Page 38 of The Debutantes
“I can’t tell you, okay?” Milford explodes, covering his face so I don’t splash it again.
You know, there might be something to this, like spray-bottle training for cats.
Vivian leans against the door like a bouncer. “Why?”
“Because I’m not supposed to talk about it,” he says. “It’s, like, a ‘Carnival secret.’”
Milford puts quotes around it, like he thinks the phrase is silly. I catch April making a face, too. But it’s a real thing. The Krewe of Deus has plenty of secrets, like the King’s and Queen’s identities, which are always closely guarded until they’re finally revealed on Mardi Gras Day. Even the Les Masques Queen is supposed to be a secret until the night of the ball, but we all knew it was Lily. Who else would it be?
But clearly, whatever this secret is, Milford takes it seriously enough not to tell.
“So it’s, like, a secret bar?” Vivian asks, like that’s the most ridiculous thing she’s ever heard.
“Is it a Deus thing?” I add. “I’ve never heard anything about a secret bar. If it’s Deus, I would know.”
Milford laughs. I grip the water glass tighter, and he stops.
“Care to share why that’s so funny?”
“Sorry.” He shrugs, sarcasm dripping from his words. “No girls allowed.” He stands. “Now can y’all let me out of here before I tell everyone that you kidnapped me?”
I block his path. “Not until you tell us about the bar.”
Milford pushes past me, but Vivian is still standing guard at the door. She’s pretty good at this, actually.
“Come on,” he says. “Move.”
But he’s clearly a little intimidated. Vivian’s got a few incheson him—because while Milford may have been born into unbelievable wealth, height was not part of the deal.
“Sorry,” Vivian says. “You’ve still got some questions to answer.”
“Or what?” Milford snaps.
April lifts her camera. “You were smoking weed,” she blurts. “I took a picture.”
Her face floods crimson as Milford turns to her, narrowing his eyes. “And? It’s decriminalized in New Orleans.”
He’s putting on an unbothered air, but I see where April’s going with this. It’s kind of brilliant, actually.
“Right,” I say sweetly. “But I’m not so sure a picture like this would go over well with your dad’s mayoral campaign, will it?”
Milford freezes. We’ve all seen the ads on TV. Mr. Wilcox is clearly pandering to the family values, tough-on-crime demographic. Milford’s even been in a few, looking wooden in a polo shirt, hand in hand with his mom and little sister, walking through Audubon Park like gingerbread cutouts of real people.
He stares at me, and I stare back, a battle of wills.
“Fuck,” Milford groans, wiping his hands over his face.
“We won’t say a word,” I tell him. “As long as you tell us about this bar. Seems like a fair trade, right?”
Milford’s eyes dart between the three of us.
“We won’t tell anyone we heard it from you,” Vivian adds genuinely. “We promise.”
I’m not sure how I feel about this gentler approach or a promise being made on my behalf, but apparently, it works.
Milford sighs, flopping back onto the toilet seat. “It’s called the Pierrot,” he says. “It’s just, like, this secret gentlemen’s club.”
I cringe. “Like a strip club?”
