Afterworlds Read Online Free PDF Page B

window, triumphant. “Fifteen percent is a seventh of a hundred percent, and a seventh of thirty-five is five. So Moxie makes about five times as much as her average author.”
    “I guess.” Darcy was pretty sure that Nisha was missing something too. “But I think most writers make, like, zero dollars most years. Not that you should tell the parentals that.”
    “My lips are sealed.” Nisha smiled. “But forget writing. When I grow up I’m going to be an agent.”
    A squawk came from another room, and Nisha jumped up onto the big living room couch. “What the hell!”
    “Relax,” Darcy said, remembering the email from Max, Moxie’s personal assistant. “That’s Sodapop. He’s a parrot.”
    “Your agent has a parrot?”
    The squawk had come from an open door, which led into a room crowded with a huge bed, a duo of oak valets heaped with clothes, and a covered birdcage the size of a gas station pump.
    Max usually fed Sodapop while Moxie was away, but it would be Darcy’s job for the next two weeks. She approached the cage, and heard a feathery shuffling from inside.
    She reached up and pulled the cover off. A brilliant blue bird with streaks of yellow and red in its tail gave her a cockeyed stare.
    “Hello?” Darcy said.
    “Want a cracker?” Nisha said from the doorway.
    “Let’s try to avoid clichés.” Darcy held the bird’s stare. “Do you talk?”
    “Birds don’t talk,” the parrot said.
    Nisha shook her head. “That’s fucked-up.”
    “Don’t teach my agent’s parrot to swear.”
    “ Two dollars.”
    “Whatever.” Darcy turned to survey the rest of the room. A half-open sliding door revealed a large black marble tub, and another door stood closed. She crossed to open it and peeked inside. “Oh, my god.”
    “What is it, Patel?” Nisha was headed across the room. “Porn stash? Author dungeon?”
    “No. It’s a . . .” Darcy tried to wrap her head around the space. “I think it’s a closet.”
    It was as large as her parents’ bedroom at home. Two poles stretched from wall to wall on either side, bowed under the weight of dresses in plastic covers and suit jackets with tissue paper stuffed into their sleeves. Directly across from the door were ranks of glass-fronted drawers, with a bank of cubbyholes along the bottom stuffed full of shoes.
    Darcy walked into the closet, peering through the little glass windows into the drawers. Each held exactly three shirts, neatly folded and with a white curl of cardboard keeping their collars stiff.
    “Whoa,” came Nisha’s voice from the closet door.
    “Look at these drawers,” Darcy said, close enough to fog the glass. “You can see what’s inside before you open them !”
    She pulled on a handle, and the shirts rolled out with the shush of hidden little wheels. When she pushed, the drawer drifted slowly closed, pausing for a moment before shutting, as if an invisible hand guided its passage.
    Darcy opened and closed the drawer again. The sound had the metal fizzle of ball bearings, like a bicycle wheel turning free, but less clicky.
    The flattest part of her first chapter was Lizzie’s father’s superfabulous apartment in New York City. Darcy had assembled it from images in catalogs and movies, but now she had a real-life model.
    How would she describe a closet like this in a single sentence?
    “Rewrites are going to be fun,” she murmured.
    “So where are you going to put your clothes?” Nisha asked. “Looks pretty crowded in there.”
    “Doesn’t matter. I only brought T-shirts.”
    “Seriously, Patel?”
    “That’s what Mom did when she came over. No clothes from India except jeans and T-shirts, not a single sari. She waited till she saw what Americans wore, so she could fit in.”
    Nisha rolled her eyes. “New flash: New York isn’t a foreign country. Plus it’s on TV all the time, if you wanted to find out how people dress here.”
    “Those are actors. I want to dress like real people,” Darcy said, but what