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“Champagne, ladies?” comes a voice from my left. I turn to see a server offering us a selection of glittering flutes of champagne on a silver tray.
“Yes,please!” Jorden chirps. I get one; she snatches up two. “One for me and one for my, uh…other friend.”
The man bows his head and whisks away without another word. Jorden promptly downs the first glass in a single go and sets the empty flute on a nearby pedestal.
“Thirsty?” I tease her.
“Girl, I get, like, one night out per year to enjoy myself. So I’m gonna enjoy myself.Mama deserves to have fun. And,” she adds, bumping my hip with hers, “so do you.”
“Yeah. Fun. Totally.”
But that gut-churning feeling is still alive and well in the middle of my belly.
We meander through the house, snagging hors d'oeuvres off of circulating trays and gawking at the insane architecture. We pass more knots of people, too, congregating on every surface and talking intently.
Someone told me once that background actors in a movie are taught to whisper "watermelon watermelon watermelon" over and over again to pretend like they're having actual conversations. That's what this feels like.
Except instead of whispering "watermelon," they're whispering two words. It takes a while for me to make them out, but when I do, something in the phrase makes me feel like there’s a cold breeze rushing over my skin.
Ivan Pushkin.
Again and again, everywhere we go, that's what I hear.
Ivan Pushkin.
Ivan Pushkin.
It rises up from every single group we pass without fail. There’s a strange sort of skittishness in the air, too. Every female between the ages of eighteen and forty keeps checking over their shoulders like they know something we don’t. Like something important is coming and they want to look their best when it gets here.
We find ourselves stepping out onto the back lawn. It’s festooned with fairy lights branching out from a stage at the far end. A jazz band plays classy music to a crowd of people intent on looking cool by ignoring it. No one dances at parties like these.
Correction:oneperson dances at parties like these.
“Uh-oh,” Jorden warns with a wicked grin. She points down at her hips, which are starting to shimmy from side to side like they have a life of their own.
“Jor…”
“Uh-oh!” she repeats in a delighted cackle. “I can’t help it, Cora! It’s—I’m—They’re aliiive!”
“We’ve been here for twenty minutes and you’re already wasted?”
“No,” Jorden claps back, “I’m havingfun. You should try it sometime.”
I love her, I really do—I just can’t match her energy all the time. Definitely not without significantly more alcohol in me.
She, on the other hand, doesn’t need a drop of the stuff. Even when she’s sober as a judge, Jorden is a ten out of ten. She laughs loud, loves loud, lives loud.
It’s miraculous, honestly, because she’s been busting her butt to make ends meet for as long as I’ve known her. She was raised by a single mom off food stamps, working in diners like Quintaño’s long before she was actually old enough to do so legally.
She’s right: she does deserve a break. Life is hard.
“You go dance,” I say sheepishly. “I’m gonna go find another drink first so I can keep up with you.”
She shrugs and flips her hair over her shoulder. “Fine. But if you find me grinding up on some hot young thing when you get back, it’ll be your loss!”
I grin and kiss her on the cheek. “I hope I find you grinding up ontwoof them.”
“Don’t tempt me, girl. I just might. I really just might.”
