Isabella sat in the lobby lounge of the hotel with her journal she'd named Musetta, for some reason. They were all named that, and she'd written in one since she was about nine-years-old. It helped her deal with things sometimes. Things like the fact that she woke up that morning with her skin hot and tingling. It wasn't normal, and she couldn't help but wonder if it had anything to do with the dream she'd had.
In the dream, Isabella been in the middle of a forest clearing with Pythian holding her hand. All of a sudden, enormous green flames burst from the ground and went as high as the trees. Pythian ripped his hand away from her, jumped through the flames and disappeared, then she woke up, skin hot. She wrote this down, then looked around the lobby—the real world.
Despite the memory of the dream, Isabella was thankful that no one seemed to be invading her senses at the moment. Several customers sat at their tables, eating their meals quietly. Isabella's thoughts shifted to the droves of people that would fill the hotel as the holidays continued to near. People whom she didn't know and didn't miss. There were people that she did miss, though. Unfortunately, they wouldn't be showing up with the masses. That was, until New Year's Eve. Lana promised she'd be back in time for their show.
She spooned split-pea-and-bacon soup into her mouth as she began scribbling again.
So, I had a crazy dream, and a crazy day, and things are crazy here, which leads me to one important truth: I hate Lana. Why? Because she's out of town. As USUAL. I need her. She knows the last two weeks of December suck up and down and all around, and this year, I may not be having as many freak outs—yet, but a lot of weirdness is going on around me, and I need her to help me figure it all out. Or at least, to make me feel better. You know that best friends have this crazy way of making you laugh even when you want to cry. But she isn't here!
"WEIRDO!"
Pythian?
Isabella slapped her journal shut and clumsily knocked over her entire bowl of green soup.
"I'll get it, sweetie," said her favorite waitress, a pale, dark-haired woman named Elyse, as she rushed off to get a mop and whatever else she needed to clean the mess.
Isabella looked up to see what the commotion was all about. However, a colorful figure stood in front of the table, blocking her view.
"FREAK!"
The voice ate up the ridges of her spine. She heard Rolf anxiously chastising whomever it was to, "Stop running, please!" Then, "Young man, please leave the young lady alone."
Poor Rolf. Sometimes she wondered if he liked being the concierge.
Isabella moved her head left to look around a woman who was blocking her view. "Excuse me, ma'am."
Unfortunately, the woman stepped left instead of right, making it even harder for her to see. The lady was obviously interested in what was going on, too. Another cry arose. Curiosity pumped at Isabella's temples. Standing up, she lurched forward to get a better view of what was happening and caught a quick glimpse of a girl running out of sight as a shadowy figure loomed behind her. A scream vibrated into her ears as the girl she had seen only briefly cried out. She knew that girl. Her voice was unmistakable. Johnna Johnson had lived with her mother at the hotel for years. She was one of those snobby rich girls who would probably be a better heiress to the hotel than Isabella ever could be, but Isabella would never actually admit that out loud.
This time Isabella was going to take her grandmother's advice and let her intuition keep her out of it. Why should she help Johnna Johnson, of all people? Maybe she was in danger. Isabella closed her eyes and took in a deep breath in an attempt to connect with Johnna. She sighed in relief as joviality and frustration beat across the room and into her heart. This was no emergency. Just kids horsing around. But if that was Johnna, Isabella had to know who was chasing her.
Finally, the woman lost interest and walked away, allowing Isabella to have an unrestricted view. The two figures ran back into sight and she could see that it was a fat boy with a fat camera, the kind that made movies, weaving after the willowy, wiry Johnna. Isabella's jaw dropped. She'd recognize the kid anywhere. "Xander Antonelli? Crikey."
A voice boomed across the lobby. "Stop this at once!"
That wasn't Rolf. Isabella's heart turned cold. It was Xander's father, Marcellus. Her gaze pinned on the hotel's very strict, very frightening former manager. Isabella opened and closed her mouth, unable to speak.
"You look like a dying codfish. Not a cute look."
Isabella's head twisted left. It was the woman who'd been blocking her view, only it was no woman. She was a girl no older than Isabella. Actually, she was a girl who was nearly a whole year younger than Isabella but looked about two or three years older, except for her childish face, which mirrored Xander's—her twin.
"Hello, Cleo."
Clutching her multicolored Louis Vuitton, Cleo sat down across from Isabella. "And who says 'crikey' but old people from England? Or crocodile wrestlers?"
Isabella's eyebrows lifted. "Who else besides Peter Pan calls people a codfish?"
"Whatever, Izzy."
"I got the expression from my Uncle Robert, and don't call me that, Cleo-patra."
The girl grimaced and secured her purse on a hook beneath the table. "Still clumsy, I see. Pea soup? Yuck."
"What are you doing here?"
"It's Johnna's birthday. We thought we'd come and surprise her."
"The Antonellis left England for Johnna Johnson's fifteenth birthday party?"
"Parents, England. They shipped us off to Italy to school, and now we're back here. All of us." This is why Isabella wished Lana were here. These people. They were too much for her to bear. Lana was laid-back and real. Cleo was fake. And Johnna Johnson was the Devil in the skin of a fifteen-year-old fashion victim.
Both girls looked on as Marcellus Antonelli snatched his son Xander's collar and then pushed a finger into his face. Patricia Antonelli, looking like a 1960s glamour girl more than someone's mother, strode in from the front entrance and got between the two of them.
"Is your mother wearing a mink coat?"
"Yes," Cleo said flatly. "You see what I put up with?"
"Well, you were in Europe. They don't really care about that over there, right?" Silence hung between them for a long moment. Cleo seemed to be battling between going over to intervene and turning around to ignore them. Out of the kindness of her heart, Isabella decided to distract her. "Please tell me that you did not come back just for Johnna Johnson's birthday."
"Nope. We're back for good."
Isabella tried to smile. It wasn't working. "Oh," was all she could say. The Antonelli family brought more tumult to the hotel than any disgruntled customer ever could.
"My parents have decided to help your grandmother out. Work here again. Really, I can't figure out why. It isn't as if they need the money. But they insisted your grandmother needed them," Cleo said then shook her head. "They don't ever get all knotty and twisted like that for us."
"Knotty and twisted about what?"
She really wanted to know the answer, but someone much more agitating than Cleo Antonelli was in pursuit of them. Was it too late to bolt? Johnna Johnson. She appeared to be holding something rotten in her mouth. Oh, never mind. That was a smile. And what was in her hand? Little white cards. Invitations?
"Uh... You know," said Isabella, turning her body toward the elevators, "I've had a really bad day. I think I'm going to go up to my room."
"Still hate Johnna, don't you?" Cleo laughed.
"No."
"Well, she likes you."
Isabella's burst of laughter startled a man with a walrus mustache into spitting his mashed potatoes all over his wife's blouse, which promptly earned him a smack on the head. She vaguely remembered seeing the corpulent man before, when she was with Pythian, but she had no time to dwell on him right now. "Oh, sorry, sir, ma'am. So sorry. Anyway, Cleo, I-I gotta go."
Too late. Johnna Johnson bore down on them like a serpent sliding up to its prey before striking. She snatched Cleo into a hug and then Isabella, causing her to cough both from the fierceness of her squeeze and her body odor. Ew. Sweat and Chanel No. 5, obviously stolen from her mother. Her appendages dripped with jewelry that better belonged in a Turkish bazaar than on the arms and ears of a teenage girl from Westside Los Angeles.
"Your brother needs to go somewhere with himself. I hate that little kid."
"I love your earrings," said Cleo. "And he's not a little kid. He's my twin."
"He's such a brat." Cleo did not bother responding. They all knew it was true. Johnna turned to Isabella. "Sorry it's so last minute." She extended the embossed, white-and-gold invitation.
~Queen at 15~
Happy Birthday, Johnna
December 20
4:00: Tea with Me (Ladies Only), The White Room
6:00: The Queen's Ball - The Hard Ball Hitters (Co-ed), The Velvet Ballroom
The Foxworthy Hotel
9400 Culver Hills Court Road
Culver Hills, CA 90234
RSVP by December 19
310-555-3838
~Carol Anne or Johnna~
"Really, Johnna?" Isabella lifted her eyebrows.
Johnna blinked several times, looking as innocent as a cat who'd clawed up all the furniture. "Is something wrong?"
"You had your last party here too."
Johnna laughed but it sounded more like a hiccup. "I like it here."
"Why didn't I know about it?"
Johnna shrugged. "You go to that St. Agatha's place now. I'm so sorry about that, by the way. Anyway, I would have told you myself if it wasn't for that. Your granny knows." Isabella folded her arms over her chest. "My mother is going over the details with her now in her office right now, actually, smactually." She was making up words again. She still did that. Isabella wanted to walk away, but it would be rude. But who cared what Johnna thought. There was an awkward silence between the three of them. Then a bumbling sound came from a few tables over.
"Excuse me. Sorry." It was Xander Antonelli, sans camera and red in the face.
"Hi, Izzy!"
"Hey, Xander, how are you?"
"Why does my brother get to call you Izzy and not get snapped at?" asked Cleo.
"He's nicer." Isabella shrugged, turning to Xander. "I'm surprised your dad let you go. He looked pretty mad."
"Yeah, but it's okay." Xander labored to steady his breath and then wiped a bead of sweat from the bridge of his nose.
"Ew," remarked Johnna.
"I have a camera on my phone." Fully composed again, he pulled the sleek black cell phone from his pocket and started filming. "That's right, Hollywood. I'm back."
Johnna held up her hand to block her face as Xander steadied the phone in her direction.
"So, Isabella, will you come?" Johnna asked.
Without being able to think of any other way out of answering, Isabella let out a vicious cough. "Whoa," she spurted out, bending at the waist and continuing her fit. Xander moved to pat her back.
"You should go up to bed," he said.
"Yes." She coughed again. "I will. Thanks."
And up the stairs she escaped without answering Johnna Johnson's incommodious invitation. Isabella did not go to bed, though she did feel unwell, but it was not the type of unwell one might imagine. This particular malady ate away at every nerve ending in her body. Something was not right. Isabella had a foreboding sense that something conspicuous was going on in the hotel. Why suddenly was Xander and Cleo Antonelli at the hotel after all this time? And Theophilus just showed back up? To do what? Fix the theater? And where was her Uncle Robert? She felt something was going on, but had no idea what. Instead of trying to sleep, she headed to the ninth floor suite where she lived with Nano, and went to the den to call Lana. Why, oh why, did her life suck so badly? And, why, oh why, did Lana, the only one who ever understood her, have to spend Christmas in Colorado?
"Come home now!" Isabella complained through the webcam call.
"Can't," Lana said, half frowning, half laughing at her friend.
"Why not?"
The fuzzy likeness of her best friend shrugged. "Life."
"Haha. Just ask your parents to send you back."
"I have to spend Christmas with my dad. He just made his big announcement and he's never around. My mom's almost half as bad. They're both here at the same time."
"No one told them to be politicians. I still can't believe your dad is running for Senate, but still!"
"No matter what, I can't leave Dot. She's only eight."
"You're too loyal of a sister for your own good."
"Yeah, well, I can't believe Cleo and Xander are back. That's crazy!"
"Something's weird."
"What do you mean?"
"I don't know. It just is. And I have to do this show with these really annoying new kids, and Theophilus is in charge of it all. I really don't want to do it."
"You'll be fine. You're always fine."
"Says you."
"Listen, I gotta get off, but I'll call you laterz, 'kay?"
"Kay. Love you!"
Isabella shut off the video call and sighed. She really did miss her best friend. They'd met in the first grade and knew everything about each other, but most importantly, they hated all the same people. For some reason, that was extremely comforting.
She picked up a Rubik's Cube and twisted until she saw the six faces match in color. A moment later, sadness encased her.
Yeah, she was great at puzzles, but what good did that do her?
Isabella glanced at the clock. Of course. She was late for rehearsal. She wanted to ditch it, but she knew her grandmother would skin her and sell her hide to that man who sold leather coats in the dirt lot the bottom of Culver Hills Road. She peeled herself from the chair, reluctantly preparing herself to get ready to head down to the theater. It's not that she held a disdain for performing- she actually enjoyed it at times. What she hated was the people. She hated how pretentious and phony they could be during a time that she didn't quite understand due to the events that transpired here six years ago. Off to the theater. She sighed as she walked out of the den.
Less than fifteen minutes later, Theophilus shifted his gaze between Isabella, Micah, and Seth as they sat in the theater for rehearsal. "Children, your performance is very important to this establishment and to the community at large. Yes. Brightwood Studios is sponsoring the event." The boys had on Lakers warm-ups again but this time they were yellow. Isabella was wearing an old T-shirt and gray sweatpants. "Each of us has a role to play and a part to fulfill. With that being said, here is what I've planned for the event. Your names are beside each segment you will be a part of."
8:00 p.m.: Welcome
The Logan Family-Selection of Eight Jazz Songs-Seth and Micah
8:45: Break (CD)
9:00: Isabella Piano-Theophilus Piano
10:30: Logan Family
11:15: Break (CD)
11:45: Finale-Logan Boys/Isabella
11:55: Tribute Salute-Isabella
11:59: Ball Drop/Countdown-Isabella
"Why is there always something new to do?" Isabella complained. Her grandmother had her helping with events since she'd turned eleven, and Isabella, though she loved her hotel, wanted some time to herself for once. "And why on New Year's Eve of all times? If we absolutely have to add a holiday show this year, can't we hold it a little sooner?"
"It is kind of a letdown after Christmas," Micah agreed.
"For me, it's worse! It's the day before my birthday!" Isabella stood up. "And something weird always happens to me on that day. Just like something weird is going on now. What is everyone doing here?" The thought had crossed her mind several times earlier, but she was so caught up in evading the nuisances as they arrived, that she forgot to actually ask one of them the truth of it all.
"To whom are you referring, my dear?"
"You, for one! And the Antonellis for second. Something's going on."
"Instincts are an asset, my dear. Yours especially, as your grandmother tells me."
Isabella eyed him warily. "What do you mean 'as my grandmother tells you'? Why would she tell you anything? She's thinks I'm crazy, right? That I did something to my parents."
The moment the words were out of Isabella's mouth, she regretted them. It was something she'd always worried about but never spoken aloud. She tried not even thinking it. But why had she lived and they hadn't? Why had the fire stayed so far from her even though she was right in the middle of it? Isabella knew that her strange episodes at the end of the year, the episodes that started just one week after her parents died when she was eight years old could be the reason.
"She simply explained that you are sentient, my dear."
"Sentient?"
"Yes. Sentient. Sensitive. Like many of us are. Using your awareness to understand your surroundings is a gift. Do not forget that," he said then began pacing as he was accustomed to.
"I'll do anything if you can get my grandmother to let me out of this show." She knew that nobody would be able to understand why she hated that day so much. The memories were always difficult when they surfaced, but around her birthday, it was always the worst. On that day, the memories are more than a mere figment of the past-they crashed down on her as if she were right back in the middle of the fire. And the days leading up to that were hardly better. It was as if she was coming out of her skin, like she was changing into something or someone else.
Theophilus kept pacing, ignoring Isabella's plea. "Culver Hills Heart Hospital. Renee Fox and Sinclair Worthy's donation to Culver Hills and Los Angeles at large. The great screen legends loved each other so much that they merged their surnames into one. Isn't that right, Isabella?"
She nodded as he went on.
"Renee Fox was profoundly successful at the myriad of things she tried in her life, but she never lost her head and forgot about the people around her. A glorious mother, she was, make no mistake. In fact, Culver Hills awarded her Mother of the Year in 1938, an award she revered far more than anything granted to her by her colleagues. But beyond all the accolades," Theophilus said, and Isabella's heart swelled with pride, "she did not forget her civic duty. When a young fan died before she got to visit him on Christmas Day, she set to work on building that hospital with her husband, Sinclair. Far from perfect, your great-grandmother. Human like the rest of us, but she was the best woman I have ever known."
Isabella smiled. She knew what Theophilus was trying to do, and it was working, despite her best efforts to keep up her guard. "Thanks, Theophilus. I wish I'd known her."
"So do I, my dear. Her favorite time was the Wintertide Festival."
"Wintertide?"
"A celebration to end all celebrations. It was for her folk. Our folk." He said, looking pointedly at each of them before strutting away again. "Then she'd return and have something small like the event we're having on New Year's Eve, dear."
"Small? You call having two hundred guests small?"
"Compared to the Wintertide Festival, to be sure."
"What did you mean by our folk?" Seth looked at him with a puzzled expression on his face.
"Yes, our folk celebrate the holidays and magical sensations of joy and exuberance, our community throws this celebration every year to relight the fires that keep each of our internal lights burning. It's truly a magnificent time to be growing up in the world—This year's celebration will be the biggest and brightest of them all! Of course, you may not get to partake in all of it."
"Why not?" Micah asked."
"Questions. Questions. Too many questions and not enough working. Isabella, are we on board with keeping your great-grandmother Renee's legacy alive?"
"I guess. Yes. I want to help, and I won't complain. If I get to pick my own songs." Isabella really didn't want to sing at all, but if she had to, she'd choose the music. She'd have less of a chance of humiliating herself by either forgetting the words or her voice cracking.
"Splendid." As Theophilus cracked a smile from one ear to the next, a gentle old man strode into the theater.
"Oh, you have guests. I'm sorry Theophilus, but it's vital that we speak immediately." Robert Heel was an elderly man with silver-white hair and a warm, kind face. He smiled at the children who had certainly noticed his entrance.
"Uncle Robert," Micah, Seth and Isabella said in unison.
Isabella looked on with her eyebrows bunched together. "I still can't believe Robert Heel is your uncle."
Turning toward her, Robert opened his arms widely, as if reaching out for a benevolent embrace. Isabella collapsed into his arms and grasped him tightly. "I've missed you very much, my darling." Robert's voice was deep and gravelly.
Isabella looked back at the boys. Seth's eyes were wide with shock though Micah smiled a bit.
"Do you two need a room?" Seth said with a look of disgust in his eyes.
Robert turned back toward the others. "I've been friends with the Foxworthy family for years as you well know, boys. I hope you are well." Seth's resentment had evaporated as he spoke. "I've come to see Theophilus briefly, but my next stop was to visit you and your father. I have something to show you both."
Seth and Micah stepped closer to see what Robert was pulling from his pocket. In his hand sat a small metallic box. Isabella looked on from behind the boys, but even she couldn't figure out what it was. "Watch carefully." Robert hovered his left hand over the box as it rested in the palm of his right hand. The box began to slowly lift into the air as a faint violet light glowed around it. Suddenly, a heart formed in the center of the now rotating box and began gently pulsing.
Micah started to laugh in amazement. "I think that heart might be for you, Seth. To give to Isabella!"
Seth glared at his little brother with a furious anger.
Isabella wasn't amused either. "That's a neat little trick, Robert, but Seth and I are a little too old for magic." Robert smiled at her but uttered no response.
"So, Mr. Heel, what is it you need from me?" Theophilus interrupted. Sometimes he didn't like being overshadowed by Robert, who was less odd and more grandfatherly that he was. Isabella felt badly for him for a moment.
"Oh, I'm just looking for Catherine. Would you happen to know where she is?"
"Hmm, I can't say that I recall," said Theophilus.
"My grandmother didn't tell me she was going anywhere."
Robert stepped closer to Theophilus and whispered softly into his ear. "I need to speak with you in private, now. I think Catherine has been acting very strange lately. We need to figure out what is going on around here."
Although he spoke quietly, Isabella overheard everything. Hmm, she thought. Maybe something really is going on. First the stuff with that Pythian kid, and now this. Isabella noticed the two men as they silently headed toward the exit of the theater. "Where are you going?"
"The three of you must connect. Yes. Connect and decide what it is you will do for the finale. I am leaving it up to you. You may use the devices in the room upstairs if you fashion special effects. I will be back in one hour."
And then, Theophilus was gone. Isabella looked back at the two boys. This was the first time she had ever been alone with them. She didn't really even know them. Micah looked at his brother and then at the floor, and then his eyes went to the piano.
"Oh, no. That is mine," Isabella said, striding over to her aunt's old instrument and plopping herself down.
"Don't worry," said Micah. "I'm stickin' to my drums."
"What about you? What do you do?"
Seth shrugged. "You're right. This is kinda dumb."
"It's not dumb. It's for a good cause," said Isabella, surprising herself that she really meant it. Theophilus had gotten to her. Theophilus or maybe that purple heart thing.
"You're weird. Earlier you wanted to practically burn down the theater. Anyway, I told you, I'm bass," he said, pointing to the case he'd brought along with him that day. "Is this where we're doing the show? Are people going to be sitting in movie-theater seats instead of partying?"
"What were you expecting it to be? A rave?"
"No. But I want people to dance to my music."
"Well, dry your eyes. It's going to be in the Lily Field Ballroom."
"The what ballroom?"
"It's named after the movie my grandmother won an Academy Award for."
"Big whoop," he said, rolling his eyes and then folding his arms.
"She was a big whoop. You must not know anything."
"She was a rich snob. Just like you."
"For your information, she donated all the money she made on that movie to help build the hospital we are doing this benefit for."
"Oh." Seth deflated.
"So," Micah said. He clapped his hands, mimicking a move Theophilus had made several times during rehearsal. "I think we should do a mix of jazz and trance."
"No way!" Seth and Isabella echoed in unison.
"What about jazz and house?"
"No!" Why was Seth agreeing with her? He was not supposed to be her comrade. She shifted in her seat.
"Okay. How 'bout a Hollywood theme?" Micah suggested.
"Overdone," Seth said.
"What if we did pieces from your great-grandparents' movies?" Micah began, obviously not one to give up. "Like the soundtracks or whatever, and then lead in to that New Year's Eve song they always play but kinda like rock style?"
"I love it!" Isabella's cheeks burned. So did her ears and chest and throat and forehead. Without warning, the memory of his voice returned. Sleep, my pretty child. Don't you worry at all. The sound of his voice always comforted her when she felt like she might faint or pass out from emotional or mental exhaustion. But now it was coming out of nowhere. Maybe she was going crazy? She tried shaking it from her mind.
"Isabella?" Seth waved his hand in front of her. "You okay?"
"Yeah, I'm fine. Let's pick the movies."