Page 7 of The Debutantes
Before I can find it in me to call her out, Wyatt appears at the end of the path, walking toward us like Lily manifested him, TikTok–tarot girl style.
“You sure you’re okay?” I ask Lily, lowering my voice so he can’t hear. “Just, with all the Margot stuff, I would be a little freaked if I were you, so it’s okay if you’re not—”
“I’m fine, Viv.” She reaches for the diamond again, then catches herself. “I promise. Go have fun, okay? I’ll text when I get home.”
Okay, now I’m a little annoyed. Does Lily seriously think I’ll just go havefunwhen she’s being this cagey? She’s the one who actually cares about this deb stuff, not me. Sav and I would both rather be home in sweats, but here we are. Because even though I’m a Maid, everyone knows it’s all about the Queen. This is Lily’s night, not mine.
Wyatt catches up to us, sliding an arm around her tiny waist. A stray lock of golden hair falls onto his forehead, and I feel the stupid urge to brush it away, but I’m not supposed to be having thoughts like that about my best friend’s boyfriend of almost two years. Anyway, Lily beats me to it. She tucks the hair behind his ear, and he kisses her wrist, blue eyes locked on her.
“Car’s parked out front.” He glances between us, like he’s noticing me for the first time. “Everything okay?”
Lily smiles. “Yeah. Perfect.”
But as he pulls her closer to his side, I catch it: a little twitch of her face, her muscles tensing.
I wish I didn’t see it. I wish it didn’t give me a little rush of hope.
“I’m going back in,” I say. Too loud, like I need to announce it to all the ancient oak trees, too. “Text when you get home?”
“Of course,” she says.
I turn and walk back inside in my uncomfortable shoes, everything I could have said going sour in my mouth like bad champagne.
3PIPER
DECEMBER 29, 8:40P.M.
When I envisioned my first-ever debutante ball, I had a very clear picture in mind.
Beautiful dress, check.
Mom and Dad beaming as I rounded the stage, check.
One night when everything was so perfect that for once, just once, I could let go and have fun? I should have known that was too much to hope for. Because even if tonight hadn’t turned into such a disaster, relaxing has never been in my DNA.
Exhibit A: standing here in this ballroom, I feel closer than I’ve ever been to shoving a walkie-talkie down a grown man’s throat.
“A Jester,” I repeat, laser-focused on the security guard. “He was dressed as a Jester, and he had a bucket. I saw him slip out that door, but I lost him.”
“Can you give a bit more of a description, Miss…?”
“Johnson. Piper.” One of the pins holding my hair in its Audrey Hepburn–inspired bun is stabbing my scalp, and I reach up to adjust it before stopping myself. I’d only mess it up. Not that it matters now. I was going forBreakfast at Tiffany’s,butlooking at all the other Maids with their half-up, half-down looks and fashion ponies or Lily’s effortlessly stylish updo, I feel more stuffy than classic. “He was tall. But he had a mask on, so that’s the best I can do.”
“Thank you,” the security guard says. “We’ll be sure to keep that in mind.”
Seriously?I want to yell, but I can’t. I’m a Johnson, and Johnsons are calm and collected. Johnsons fix things. And it’s time for me to step it up.
I give him my best blistering look, the one I’ve mastered from years of watching Mom. “Listen, if I were you, I would be a little more concerned about this entire situation, especially considering that it was Lily LeBlanc up there. Because if this isn’t sorted out soon, it’s on you, and her family will make sure you know it.”
At that, his eyes bug out, his back straightening to attention. Finally. I don’t know how to feel about the fact that I just sounded exactly like Mom, but I’ve got to admit that she always gets the job done. Hell hath no fury like a Johnson woman pissed. But I’ll psychoanalyze that in my therapy session on Thursday.
“Of course, Miss Johnson,” he says. “We’ll be on the lookout.”
They won’t, but I’ve done my best to fix this mess. Now I just have to hope they figure out who pulled this stunt before Mom has an actual conniption.
Speaking of which, it’s time to move on to phase two of my damage-control plan.
I do a quick loop of the ballroom, but I can’t find her. Instead, I spot Dad at one of the tables bordering the dance floor, looking every one of his fifty-two years as he nurses a glass of his usual whiskey neat.
