Motion (Page 5)

I glanced at my watch, it was only 1:00 PM. I considered calling the lawyer to check on the status of Lisa’s release even though she’d just touched base a few hours ago and I’d left her a voice message already.

“Your backpack.” Gabby flicked my bag. “What are you doing with that? Where will you put it?”

“Um.” My steps faltered. “I hadn’t thought about that.” I was bad at this. What other lying logistics had I not considered?

She continued to eye it. “What’s inside? Clothes?”

“My computer, research notes, wallet, phone.”

Gabby started shaking her head before I’d finished speaking. “Ah, no. You can’t bring that to the house. Lisa said Abram was supposed to take her phone as soon as she got there, right? Well then, he’ll definitely take—and probably search—your backpack. If he searches your backpack, he’ll know you’re you and not Lisa. Plus, he’ll find your phone, and you’re supposed to pretend like you left it behind.”

I scowled even though she was right. None of her valid points had occurred to me. “I guess I could go back to O’Hare, bag check it at the Westin, and pick it up on my way out of town next week.” I didn’t like the thought of being separated from my research or my journal.

She inspected me. “When we get to your block, give it to me. I’ll carry it the rest of the way and say it’s mine if he asks.”

I shifted away from her, distrustful. “What will you do with it?”

She made another of her give-me-a-break faces. “I’ll put it in your room—in Mona’s room—when we go upstairs. By the way, don’t forget, your room is Lisa’s room. Because you are Lisa and you don’t tell physics jokes. You tell peen and poop jokes like all self-respecting feminists.”

“You’re not going to take it?” I lifted my chin, scrutinizing her dependability in this particular situation. “If you try to take my backpack out of the house, I’ll break character right there and tell Abraham the truth.”

“You have trust issues. Don’t worry, I won’t take your precious backpack. It doesn’t match my ensemble. And it’s Abram, not Abraham.”

Speaking of not-Abraham. “Have you met him?”

Gabby gave me a meaningful look and kept on walking. Unfortunately, I’d never been gifted at deciphering meaningful looks.

I tried again. “So you do know him? Or what?”

“Abram?” Gabby blinked, once, hard. “Lisa didn’t tell you about Abram?”

I shook my head.

“Leo didn’t introduce you? They’re, like, best friends.”

“No. Leo never mentioned him.” When Leo and I talked, it was once every six months and typically focused on him telling me about his upcoming gigs as well as questioning me about girls—how they thought, why they did certain things, etc. He rarely mentioned his friend group, if at all. I’d tried to explain that I didn’t understand girls. Or people. He persisted. As such, I did my best to offer generalizable theories about female behavior.

Gabby stopped, blinking several times as though her brain was having difficulty accepting my words. “Oh, Mona. You are in for a treat.” Flipping her braids over her shoulder, she’d placed special emphasis on the word treat.

I glanced from side to side. “Why? Does he abhor superstring theory?”

She made another face of distaste, or at least tried to. I caught the tail end of a suppressed smile as she said, “I know him a lot better than Lisa does, because sometimes I hang with Leo when he’s in town. Abram can be uptight, for sure, but he’s also a big flirt. And woman, he’s so gorgeous it hurts. I mean, it physically hurts my hoo-hah to look at him in the best, hoo-hah happiest way. He’s so gorgeous, I’ve already forgiven him for being mean to our girl. And he’s a musician.”

She paused here to bite her bottom lip and look at the sky. “Writes his own music,” she moaned, “plays the bass guitar, and the piano, and every other instrument, and he sings. And when he sings, it makes my panties want to melt right off my body. Just whoop”—she made a swooping motion with her hand, gesturing from her crotch to the sidewalk—“they want to melt right off.”

“Is he smart?”

“Uh, what?” Her gaze flickered over me, leaving me with the impression I’d disappointed her. “Here I am talking about his fineness, and you have to rain on my parade by asking about his brains?”

“Is he smart?” I repeated.

“Does it matter?”

Don’t make another physics joke about matter! “It’s relevant if his level of intelligence means he’ll deduce I’m not Lisa.”

“Okay, first of all”—she lifted a finger between us—“you can’t speak like that.”

“Like what?”

“Don’t use words like deduce or relevant.” Gabby over-pronounced the offending words, obviously attempting an impression of me.

“Fine.” A flutter of disquiet hit my stomach, which I hid. “Maybe I won’t speak at all.”

“That works. Don’t speak. Or, just give one-word answers. For example: no, yes, what, who, when, whatever. If in doubt, saying whatever usually works.” Gabby turned back to the sidewalk and we both began walking again.

While interacting with people about non-academic topics, I’d experienced my fair share of difficulty knowing how to segue into a new subject, or how to end a conversation, or knowing what to say when people over-shared. When I was fifteen, I stumbled across a list of phrases that mostly worked for any occasion, and I’d put them into practice with varying levels of success.

Phrases like But at what cost?

Or In this economy?

Or So . . . it has come to this.

Or So let it be written, so let it be done.

Or my personal favorite for when I didn’t know how to end a sentence or complete a thought . . . And then the wolves came.

These phrases seemed to work best when attempting to diffuse a tense situation or confuse the other person long enough for me to make my escape. Regardless, in the same spirit, I appreciated Gabby’s tip. I could default to saying whatever. That would be fine.

“Just don’t say anything obviously Mona-like,” she continued. “You look so much like Lisa, I don’t think the possibility that you’re Mona will even occur to him.”

“But he’s met Lisa.”

“Yes, but for like five minutes. He doesn’t really know her. Lisa only met him the one time, when we crashed one of your brother’s parties.” She paused here, sighing wistfully, as though remembering the encounter, and then added, “And even though they barely interacted, he was kind of a dick to Lisa.”

He’d been “a dick” to her? That triggered the ingrained protective-sister sonar. Regardless of how close (or not) we were, sister-sonar meant I would automatically dislike anyone who’d been “a dick” to Lisa, no matter how much hoo-hah happiness he inspired. Hoo-hah happiness was irrelevant.

“What did he say to her?”

“They didn’t really, uh, talk.”

Even with my paltry conversation-nuance detection skills, I picked up on the weird way she said talk. “Expand on that, please.”

Gabby waved her hand in the air, dismissing my question. “Whatever, it’s not important. Getting back to your original question, Abram might be smart, I don’t know. But he doesn’t know Lisa well enough to tell the difference between the two of you as long as you don’t go around telling physics jokes and asking him to deduce or expand on things.”

“Fine.” I turned and continued walking toward the house, wondering if Gabby would fly off the handle again if I asked about Lisa’s arrest. Not wanting to inspire another round of insults, I tried a different—but related—topic. “So, why Abram? Why did my parents choose Abram to keep an eye on Lisa?”

“Uh, I don’t really know. According to Lisa, when I talked to her yesterday on the phone and we discussed the plan, she made it sound like he just happened to be in the right place at the wrong time.”

“Was she okay? When you talked to her?”

Gabby sent me a sharp, irritated glare. “How do you think she was?”

Okay, fine. Don’t ask Gabby about Lisa. Got it.

“Anyway—” Gabby flipped her braids, her tone growing lofty “—Lisa said that your brother was supposed to be at the house this summer, but that he went down to Florida for a thing.”

“I think he has work in Miami.” The last time I spoke to Leo, he’d mentioned spending part of the summer in south Florida, playing a few clubs.

“Yeah, something like that. So, I guess your guardian lady was supposed to step in and watch the house. What’s her name?”

“You mean Dr. Steward? She can’t, I think she’s in China.” I was nineteen now, but the day after I’d turned eighteen, Dr. Steward had taken off to travel the world. She’d been planning the trip for as long as I’d known her.

“That’s right. So, until Dr. Steward comes back, your brother suggested Abram keep an eye on the house. I think he’s being paid to house-sit. So when your parents issued the ultimatum that Lisa had to go home and wait for their return, they asked Leo to ask Abram to keep an eye on her.”