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"Do you have a boyfriend?" she blurts.
"Yes. I mean no," I say, taken aback by the sudden turn of the conversation. "We broke up a few weeks ago."
"Oh. I'm sorry. How long had you been together?"
"Six years." To my relief, the usual painful heartache that accompanies any thought of my failed relationship isn't happening. "You should really answer that. Or switch it off," I say, pretending not to notice her shocked glance in the mirror as the phone starts ringing yet again.
She bends and picks the phone from the pocket of her robe with a rather sour expression that turns to affectionate annoyance when she notices the name on the screen. It's not her boyfriend.
It's James.
She presses the phone to her ear. "Where's the fire?"
I don't hear anything more than a buzzing noise coming from her phone, but it's enough for my stomach to give a little jolt. I can't even fathom what it'll do when I actually see James.
"But I'm not ready," she protests when the buzzing noise stops.
I signal her in the mirror that I'm almost done.
"Okay, okay, I'll be there in a minute," she says, giving up and closing the phone.
"I need to go. Will you be okay on your own? Just stick to the girls, they know where the ballroom is. I'll find you there," she says and runs off. "Make sure to take a mask from the closet," she calls over her shoulder before disappearing altogether.
With nothing left to do, I pick up my white dress, bag, and her robe and put everything on a hanger, then walk to the closet and discover a set of black masks. I grab one and make my way to the front of the room, wondering if the laughter is becoming louder, or I'm just imagining it. One glance at the cup of champagne each girl is holding tells me I am not. There are only four girls left now, and they are all gathered in a circle.
"Someone get Dani's friend a cup," one of them says in a disturbingly high-pitched voice, forcibly reminding me of a lark.
"I'm fine," I say.
&n
bsp; "Oh, right, she's not allowed to drink," a redhead who looks vaguely familiar giggles. It takes me a moment to realize they think I'm the same age as Dani, a school colleague of hers. For some reason, I don't want to correct that impression. I have a hunch they are the last people who should know who really invited me here.
Their next words confirm this very thought.
"I bet Sophie'll get some tonight," the lark says, applying another layer of red lipstick on her full lips.
"Why me?" Sophie, the one who cemented my underage status, says with fake indignation.
"Because you're the only one among us who hasn't," the girl next to her chortles. She'd give any swimsuit model a run for her money. "And James's had an eye on you for some time."
"He had his chance last night and nothing happened," Sophie exclaims, as if she couldn't imagine anything more offensive. With a flash, I realize why she looks familiar. She was the redhead standing next to James last night. I withhold a smile as an unnatural sense of triumph fills me at Sophie's indignation.
"Maybe it's your turn again," Sophie continues, eying the lark. "You did hook up with him last week."
I guess Jess's womanizer comment deserved more credit than I gave it. I take a quick look at every girl. Whether redhead or blonde, full-lipped or not, their one common denominator seems to be that they're all drop-dead gorgeous.
The lark leans back in her chair, twirling one dark brown lock around her fingers. "That was just for old times’ sake," she replies, grinning with satisfaction. "Though I must say I found him much sexier in his rebel days."
And though I'm dying to know more details about those rebel days, the lark is the last person I'd ask.
Sophie just stares at her.
I wonder how long it would take them to jump at each other's throats if there wasn’t an actual law punishing them. Funny how they immediately thought I was a high school girl. Probably because they never outgrew that phase. I clutch my mask forcefully and exit the room, wishing more than ever that Jess were here or that I was home. What was I thinking? What was James thinking? Why did he invite me here? He's already got a group of desperate hyenas, whose beauty nor silliness I match, to choose from.
There are less than a hundred feet between the front door and me. Loren is still there, guarding it, but I'm pretty sure he won't try to stop me from leaving. The taxi back home would cost me a week's salary, but right now, that doesn't sound half bad.
And yet I don't move one inch from my frozen position against the door. There's something rooting me to the spot. Something that tells me this isn't the time to chicken out and flee.
