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“No fucking way,” Blue says, her voice muffled by the table cloth. “That’s a monk parakeet. They’re wild.”
She says “monk parakeet” the way most people would say “tarantula” and imbues the word “wild” with a sinisterness usually reserved for the likes of Voldemort.
“Wild?” Gia jumps to her feet, no doubt remembering all the germs a wild bird might carry. Then, as if by magic—at least the performative kind—a bottle of hand sanitizer the size of my head appears in Gia’s hands, and she squirts the bird with it.
Yuck. The smell of alcohol and cheap faux mint is like a smack to my nose.
The parrot agrees with me. It makes a screech that sounds as if a chainsaw and the most annoying alarm clock had a baby, who was then tortured in hell by deaf demons.
“Make it go away!” Blue screams from under the table.
Out of thin air, a deck of playing cards appears in Gia’s hands, and she throws them one by one at the bird, like ninja stars.
The bird screeches again but doesn’t leave. Paper cuts must not be an issue when you have feathers.
“Please, guys,” Blue says. “This isn’t funny. Get rid of it.”
“Okay, okay.” Honey pulls out a butterfly knife and opens it in the flashy manner I associate with professional killers.
“No!” I shout. “Don’t kill the poor—”
The bird spots the knife and screeches again, then takes flight, looking indignant as it disappears into the distance.
Honey awkwardly hides the butterfly knife in her purse. “I was just going to scare it.”
Yeah. Sure. Like she scared that mean girl back in high school who had to get stitches in her forearm.
Blue climbs out from under the table, looking sheepish. “If you’d killed it, anyone with a brain bigger than a bird’s would agree it was self-defense.”
Gia squirts the foul hand sanitizer everywhere the bird’s little feet touched, killing what remained of my appetite.
I push my plate away. “Can we get to the business at hand?”
“Yeah.” Blue returns to her seat. “What’s the venue?”
“New York City Ballet,” I say. The ticket ate a big chunk of my blog’s earnings from last month, but it’ll be worth it to see The Russian live instead of watching his performances on YouTube. And, of course, to get him off my mind.
Blue takes her phone out and does something for a minute or two. When she looks up, her devilish smile reminds me of Gia’s. “I can make it so you won’t show up on any cameras.” She gives Honey a challenging look. “Still think you’re all she needs?”
“I’d say she needs me more than either of you,” Gia says. Her tone turns professorial as she looks at me. “The key to getting into places where you don’t belong is to not look guilty.”
“She’s got a point,” Honey says. “I can walk into any nightclub by boldly pretending my stamp got smudged.”
I take out my phone and make my first note: Look bold. Of course, that’s easier said than done. I check to make sure no waiter has somehow slipped past my nose and say, “There might be doors I’ll need to open. Locked doors.”
As if they’ve rehearsed the move for a year, my three sisters pull out lockpicks and then chuckle at each other.
“You want to do the honors?” Honey says to Gia. “You were the first to learn this.”
Gia grins. “You have more practical experience.”
Before Blue blows some smoke up Gia’s ass too, I say, “I don’t care who does it. Just teach me.”
“Fine.” Honey picks up a zigzag thingy. “This is a tension wrench.”
* * *
The lesson takes triple the time it should because my teachers keep arguing about random minutia. Finally, I feel confident enough for Operation Big Sniff, so I wave at the waitress to bring the check.
