Look - Zan Romanoff Page 0,26
says. “But you know, this place has kind of a history.”
“I thought we weren’t supposed to use that word anymore,” Lulu says. “Gypsies.” It’s one of those things her sister Naomi is always on about.
“Well, listen, don’t tell any Gypsies I said it, okay?”
“I don’t really think that’s the point,” Lulu says.
“What’s the point?”
“Why not call people what they want to be called?”
“Why should I have to?”
The answer to that is Because it would at least make you look like less of a dick, but she can’t say that to Ryan, not and have it come out right. Instead, Lulu says, “Maybe if you did, your family wouldn’t be cursed.”
Ryan laughs. “There are people who actually believe that,” he says. “I mean, the people who believe in the curse believe it’s our fault. My great-great-grandmother was an actress.” Right. Lulu read about Constance Wilmott. “And she was only in one film, and then she stopped acting. Probably because she was busy having kids, but some old conspiracy theorists got obsessed with the idea that it was her husband who made her stop which could be true too. Apparently he was mad possessive.”
Lulu does not make fun of him for saying “mad possessive.” She hopes Cass shows up soon, before she runs out of self-control.
Ryan gestures to The Hotel. “He took the money she made and bought this place. Feminists always think her ghost is pissed because she had to stop acting, and then he got rich and famous. But”—he looks around, like The Hotel itself is evidence of what he’s about to say—“she lived in style. I don’t think she gave a shit about a career.”
“Why are you rebuilding it, then? If it has all this weird history. Why not demolish it, or sell it off or something? The land’s gotta be worth—”
“That’s what my dad wanted,” Ryan says. “And he would have, but I chose it for my project.”
“Project?”
“Riggs family tradition,” Ryan explains. He picks up the camera again and starts scrolling through the photos he’s taken, like he’s bored by his own story. “When we turn eighteen we get a little bit of our trust on the condition that we don’t spend it on ourselves. It has to go toward making something. For a while that was improving land, mostly, but recently there have been a lot of nightclub and restaurant investments. You can imagine.”
“Oh.”
“That’s how Roman started Flash—that was his. They want us to learn how our money can work for us,” Ryan says. “And how fast it can disappear. Avery—my great-great-grandfather, the guy who built this place—his dad spent a literal fortune gambling. He wanted to make sure we wouldn’t be that dumb.”
Cass’s car appears at the mouth of the driveway.
“So you chose this place?” Lulu asks. “Even though it’s maybe-cursed?”
Ryan smiles. This is the face Lulu knows best on him: certain, and pleased with himself about it. “Yeah,” he says.
“You believe you can—what, break it?”
Cass parks and gets out of her car.
Ryan says, “I’m not scared of it. I figure, fuck a curse, you know?”
He’s all princely arrogance and rich-boy bluster. Ryan is so used to the idea that the rules don’t apply to him that even a supernatural one doesn’t faze him. Of course he doesn’t believe in curses. He probably doesn’t even believe in luck. Ryan has a thousand-dollar cell phone in his pocket and a brand-new car in the driveway. He’s been given money that could feed a family for years and told to use it to teach himself some lessons. So what if it is all a waste? He’ll still have the idle afternoons he spent here, king of his castle, high on a hill.
He’ll have the pictures too, Lulu thinks. Whatever he says about hot girls and easy subjects, he has them if he wants them. Which means he has the power to make the world think his life is beautiful and enviable and interesting even when all he’s doing is wasting it away.
* * *
They go down to the tent, which is still in the pool. Cass gets stoned, stretches out on her back, and zones out, rubbing the corner of a thin, gauzy blanket carefully against her cheek.
It turns to the golden hour. Light spills through the canvas, turning her into a creature made of shadow and cream. She’s dappled with shocks of color, streaks and splotches of pink and red and yellow. A breeze blows through the tent’s unzipped flap. The air is thin and dry, soft