Page 2 of The Debutantes
I am decidedly not fine, but Milford goes back to his phone,thank god. I go back to breathing: in for four, hold for seven, out for eight. It’s not easy, since my lungs are, you know, being squeezed to death by a custom-made prison.
I wince, thinking again of how much this dress must have cost Dad: a clean thousand that could have gone toward my college fund or literally anything else. If Dad just wanted to burn dollars, I would have happily used them for photo paper or film, since I’ve been blowing through Beaumont’s darkroom supply. But according to Dad, it’s “expected”—his favorite word when it comes to all of this debutante stuff. Every Maid here has a custom dress. I just so happen to be the only one with the figure of a wooden plank, hence the extreme measures taken to keep my strapless dress from becoming a belt. Like an unfriendly reminder, my skin starts to itch under the beaded top.
“I think we’re next,” I mumble.I think,as if we’re not the only couple left in the hallway. The qualifiers always slip out before I can stop them, a knee-jerk apology for speaking.
Milford looks at the door to the ballroom, then sighs, slipping his phone back into his pocket and holding his gloved arm out for me. I take it, cringing at the forced formality. Apparently, we debutantes are also incapable of walking without a strong teenage boy to support us. Sorry, a strong teenageDuke,because that’s their official title. One way New Orleans debutante nonsense is different from regular debutante nonsense is that celebrating how rich and important we are isn’t enough. We have to literally beroyalty.Maids, Dukes, Queens. It’s a Mardi Gras thing.
Also, one could say, an asshole thing.
My own personal Duke, Milford Wilcox III, was assigned to me by either the debutante gods or the alphabetical order of our last names, whichever came first. He’s also a senior atBeaumont, but all I really know about him is that 1) he lives in a multimillion-dollar mansion, 2) his dad is running for mayor, and 3) he’s probably not psyched to be escorting the most socially awkward Maid to ever disgrace this country club.
From the other side of the door, the jazz band’s muted rendition of “Someone to Watch Over Me” beats like a death march. I picture Dad’s beaming face in the audience and think of the mantra I’ve been repeating all night:This means a lot to my dad. My dad means a lot to me.Sure, debutante balls are historically racist, sexist, classist, and basically everything wrong with New Orleans and this country, but I can set aside my morals for one night. Right?
Wrong,says a louder voice in my head. Because now, in my too-tight dress and my too-big gloves, all I can think is that last year, Margot stood in this very ballroom less than a day before they found her body.
It rushes up in my throat: a plea, a panic, anything that will get me out of this. But it’s too late. Inside the ballroom, the applause for the last Maid fades, and Mrs. Johnson’s voice comes over the microphone like God, if He were an aging Southern belle.
“Presenting Maid April Whitman!”
I know I’m the one who was worried about missing our entrance, but now my shoes feel glued to the floor. But it’s officially too late to run. Milford has to tug me out of the hallway and under the hot lights of the stage.
The country-club ballroom yawns in front of us, high ceilings dripping with chandeliers that look suddenly precarious, like they could come crashing down at any moment. There’s a pitiful smattering of applause as we step onto the old wooden floor, white gloves against champagne flutes. I don’t blamethem for feeling lackluster. I’m the last Maid, and it’s pretty hard to stay enthusiastic after watching nine other girls get paraded around like Wagyu cattle.
We round the stage, and the lights are blinding, turning the audience into shadowy shapes in folding chairs. I can still spot Dad, though. He gives an actual standing ovation as we pass, clapping with his hands up high, like this is one of his favorite operas and I’m the prima donna who just gave a career-defining performance. Next to him, Mom gives her bestI know you hate this and I’m sorrysmile, and I feel a bubble of warmth. We’re doing this for Dad. I can do this for Dad.
As we near the center of the ballroom floor, my shoulders itch for the familiar weight of my Nikon strap. Instead, I catch a glimpse of another camera: the official event photographer, setting his aim. Sweat prickles in my armpits, heat rushing to my face. It’s a special kind of panic, being the one on the other side of the lens. Being seen.
Milford clears his throat next to me, and I remember that I’m supposed to curtsy. Mrs. Johnson’s words from this morning’s rehearsal echo in my head:Brighter smile, April. It’s a ball, sweet pea, not a funeral.
Sure,I wanted to tell her.Until I die of oxygen deprivation.
Now I dip down just like I did this morning, doing my best approximation of happiness while my pulse beats in my ears.
Flash.
And then it’s over. Milford drops me off with the rest of the Maids, who ring the empty throne in the middle of the floor, before lumbering over to the makeshift backstage area. I breathe out shakily.
“Don’t lock your knees,” a voice next to me whispers, causing the tension to immediately reflood my body.
Vivian Atkins, one of the other two Maids in my class at Beaumont. At school, Vivian’s usually in jeans and a T-shirt or her soccer uniform, but somehow, she’s just as intimidating in a ball gown, her strawberry-blond hair cascading in a classy ponytail that she could probably use to strangle me. Maybe I’m projecting. While I disagree with popularity as a concept, Vivian is part of that crowd, and I don’t trust any of them. She’s also never spoken to me before.
I try to form a response, but my voice feels locked inside my throat, so all I manage is a barely audible “Thanks.”
Vivian shrugs, eyeing Mrs. Johnson. “She’ll go feral if a Maid passes out before Lily comes in.”
As if to confirm, Mrs. Johnson shoots us both a smile that saysI will quite literally explode if y’all don’t stop whispering during my debutante ball.I guess I don’t blame Mrs. Johnson for being so intense: this whole thing is like her Super Bowl, especially this year. Across the row of debutantes, Piper Johnson—the other Beaumont Maid—is an echo of her mother, looking like the child bride at a Kennedy wedding in her modest cap-sleeve gown, brown hair pinned up in a stuffy sixties updo.
To be fair, we all look like child brides in our white dresses. Which is sort of on purpose, I think. Historically, debutante balls were a way for the elites to announce to society that their daughters were ready to be married off before they hit the ripe old age of twenty-two. Here in New Orleans, this particular brand of hell goes all the way back to the 1850s, when a bunch of rich white supremacists got together to form one of the first Mardi Gras social clubs, the Krewe of Deus—pronounced “crew,” and yes, all of the clubs spell it that way, because of course they do. As a secret society, Deus organized an extravagant, rowdy parade on Mardi Gras Day, followed by a superexclusive debutante ballat night—a lavish masquerade for only the richest and whitest in town.
Somewhere along the way, Deus spawned Les Masques, a debutante ball specifically for high-school girls, which is how I came to be standing here, craving the sweet release of the apocalypse.
Now, even though Mardi Gras clubs like Deus are technically open to anyone—as long as you’ve got money to pay the dues and another member to vouch for your worthiness—I still can’t get past the rotten, gnarled roots of it. And looking around at the other Maids onstage, this ball doesn’t look any less rich or white than they all did a century ago.
My chest tightens again, but I force myself to stay calm. It’s too late now to panic, anyway, because it’s almost the grand finale. The band’s song ends, leaving a hush of anticipation before they start up a drumroll.
“Presenting Her Royal Highness…” Mrs. Johnson pauses, relishing in the ceremony of it. “Queen Lily LeBlanc!”
A trumpet plays royal fanfare as the spotlight swings to the ballroom entrance—the main one, thegrandone. The Maids came out of the side door, but this is an entry fit for royalty. Two “pages”—the lucky ten-year-old boys whose parents forced them into page-boy costumes, complete with blond bowl-cut wigs and feathered hats—pull open the heavy wooden doors. The band starts up a dreamy instrumental cover of “La Vie en Rose,” and every head in the room turns to see her.
