Neon Girl

Scene 1 - Best Day of the Week

I push my size small body against the five-hundred-pound door, cringing as the metal scrapes on the warped lock that never got replaced after the attempted break-in last spring. Me and my backpack barely make it inside the foyer before the door slams into its frame. My cell quacks and I lean against the wall to read Presley's text.

(Don't wear your LBD again)

(Why?) I love that dress. Presley knows I love that dress.

(You wore it to the last rave, duh)

(When something is a classic you stick with it)

As I lock the door, incense assaults my nose, setting off three rapid-fire sneezes. I scan my brain for the date—third Friday of the month. Mrs. Speelman must be prepping for a night of mystic readings.

"Mel? Is that you? I thought I heard that maniac bus driver speeding past our door."

"Yes, it's me."

I wade through a smoky curtain of jasmine and sandalwood to the common room, which is just a living room shared by the tenants of Paradise Place. They use it for social stuff like book clubs, cocktail parties, and seances. Originally, the room was called the gentleman's parlor, but only Bruce and his husband, Arno, use that term.

The pocket doors are open, and Mrs. Speelman is arranging colorful scarves over the lamp shade as the furnishings undergo their monthly spiritual transformation. She's even decorated the haunted chair, the one the gangster Eddie LaRue paid his dues in.

"The place looks great, Mrs. Speelman." That's a lie. The furnishings are vintage, and not in a good way. "What's on the menu tonight? Tea leaves? Palm reading? Chakra balancing?"

"It's tarot cards tonight. We're doing power animals, too. Care to join us?"

She glides up to me in a whoosh of billowy gauze and takes my hand. Her long silver hair trails over my arm, forcing goose bumps to pop up. She probably thinks her psychic juju has caused it. I give her a second to read my aura. Thank goodness she can't read my mind. When she's done, she goes back to scattering scarves.

"I suppose you have plans with your friends tonight," she says.

"Well...there's this party...invite only."

Mrs. Speelman doesn't need to know about the rave.

"But Ripley will be here. So, I might be on brother sitting duty. Is my mom coming down to talk to her power animal?"

"That's the plan, but you never know where the wind will blow your flighty mom, eh?" She winks as if the gesture excuses her from being rude, even if she is right about Mom.

"You should invite Mr. Craft. He likes tarot cards. He claims he has a set from a lucky clan in Scotland handed down seven generations."

I only say this because I know it will annoy her, and she scrunches up her nose like one of those expensive, flat-faced cats.

"Mr. Craft knows nothing about luck. He lives on the seventh floor. What kind of person tempts fate by living on the seventh floor? Seven is the unluckiest number in the universe."

"I think it's just unlucky for you, Mrs. Speelman. I'm sorry about all those lucky seven jackpots you missed out on." I offer a shrug of sympathy, and she dismisses me with a shake of her head. "I'll see you later, then. Have fun playing cards. Don't smoke too many cigars."

She clicks her tongue because I've made fun of her voodoo, but she won't hold it against me. She adores Papa. Everyone does. I slip back into the foyer and head for the elevator, trying not to get discouraged about the rave I may or may not be going to. There's a quack and I look at my cell.