Текст книги "The Unfortunate Importance of Beauty"

Автор книги: Amanda Filipacchi

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Then Jack takes his turn addressing the killer, who could, of course, be himself: “If you do what you intend, don’t assume we’ll help you afterward. We definitely won’t. You’ll be on your own.”

Strad squints, trying to understand. “You guys are not being clear. Is this about more than clearing the table and serving dessert? Is this about cleaning the kitchen? I can do that, too, if you want. It’s not that much work to throw out paper plates and plastic cutlery.”

Then I remember that even if it’s a bomb, it can’t go off after midnight because that was the rule KAY agreed to. “Strad,” I say. “I want you to wait until the evening is over before you get your present. I insist on that.”

“I’m sorry, I can’t. I want to find out now what it is. I’ll be just a minute.”

I heave myself out of my chair. The others get up as well. I keep an eye on Strad’s cup until all my friends have stepped away from the table.

“You didn’t need to get up. I’ll be right back,” Strad says, putting on his shoes.

We gather around him near the front door.

“Wait,” I say. “Let me call the doorman to make sure there really is a package. Maybe the call was a prank.”

I pick up the intercom’s receiver and I call downstairs.

Adam answers.

I begin, “Hi, this is Barb—”

“What do you want, ass-head? Make it quick. Your voice gives me ear infections.”

“Did someone drop off a package for one of my guests?”

“Yeah.”

“Really? No one? Are you sure?”

Adam is silent and confused for a moment, and then says, “Are you normally this stupid or are you making a special effort right now?”

“His name is Strad. You have no package for Strad?”

“I have it right here.”

“Hmm. That’s weird. We got a message saying a package was dropped off with you.”

“If you’re having a stroke or something that requires the defibrillator let me know by banging your head three times against the phone and I’ll be sure to send the defibrillator up to you real slow.”

“Okay, thanks.” I hang up and turn to Strad. “He says there’s no package.”

“Really? Do you mind if I speak to him to be sure he didn’t make a mistake?”

“Of course he didn’t make a mistake. You heard how thorough I was.”

“Yeah, but still. I want to make sure.”

Clearly Strad won’t let this rest until either he speaks to Adam himself or goes downstairs and looks for the present with his own eyes. There’s no point in my trying to stop him. What’s important now is that I not let him call Adam, who would inform him I’ve been lying, which could offend Strad enough to make him leave and no longer be under our protection.

“No, I’ll do it,” I say, picking up the intercom phone before Strad can respond, though I do catch the expression of frustration on his face.

Adam answers.

“Hi, it’s me again,” I say.

“Stop plaguing me.”

“Sorry to bother you again, but could you please check in the back to make sure there isn’t a package for Strad? Maybe it was dropped off earlier when Bill was at the desk, and maybe he forgot to put it in the system.”

“What kind of game are you playing?” Adam asks me.

“Thanks,” I say. I wait enough time for Adam to theoretically go to the back, while in reality he’s treating me to a litany of insults. After a few more seconds I say into the phone, “Ah, you do have it? Great!”

“Leave me alone.”

“Well, that explains it. Thanks for checking.” I hang up.

“He does have it,” I tell Strad. “Sure enough, it got dropped off when Bill was on duty.”

“Great. I’ll get it. Don’t serve the fruit salad. I’ll do it when I get back.”

He walks out the door. We do as well.

“Be back in a jiffy!” he says, waving.

We flank him as he walks down the hallway.

“Why are you guys doing this? I’m not a moron; I won’t get lost a second time. You don’t even have your shoes on.”

“That’s all right,” Jack says. “The person on the phone didn’t say who they were or who the present was from. I’d stay as far away from that supposed present as possible if I were you.”

“Jack is a cop,” Lily adds. “He knows what he’s talking about. Let’s just go back to the apartment, Strad.”

Ignoring her suggestion, Strad steps into the elevator. We squeeze in around him.

“It’s wonderful to be escorted and embraced this way by your group, to be taken into your fold,” he says. “You guys must like me. I feel cuddled by five mother hens. Does this mean I’m part of your exclusive inner circle, now? Am I one of you?”

We don’t answer. When the elevator doors open again, we follow him down the long hallway to the second elevator. I’m in a trance, thinking that if we survive the opening of the present, I will take extra precautions for the rest of the evening, starting with his cell phone confiscation. I don’t care how strange it makes me look. Appearances are nothing. Anyway, it’s my apartment, my rules. And let’s not forget that there is also my special backup precaution, which I was hoping to avoid using due to its extreme deviance. But perhaps the time has come.

We take the second elevator down and arrive in the lobby.

Wanting to be the first to examine the box for any suspicious signs, I move ahead of my friends and go straight to the front desk, behind which Adam is standing.

“Hi, Adam. Can I have that package, please?”

Handing me the box, he leans toward my ear and whispers, “Scumbag.”

“Thank you so much,” I say, smiling.

I haven’t yet told my friends about the doorman’s strange behavior these past few months.

I look at the writing on the box. There’s no return name or address. Just the recipient’s name, Strad Ellison, c/o my name, and my apartment number.

“When was this dropped off?” I ask Adam.

He looks at me and knows he can’t insult me since my friends are next to me, staring at him, waiting for his answer.

“About half an hour ago,” he says. “And I’m very sorry about the misunderstanding we had on the phone when I kept telling you the package was right here, and you kept thinking I said it wasn’t. I’m glad we cleared that up, eventually.” He looks at my friends.

“Yes,” I say. Out of the corner of my eye, I can see Strad staring at me. “Who delivered it?” I ask Adam.

“A woman,” he says.

“Did she give her name?”

“No.”

“Did she say anything at all?”

“She said the package was for your guest, Strad Ellison. That’s all.”

“What did she look like?”

“Asian. Early twenties. Shoulder-length hair.”

“Anything else you can remember?”

“No.”

“Thank you, Adam.”

He nods.

Strad takes the box from me. Luckily, it’s sealed tightly, so there’s no choice but to wait until we get back to my apartment to open it.

On our way up, I gaze at my friends’ faces. By dint of imagining each of them in the role of the killer, they’ve each become the killer in my eyes.

Back in my apartment, I instruct everybody to go to the couch area and stay there while I fetch the scissors from my bedroom.

Upon my return, I inform Strad that I must be the one to open the box, that I never let anyone handle my scissors.

“I’ve been meaning to ask you something,” he tells me. “You said earlier that you didn’t want anyone to be eccentric tonight. So I’m wondering, is this your version of not being eccentric? What I mean is, are you usually even more eccentric?”

Not sure what to answer, I meekly settle for: “I’m not being that eccentric. It’s just a habit I have with scissors.”

“Why did you lie about my package?”

“It made me nervous. You didn’t know who it was from.”

Georgia says, “Plus, we were having such a good time, why interrupt the fun?”

“Okay, open it,” he tells me.

“Everyone, step away,” I caution.

I don’t want anyone to make a lunge for whatever weapon might be in the box. And if it does turn out to be a bomb, the farther away they stand, the better.

“Farther,” I say. They take another step back. “You too, Strad.”

Everyone is now standing a good six feet away from me.

As I carefully cut the tape around the box, I start getting more worried that it might actually be a bomb.

“If you think you can zero in on your target with surgical precision, you are wrong,” I say, speaking to the killer while staring at the tape I’m cutting. “Perhaps you will hit your target, but you’ll hit us as well—yourself included—and me in particular. I’ll be disfigured beyond recognition, which is okay with me, but is it okay with you? I’ll be blinded, I may even get killed. So many of us could get killed. Do you really want to harm us this way? Is it really worth it?”

“Eccentric is not the right word,” Strad says to Lily, who smiles politely through her fear.

I continue addressing the killer: “Think about it. You don’t have much time. You better decide quickly because there won’t be any turning back once the box is opened.”

I glance at my friends. They all seem extremely tense, holding their breaths.

Penelope exhales suddenly and says, “I feel faint.” She sits on the couch.

I’ve finished cutting the tape. I lift the flaps, push aside the crumpled paper, and see my face staring back at me from the bottom of the box. It’s an antique-style mirror with a handle and an ornately molded frame. I take it out of the box.

The tension leaves the room like a change in cabin pressure.

I pull the rest of the packing paper out of the box. Nothing else is in it. No bomb, no weapon.

I turn the mirror over. Beautifully engraved on the back is the name “Strad” and underneath it are the words, “See Differently.”

“See differently?” Strad says. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Maybe someone wants you to see what kind of person you really are,” Georgia says.

“Or maybe someone wants you to see the people around you in another way,” Penelope says.

I puzzle over which of my friends sent this gift. It could have been any of them. It even could have been Lily, whose meaning behind the engraved words may have been: “Take a good look at yourself. Are you really so much more beautiful than I am?”

“Or maybe someone thinks you’re vain,” Jack offers.

Strad seems a bit disgruntled at these less than flattering interpretations. He finally suggests, “Or maybe someone thinks I’m a great guy and feels compelled to shower me with gifts.”

“One gift,” I mutter. “Hardly a shower.”

“Oh, it’s a shower. I call three gifts a shower. This is the third anonymous gift I’ve received.” He plunges his hand into his jeans pocket and pulls out two silver objects: a lighter and a business card holder. They are both beautifully engraved in a similar fashion. The words on the lighter, right under his name, are “Desire Differently.” And on the card holder: “Think Differently.”

I just stare.

“I like these gifts,” he says, putting them back in his pocket. “I just wish I knew who they were from. I haven’t told anyone I was coming here today, so whoever dropped this off must have followed me here, or been hired to follow me. Unless . . . they’re from one of you,” he says, his gaze lingering on Lily.

We all shake our heads no, including Lily, who blushes slightly.

I return the scissors to my bedroom. Clearly these gifts have to come from someone in our group. If KAY’s attack is only in the form of words engraved on a beautiful gift, I can handle that. The words aren’t even an insult—just a gentle suggestion. Perhaps I’ve been overly cautious. I tell myself to relax a bit. I’ve known my friends a long time and I should have a modicum of faith that none of them would commit murder. I pause, catching an error in my thinking, which I grimly correct: or at least commit murder a second time.

As I reenter the living room, I see that Georgia has stepped away from the couch area, where the others are chatting. She is casually approaching the hand mirror, which I’d placed on a little table between two windows.

My leeriness comes swirling back.

“Georgia! What are you doing?” I bark.

She seems flustered—a rare occurrence. “Nothing, I just wanted to examine the mirror.”

“Really.” My tone reeks of skepticism.

“Don’t let her!” This is Jack.

“Step away.” I march over to the mirror. “Why are you so interested in it?”

“I’m not so interested in it,” she says. “I’m just exhibiting a normal degree of curiosity.”

I pick up the mirror and examine it. We were so relieved it wasn’t a bomb, we forgot to be thorough. I turn it over, scrutinize the intricate molding.

And then I see something.

A tiny clasp that blends in with the molding. It’s located on one side of the handle, in the nook where the handle meets the mirror. I spot an identical one on the other side. Each clasp is encrusted with one tiny red stone which I had noticed but thought was just decoration. I open both clasps and pull on the handle.

With a grave metallic sound, a steel blade slides out. What a moment ago was a harmless object of vanity is now a dagger and its sheath.

Chapter Eleven

Everyone gathers around me.

My lips clenched, I study my friends.

I see profound shock and stricken features.

I just can’t tell which one’s faking it.

“Not so close,” I say, pointing the dagger at them. I wouldn’t want anyone to grab it from my hands and stab Strad.

They back up.

“Wow, look at that,” Strad says, oblivious. “How cool!” He takes the knife and mirror from me. “It’s an even better gift than I thought. Too bad I don’t know who it’s from.”

“Yes, it’s a shame,” I say, trying to unwrap Georgia’s soul with my eyes.

She gives me a little shake of the head to deny her culpability.

Far from being too cautious, it’s clear to me I was not nearly cautious enough. Drastic revisions of plans need to go into effect immediately.

“If you don’t mind, I must put that in the bedroom,” I tell Strad, tugging on the dagger and sheath.

“Why?” he says, letting them go.

“It’s my knives and weapons phobia.”

“Why are you guys so scared of me?” he asks. “I’m not going to hurt anyone!”

“Oh really?” Georgia replies, her tone dripping with sarcasm.

I notice Lily reacting with a barely perceptible cringe.

“And I need your cell phone, too,” I tell Strad.

“And what’s your pretext for that?” he asks, plopping it in my palm.

“Disliking interruptions.” I look at the assembly. “Couch area!” I order, pointing.

They shuffle to the couch.

I carry Strad’s gift and phone to my bedroom. Despite being deeply shaken up by the dagger’s unsheathing, I’m still not sure I want to resort to my special backup safety method. So I hold off for now.

I return to the living room with a nagging feeling that I’ve overlooked something.

And then it occurs to me.

“Strad, show me your other gifts again,” I say.

“Why? You want to take those away too?”

“Please, I just want to see them.”

He hands me his silver lighter and business card holder. I scrutinize both. After fiddling with them for a few moments, I discover a very well hidden razor blade built into the structure of each one. Once the blade is slid out, it remains attached to the object, which has become its handle.

“CUCKOO!” shrieks the bird ten times in the most obnoxious manner possible. It’s ten p.m.

“You are cuckoo, Barb, to have bought that clock,” Georgia says, clenching her heart with her hands.

“Those are fantastic gifts!” Strad says, thrilled to behold the hidden weapons.

I don’t share his enthusiasm. I visualize what could have happened tonight if I hadn’t discovered those blades. Maybe after dinner, while sitting on the couch having coffee, Strad would have taken out his lighter, lit a cigarette, and tossed the lighter onto the coffee table to await his next cigarette. (I would have allowed him to smoke since our priority this evening—his protection, not our comfort—requires him to stay with us till midnight.) My friend the killer would then have gotten up to stretch his/her legs, casually picked up the lighter “to look at it,” pulled out the blade, and sliced Strad’s jugular. Same thing could have happened with the business card holder if the opportunity had presented itself.

Who knows what other weapons the killer might have stashed or smuggled in, or simply have access to—starting with his or her own body, for Christ’s sake! I hadn’t thought of it till now, but here it is: what if the killer is a secret martial arts black belt and can inflict a lethal blow in a split second?

“Sit!” I order my friends, pointing to the couch.

I carry Strad’s silver gifts to my bedroom.

It’s clear to me I’ve got no choice but resort to my special backup method now.

I return from my bedroom holding four pairs of handcuffs I bought a couple of days ago.

I drag four chairs from the dining table to my ballet bar, which is parallel to the table, a few feet away from it. The fact that the bar is sturdy, horizontal, height-adjustable, and bolted to the floor makes it perfect for what I have in mind. I lower it to child level. I position the chairs side by side, behind the bar, and instruct my friends to take their seats.

They obey, only a little surprised. I handcuff their left wrists to the bar. They will be comfortable; their forearms can rest on the bar, which hovers a foot above their laps.

“What in the world are you doing?” Strad asks me, alarmed.

I’ve already come up with my excuse, so I confidently deliver it: “I’m about to serve the chocolate cake.”

“What does that have to do with handcuffs?”

“They go wild for that cake. Like beasts. I always have to handcuff them when I serve it.”

He stares at me.

“If I don’t restrain them, there’ll be no cake left for you,” I explain.

He still just looks on, not responding.

I continue—might as well prepare him: “And they must remain in the restraints not just for dessert, but until the end of the evening or at least until the effect of the cake has worn off. It takes a while.”

“The cake’s that good?” he finally says.

“Quite good.”

“I look forward to tasting it.” He frowns. “Why are you lowering the blinds?”

“It can get ugly once the cake kicks in, even with the handcuffs on. I’d rather the neighbors not see.” The truth is, the possibility of a sniper has only now dawned on me.

I also discreetly unplug the doorman intercom. I don’t want any more announcements of presents waiting downstairs, or, God forbid, visitors—hired visitors, hired killers, or even just innocent visitors who might be shocked at the sight of a dinner party with handcuffed guests.

I serve each of my friends a piece of chocolate cake and some fruit salad on a plate on their laps under the bar.

They begin eating the cake.

Strad watches them and starts laughing. “You guys remind me of cattle at the trough. It’s so degrading. Geniuses in chains. Well, at least some of you. I’ve got to take a photo of this. I brought my camera, actually. It’s in my bag.”

My friends look at him aghast, their gaping mouths full of chocolate cake. They turn their faces to me like spectators following a tennis match. In my court is where they think the ball is now. I’m sure they’re imagining this photo plastered all over the Internet.

“Are you out of your mind, Strad?” I say. “I’m horrified you would even suggest such a thing.”

“No need to get hysterical. I won’t take a photo, then. No problem. Actually, I’m honored that you’re letting me see your inner sanctum, your secret weirdness.”

Returning to the kitchen to cut Strad a piece of cake, I warn him: “And remember, stay away from them. They’ve had their first bite. They’re under the influence.”

“They seem very well-behaved to me.”

“They know they better be or they won’t get seconds.”

Strad and I take our seats at the table, facing the others. I nibble on my pear. He smokes and tastes the cake. He compliments me on it.

Strad tells us he read parts of Georgia’s novels aloud to his various past girlfriends.

“Oh, terrific,” Georgia says, sourly. “And how did they like them?”

“Depends on the girl. Some of them didn’t quite have the mental capacity to appreciate your work.”

“Really? You dated some dumb girls?”

“I’ve had my share.”

“Why?”

“They had other things going for them.”

“Like what?”

“Phenomenal looks.” Strad chortles smugly.

“That must be thrilling, dating a good-looking cretin,” Georgia says.

Penelope scornfully snorts.

“It can be, for a time,” Strad says.

“I suddenly feel less flattered that you like my books,” Georgia says. “Sounds like you’ve got bad taste. And you’re very shallow.”

He seems hurt, and in that moment, I catch a glimpse of what is the real problem with Strad (and by the same token, what the problem is for Lily): Strad is a somewhat endearing asshole. He’s a generally amiable guy with some odious opinions.

He finally responds to Georgia’s accusation with, “You feel that way because you’re a woman. It’s different for men. A man has to be physically attracted to a woman. If he can’t get it up for her, what is he supposed to do, shove it in with a stick?”

We’re all a little shocked. I steal a glance at Lily. She’s staring down at her plate, looking extremely uncomfortable.

Georgia recovers first and says to Strad, “Don’t worry, you’re not the only one in this room who has bad taste in romantic partners.”

“That’s good to hear,” Strad says, smiling at Jack with complicity. But then, noticing that Jack doesn’t return his smile, he says, “May I ask who it is?”

“No, you may not.” And then, after a beat, Georgia says to him, “Could you go for me?”

“What do you mean?”

“You know, could you date me?”

He seems stunned. “You mean, considering how charming and charismatic you’ve been with me?”

“Whatever. Could you?”

“You mean if I could imagine there wasn’t a torrent of hostility coming from you to me?”

She rolls her eyes. “Just answer.”

“Well, I can’t imagine it.”

“Why do you think you always date physically beautiful women?”

“I like ’em.”

“Yes, but why aren’t you capable of falling for someone with other attributes?”

He looks mildly exasperated and doesn’t answer.

I glance at Lily, sitting there frozen and looking as though she wishes she could disappear. I disapprove of beauty conversations taking place in front of her, and yet, now that my pet peeve is being bounced about, I cannot, will not, be left out of the dialogue.

“Strad,” I say, “there are other aspects to a person. Even other physical aspects that can be sexy—apart from beauty.”

“Yes, of course. But . . . like what?”

“Anything!” I snap impatiently. “Body language, for example.”

“Body language doesn’t do it for me.”

“Then pick another.”

“None of them do it for me. What do you want me to do?”

“I don’t know, practice. Eventually, you may acquire the taste. You may even wonder how you were ever satisfied with the straightforward, simple, dumb kind of beauty.”

Strad replies, “Most men don’t get turned on by ‘other attributes.’ In fact, if you want the truth, those ‘other attributes,’ especially brains, talent, higher education, accomplishments, impressive jobs, often make a beautiful woman less sexy in the eyes of many men. Not in mine—I’m not that way. But in the eyes of many. They would never admit it, of course. Anyway, why are you all pickin’ on me?” He turns to the only other man in the room. “I feel persecuted, Jack. Help me out here a little, will ya?”

Jack sighs. “What can I say? Many guys can get turned on by other attributes. Most jerks can’t.”

“Et tu, Jack? What’s going on here? Anyway, you’re full of it. I’m sure you go for the best-looking women you can get, and you probably do pretty well getting the better specimens.”

Georgia yanks on her handcuff. “Specimens? Are you for real?”

“Sorry, poor word choice,” Strad admits. He leans toward me and says under his breath, “I’m glad she’s chained, by the way.” He turns back to Georgia. “I’m not an artist with words, like you, Georgia, but you know what I mean.”

Georgia says, “Many years ago I met a guy at a dinner party and I thought he was really ugly. Pale skin, very thick lips, prematurely gray frizzy hair, puffy slit-eyes like a toad’s, and I was horrified when he sat next to me. Within probably five minutes of him talking to me, I was utterly charmed, completely under his spell to the point that I asked the hostess if he was single. The hostess said he was gay. That didn’t stop me having a crush on him for years.”

Eyebrows raised, Penelope says, “That’s funny, the same thing happened to me in college. There was a guy in my drawing class. I found him utterly repulsive. He was short, fat, had greasy stringy black hair plastered on his balding sweaty head. He complimented me on one of my drawings. Then I bumped into him in the coffee shop and we had a snack together. During that snack I developed a massive crush and started finding him beautiful. We became friends. My crush lasted for months, maybe years.”

“What happened?” Lily asks. “He didn’t like you back?”

“He was gay.”

We all laugh, even Strad.

“I don’t suppose that’s ever happened to you,” Georgia says to Strad.

“No, I’ve never had a crush on an ugly lesbian,” he replies.

“Come on, I’m serious. Haven’t you ever developed feelings for someone you weren’t attracted to at first?”

Frowning in mock concentration, he says, “Oh, dear, I’d have to give it some thought when you’re not all looking at me.”

But we keep on looking. Even Lily. She’s clearly very interested in the topic.

Strad finally says carefully, “I don’t recall if that’s ever happened to me. But I’m sure it could, under the right circumstances.”

Penelope waves me over.

“What is it?” I ask her.

“I need to whisper something to you.”

I bend down to her level. Cupping her free hand around her mouth, she whispers in my ear, “This only just occurred to me. The weapon could be a tiny poisoned glass dart blown out of a tiny straw smuggled in the hem of a garment. It could be done one-handed with the hand that’s not cuffed. Strad is not safe right now.”

I blanch. She’s absolutely right. The metal detector wouldn’t have picked up a tiny glass dart and straw, and neither would the frisking.

Penelope warning me of this method seems to indicate that she’s not the killer.

On second thought, if she were the killer, she’d still have plenty of reasons to tell me of this method. In a flash, four possible reasons go through my mind, and I’m sure there are more:

1) She wants to divert my attention away from another method she’s about to use.

2) She is curious to see how I would have protected Strad against this method, had she thought of using it.

3) She wants to make herself appear more innocent.

4) She knows that by telling me about this method, she is forcing me to increase Strad’s protection, which will escalate the weirdness of the evening to a degree that might cause Lily to finally lose any remaining hope that Strad could ever fall in love with her, which will help her move on with her life.

Barely breathing, I say, “Strad, get up.”

“Why?” he asks, getting up.

“Come right this way.” I lead him out of the room and around the corner, while shielding him from the others with my body as much as possible. I bring him his chair. “Sit down.”

He sits. From my seat at the table, I will be able to see both parties while they won’t be able to see or hurt each other.

This is only a temporary solution because I’m sure Strad will not want to stay behind that corner for two whole hours. Maybe not even for two whole minutes. Therefore, I must come up with a better system to protect him from possible darts. I wish I could ask Georgia for ideas.

Luckily, it doesn’t take me too long to come up with one. I set myself to work immediately.

I open the living room closet and withdraw the big sheets of transparent plastic I bought to protect my furniture when my apartment was painted a few months ago.

“Why am I around this corner?” Strad calls out to me.

“Punishment,” I reply.

“Oh. Was I bad?”

“No. They were bad.” My new location hides me from his view as I unfold the sheets of plastic.

“What’d they do? They didn’t seem so bad.” As an afterthought, he adds, “Apart from ganging up on me and telling me what a jerk I am.”

I don’t answer.

He says, “Anyway, how is my sitting around this corner their punishment rather than mine?”

I open a drawer, looking for my roll of transparent masking tape. I reply, “I’m depriving them of the sight of you.”

“Is the sight of me that good?” he asks.

“They thrive on it.”

“Perhaps I should just go home, then. That would deprive them of it very effectively,” he says.

“No!” I exclaim.

“Why not?”

I don’t know what to say. I hope my silence will alert Georgia to come to the rescue.

She does, with: “Barb’s kidding. We weren’t bad. This is just a game we like to play called Hide the Guest.”

Still hidden from Strad’s view, I climb on a chair and start taping one end of a plastic sheet to the ceiling, letting the rest hang like a transparent curtain. This creates a dart-proof partition between my friends and the dining table.

While I do this with a few more sheets, until all my friends are behind plastic, Georgia explains the game to Strad: “You have to try to remember what each of us is wearing and what we look like, including eye color, hair color, presence or absence of glasses, etc.”

From behind the corner, he sounds mildly interested in this game. But then she has to ruin it by adding, “The point of the game is to test your level of self-centeredness.”

I kick my socked foot in the direction of her face, intentionally missing her by only an inch, which sobers her up temporarily.

I finish taping the last bit of plastic to the ceiling. Just in time, too, because Strad says, “You know what? I don’t really like the sound of this game. I’m sure I’d be terrible at it, so I’d rather just have a normal remainder of evening with you—”

He stops mid-sentence as he emerges from around the corner and beholds the plastic curtain with my friends watching him through it. And me, still atop my chair.

Stupefied, he asks, “What are you doing?”

“We’ve entered the phase of the evening called Partitioning,” I say.

“It’s totally creepy-looking,” he says. “It looks like you’re setting up some sort of weird execution.”

“Oh, no, on the contrary. I’m about to serve them seconds. They go so wild for seconds, they often throw their cake.”

We keep the conversation going for another hour. Jack throws most of his cake at the curtain to support my story. Not being a fan of lemon, it’s no big sacrifice for him. The others merely throw large crumbs. No one attempts to shoot darts, thankfully, not that it would matter much with the plastic sheets.

When the cuckoo finally screams twelve times at midnight and the danger is over (according to KAY’s rules), my friends really start acting mad. They cheer and clank their chains, demanding to be freed.