Wild Cards. Джордж Р. Р. Мартин
Part 3
“WHAT CAN I GET you, Mrs. Bubbles?” the bartender said with a Texas twang. Whut kin ah git yew, Miziz Bubbles? He was a particular breed of pretty boy—blond with perfectly symmetrical, pleasing features corked by a glib easy smile. He had a lean, yet well-muscled, body. The mixer wasn’t exactly going well, and Michelle was on her second drink. And a non-alcoholic one to boot.
“We’ve got soda, water, ice tea, and more soda. Just so you know, I’m a huge fan of yours,” he said, practically fluttering his long eyelashes. “Name’s Billy Rainbow, and it’s a pure honor to meet you.”
That southern charm might work on some girls, but Michelle wasn’t one of them. A bad girl might work on her, but a pretty boy, not so much.
“I’ll have Coke.” Michelle scanned the room.
“Here you go,” Billy Rainbow said, setting it on the bar. “You’re right pretty, Mrs. Bubbles. I expect you’re just about the prettiest lady I’ve ever seen.”
Michelle gave him her very best are-you-freaking-kidding-me? look. He didn’t seem in the least deterred.
“You do know I’m famously gay, right?” she asked. “Never been confused about that my entire life. Also, it’s Ms. Bubbles. Not Mrs.” Mrs. Bubbles? Really. Really?! Do I look like a Mrs. Bubbles?
Billy’s smile grew even wider and he opened his hands, turning his palms up. Small, sparkly rainbows appeared in them. He was looking at her intently. “Why, I expect you’d help a poor boy like me out, wouldn’t you? I’m pretty broke.”
Michelle stared at the pretty rainbows for a few seconds. Then she looked up at him with a scowl on her face.
“Does this ever work for you?” she asked, dropping two golf ball–sized bubbles into his hands. “Because if you think some My Pretty Pony deuce power and junior hypnosis is going to make me your bitch, you are sorely mistaken. And really, in this crowd it might not be the smartest thing showing off like that.”
Billy Rainbow looked flummoxed and dropped the bubbles to the floor. Michelle let them pop. “But, but …”
“There’s only one way in which I’m suggestible and, believe me, you are not the kind of person who can do that. Don’t try that crap on anyone else.”
He jammed his hands into his pants pockets then shrugged his shoulders. “It’s just a parlor trick,” he said dejectedly. “Those rainbows are so pretty, and I kinda like showing them off.”
“I wouldn’t,” Michelle said. “Because that’s not the brightest thing in the world.” I’m guessing no one has ever accused him of being bright, Michelle thought.
“And don’t go flirting with the girls or trying to get money from people. I’m keeping an eye on you.”
Michelle took her Coke then walked to the nearest window. It overlooked Houston Street and she had a view straight up and down the street. Across from the Gunter, the Majestic Theatre’s marquee was lit up with that evening’s entertainment: Phantom of the Opera. It was an old movie palace that hadn’t been torn down. She hoped she’d get a chance to see the inside of it before they went back to New York.
“What’re you looking at?” Rusty asked. She turned to face him.
“Oh, just that cool theater across the way.”
Wally smiled, his hinges pulling up. He was dressed in overalls and a short-sleeved plaid shirt. The overalls were new and looked pretty spiffy.
The Gunter Terrace Room jutted out from the second floor of the hotel. It wrapped around two sides of the building, forming a portico over the sidewalk. The walls were made of glass and curved up to the ceiling. A busy, burgundy-and-navy-blue Victorian-patterned carpet covered the floor. The room was crowded with band members, chaperones, judges, and some of the kids’ parents. The mixer was supposed to be in full swing, but, at the moment, each band was clumped together, looking nervously around the room. The adults just looked frazzled.
“Well, this isn’t awkward at all,” Michelle said.
Sharon whistled in agreement. Then she signed, <It might as well be a school dance.>
“Why don’t you go talk to that Kimmie girl?” Michelle asked Adesina. “She’s nice.”
Adesina shrugged and jammed her hands into the pockets of her faded black jeans. Her vestigial legs gave a little twitch. “I don’t know, Mom,” she said, casting a wary glance at Kimmie. “She’s in the Plano Originals, and now we know they’re hella a-holes. They really seem to have a hate on for jokers.”
“But Kimmie liked you. And she was nice to all of the other kids in the band.” Michelle caught Kimmie’s eye and smiled at her. Kimmie smiled back, but it was tremulous. A tall boy with short blond hair and an athlete’s body leaned down and whispered something in Kimmie’s ear. Kimmie frowned and then glared up at him. She turned on her heel and marched across the room toward the Mob.
“Hey Kimmie.” Segway zipped around Michelle and intercepted her. Kimmie’s face lit up and she gave him a sweet smile.
“Hey there, Peter,” she replied. She tucked her hair behind her ears. “I’m glad we get another chance to talk. I’m sorry about how rude the Originals were at orientation. They’re all a lot like Jax, that blond guy in the pink polo shirt. He’s such an idiot. Anyway, he thinks having the Mob in the competition is a publicity stunt.”
What the six degrees of hell? Michelle thought. “The Mob got in here same as everyone else!” she said. Her hands were clenched into fists at her sides. They itched to bubble. Remember Kazakhstan? Stop thinking that way. Blowing someone up isn’t a good problem-solving choice in a room full of high schoolers. Defeating an elder god from a different dimension, yes. Killing a privileged punk from Plano, not so much.
Kimmie held up her hands. “Ms. Pond,” she said quickly, “I don’t agree. The Plano Originals are, well, they’re morons. They’re almost as bad as my moth—”
“Kimberly Coldwater!”
This time Michelle didn’t know the imperious voice, but it appeared as if Kimmie did. Her shoulders came up as she tried to make herself smaller. Her bright smile faded.
“Why on the Good Lord’s green earth are you speaking to these … these … creatures?” A woman dressed like a pastel tornado came barreling across the room. She wore heels almost as high as Jade Blossom would. Even so, she was only a few inches taller than Kimmie. But her presence made it feel as if she was more imposing than that.
She was impeccably attired. A perfectly tailored azalea-colored St. John suit matched her towering heels. Her long nails were lacquered a deep red. She had big hair. It was long with blond streaks and back-combed with a perfect flip at the ends. It was big hair. It was upscale Dallas hair. None of that low-class height, but plenty of volume. A red Hermès bag that matched her nails was slung across her arm.
Holy shit! A real Dallas matriarch! Michelle thought.
“What are you doing to my daughter?” the woman demanded.
“Pretty sure nothing,” Michelle replied. The room had grown quiet again. “But you never know. We’re diabolical like that.”
Kimmie looked miserable. “Mom, please,” she said. “This is Michelle Pond.” Kimmie was trying to do the right thing. Michelle was impressed. Even if her mother was horrible, the daughter had been raised to be polite. “Ms. Pond, this is my mother, Bambi Coldwater.”
“I know that name,” Michelle said, reflexively sticking her hand out. “Hold on, aren’t you the woman who brought the suit to prevent kids with wild cards from playing in competitions like this one?” She pulled her hand away.
Bambi