Chapter #75The Court of the Doppelganger Queen by: Seuzz   "Sure, I'd love to," you tell Hennepin and his friends. "I've never been to Andrea's."
Looks of incredulity—mingled with horror—are exchanged by Hennepin and Semple and some of the others. But it's too late now. You have been invited, and you have accepted.
You've no idea what kind of people show up at Andrea Varnsworth's house, but if you had to wager, you'd bet on this crowd: Karl Hennepin, Adrian Semple, Connor Davison, Andrew Harding, Lee Reynolds. The first two, of course, are regular customers of yours. The others, though scruffy, have always politely turned you away. Maybe they're genuinely not interested in weed. Or maybe they just never wanted to associate with Gary Chen.
This afternoon may prove a test of them. How will they react to Andrea Varnsworth if she pulls out a joint?
* * * * *
Happy whoops break out as you walk into Andrea's. They're not for you, though, but those with you, and a brief damper falls over the celebratory sounds when you cross the threshold.
Andrea's house is a couple of blocks west of the downtown district, not far from a sketchy neighborhood, and it looks like a migrant from that neighborhood. It is smaller than its neighbors and sits on a smaller lot. But it is tidy and well kempt, and the living room just inside the front door is very sparsely furnished with a futon, a bookshelf, and a desk and chair set. The floor is wood. In all, it looks like the kind of place that's been permanently laid out for a party. It's already crowded enough for one.
Music is playing on an old-fashioned boom box: something with a steady beat, but it's not playing so loud that it would disturb the neighbors, and the beat is muffled by the bodies of the guests. Besides the recent arrivals—yourself, Hennepin, Semple, Davison, Harding and Reynolds—you catch glimpses of Eric Harlen, Rebecca Sykes, Sienna Goldman, and Roy Booth. Jelena Petrovic and Fatima Zahedi are sitting on the futon, flanking the queen of the crowd, Andrea herself.
Her eye flicks with amusement over the faces of the newcomers, and she almost misses yours. But just as she's turning away she catches sight of you. A tiny smile flashes over her face, but it doesn't linger, and it vanishes as she leans over to listen to something Fatima is saying to her.
It doesn't look like a stimulant party: you only see colas out. Mostly it feels like the start of a late-afternoon hangout session. More people are apparently expected, for you hear snatches of conversation, like "Yeah, Tackett's coming as soon as he picks up Kevin" and "I'll ask Brewer when he gets here."
No one snags your elbow for a conversation, and no one offers you anything, so you duck through a doorway and down a very short hall into a kitchen. There are two friendlier faces here: Brad Murphy and Spencer Osbourne. "Whoa, hey, it's Chen," the latter gasps; his mouth widens into a grin. Brad just blinks like he's been slapped; but he always looks like he's just been slapped, and has been surprised by the assault. "Why'd they let you inside?" Osbourne teases.
"They heard you were coming and knew you'd need disciplining." Osbourne laughs at your gibe. "When the fuck are you gonna start going to classes again?"
"Soon as they start showing the lectures in IMAX. When are you gonna start ditching, start hanging out more with me and the Bradster?" He slaps Murphy in the chest; his friend blinks again, and looks startled. "You give us a buzz."
"Yeah, but I got parents who give a shit. Don't yours? What does your dad do?"
"Nothing." He scratches his cheek against his shoulder; his bristly blonde whiskers are almost as long as his bristly blonde hair. "But Bradley's dad's an airline pilot, you know," he adds slyly.
"Huh?" says Brad, and jerks a little.
"Huh?" Osbourne snickers. "Isn't he always at, like, thirty-five thousand feet?"
"What?" Brad's breathing turns labored, and a little panic appears in his eye. "No, he works at Target. He's a floor, uh, something."
"He's a floor? A tile floor?" Osbourne grins, and nudges you.
"No! He's— Are you fucking with me?" Brad's nose and cheeks are raw from acne, and they flush more deeply with confusion.
"Hey Murphy, does your dad, uh—?" You mime taking a toke.
"No!" Murphy looks genuinely offended. "He like, goes to church and stuff!"
"Then why does he always seem like he's up in the clouds?" Spencer asks. "Must be a genetic thing," he adds when Brad only gapes back. "Oh, but speaking of things that take you up high." He glances back into the living room before leaning in with a lowered voice. "You got any—?" He waggles his eyebrows.
"Talk to me tomorrow, can get you as much as you need. Which is how much?"
Spencer rolls his tongue in his cheek, then holds up four fingers. Then his thumb pops out. "How about you, Bradical Man?"
"Huh?"
"Huh? I'm gettin' five from Chen here, for me and Wooten and the weekend. How much do you want?"
"How much what?"
"Jesus, man. Ganja. How much do you want to buy?" Spencer carefully enunciates each word over a sudden upsurge of noise in the living room.
"Oh, I don't have any on me."
"Just give me a number. I'm getting five."
"Then I'll take one."
"That'll hold you through the weekend?"
"The weekend?" Brad's expression of perpetual panic deepens. "Oh. No, I better stock up on, like, uh— Five?"
Spencer gives you a look. "Better bring all you got tomorrow. I'll handle the transactions for both of us." He half turns at the sound of a door slamming from a room beyond the kitchen. "Ah, sounds like Reston's finished watering the garden."
"Fuck, is Reston here?" you say. "I'll go mingle with the others. I don't need to hang out with no midget bassist." Osbourne only shrugs.
You back out down the hallway. There's another door there, and it opens as you pass: Rebecca Sykes comes out, bumps into you. "Sorry," she says through a tight smile, and pushes in front of you and into the living room.
Dammit, she's a cute thing. Tiny. The top of her head barely touches the top of your shoulder, and that's with the high heels. She looks like she's prepped for clubbing, with a leopard-pattern jacket over a tight black dress, inside of which her butt waggles invitingly as she walks away. Her dark red hair, which is flat and straight on the top of her head, curves into loose curls as it falls below her shoulders. You suck in a sharp, lustful breath as she squeezes between classmates and tucks herself under the arm of Eric Harlen.
More people came in while you were in the kitchen. Hartlein is no surprise to see; nor is the sight of his fellow theater whores Christian Padilla and James Brewer. Hartlein is laughing shrilly, and he doesn't change expression when he sees you, though he does turn away and says something to Padilla, who in response glances in your direction.
But you don't care. You slide over next to Roy Booth, who's by the boom box, bobbing his head. You put your mouth by his ear. "I'm bringing in a couple of baggies tomorrow. You in the market for some?"
"Nah, I get mine from someone else," he says. He jerks his chin at a scene behind you. "Maybe you should talk to Andrea, though."
You turn. Andrea, still on the futon, has a burning joint between her lips, and is looking up with a cool, quizzical smile at Semple. Fatima is staring at her with a scandalized expression. It turns to one of disgust when Andrea casually offers it to her. Jelena, who is frowning deeply, gets up. Connor Davison promptly flops down in her place. Andrea, smiling, offers it to him. He takes it awkwardly, smiling nervously back at her, and takes a hit that is clearly experimental.
"You give that to her?" you ask Booth.
"Nah. Maybe it was Reston. I didn't think she'd be into it. Try cultivatin' a relationship with her, man. Or maybe I'll tell my guy."
"She doesn't like me. I shouldn't even fucking be here."
* * * * *
You linger for a bit, then search for a private area. You find it in the back yard, which is dominated by a massive vegetable garden. You text Andrea, telling her where you are.
You wait a quarter hour before the swing door opens and she comes out. "You like my garden," she asks. "Matt Reston did. I should tell you about it. It's the only reason I'd be talking to you."
"I need cabbage," you say. "Four thousand. By the middle of next week."
"For how long?"
"Seven, eight days. You'd have it back by the fifth."
"That'll work. Remind me to bring it in."
"You don't want me coming back here?"
"You don't fit in. And I don't want people thinking you're where I'm getting—"
"I'm already denying it. You say your mom keeps the money in her silverware drawer?"
"Most of it."
"Then tomorrow, start telling people that a lot of it went missing, and you think I took it. Put me in the dog house. Also, do you know where Booth gets his bash?"
"From me. Well, Joe Thomason. What?" she asks when you laugh sharply.
"Nothing." He only suggested that Thomason should cultivate a "closer relationship" with Andrea. "I won't take the cash now, but you tell people—" The door behind her starts to open. "Need me to weed your garden, Andrea," you smoothly improvise as Padilla steps onto the back porch. "Get a good root growin' down in your bushes?"
"Get back inside, Chen" Andrea replies. "I want you where people can keep an eye on you."  indicates the next chapter needs to be written. |
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