WESTCHESTER, NY DERRINGTON'S HOUSE

Wednesday, April 7th

4:44 P.M.

Like Derrington, his house had a style all its own. Amid a street of old stone mansions, wrought-iron fences and foreboding trees, “Terra Domus” was an ultramodern cube of metal and glass.

“Hullo?” Derrington opened the red side door and stepped into a spacious stainless-steel kitchen. It smelled like a nauseating combination of meat sauce and lemon Pledge.

“Anyone home?”

Massie hoped no one would answer. With plans to meet her friends at the sandwich shop in less than an hour, she didn't have time for ah-nnoyingly polite parent banter.

“Hu-lloooo?”

“Yes, yes,” answered a woman in a thick Filipino accent, dragging a Swiffer.

“Hey, Mini. Is my mom home?”

Mini shook her head, swinging her long black hair, Pantene style. “Six o'clock. Who's this?”

“Oh, this is my, uh, my Block.” Derrington took off his blazer and tossed it on the glass breakfast table by the porthole window. “Block, this is Mini.”

Massie's palms tickled like she was squeezing a vibrating cell phone. The key was here. It was obvious. Skye's poem had said she loved “all things mini.” And standing before her was Mini. She had great hair, a knack for cleaning, and was easily a size two. What wasn't to love? Pure jubilation nearly allowed Massie to overlook the fact that this meant Skye had been in Derrington's room. Possibly on his bed. Insecurity churned inside her stomach like a curdled latte, but she did her best to remain composed. There'd be plenty of time to obsess over Skye and Derrington's relationship once the key was dangling around her neck. Puh-lenty.

“Nice to meet you, Mini.” She smiled sweetly.

The cleaning woman propped the Swiffer against the shiny silver Sub-Zero fridge, then rubbed the already gleaming marble countertop with a paper towel.

“How ‘bout a tour?”

“Let's go.”

Derrington led Massie through a sun-drenched dining room, past a stone table with chairs made of deer antlers. A long corridor lined with splattered canvases and paintings of Campbell's Soup cans and melted clocks led to two spiral staircases.

“Let's start in the basement.” Derrington gripped the cold metal banister. “It's soundproof, so I can blast video games while my brother plays the drums. Sometimes he tries to play to the beat of the game and I—”

“What about your bedroom?”

Derrington stopped.

Suddenly, Mini was beside them, dusting a marble chest that, according to the bronze nameplate bolted to its base, had been named A Bust.

“You should see our new pool table. It's covered with red felt instead of green.”

“I wanna see your room.” Massie was all too aware of Mini and didn't want to sound like a sleaze. “To get decorating ideas for my brother.”

“You don't have a brother.”

“I know, but adopting is so in right now and my birthday is coming up. I already have a puppy and a horse so—”

“Um, it's really cold up there,” Derrington mumbled. “The heat is broken.”

Mini dusted harder.

“That's okay, I just wanna look around.”

“But my mom doesn't allow guests upstairs.”

Mini snickered.

“She's not home,” Massie murmured, hoping her words might somehow slip by Mini undetected.

“Can't we just hang in the basement?”

Massie wondered if Skye had encountered this much trouble getting in.

Mini straightened an already straight Jonathan Adler floor vase. “Why do all females want to see inside Derrick's room?”

Massie practically exploded like a rattled can of Diet Coke. “What females? I'm going up.” She raced to the second staircase.

“Wait, you can't!” Derrington chased after her. “Block, stop!”

“What are you so afraid of?” Massie rounded the cork-screw staircase, trying her best to fight the dizziness. “Are you hiding Playboys in there?”

“No.” He reddened.

“What about pictures of Skye?”

“What? No!”

Massie stopped three steps short of the landing. “Then what is it?” she asked sweetly, leaning in to kiss him.

Derrington closed his eyes.

Massie ran.

“Wait!” Derrington reached for her ankles.

But it was too late.

She pushed open the red steel door and—

“Eh. Ma. Gawd!”

Derrington chuckled nervously as they stood under his doorframe.

“I tried to stop you.”

Massie buried her nose in the crook of her elbow. “What is that smell?” Her eyes rolled over a greasy pizza box, a clear bowl of soggy Cookie Crisp cereal, half a moldy sesame bagel, soggy green bath towels, and a heap of sweaty soccer clothes. The sisal rug added an essence of hay to the decomposing-seal-on-a-humid-day stench brought on by everything else. Massie dug inside her white leather bag, grabbed her Chanel No. 5, and sprinkled it around the room like holy water.

“The rest of your house is so clean. I don't—”

“My bed's not so bad.”

The carved tin headboard illustrated some Greek myth about angry waves, windblown clouds, and teetering sailboats. His blue comforter was littered with comic books and old sports sections from the New York Times. The desk, which had the same carvings as the headboard, was cluttered with stacks of CDs and DVDs that loomed over his computer like prison watchtowers. Smudged press clippings on the 2006 World Cup covered every square inch of wall.

Did it look this way for Skye?

“Do you hate me now?” Derrington slid his arms around Massie's waist.

“‘Course nawt.” She slapped his hands away from her clean clothes. “But why don't I help you tidy?”

“You don't have—”

“Puh-lease.” She slid her fingers under his mattress. “I want to. Grab the other side and on the count of three we'll slide this off the bed.”

“Why?”

“Because we're going to bury all your…stuff.”

“Block?” Derrington beamed. “I like your style.”

An hour ago, those words would have filled her with frothy warm Jacuzzi bubbles. But now, after seeing—and smelling— his unsanitary living conditions, they slid off her like oily soap scum. The sooner she got the key, the faster she'd be outside, where she could breathe without dry heaving.

“Ready? One…two…three.” Massie pushed, Derrington pulled, and a second later she was staring at a dusty box spring—a keyless dusty box spring.

Derrington tossed a handful of X-Men comics where the key should have been, and an angry dirt cloud, similar to the one on his headboard, emerged.

“Ehmagawd, what time is it?”

“Five-fifteen.”

“I'm late. I have to go.” Massie leaped over a tangle of action figures brought to justice in a web of vegetable lo mein.

“Want a ride?”

“No, that's okay, I'll call Isaac.”

“Thought you were conserving.”

“We are. But this is an emergency.”

Massie raced down the stairs and back through the smell of meat sauce and lemon Pledge, which suddenly didn't seem so bad.