Nineteen #2
In the Smithson’s dark driveway, I nearly miss seeing Aaron. He waits by the door of the limo with a black corsage for Kristen, wearing a white bowtie on his black tuxedo, his unruly hair gelled and tamed. Kristen must be melting.
I wait with Kristen’s parents while my friends greet each other, and right before climbing into the limousine, Aaron’s eyes flick to me.
Something passes in his stormy gaze, almost like an understanding, like he remembers what I’d told him about Arielle.
Like he remembers everything I’ve ever told him.
As we settle onto the car’s interior leather, it tugs on my heart that the Smithsons can afford all these luxuries and are sharing them with me, no strings attached.
Mrs. Smithson started a financial analytics company after college, which she now runs.
I’m not sure what it does, but she’s always sounded like a genius whenever she’s tried to explain it to me.
Mr. Smithson coaches the high school badminton team, his dream job.
He doesn’t seem to be too disappointed about Kristen’s extreme lack of hand-eye coordination.
I think her parents are grateful she’s even playing a sport—anything to teach her time management.
“We’re glad you’re coming this year, Madeline,” says Mr. Smithson. “Someone has to help me go through these snacks.” Mr. Smithson inspects the limo until he spots the mini fridge. He pulls out a tray of chocolate covered strawberries and offers them to the rest of us.
Kristen jerks my arm when we pull up to the Bridges’ estate.
The mansion sits on the city’s border, as far away from all the riff raff as any property could be while still being inside the city limits.
The estate has been in Phil’s family for generations and boasts an indoor pool, a squash court, a ballroom the size of my entire high school, and lawns that you aren’t allowed to walk on.
I accompanied Arielle the first time she saw this place—she had strolled through the too-high ceilings like she was stepping into another world, contemplating whether it met her standards.
Before we climb out of the limousine, Mrs. Smithson hands each of us a mask, except for Aaron, who pulls out his own.
“It’s a masquerade,” she reminds us.
I exhale in relief, glad she’d given them to us ahead of time.
This way, I can spot the Smithsons-plus-Aaron with their masks on.
I tie mine—a silky silver with embroidered sparkles—behind my hair and secure it over my forehead and nose.
Kristen disguises herself with a black mask.
She’s unrecognizable to anyone who hasn’t seen her put the mask on, and I realize that I will be too.
As creepy as the idea of entering a room full of masked strangers seems, I’m glad to have a chance at escaping Arielle’s notice.
Aaron’s mask is a pale yellow, which offsets his dark hair. He takes Kristen’s arm, and I trail behind them as we follow her parents up a red carpet.
The night is pleasant for the end of October, with just enough breeze that we won’t sweat in the crowd.
Cameras line the red carpet leading into the Bridges’ ballroom.
At first, I’m floored by the amount of money Arielle must have spent on this shindig, until I remember that this is a charity event.
There’s a booth taking cash donations, and I realize that someone has probably donated most of the amenities for the party.
Three hundred or so guests, each wearing a mask, already pack the ballroom.
Some waltz, while others sip cocktails at high tables.
A buffet takes up one wall of the room, with a tiered chocolate fountain rippling in the middle.
There’s a bar, a string quartet, and doors that open up to Arielle’s backyard—or as she prefers to call it, “the grounds.”
“Looks like there’s cake,” Mr. Smithson says, turning to head toward the buffet. “Mr. Ryans, let’s check it out.” Aaron shrugs to Kristen, who grins as he follows her dad into the crowd.
“Easy, Stephen,” Mrs. Smithson tells him. Before she can follow, a brunette woman in a scarlet dress and matching mask, paired with a man in a tuxedo and red bowtie, intercepts her. Kristen and I hover, fulfilling our social obligation, so we can do our own thing after this.
“Kendra and Damian.” Mrs. Smithson greets the couple, skillfully recognizing them in their disguises.
“Damian’s parents,” Kristen whispers. Ah, so that’s Damian Sr. Despite the warming room, goosebumps sprout on my arms. Damian is already here.
Kristen corrects her posture to make herself seem taller.
As awesome as Damian is, Kristen seeds a deep dislike for his parents.
She’s recited their infamous comment more times than I can remember.
Dr. Scott, Damian’s mother, who insists on people calling her “doctor” because of her psychology practice, had the gall to say it to Kristen’s mom: “Bisexuality is often just a phase, dear. I wouldn’t despair yet.
If she’s still acting out in college, call me. I’d be glad to assist.”
What had the Scotts thought about Molly’s article on homophobia in the school system? I bet they’re not too upset that Damian and Molly broke up.
“Let’s go.” Kristen links my arm with hers. “Let’s see if we can score any drinks.”
“Um, none for me,” I say. I walk with her away from Damian’s parents, but I don’t want Arielle to catch me drinking, giving her one more thing she could hold over me.
I wait at a tall table on the room’s edge and watch the guests.
Strings of fairy lights wind around pillars spanning floor to ceiling, and strands of orange and black roses float across the awnings.
Each table has a silky black tablecloth, and the tableware is a golden orange; Arielle has outdone herself.
Kristen returns a moment later with a champagne flute and three boys in matching tuxedos: one with blonde hair and a blue mask, another with chestnut curls and a red mask, and Aaron, with his yellow mask.
“Hey, look who I found,” says Kristen.
“Sup, Maddragon?” says Fox. “Everything splash-tastic?” His mask covers his face enough to disguise him, but I would know his voice and that hair anywhere. His royal blue bow tie matches the ensemble nicely.
“Definitely.” I glare at Kristen. Why did she bring him over?
“Ah, the perfect opportunity to ask Damian your math question,” Fox says, gesturing toward the second boy.
Damian Scott Jr. stands beside Fox in the bright red mask, and I wouldn’t have recognized him if Fox hadn’t half-introduced him to the group, though Damian’s scarlet color palette matches the rest of his family’s.
Damian’s mask covers his face more than Fox’s does, from his hairline down to his chin, and I spend the next fifteen seconds deciding if his disguise remotely resembles D.S. ’s. I can’t quite rule it out…
“Ahem,” says Fox, and I realize the four of them are staring at me.
I touch my hot cheek, coming back to reality. “Sorry. I had a homework question, but I figured it out.”
“All good,” Damian answers in a dreamlike register I want to put in a music box and play forever. Is that D.S.’s voice? Not even close, but he’d once told me his mask disguises his voice. Damian drifts toward Kristen and gestures to her flute. “Where did you get that?”
Kristen mouths me an apology and leads Damian back to wherever she’d just been. Aaron excuses himself, following Kristen around like a puppy and leaving me with Fox. Alone. Worst night ever.
“You didn’t really want to ask Damian something, did you?” Fox softens. “And I was so rude to you in practice. Sorry for the misunderstanding, Maddy.”
Fox? Apologizing? “Who are you and where is Fox Levine?”
Fox shoves his hands into the pockets of his pressed pants. “I wanted to make up for…” he trails off, then collects himself. “Just wanted to say sorry.”
For the past three years , I finish his thought.
Fox rubs the back of his neck with a hint of awkwardness, and I accept his apology.
A violin crescendos as couples spin around the dance floor.
If this were a movie, Fox and I would make up and ask each other to dance, a ball montage of twirling and giggling would ensue, and we could pretend. This is not that story.
“By the way, Damian’s number is…” Fox rattles it off for me. “And I should go, before I ruin this.” He hurries a salute and disappears into the party.
Something chilly brushes my neck, but when I turn, nothing is there. A spookiness lies in wait, and I wonder if Phil realized I’m here. What does he have in store for me? Now that I’m alone.