other items bulged in the pockets of his jacket. A white kitten popped her head from his breast pocket, saw where she was, squeaked, and pulled her head back in.
Where are we going? The Answer Hand said, using sign language.
The Professor grunted. “I hate it when you ask questions you know the answers to.”
The cats aren’t happy.
Behind The Professor, more than a hundred cats hopped daintily around the trickle of water and wrinkled their noses at the mouldy smell.
“Are cats ever happy?”
You’d be surprised, said The Answer Hand. Sun spots on carpets make them happy. A good long nap. Chewing on the houseplants. Sitting on the laps of people who can’t stand them. The Answer Hand pointed accusingly with its index finger before beginning again: Cats don’t like wet things. They don’t like stinky things. The cats, The Hand said, are very annoyed.
The Professor glanced back and had to agree, though he would never say so. “I thought you weren’t supposed to give any answers unless I asked you a specific question?”
You asked if cats were ever happy and I told you. As for the rest, maybe I’m getting tired of waiting to be asked.
“Perfect,” The Professor replied. “That’s just what I need.”
What you need is to move faster.
“You are so helpful. Where’s the man now?”
He’s still a few kilometres back, The Answer Hand signed. But gaining. He dislikes you intensely.
“I figured that out myself.”
Amazing! Well, that’s something to celebrate. Which we could do if we were back at home instead of running through the bowels of the city because we lost the most powerful object we’d ever invented.
“Who’s this ‘we’ that you’re talking about? I invented the pen.”
And then you lost it. And that’s not the only thing you lost. I wouldn’t be so proud of myself if I were you.
“I’m not proud of myself,” The Professor snapped.
Also something to celebrate, signed The Answer Hand. The Professor was astonished that something that didn’t even have its own face could achieve such magnificent sarcasm.
“At least we know the crows have the pen,” said The Professor.
I told you who had the pen. But that’s not going to help much if we can’t get to them before they do something stupid. You know how they are about shiny things. I think you need to reconsider my plan.
“It’s too complicated. It will never work. Besides, you also told me that the book is in the library. It’s safe.”
Is it? said The Hand.
“Of course it is,” The Professor huffed. “Nobody can awaken the book unless they use the pen, and then only if they write precisely the correct thing. Only if the pen wants it to happen. And the odds of that are—”
Fifteen trillion to one, The Hand said.
“See? Impossible.”
For once, The Answer Hand didn’t answer. Thoughtfully, it rubbed its thumb and middle finger together. Then: In this city, nothing is impossible. For example, take a look behind you. The Professor turned to see a large dark figure moving obscenely fast through the tunnel. The figure wasn’t flying. He was walking briskly on the side of the tunnel, his body perfectly parallel to the wet floor. As The Professor watched, the figure strode around to the top of the tunnel, so that he was walking upside down.
How does he keep his trench coat from flopping around his ears? The Answer Hand asked.
“I thought you knew the answer to everything,” The Professor said.
I don’t know the answer to that.
“You’re scaring me,” said The Professor.
It’s about time.
The budgie stopped twittering. Some of the cats began to growl.
“Is he afraid of cats?” The Professor asked hopefully.
No, signed The Answer Hand. Not even a little.
“Darn,” whispered The Professor.
Things were getting out of control, thought Mr Fuss. And Mr Fuss didn’t like when things were out of control. What made Mr Fuss fussy: messes, troubles, unruliness, vexation or chaos.
In short, Mr Fuss didn’t like fuss.
Odd, then, that he had chosen to live and work in this vast and sparkling city, this city at the centre of the universe, the city that was the very definition of messes, troubles, unruliness, vexation, and chaos. Odder still that it was his job to tidy things up.
What we do for money, thought Mr Fuss.
He could see the little man with his ridiculous green hair and his pathetic army of felines up ahead. Good. One thing he could cross off his list for the day. As Mr Fuss walked, he pulled his day planner and a tiny pencil from his pocket. He read through his list:
1 Bull in china shop.
2 Runaway carousel horses.
3 “Magic” pretzels for sale on the corner of Sixth and Thirty-third (if you ate one, you could understand any language spoken to you, though effects were temporary).
4 Fortune-teller on Upper East Side telling actual fortunes.
5 The Professor.
Mr Fuss put a check mark next to this last line and tucked the day planner and pencil back in his pocket.
The Professor started to run, if you could call the awkward hobbling of an ancient man running. Really. Such a waste of time and effort. Where was the man going to go? This storm drain went on for kilometres. Plus, high tide was coming. Any minute now The Professor and his nasty little menagerie would be washed out to sea. If it had been up to Mr Fuss, that’s exactly what he’d want to happen, too, a tidy ending to an untidy person. But his employer had other ideas.
Mr Fuss’s phone rang. Sighing, Mr Fuss flipped it open. “Fuss here,” he said. “Yes, I have him. Well, nearly. He’s about fifty metres ahead of me. I won’t lose him.” There was a pause and Mr Fuss rolled his queer, amber-coloured eyes. “Of course I won’t hurt the man. Why would I hurt the man?” Another pause. “But that was an accident.” More eye rolling. “And that was an accident too. Well, perhaps that wasn’t entirely an accident, but… Yes, yes. I promise, no more accidents. Yes, sir, we are clear. Clear as glass. Clear as water. Clear as air. Clear as….” He looked at the phone, frowning. His employer had hung up.
That was another thing about this city that Mr Fuss couldn’t stand: everyone was so unspeakably rude.
The Professor had sped up a bit, the awkward hobbling now a sort of crazed shambling.
Funny that he still gets reception even seventy floors below ground, signed The Answer Hand.
“Yes,” said The Professor. “Funny.”
Almost high tide, said The Answer Hand. What are you going to do?
“You know the answer to that.” The Professor looked to his right, where a rusted grate sealed off another tunnel. “Can you open it?”
No, The Hand replied. But the budgie can get through the openings in the grate. And so can the cats. The tunnel goes all the way to the surface. They’ll be fine.
The Professor nodded. He heard the distant roar of water rushing. He unlatched the door on the gilded birdcage. The budgie flew in circles around The Professor’s head. “Go,” he told the bird. “Find Gurl. Find Bug. Do what you can.”
The budgie, who spoke English, French, Italian, German, Polish, pig Latin, and could request a cab in Croatian, said, “Ood-gay uck-lay!” before darting through the grate. The army of cats followed suit, shrinking their seemingly boneless bodies through the slats, mewling their farewells as they did. Last to leave was the tiny white kitten, who licked The Professor’s face before disappearing.
The Professor watched them go. “Well,” he said to The Answer Hand. “It looks like it’s just you and me.”
Yep, signed The Answer Hand.
“That guy’s going to be really mad,” said The Professor mildly. Mr Fuss was still upside down in the tunnel, but now he was the one running. Underneath the man, a frothing wall of water surged towards The Professor.
He’s mad all right, signed The Answer Hand, just before the water hit them.
Mr Fuss punched open the manhole cover and climbed up on to the street, ignoring the cars that swerved to avoid him. As The Professor had predicted, Mr Fuss was mad. More than mad. He was irked, vexed, and most definitely put out. He had never thought that the crazy old man would just allow the tide to sweep him out to sea, and with him The Answer Hand, the location of the pen, and certain other items of interest. His employer would not be happy, that was certain. Even if it was an accident. (And it absolutely was an accident.)
Pushing through the crowds of would-be flyers – fools! – he strode across the street and found a bench. He sat, pulled his phone from his pocket and hit speed dial. “It’s me,” he said. “He’s gone.” Pause. “No! High tide rolled in and took The Professor with it.” Another long pause. “What do you mean, forget about it?” Mr Fuss’s eyes widened. “What about the pen?” His fingers scratched at the wood of the bench, dragging up paint and slivers of wood. “Yes, sir, but what if the pen isn’t at The Professor’s apartment? What if he gave it to someone else to hold for him? What if he’s invented other things? There’s no telling how much chaos—” The splinters of wood bit into the tips of Mr Fuss’s fingers, but he didn’t seem to notice. “I know there are plenty of other things to do, but-”
He rifled through his pockets with his free hand and found his day planner, in which several newspaper articles were clipped. These he unfolded. “There were two children he spent some time with several months ago. Maybe he told them something. Maybe—” He made a fist and pounded the seat of the bench, but didn’t change his tone. “Yes, I understand. I won’t approach the children.” He shook his head no while saying, “Yes, I will move on to the next item on my list. I will not jeopardise my employment. I won’t—” He looked at the phone. His employer had hung up. Again.
Mr Fuss squeezed the phone so hard that he crushed the metal. Then he tossed the phone over his shoulder. His employer was losing his touch. How were they supposed to keep control of this city if there was no follow-up? No follow through?
No, thought Mr Fuss. This would not do at all. If his employer was not willing to step up to the plate, then Mr Fuss would have to take matters into his own hands. And he wouldn’t have to jeopardise his employment, either. As a matter of fact, if Mr Fuss were to find the pen on his own, he was certain that he would be compensated handsomely. Perhaps he’d even take his employer’s job.
A small, unpleasant smile played at Mr Fuss’s lips as he consulted his notes and the newspaper clippings. The girl was living with her ludicrously wealthy parents now, and the boy was starring in television adverts. Wasn’t that special? There was a chance that one or the other had information about The Professor and his various inventions and could be convinced to give that information up. It was a small chance, but it was one that must be taken.
But the children would be difficult to get to. Freelancers, unfortunately, would have to be hired. Mr Fuss could not afford to be associated with the plan until the mission was completed.
Mr Fuss refolded the articles and clipped them into the planner. The planner then went back into the coat pocket. Suddenly, Mr Fuss was very tired. And in addition to formulating some sort of plan to find the pen, he still had four other unfinished tasks on his list for today. Ah well. He could go get himself a “magic” pretzel first. And he would take the subway uptown. Unlike most people who lived in the city, Mr Fuss enjoyed the subway. It was quiet and gloomy and most of the idiots who thought they could fly didn’t bother with it. He didn’t even mind the alligators. Sweet, really, when you got to know them. Mr Fuss took a moment to admire his own alligator-skin boots.
Mr Fuss stood up from the bench, walked over to the Bleecker Street subway station and trudged down the steps.
There, at the bottom of the steps, was a leather-clad, Mohawk-haired, combat boot–wearing Punk spray-painting a message on the wall: SID WAS HERE. Next to this, the Punk had painted something that looked like a beetle or maybe a happy face with a birthday hat. It was difficult to tell. Still, the Punk was concentrating on this bit of nonsense as if it were the finest work of art that had ever been painted.
Hmmm, thought Mr Fuss. This could work.
After about ten minutes, the Punk noticed Mr Fuss. “Whatcha lookin’ at?” he snarled, his wolfish eyes black as, er, black.
Mr Fuss smiled politely. “You’re quite the artist.”
The Punk blinked. “Not that anyone appreciates it.”
“Oh,” said Mr Fuss, “I am a great appreciator of art like yours. Outsider art – art produced by those people outside the traditional art establishment.”
“I’m not in any tradition,” the Punk barked. “I’m not in any establishment.”
“Of course you’re not,” said Mr Fuss smoothly. “You know, I believe you could make a lot of money. If you knew the right people.”
“I could?”
“Oh, absolutely.”
The Punk set his spray can on the ground. “Are you the right people?”
Mr Fuss smiled. “I am exactly the right people.”
Chapter 1
The Saddest Little Rich Girl in the Universe
Her given name was Georgetta Rose Aster Bloomington, and she was, literally, The Richest Girl in the Universe. Most people would find this to be a pleasant situation involving lots of shopping and diamonds and yachting around the Mediterranean, but not Georgetta Rose Aster Bloomington. She didn’t care much about having more money than everyone else.
But other people cared.
A lot.
People like Roma Radisson.
Roma Radisson was officially The Second-richest Girl in the Universe. And she was not happy about it. Roma was doing her very best to make sure that everybody, especially Georgetta Rose Aster Bloomington, knew it.
“I hope you all found the dinosaurs as fascinating as I did! Next up is the Hall of Primitive Mammals,” said Ms Storia as she led the girls of the Prince School through the American Museum of Natural History.
“Primitive Mammals,” Roma repeated. “Well, Georgetta Bloomington should be right at home.”
As the other girls snickered, Georgetta, or Georgie, as her parents called her, flushed angrily and looked down at the floor. She had been at the Prince School for just three weeks, but she had already spent many days flushing angrily and staring at the floors. And now here she was, on her very first school trip, counting dots in the tiles while she tried to follow her parents’ advice. Just ignore it. But just ignoring it wasn’t going so well.
“I hear that those ancient mammals were giants, too,” Roma said. “Maybe there’s a giant monkey in there. Maybe it’s your long-lost aunt.”
You’re the monkey, thought Georgie. Except that was too stupid to say. Also, an insult to monkeys. Dunkleosteus, a vicious sea predator with jaws so sharp they could cut through bone – now that was more like Roma. Georgie almost said so, but she knew that just saying the word Dunkleosteus would get her labelled the worst sort of egghead-nerd-freak. At the Prince School, it was not cool to know things.
“That’s enough, Roma,” said Ms Storia, as if that was going to stop Roma. Roma had been keeping up a steady stream of insults since they came to the museum. Georgie was related to the walrus. Georgie was related to the squid (which Roma had wrongly called an octopus. Georgie made the mistake of pointing out the obvious differences between a squid and an octopus, something that Roma said only proved her point).
But this time Roma shrugged and flounced into the Hall of Primitive Mammals, her fire-red hair a beacon for the others. Wherever Roma went, the other girls of the Prince School quickly followed. The only one who didn’t was the senior girl acting as a chaperone, who seemed to prefer the long-dead animals on display to the pack of princesses she was supposed to be chaperoning.
Georgie tried to hide in the middle of the pack, tuning out Ms Storia’s talk about how the platypus had so many primitive features it was called a “living fossil” and wasn’t that just fascinating? Georgie wished she were back at home with her parents, discussing their plans for the day, the way they had all winter and into the spring. Some days, they went to one of the city’s many museums. Most days, they went to the library and picked out books for Georgie to read. Even though The Richest Girl in the Universe could have purchased every book in the city and still have enough left over to buy a few planets, Georgie thought it was lovely to be able to borrow any book you wanted, and then bring it back and exchange it for another.
Before you think Georgie a skull short of a full skeleton, you must understand that there were very good reasons for Georgie’s lack of interest in the truly mind-boggling amount of money she had. You see, Georgetta Rose Aster Bloomington wasn’t always The Richest Girl in the Universe. As a matter of fact, she wasn’t always known as Georgetta Rose Aster Bloomington. Just six months before, Georgetta Rose Aster Bloomington was a girl named Gurl who lived in a miserable orphanage. There, she spent much of her time daydreaming about a happy life, a real life, without ever expecting to live one. But reality turned out to be more mind-boggling than any daydream. Half a year ago, she learned a lot of things about her life, among them:
1 That she had been kidnapped by the gangster Sweetcheeks Grabowski when she was just a baby.
2 That she was subsequently lost by the gangster Sweetcheeks Grabowski because of a special power she had, the power to turn herself invisible.
3 That she was found by a homeless woman and given to an orphanage called Hope House for the Homeless and Hopeless.
4 That Georgie escaped Hope House for the Homeless and Hopeless with the help of her good friend Bug, who turned out to be none other than the son of the gangster Sweetcheeks Grabowski.
5 That her real parents were The Richest Couple in the Universe. And finally:
6 That this was an awful lot for a person to take in and still remain sane.
But Georgie was doing her best to adjust to her new life as well as she could, and that included trying to ignore the snotty second-, third-and fourth-richest girls in the universe and paying attention on school trips. Up ahead, Ms Storia was yammering enthusiastically about the development of marsupials. At least that was better than the teachers at Hope House for the Homeless and Hopeless. The only animals they ever wanted to talk about were the ones that could fly.
“Next up,” Ms Storia said, “is the Hall of Flight! We’ll see birds, of course, but also flying squirrels and insects! And we’ll see how scientists are studying the evolution of human flight! Isn’t that fascinating?”
Sigh.
“We are going to learn so many important things!”
Uh-huh, thought Georgie. The most important thing that Georgie had learned in the last six months was the fact that money does not buy happiness. Because as happy as Georgie was with her parents, there were many other things that made Georgie unhappy.
“Ow!” said Bethany Tiffany when Georgie accidentally crashed into her.
“Sorry,” Georgie muttered.
“That is the third time you’ve bumped into me!” Bethany said, rubbing her elbow as if Georgie had hit it with a hammer.
“I said sorry.”
“You’re always bumping into people and you’re always sorry.”
Georgie clenched her teeth to refrain from saying something rude about Bethany’s tiara. Georgie’d had a growth spurt that had happened overnight and her body wasn’t her own any more. The doctor said it was from good nutrition and seemed pleased by this turn of events. Georgie, whose joints ached and whose feet grew so fast that her parents couldn’t keep her in shoes, wasn’t as pleased. She felt like a marionette, all arms and legs jangling and none of them ever under her control.
This wouldn’t be so bad if she wasn’t a leadfoot – a person who couldn’t fly at all. Apparently, you can have more money than everyone in the universe put together, but if you can’t fly even a smidge, well, then you might as well be living in Hope House for the Homeless and Hopeless, eating lard on toast and getting pounded by a girl called Digger (who got her name because she picked her nose). And it didn’t matter that Georgie had a special power all her own. The fact that she could turn herself invisible – that she was the first person in more than a century who could – was the reason she had been kidnapped by Sweetcheeks Grabowski in the first place. Her parents didn’t want to take the risk ever again. They had made her promise that she wouldn’t use the power or even mention it. They had told her to trust no one with her secrets. And that meant that it was impossible to make a real friend.
“Fly, I mean, walk with us, Georgetta.”
The red-haired goddess herself, Roma Radisson, appeared next to Bethany Tiffany and London England. Georgie was immediately suspicious.
“Georgie,” Roma simpered. “We were just kidding before. We didn’t mean anything by it.”
Right, thought Georgie. Roma meant every spiteful word she said. But then, even with everything Georgie had been through, she was a deeply curious girl, the kind of girl who watches the world and misses nothing; she wanted to know why Roma was talking to her. And though she would never have admitted it, Georgie was also a hopeful girl. In the back of her mind, a little voice told her that maybe, maybe, if she were nice to Roma, if she could joke and laugh like the rest of the girls, Roma might be nice to her.
“Tell us,” Roma said. “Were you really kidnapped when you were a baby?”
Even though the story had been in the papers for months and months, everyone always asked the same questions over and over again, as if Georgie would suddenly answer them differently. “I was kidnapped by Sweetcheeks Grabowski. He’s in jail.”
“Amazing!” said London. “And is it true that no one could find you for years and years, and you lived in an orphanage practically your whole life?”
Georgie nodded. “I didn’t even know my real name.”
“Speaking of real,” London said, eyeing Georgie’s thick silver ponytail and fluffing her own blond curls with her fingers, “is that your real hair?”
“Whose hair would it be?” Georgie joked.
The other girls gave each other funny looks, and not the kind that indicated they thought Georgie’s joke was amusing. “Well, anyway,” said Roma, fanning the air. “I bet that orphanage was just so grimy and horrible. I did a TV special once where I had to meet some poor people. They sent me to a farm. I had to pick tomatoes. Awful! I had dirt under my fingernails and everything!”
“At least you could have eaten the tomatoes,” Georgie said. “At the orphanage, I was always hungry.” The girls gaped at her. So much for joking. Since Georgie was always trying not to reveal too much, she was prone to saying strange and unfunny things. (When you’ve spent years in an orphanage shunned by everyone but a cat, you’re prone to saying strange and unfunny things.) Georgie cleared her throat. “So, you were on TV? Was it, uh, cool?”
“She’s been on TV thousands of times,” Bethany said, eyes so green that Georgie wondered if Bethany had ordered them from a boutique. “You haven’t seen Roma’s advert for Cherry Bomb lip balm?”
“Or the video from her new CD, Don’t Get Up, Get Down?” said London.
“Or the ads for Jump Jeans?” said Roma.
“No,” said Georgie. “I don’t watch much TV.”
“What do you do?” Roma demanded.
“Well,” Georgie said. “I’ve been reading a lot.”
“Reading!” London said, her sky-blue eyes wide. “Why would you do that?”
Roma admired her French manicure, glancing askance at London. “Have you ever thought, London, that she’s been reading my memoir, Fabulousity?”
“Oh!” said London. “Right. That’s a different story.”
Georgie didn’t believe that fabulousity was an actual word, but she decided not to say so. Instead, she said another wrong thing. “I’ve been reading From the Mixed-up Files of Mrs Basil E Frankweiler.”
“The mixed up what?” London said.
“That’s a kid’s book!” said Bethany in horror.
Georgie was tempted to point out that, technically, they were still considered kids, at least by adults too dim to know better, so a “kid” reading a kid’s book wasn’t so surprising, but somehow knew that wasn’t the right thing to say. She was also tempted to tell the girls how thrilling it was to pore over all the books she’d missed reading as a child, but then she knew that wasn’t the right thing to say either. Georgie lumbered along, trying to figure out something fabulous and witty to talk about. Mechanical monkeys stole my memory? No, too crazy. My cat Noodle is really unusual, even for a cat. She’s what they call a Riddle, see, and she can put you in a trance if she wants to… no, too childish. Um, there are giant rats with filed teeth living underground that call themselves The Sewer Rats of Satan. They’re obsessed with kittens. No, too bizarre.
“So tell us about Bug Grabowski,” Roma said, stopping to stare at yet another mounted skeleton of something or another. “Is he really Sweetcheeks’s son?”
“Yes.”
“Oooh! A gangster’s boy! How dangerous!” said London.
“Well,” said Georgie. “It was until they threw Sweetcheeks in jail. Now he’s just a regular boy.”
“Not such a regular boy,” said Bethany. “Is he your boyfriend?”
Georgie felt herself flush. “No, he’s not my boyfriend.”
“Did you see that advert he did for Rocket Boards?” Bethany said. “Those muscles!”
Ever since Bug was declared the youngest winner of the citywide Flyfest competition, he’d been spending hours and hours every day working out with his personal trainer. Like Georgie, Bug had also grown some centimetres… wider. His biceps bulged and his stomach now looked as if someone had carved furrows in it. Georgie still hadn’t decided whether she liked it or not, but it was clear that Roma, London and Bethany did.
“He’s got the most interesting face,” Roma said, which, to Georgie, was a polite way of saying that Bug looked a lot like a bug. “If he’s not your boyfriend,” said Roma, “you won’t mind setting me up.”
“Setting you up?” said Georgie. “But…” She trailed off. She wanted to say that she never saw Bug herself, now that he was so famous. And then she wanted to say that Bug was just another reason she knew money couldn’t buy happiness. That the last time she did see him, months ago, things hadn’t gone so well. He couldn’t seem to remember her real name and kept calling her Gurl, and she didn’t know what to say about his father being… well, his father. She asked him if he wanted to go flying and he bragged about a late-night photo shoot he’d been on and how that had made him too tired to do anything. He asked her if she wanted to turn them both invisible and wander around the city, but she told him that her parents didn’t want her to do that any more. They’d sat at the Bloomingtons’ huge dining room table and pushed the chef’s food around their plates in silence.
But Georgie wouldn’t talk about any of this with Roma, London, and Bethany. And even if Georgie wanted to talk to them, they wouldn’t have given her the chance.
“What?” said Roma. “You don’t think I’m good enough for him?”
You’re not, Georgie thought. “No!” Georgie said. “It’s just…”
“It’s just what?” Roma snapped.
“Nothing,” Georgie said. “I meant—”
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