I was alive.
CHAPTER 5
MOXIE UNDERBRIDGE LIVED IN A tall and curvaceous tower on the south side of Astor Place. The neighborhood was full of weathered colonnades and arched windows, but Moxie’s building was shiny-new and wrapped in sinuous reflective glass. The mirrored checkerboard of its windows divided the sky overhead into a pack of blue-and-white playing cards.
“This looks fancy,” Nisha said to Darcy.
“It should be fancy,” said their mother. “If that woman is putting my daughter here.”
“Moxie isn’t putting me here. She’s letting me borrow it.” Darcy muttered this softly enough that a passing taxi swept her words away. In two weeks she would be moving into her own apartment, which would no way be this fancy—or secure. Best not to start her mother thinking about that.
The lobby was even more impressive, with an arched marble ceiling and a chandelier with electric bulbs that flickered like tiny gas lamps. Before Darcy could open her mouth, the uniformed doorman said, “You must be Miss Patel.”
Moxie had told the building management Darcy was coming, of course, and how many young Indian girls strolled into this building every day? But it was still intimidatingly efficient.
“Yes, she is,” her mother said when Darcy was too slow answering.
The doorman nodded. “I understand you already have the keys, Miss Patel?”
Darcy nodded back at him, her fingers dipping into the outside pocket of her laptop case. The arrival of Moxie’s keys a week ago had reignited the whole college deferment battle with her parents, and Darcy had hidden them beneath her mattress, half fearing that her mother would steal them.
“You two go ahead.” Annika Patel flicked a hand at the elevators. “I’ll wait here. Who knows how long it’ll take your father to find a parking spot!”
Darcy blinked. Were they actually being allowed to go up alone?
Nisha grabbed her hand and pulled her forward.
* * *
At Darcy’s first hesitation with the keys, Nisha snatched them away and made short work of Moxie’s two dead bolt locks. She strode through the door, kicking off her shoes with a victorious smirk. Darcy followed, slightly miffed that her little sister had crossed the threshold first.
The foyer spilled down a few steps into the living room, where sunlight filtered through a curtain that snaked along the floor-to-ceiling windows. Nisha took hold of one end and slid the curtain along its runners, the nineteenth-story view spilling open in her wake.
“Be careful with . . .” Darcy swallowed the rest of her warning. This would be her apartment for two whole weeks, but Nisha was driving back to Philly with their parents in a couple of hours. It was only fair to let her enjoy it. It was strange to think that tonight, her little sister wouldn’t be a few footsteps or a shout away.
As the serpentine expanse of glass drew open, the city seemed to wrap around them: rooftop gardens with stunted trees in pots, water towers like chunky flying saucers, the spires of distant skyscrapers.
Nisha stared wide-eyed at the view. “Holy crapstick. Your agent must be loaded.”
“My agent is kick-ass,” Darcy said softly, slipping off her shoes and setting her laptop case on the couch.
“That’s number eleven!” Nisha didn’t turn from the view. “You owe me a dollar, Patel.”
Darcy smiled. “Money well spent.”
“Why the hell does your agent go on vacation? It’s so awesome here.”
“It’s probably nice on the French Riviera too.” Darcy was fairly certain of that, but Nisha’s point stood. How could Moxie stand to leave this view behind?
“The French Riviera,” Nisha said slowly, as if all three words were new to her. “Agents make more than authors, don’t they?”
“Um, I think that depends.”
“Well, she gets fifteen percent of your money, right?”
“Yes,” Darcy sighed. She’d already had this discussion with Dad, who’d offered to negotiate the contract himself for a mere 2 percent of the advance. He was good at missing the point that way.
“And how many clients does she have?”
“Maybe thirty?” While writing her query letter, Darcy had dutifully googled them all. “Thirty-five?”
“Damn!” Nisha turned from the window, triumphant. “Fifteen percent is a seventh of a hundred percent, and a seventh of thirty-five is five. So Moxie makes about five times as much as her average author.”
“I guess.” Darcy was pretty sure that Nisha was missing something too. “But I think most writers make, like, zero dollars most years. Not that you should tell the parentals that.”
“My lips are sealed.” Nisha smiled. “But forget writing. When I grow up I’m going to be an agent.”
A squawk came from another room, and Nisha jumped up onto the big living room couch. “What the hell!”
“Relax,” Darcy said, remembering the email from Max, Moxie’s personal assistant. “That’s Sodapop. He’s a parrot.”
“Your agent has a parrot?”
The squawk had come from an open door, which led into a room crowded with a huge bed, a duo of oak valets heaped with clothes, and a covered birdcage the size of a gas station pump.
Max usually fed Sodapop while Moxie was away, but it would be Darcy’s job for the next two weeks. She approached the cage, and heard a feathery shuffling from inside.
She reached up and pulled the cover off. A brilliant blue bird with streaks of yellow and red in its tail gave her a cockeyed stare.
“Hello?” Darcy said.
“Want a cracker?” Nisha said from the doorway.
“Let’s try to avoid clichés.” Darcy held the bird’s stare. “Do you talk?”
“Birds don’t talk,” the parrot said.
Nisha shook her head. “That’s fucked-up.”
“Don’t teach my agent’s parrot to swear.”
“Two dollars.”
“Whatever.” Darcy turned to survey the rest of the room. A half-open sliding door revealed a large black marble tub, and another door stood closed. She crossed to open it and peeked inside. “Oh, my god.”
“What is it, Patel?” Nisha was headed across the room. “Porn stash? Author dungeon?”
“No. It’s a . . .” Darcy tried to wrap her head around the space. “I think it’s a closet.”
It was as large as her parents’ bedroom at home. Two poles stretched from wall to wall on either side, bowed under the weight of dresses in plastic covers and suit jackets with tissue paper stuffed into their sleeves. Directly across from the door were ranks of glass-fronted drawers, with a bank of cubbyholes along the bottom stuffed full of shoes.
Darcy walked into the closet, peering through the little glass windows into the drawers. Each held exactly three shirts, neatly folded and with a white curl of cardboard keeping their collars stiff.
“Whoa,” came Nisha’s voice from the closet door.
“Look at these drawers,” Darcy said, close enough to fog the glass. “You can see what’s inside before you open them!”
She pulled on a handle, and the shirts rolled out with the shush of hidden little wheels. When she pushed, the drawer drifted slowly closed, pausing for a moment before shutting, as if an invisible hand guided its passage.