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Ellie meets up with us for the next phase of our prep: makeup. I put up a small fight, trying to insist that I can apply my own. My eye shadow will be basic, probably consisting of a vague brown color, and my lips will be covered with chapstick—the belle of the ball, for sure. Martha isn’t convinced. She plops me down in the chair and holds up a photo of my dress for the makeup artist. He taps his finger on his chin, thinking, and then his eyes light up and he grins. “I have the perfect shadow for you.”
It turns out, he does. It’s gold and shimmery, and when I put on my dark green velvet dress back at home, I look like Holiday Barbie.
Ellie, not one to be outdone, looks ridiculously gorgeous in a dark red silk gown. The neckline falls just across her collarbones, but the back dips dangerously low. It’s equally as understated as my gown, and apparently, they’re from the same designer. Our coordination efforts pay off when we stroll into the W Hotel later that night and I catch our reflection in a floor-length mirror.
Damn.
“I bet this is what Gigi and Bella feel like 24/7.”
She grins and hooks her arm through mine. With her by my side, I feel confident as we enter the ballroom. Martha and the rest of the event organizers clearly ran away with the theme. It looks like they hired Elsa to turn the whole room into a winter wonderland. Icicles hang from the ceiling in densely packed clusters, and flocked Christmas trees line the perimeter, filling the air with a soft aroma of spruce and pine. Beneath them, fake snow covers the floor. Special lighting casts everyone in an icy blue glow, and either winter has finally arrived or they cranked the A/C because it’s freezing in here. I’m grateful for my long-sleeved gown as Ellie and I reach for flutes of champagne from a passing waiter.
We meet each other’s eyes and clink glasses.
“Here’s to hashtag dat gala lyfe,” she says with an arched brow.
I laugh and we turn to peruse the ballroom. Martha is greeting guests a few yards away. I know for a fact she’s been busting her butt putting the finishing the touches on the event all week, but it looks as if she’s just returned from an extended stay on some tropical island. Her blonde hair is swept up in an elegant French twist, her makeup is impeccable, and she’s wearing a dark navy gown that sparkles every time she moves. My dad is by her side, helping her with her hosting duties, looking very dapper in a fitted tuxedo. Side by side, they look like they were born for this role, and I can’t help but smile thinking about my mom off in the middle of a Peace Corps assignment with Jorge. To each their own.
We head in their direction to compliment Martha on a beautiful event, but I stop dead in my tracks when the crowd shifts and I spot Lacy just on the other side of her. Of course, as co-chairs, they would be greeting guests together.
I ask Ellie to assess how she looks since obviously I can’t objectively judge her outfit.
“Like a shitty Christmas ornament some kid make in art class,” Ellie says, surreptitiously studying her over her glass as we approach. “Her gown is hot pink and she’s wearing dangling earrings stuffed with so many diamonds that her earlobes are probably insured for the night.”
Everything she’s said so far is true, but the ensemble doesn’t stop there. Around Lacy’s shoulders is an over-the-top white fur wrap. Her blonde hair is curled in soft waves reminiscent of the 1920s. Her makeup looks like it’s been airbrushed on, making her complexion smooth and flawless.
“She doesn’t even look real,” Ellie points out before quickly adding, “and that’s not a good thing.”
My dad spots us just before we reach the small group and waves us over with a wide, proud smile. I dutifully oblige, though I’d be equally happy to run in the exact opposite direction. At least my dad has the decency to lay the compliments on thick.
“You both look absolutely stunning,” Martha adds, beaming. She turns to a few of her friends and proudly introduces us as her stepdaughters. Lacy’s gaze finds me and when I meet her eyes, she produces a villainous smile—at least that’s what it looks like to me. To the rest of the group, I’m sure it appears perfectly cordial.
“Hello Ellie.”
I smile sweetly. “It’s Brooke.”
She presses her hand to her chest in feigned embarrassment. “Of course, Brooke.”
“I’m Ellie,” my sister says, stepping forward and extending her hand to Lacy. “You must be Lacy, I’ve heard so much about you.”
Lacy arches a brow. “Have you now?”
Ellie beams, and I’m nearly struck silent by my sister’s beauty. She’s everything women like Lacy strive to be, and it feels good to have her by my side. “Yes. Brooke has told me everything.”
