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Or was that Sinatra?
Eh, screw it. No matter who said it, I’m feeling it.
Start spreading the news, bitches! Greer is feeling herself!
Figuratively feeling myself, that is. My hands are nowhere near my tits.
With my head held higher than it’s been in months and a hitch in my hard-to-wear-stilettos-clad step, I hurry out of my room and head for the elevators.
From the hallway, I hear the arrival bell ding, and my red satin dress drags on the carpet behind me as I run for the available cart and slide in just before the doors close.
Several partygoers fill the cramped space with an overpowering mix of perfumes and cologne and pompous attitude. It’s obnoxious, but maybe if I’m lucky, the particles will cover my tardiness like a cloak.
I wish I knew what I was getting myself into by attending this insane New Year’s Eve Mask-erade party at the Vanderturn Manhattan hotel, but Emory lives for the element of surprise.
Meet me up there, she said.
It’ll be great, she said.
This party is hosted by the people you’re interviewing for, and I’ll kill you if you mess this up, she said.
Nerves flutter in my stomach as laughter and chatter carry on around me. The people filling the tight space around me are in Emory’s circle. They’re rich and happy, and I can guarantee none of them are faced with looking for a new place to live because their house is being foreclosed on.
Fuck. Instantly, my thoughts send my upbeat mood into a nose dive.
Hold the presses, bitches. It appears there is no news to spread.
Not to mention, Emory has a new boyfriend to take her arm, a man to take her back—a shield to deflect some of the attention.
I am a one-woman Beyoncé show. In a fabulous dress, mind you, but still a lonesome party of one all the same.
The elevator dings its arrival on the top floor, and the people behind me push out with the consideration of a herd of buffalo.
I bob and weave, trying to find my footing in these stupid fucking heels I decided to wear, and I finally make a dash out the doors just as they’re closing.
One deep breath is followed by a second as I take in the room and engage a commanding step forward.
At least, I try.
The train of my red satin dress tugs back violently, and I stumble like a newborn colt.
Sweat breaks out in beads on my brow as I scan the room to see if anyone noticed. All eyes safely averted, I try again, jerking on the material with a demanding hand, only to be denied once more.
What the ever-loving hell?
Now manic and desperate, I follow the satin like a dive line until I reach the end—clamped by the fucking vise of the outer doors of the elevator shaft.
Oh my God. Why is this happening?
I tug and tug with my back to the doors in an attempt to be discreet, but people are starting to look, I can feel it.
The anxiety is intense, pricking at my skin and clamming up my hands and making my throat close in around itself.
Oh my God. I’m going to die, right here, dressed like Beyoncé!
I look to my right and find a rubber-masked Batman, but all hope of the Caped Crusader offering a superhero hand goes out the damn window when I notice he’s tongue-kissing a guy dressed like Robin. My heart drops to my fucking feet.
Since when is making out more important than saving a damsel in distress? Gotham City would be ashamed.
I’m just about to knock myself out by slamming my body into the doors in a feat of sheer self-preservation when a Kanye-masked mountain of a man appears and pushes the button to call the cart.
Within seconds, the ding of arrival sings, and the doors pop open to free me.
Why didn’t I think of that?
“Jesus,” I mutter more to myself than anyone else and put a hand to my chest to calm my racing heart. “Thank you, Kanye. I’m certain Beyoncé wouldn’t have wanted to go out that way.”
“No worries.” The man’s responding chuckles fill my ears. “Beyoncé had one of the best videos of all time!”
I smile at his use of Kanye’s exact words to Taylor Swift, when the blond-headed singer herself steps forward and takes his arm in hers.
“I guess it’s a good thing we were standing near the elevator, waiting on your notoriously late arrival,” the girl on Kanye’s arm says, and instantly, I know it’s Emory, dressed like Taylor Swift. “You okay, friend?” she asks, and I nod.
“Quince, this is Greer,” she says, and I smile, but it’s useless behind the rubber Beyoncé mask covering my face.
Seriously. Whoever thought wearing rubber celebrity masks to a fucking party like this would make it a good time is a total moron.
“I like your mask, Greer,” Quincy says behind his Kanye mask. “Isn’t it fun?”
