CORA

I can’t believe I let my friends drag me out tonight.

After an endless shift waiting tables at the diner, dishing out lukewarm enchiladas to ungrateful senior citizens who tip like it’s still the Great Depression, the last thing I wanna do is put on a fancy dress and go to a party.

But Francia and Jorden, my fellow Quintaño’s waitresses, insisted. And worse yet, Francia is refusing to let me wear any underwear with this gown I’m borrowing from her.

“Visible panty lines in Vera Wang is, like, a sin against God,” she says in a horrified gasp, as if I’m going straight to hell for even suggesting such a thing. “Under no circumstances are you allowed to wear any. Over my dead freaking body.”

I don’t even get to argue back, because almost immediately after, she gets nauseous and runs to the bathroom to be sick. I would’ve called it a night, but party animal Jorden isn’t letting anything stop her from getting shmammered.

“Nuh-uh. Francia got a stomach bug, but I’ve got the dancing bug,” she proclaims. “I’m going out and I’m getting drunk. And you, my lovely lady companion, are coming with me.”

Dammit.

So Jorden and I call an Uber from the apartment after we finish getting ready. At first, we’re bopping to music, laughing, feeling like Disney princesses on our way to the ball. We both worked doubles at the diner every day this week in order to splurge on a rare night out, so we are determined to live it up.

Fun. That is the mission.

But the closer we get, the queasier I become.

It’s not that Francia’s stomach flu was contagious, either. It’s the line of cars parked along the road that first gives me that nasty stomach drop feeling. Mercedes G-Wagons, Rolls Royces, and Lamborghinis as far as the eye can see.

It reminds me too much of my old life.

I ran from that life for a good reason. I hated the condescension, the fakeness layered on top of everything like glitter sludge. When I left, I swore I’d never be back in places like this.

Yet here I am. Lucky me.

The feeling only gets worse as we approach the house. But then we turn the corner…and there it is.

The mansion is lit up like a jewel in the night. All glass everything. Beautiful people lounge everywhere: on the steps, in the rooms, in little groups of four and five spread out across the back lawn.

“We’re only staying ‘til midnight, Jor,” I warn my friend as we totter up the front steps in high heels. “I’m opening the diner tomorrow and I do not want to be hungover for the Saturday morning rush.”

“Yeah, yeah, whatever,” she sasses back. “In bed by midnight or Cora the Explorer will turn into a pumpkin. Roger that.”

Then she hooks her arm through mine and brings us up in front of the bouncer. “Hi,” she purrs.

He glances down at us over the edge of his clipboard. “Names?”

Jorden elbows me hard in the ribs. “Say it,” she hisses under her breath. “Like we practiced.”

I sigh. “Francia Delacour and guest.” We rehearsed that little white lie enough times on the ride over that it comes out more or less natural.

The bouncer takes a long time perusing his list before nodding and stepping aside. “Enjoy your evening, ladies.”

Then we step through the door and into another universe.

Everything gleams white and golden, with bold hints of black marble where you least expect it. There’s an honest-to-goodness fountain in the center of the living room and I’m fairly sure I saw a peacock roaming the grounds out front.

“Is this a house or a palace?” Jorden asks me, dumbfounded.

“Better question,” I reply. “If Francia can get into parties like this, what on Earth is she doing waiting tables at Quintaño’s with us?”

It’s not the only thing about Francia that doesn’t quite make sense. She randomly showed up to work one day with a diamond Cartier tennis bracelet on, for example. When I asked her where she got it, she just laughed and smiled and changed the subject—then it was gone the next time I saw her. She never invites us to her apartment; whenever we hang out, it’s at my place or Jorden’s. Truth be told, I’m not even sure what part of town she lives in.

“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.