Page 9 of The Debutantes
Aiden’s stare flicks to the throne. He doesn’t finish the thought.
I cross my arms, which are suddenly prickling with goose bumps. “You seriously didn’t see anything?”
His eyes meet mine, and he shakes his head. “Seriously, Piper. I wish I had.”
I chew the inside of my cheek. I don’t know if I believe him, but I know the look on his face. It feels like a more sincere version of the look he gets in AP Gov just after making an annoyingly smart comment to shoot down an uninformed opinion. It’s a look that meansend of discussion.
“Fine,” I say, walking away. “Bye.”
“Always a pleasure, Piper Johnson,” he calls after me, and I hear his annoying smirk without seeing it. I make a show of ignoring it, scanning the ballroom instead.
I spot Mom just in time. She’s coming in through one of the side doors, looking very much like she needs this vodka tonic.
“Have they caught the guy yet?” I ask by way of greeting, handing her the glass.
“I knew you were my favorite daughter.”
She takes a long sip, and I smile. I am heronlydaughter, sothe competition is hardly fierce, but still, I feel a bubble of pride. I anticipated a need and filled it. That’s what Johnsons do.
“And no,” Mom sighs. “This entire thing is a disaster.”
“Yeah, I know. I talked to security. They were zero help.”
I catch a twitch above Mom’s eyebrow—a telltale sign she’s stressed.
“But the people who stayed seem to be having fun,” I add quickly. I don’t want to make her feel like this is her fault, even if it happened on her watch. “It looks like they got it all cleaned, too.” I gesture at the throne area, which, aside from a conspicuousWET FLOORsign, looks perfectly blood-free. “It’s like it never even happened.”
“Well, it did,” Mom snaps. “And people aren’t going to just forget that the presentation was vandalized withbloodand”—she lowers her voice to a hiss—“and images of adead girl.”
I shrink slightly. “I know.”
Mom softens, pressing a manicured hand to her temple. “I’m sorry, Pipes. It’s just unbelievable. After what happened at the Den last year…”
I lower my voice. “You think this has something to do with the vandalism?”
Mom nearly gave herself an ulcer trying to deal with it last year. On the night of the ball, someone vandalized the Krewe of Deus Den, the warehouse where they store all of the parade floats in the months leading up to Mardi Gras. So many floats were ruined that they would have had to cancel the parade, if not for the battalion of volunteers Mom assembled to fix them with barely a month to spare. They never caught the vandal, but soon, no one really cared anymore—because the day after the ball, they found Margot’s body, and a dead Queen tends to trump petty vandalism.
They found her in her car, parked near the levee. An overdose—which, though tragic, wasn’t entirely surprising. Margot was a party girl, infamous for all the old clichés: cutting school, crashing Tulane frat parties, hiding a flask in her locker. There was even a rumor that she almost got arrested once for drunkenly cursing out a cop at Mardi Gras, before they realized who her family was and let her off with a warning. Her death was awful, obviously, but not unthinkable.
Mom sighs.
“Maybe,” she says, but I can tell she’s not too invested in my vandal theory. Her sharp green eyes scan the ballroom, distracted. “Have you seen your brother?”
“Not since the presentation. Why?”
She looks around as if to make sure no one’s listening, then leads me by the elbow a few feet away from the crowd. When she speaks, her mouth barely opens, and she keeps a placid look on her face, like we could be talking about our dresses or the hors d’oeuvres.
“Lily’s lying about what she saw.”
“What?” I follow her lead, hiding my surprise. “Like, you think she knows who did this?”
Mom nods, adjusting her faultless low bun. “I can smell a lie from a mile away. I’m hoping your brother can pull it out of her, if he decides to reappear. Lily said he was getting the car, but who knows where he got off to. He won’t answer my texts.” She sips her drink, catching the eye of one of the other Les Masques moms from across the ballroom, who waves. Mom waves back. She whispers to me, “Shelby Fontaine. Her daughter, Eugenie, is one of the Maids from St. Anthony’s. The husband is an insufferable ass, but I made Eugenie’s dress, and shedoeslook lovely in it. I should go play nice.”
“I can find Wyatt,” I tell her. “See if I can get him to ask Lily what’s up.”
She gives my cheek a light touch with her gloved hand. “Thank you, Pipes.”
Watching Mom float over to Mrs. Fontaine and herinsufferable assof a husband, I smooth out the satin of my dress. It’s also one of Mom’s designs, and probably my favorite thing I’ve ever worn: cap sleeves, white-lace detailing spilling from the bodice to the hem of the floor-length skirt. Even though I’m doubting my hair choice now, this dress makes me feel exactly how I was hoping to: classic and beautiful, like a princess at a royal wedding.
