Standing in the soaring glass lobby of the Sather Conference Center in Berkeley, Ripley doesn’t feel awe so much as a sense of inevitable destiny.
All around, screens enthusiastically direct her to the opening gala of the annual American Paleontology Society meeting. The sounds of lo-fi music, clinking glassware, and cocktail-hour chatter filter down from the ballroom. Straight ahead, escalator risers sprout hypnotically from the floor, beckoning her forward.
Possibly to a hot date with local law enforcement officials.
She checks herself one last time, fingers whispering over her flat-ironed hair, silver hoop earrings, too-big handbag, and the short black dress she once wore to catch a sponsor at the most famous auction house in New York.
This time, she’s after bigger fish.
“You okay, Rip?” Cara’s also wearing a black sheath dress. She’s forgone her signature beaded earrings in favor of simple gold studs that won’t catch on the black earpiece hiding under her curtain of dark, shiny hair.
“Yeah, I’m all right. I just swore I’d never come crawling back here, you know?”
“I wouldn’t call thiscrawling back.More likefucking shit up.”
“Cara.”
Cara shrugs likeWhat did you expect?Behind her, Griffin watches a conference center employee walk by, then dictates a text to the twins. “Black pants, plain black polo shirt, two-way radio on a black belt. ID badge on a conference lanyard.”
The lanyard is a stroke of luck. The twins came from San Francisco with a carful of clothing options, but if the conference staff had special lanyards, those would’ve been near-impossible to source.
It’s still a risky-ass plan, but Ripley will take small victories where she can find them. “We ready?”
“Ready as I’ll ever be,” Cara says.
“Let’s mosey,” Griff says.
The three of them step onto the escalator.On approach,Ripley texts Matteo, then tucks her phone back into her somewhat lumpy handbag. When they reach the second level, Cara and Griff move to the railing to pretend to admire the view while Ripley goes on alone.
At the entrance to the ballroom, there’s one admin—an older white woman—staffing the registration table. She’s got a helmet of blond hair, a navy-blue skirt suit, and a pair of black pumps that look like you could run them over with your car and still wear them to dinner. She gives the impression of having precious few remaining fucks, which is perfect.
The woman pins Ripley with gimlet eyes as she draws closer. “Badge?”
Ripley steps up with a big smile and glances at the woman’s name tag. “Hey, Helen. I need to register for the conference.”
Someone has to give Helen their real name or risk gettingcharged with identity fraud, according to Cara’s dad. As an Indigenous woman, Cara’s painfully aware of times when it’s a bad idea for her to engage with legal risk. Griff, for his part, could get tossed out of the country. Despite Ripley’s name and face being all over the internet, it makes the most sense for her to step forward.
Helen, thankfully, does not get paid to recognize paleontology’s most infamous public figures. “Ripleyyyy…Adammmms…” she says, pecking at her iPad. “And how are you paying?”
“Credit, please.” Even in the low evening lighting, there’s an obvious ripple in the card where the twins roasted the chip with a woodburning tool. If Helen looks up from her screen even once, this stupid stunt will end right here, right now.
But she doesn’t. “Do you have another card?” she asks, annoyed when Ripley’s won’t scan.
“No, sorry,” Ripley says. “Could it be a problem with your machine?”
Right on schedule, Matteo sticks his head out the ballroom door. “Hey! Professor Adams. You better hurry. The awards ceremony is supposed to start in a few minutes.”
Ripley looks pleadingly at Helen. “Someone I know is getting the Marsh. Would you mind if we go in now and register tomorrow morning?”
The staffer’s expression hardens. “I can’t let you in without badges. Wait here. I’ll see if I can find another machine.”
“Thank yousomuch,” Ripley simpers. “I really don’t want to miss the speech.”
Griff and Cara roll up the second Helen disappears down the escalator. Griff leans over the registration table and grabs a handful of badges from the box for preregistered attendees. He tossestwo to Matteo, who’ll slip them to the twins, one each to Ripley and Cara, and slings one around his own neck.
Matteo vanishes into the crowd. “Up we go, straight to the front,” Griff announces. “Ripley, you stay out of sight behind me.”
Conference center ballrooms are all cloned from the same cell, as far as Ripley’s concerned: dark squares of carpet with bright medallion designs, beige wallpaper, industrial-chic sconces. The attendees—half of whom look like they came here straight from the dig, only some of those with a stop at a wash-and-fold—are munching on cheese cubes and chatting up a storm about what the summer has yielded. A trio of oversize screens play a slideshow from last year’s conference.
