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Taking out an earbud, I stick it into my ear and dial Blue.
“Hey, sis,” she says. “The crowd is dispersing as we speak. Hold tight.”
As I wait, Blue fills me in on all the juicy family gossip, making me wonder how she gathered all this information. No doubt using the same nefarious methods as Big Brother in the dystopian world of 1984.
“The Latvian Elvis has just left the building,” Blue finally says. “And I turned off the cameras in your way, so you can start the op.”
“Thanks.” I move to hop down from the toilet, but my foot slips and I headbutt the stall door.
Ouch. I see stars in my vision—shaped like urinal cakes.
Worse still, I hear a sploosh.
No! Please no.
Sadly, it’s yes.
My phone is swimming in the toilet bowl. Yuck.
“Hey,” Blue says in the earbud through crackling static. “Is everything o—”
The rest is an unintelligible hiss.
My poor phone is dead.
I debate fishing it out, as gross as that would be. I’ve heard you can stick these devices into rice to dry out, and they may resurrect themselves. In the end, I decide against it. The phone is so old it’s a stretch to call it “smart.” It’s better off drowning in the toilet with some dignity, even though I’ll have to skip about a hundred trips to Cinnabon to afford a replacement.
The question now is: should I call off the operation?
I no longer have Blue in my ear, but I have splurged on this ticket and I don’t know when I’ll be able to afford another one. Besides, I’ve gone through all the trouble of learning how to pick a lock, and Blue has done her part already.
All right, I’m going for it.
Taking in a calming breath, I sneak out of the stall.
No one is around.
Good.
As I creep to my destination, I’m glad I memorized the layout of this place instead of relying on the schematics on my phone.
The first lock in my way is easy to pick, and the second door isn’t even locked.
When I get to the last corridor, I realize I’m jogging, and by the time I stop next to the door of what should be The Russian’s changing room, I’m panting.
Yep. “Artjoms Skulme” is what the tag on the door says. I’m in the right place.
I take out the lockpicks, and the lock yields to my newfound skills without much fuss.
Heart hammering, I step inside. In the large mirror in front of me, I look frightened, like Blue would in a bird’s nest. Even my shoulder-length hair appears frazzled and pale, the strawberry-blond of my strands more ashy blond in this light than anything close to red.
Chewing on my lip, I look around for the tights. I’ve made it this far, and I’m not leaving without completing the operation.
Hmm.
I don’t see tights anywhere.
Just my luck. He’s a neat freak.
