The Invisible Life of Addie LaRue - V. E. Schwab Page 0,76
says.
But Henry’s eyes go bright with mischief. “It’s a speakeasy.”
A memory lurches through her at the word, and she is in Chicago, nearly a century ago, jazz circling like smoke in the underground bar, the air heavy with the scent of gin and cigars, the rattle of glasses, the open secret of it all. They sit beneath a stained-glass window of an angel lifting his cup, and Champagne breaks across her tongue, and the darkness smiles against her skin, and draws her onto a floor to dance, and it is the beginning and the end of everything.
Addie shudders, drawing herself back. Henry is holding open the door at the back of the laundromat, and she braces herself for a darkened room, a forced retreat into the past, but she’s met instead by the neon lights and electronic chime of an arcade game. Pinball, to be precise. The machines line the walls, crammed side by side to make room for the tables and stools, the wooden bar.
Addie stares around, bemused. It is not a speakeasy at all, not in the strictest sense. It is simply one thing hidden behind another. A palimpsest in reverse.
“Well?” he asks with a sheepish grin. “What do you think?”
Addie feels herself smiling back, dizzy with relief. “I love it.”
“All right,” he says, producing a bag of quarters from one pocket. “Ready to lose?”
It’s early, but the place is far from empty.
Henry leads her to the corner, where he claims a pair of vintage machines, and balances a tower of quarters on each. She holds her breath as she inserts the first coin, braces for the inevitable clink of it rolling back into the dish at the bottom. But it goes in, and the game springs to life, emitting a cheerful cacophony of color and sound.
Addie exhales, a mixture of delight and relief.
Perhaps she is anonymous, the act as faceless as a theft. Perhaps, but in the moment, she doesn’t care.
She pulls back the lever, and plays.
III
“How are you so good at pinball?” Henry demands as she racks up points.
Addie isn’t sure. The truth is, she’s never played before, and it’s taken her a few times to get the hang of the game, but now she’s found her stride.
“I’m a fast learner,” she says, just before the ball slips between her paddles.
“HIGH SCORE!” announces the game in a mechanical drone.
“Well done,” calls Henry over the noise. “Better own your victory.”
The screen flashes, waiting for her to enter her name. Addie hesitates.
“Like this,” he says, showing her how to toggle the red box between the letters. He steps aside, but when she tries, the cursor doesn’t move. The light just flashes over the letter A, mocking.
“It doesn’t matter,” she says, backing away, but Henry steps in.
“New machines, vintage problems.” He bumps it with his hip, and the square goes solid around the A. “There we go.”
He’s about to step aside, but Addie catches his arm. “Enter my name while I grab the next round.”
It’s easier now that the place is full. She swipes a couple of beers from the edge of the counter, weaves back through the crowd before the bartender even turns around. And when she returns, drinks in hand, the first things she sees are the letters, flashing in bright red on the screen.
ADI.
“I didn’t know how to spell your name,” he says.
And it’s wrong, but it doesn’t even matter; nothing matters but those three letters, glowing back at her, almost like a stamp, a signature.
“Swap,” says Henry, hands resting on her hips as he guides her over to his machine. “Let’s see if I can beat that score.”
She holds her breath and hopes that no one ever will.
* * *
They play until they run out of quarters and beer, until the place is too crowded for comfort, until they truly can’t hear each other over the ring and clash of the games and the shouts of the other people, and then they spill out of the dark arcade. They go back through the too-bright laundromat, and then out onto the street, still bubbling with energy.
It’s dark out now, the sky overhead a low canopy of dense gray clouds, promising rain, and Henry shoves his hands in his pockets, looks up and down the street. “What now?”
“You want me to choose?”
“This is an equal opportunity date,” he says, rocking from heel to toe. “I provided the first chapter. It’s your turn.”
Addie hums to herself, looking around, summoning a mental picture of the neighborhood.