The song is fading by the time Hannah spins to face me again. Her smile abruptly melts into a look of alarm. “Matt!”
I spin in time to see Matt leap out of the bouncy castle and bound toward the massive spiral staircase in the corner of the living room. It looks like Dr. G knocked down the walls between the floors to create the staircase himself out of rickety wood and rusted iron. It’s a homemade death trap. Naturally, a crowd of partygoers have decided to surfdown it on boogie boards, and, also naturally, the man who’s supposed to be giving us our first national media spotlight is determined to join.
“He’s going to break his neck,” I call to Hannah’s back. As we race toward the stairs, the boogie boards are reaching an impressive velocity. Each person jets out of the staircase, narrowly missing party-goers, farm animals, and furniture. “You were supposed to make sure he didn’t get into trouble,” I add.
Her eyes narrow as she twists over her shoulder. “Keeping him out of trouble wasyourjob. Mine was showing him a good time.”
“Without causing bodily harm,” I yell. “I specifically stated that.” I make it to the bottom of the stairs just as Matt crouches on his boogie board at the top. “Shit.” I clutch Hannah’s elbow.
Matt throws out his arms triumphantly. “I, too, am a golden god,” he yells, pounding his chest, and then he barrels down the staircase with far less grace but much more speed than anyone before him. I grab Hannah and jerk her to the side just as he knocks against the railing, does a full three-sixty spin, and ricochets out from the stairs, flying in a glorious arc across the living room, face glowing with triumph. We all realize where he’s headed at the exact same time, the instant before he splats like a bug against the wall.
A collective groan rises in the room. Hannah and I rush to him. I roll him over and she shakes his shoulders until he opens his eyes. “Where does it hurt?” she asks.
Matt gazes up at her fondly and taps the bridge of his glasses, which are wrapped in protective tape. “You were right about the glasses.” “Okay, Mr.Rolling Stone.” I put my arm around him and wrestle him up. Thank god he’s talking. “Time for bed.”
*
We tuck Matt into a small cot on the top floor of Dr. G’s funhouse and cover him with an old curtain Hannah found in a closet. Nestling in, he draws up the curtain and says, “I have to tell you something.”
Hannah’s busy putting a glass of water on the floor, so I ask, “What?”
He yawns. “This is my firstRolling Stonemusic feature. I’m normally a business reporter. I had no idea how tonight was supposed to go.” He closes his eyes. “But it was just like the movies.” Incredibly, on his next inhale, he’s snoring.
Hannah and I look at each other. “Yeah, that tracks,” I say.
“Lot of pieces fitting together,” she agrees.
We look down at his sleeping face. “Here’s hoping he wakes up bright-eyed and bushy-tailed, ready to lead three consecutive interviews and then write the best damn article the world’s ever seen.”
“He’s young.” Hannah nods sagely. “He’ll bounce back.”
“You know, you’ve been strangely nice all night.” I fold my arms over my chest. “Should I thank the Happy pill?”
She reaches over and flips off the light. “Here’s where I invoke that old Whitman quote about multitudes.”
In the dark, I repeat myself. “I mean it. Why have you been so nice?”
I sense her still. “Seemed like you needed a win. And maybe I did too.”
“I’ve needed a lot of things you’ve ignored. A heads-up on new songs, no drinking onstage, basic human decency—”
“Clearly your Happy pill has worn off.”
“Trying to save a reporter’s life was a sobering experience.”
She’s moving. “Come on. I want to show you something.”
I follow her to the end of the hall. Hannah yanks open a door to yet another rickety metal staircase and waves at it. “Ladies first.”
I shake my head. “I’m not getting lured into some creepy room full of funhouse mirrors.”
She rolls her eyes. “Fine. I’ll go first.”
I follow her, grudgingly. “You’re feeding me to an animal, aren’t you? Does Dr. G own a lion?”
She snorts and keeps climbing, then wrests open another door and swings it wide. The night sky winks at us. In the distance, I can see the jewel-strung lights of the Golden Gate Bridge.
“Gunthy’s roof has a great view of the city,” she says, stepping out.
