Motion(Laws of Physics #1)(8)

Once outside, she nudged me again. “Get it? Mona Lisa?”

“Yes.” Hil-AR-ious.

My parents had decided naming my brother Leonardo, me Mona, my sister Lisa, and giving us the last name of DaVinci was a really great idea. It could have been worse. They could have named my brother “Michel,” me “Ang,” and Lisa “Elo,” which had been their original plan. Over the course of my life, I’d come to understand that my parents had named their children as a reflection of themselves rather than as a reflection of their hopes for us. Based on my informal sampling of celebrity children, it was always thus for superstars.

I glanced at my watch, it was only 1:00 PM. I considered calling the lawyer to check on the status of Lisa’s release even though she’d just touched base a few hours ago and I’d left her a voice message already.

“Your backpack.” Gabby flicked my bag. “What are you doing with that? Where will you put it?”

“Um.” My steps faltered. “I hadn’t thought about that.” I was bad at this. What other lying logistics had I not considered?

She continued to eye it. “What’s inside? Clothes?”

“My computer, research notes, wallet, phone.”

Gabby started shaking her head before I’d finished speaking. “Ah, no. You can’t bring that to the house. Lisa said Abram was supposed to take her phone as soon as she got there, right? Well then, he’ll definitely take—and probably search—your backpack. If he searches your backpack, he’ll know you’re you and not Lisa. Plus, he’ll find your phone, and you’re supposed to pretend like you left it behind.”

I scowled even though she was right. None of her valid points had occurred to me. “I guess I could go back to O’Hare, bag check it at the Westin, and pick it up on my way out of town next week.” I didn’t like the thought of being separated from my research or my journal.

She inspected me. “When we get to your block, give it to me. I’ll carry it the rest of the way and say it’s mine if he asks.”

I shifted away from her, distrustful. “What will you do with it?”

She made another of her give-me-a-break faces. “I’ll put it in your room—in Mona’s room—when we go upstairs. By the way, don’t forget, your room is Lisa’s room. Because you are Lisa and you don’t tell physics jokes. You tell peen and poop jokes like all self-respecting feminists.”

“You’re not going to take it?” I lifted my chin, scrutinizing her dependability in this particular situation. “If you try to take my backpack out of the house, I’ll break character right there and tell Abraham the truth.”

“You have trust issues. Don’t worry, I won’t take your precious backpack. It doesn’t match my ensemble. And it’s Abram, not Abraham.”

Speaking of not-Abraham. “Have you met him?”

Gabby gave me a meaningful look and kept on walking. Unfortunately, I’d never been gifted at deciphering meaningful looks.

I tried again. “So you do know him? Or what?”

“Abram?” Gabby blinked, once, hard. “Lisa didn’t tell you about Abram?”

I shook my head.

“Leo didn’t introduce you? They’re, like, best friends.”

“No. Leo never mentioned him.” When Leo and I talked, it was once every six months and typically focused on him telling me about his upcoming gigs as well as questioning me about girls—how they thought, why they did certain things, etc. He rarely mentioned his friend group, if at all. I’d tried to explain that I didn’t understand girls. Or people. He persisted. As such, I did my best to offer generalizable theories about female behavior.

Gabby stopped, blinking several times as though her brain was having difficulty accepting my words. “Oh, Mona. You are in for a treat.” Flipping her braids over her shoulder, she’d placed special emphasis on the word treat.

I glanced from side to side. “Why? Does he abhor superstring theory?”

She made another face of distaste, or at least tried to. I caught the tail end of a suppressed smile as she said, “I know him a lot better than Lisa does, because sometimes I hang with Leo when he’s in town. Abram can be uptight, for sure, but he’s also a big flirt. And woman, he’s so gorgeous it hurts. I mean, it physically hurts my hoo-hah to look at him in the best, hoo-hah happiest way. He’s so gorgeous, I’ve already forgiven him for being mean to our girl. And he’s a musician.”

She paused here to bite her bottom lip and look at the sky. “Writes his own music,” she moaned, “plays the bass guitar, and the piano, and every other instrument, and he sings. And when he sings, it makes my panties want to melt right off my body. Just whoop”—she made a swooping motion with her hand, gesturing from her crotch to the sidewalk—“they want to melt right off.”

“Is he smart?”

“Uh, what?” Her gaze flickered over me, leaving me with the impression I’d disappointed her. “Here I am talking about his fineness, and you have to rain on my parade by asking about his brains?”

“Is he smart?” I repeated.

“Does it matter?”

Don’t make another physics joke about matter! “It’s relevant if his level of intelligence means he’ll deduce I’m not Lisa.”