Page 84 of Born to be Wilder

For a moment—just a moment—everything she didn’t say lived plainly on her face. And then she lifted her chin, and the captain squared herself for whatever was coming.

“Well then,” she said, “we’d better make this last stretch of our trip a good one.”

“Mardi Gras tomorrow?” I asked.

“Captain’s orders.” She smiled.

And I did too—a real one, bigger than I’d managed in longer than I wanted to admit—because she was here, right now, in this straw, with a Viking hat on a ridiculous wig and her green eyes full of life.

And somehow I knew they would be full of life for years to come. I would make damn sure of it.

We might be in a bumpy part of this crazy life we found ourselves in, but I knew with certainty we were nowhere near done.

The credits hadn’t even started rolling yet.

ALICE

Chapter Seventeen

“Woowee! Would you look at this!” Marge charged forward toward the growing commotion as we followed behind her. “We found the party!”

Each step we took, the music grew louder and the bodies grew thicker as we made our way through the streets of New Orleans. We turned a corner, and it was like someone had pulled the headphones off, the music slamming into us like a wall. The deep, brassy growl of a street band vibrated the air. It was Friday, the fever pitch of Mardi Gras was rising, and the streets were a river of purple, green, and gold.

My eyes widened as I took in the sights spread out in front of me.

Beads caught the afternoon light from the balconies above us. Costumes everywhere—elaborate, spectacular, outrageous—worn by people who danced and laughed and sang, carefree and wild.

Doris stood frozen beside me, head swiveling left and right, eyes bulging, trying to make sense of the madness.

“This,” Marge announced, arms spreading wide, “is exactly what I’m talking about.”

“It’s incredible,” Sylvie breathed. “I wanted to see it. I knew it was supposed to be something, but this—” She gave up on the sentence and just gestured broadly at Bourbon Street, which seemed accurate.

There were no words to appropriately describe it.

A group in full costume pushed past us—feathers and gold masks and colors so bright my eyes struggled to make sense of it all.

Marge pointed at them, grinning triumphantly like she’d just won an argument. “See? I told you you could wear the captain’s helmet and fit right in. Nobody would have blinked.”

“I’m not wearing a Viking helmet in public.” I smoothed my hair. “It’s ridiculous.”

She scowled. “Pansy. That helmet is a privilege. An honor.”

“It’s a monstrosity and I’d rather be arrested than walk around in it.”

“The only crime is you refusing to wear it. I should call the cops on you myself and have them toss you in the clink until you wear your captain’s hat. They’ll agree with me. Guarantee it.”

“I’m not wearing the Viking helmet. I’m wearing… a crown. An invisible one. The helmet won’t fit.”

I smirked and she scowled. “Liar.”

Doris watched a man throwing knives as the crowd around him cheered. “Wow. I don’t even know what to say,” she whispered. “This is…”

“Awesome.” Marge propped her hands on her hips and took it all in.

“It’s... it’s a lot,” Doris whispered, clutching her purse to her chest as a man in leather chaps and a glittery mask sauntered past. Her mouth dropped open as he walked by and we realized he was in nothing but a thong, his bare cheeks greeting our eyes.

Doris spun away. “Oh dear. He’s… he wasn’t wearing—” Her eyes flew wide when they clapped onto a group coming toward us holding balloons shaped like penises.