by Kate Brian
“I'm fine with what I have,” I said, lifting the gold mask from my lap by its gold handle. I had changed into my gown in the tiny square of a bathroom the moment I boarded the train and I wasn't taking it off for anything. Never in my life had I even imagined wearing anything this divine.
“Good. I'm fine with it, too,” he said. I smiled and felt myself blush. “May I?”
“Sure.”
I was all too happy to have Josh sit with me. It would prevent Whittaker from taking the seat when he was done debating the latest Supreme Court debacle with the other guys from his floor. The ones who had either seen all the naked girls they needed to see or who didn't swing that way.
“So, you don't get a plus-one?” I asked as he settled in.
“Nope. I'm lucky I'm even here,” he said with a shrug. “I'm third generation. Just made the cut.”
“Ah.”
“But look at you! You bagged one of the few plus-ones in the entire school. You must be so proud,” he teased. “Not that I'm surprised.”
“What do you mean?” I asked, not sure if I should be offended.
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“Just that of all the girls in school I'm not surprised Whittaker picked you,” he said.
I flushed with pleasure. So not offended.
“I don't even know if I'd bring someone if I had a plus-one,” Josh said. “Unless I found someone truly worthy, I'd still go stag. That's just how I roll.”
I laughed and shook my head. “The girls at school would eat you alive.”
“So be it,” he said. “So, how are you, Reed Brennan?”
I took a deep breath. “Fine. I'm fine.”
“Convincing,” he said with a facetious nod. “Keep saying that and even you might start to believe it.”
I smiled sadly, snagged. “Do you really think Thomas is going to be at this thing?”
Josh faced forward and blew out a sigh, puffing his cheeks out momentarily. He picked at a slit in the back of the seat in front of him. “I hope so. So I can kick his ass.”
I looked at him quizzically.
“You know, for making us worry,” he said.
“Ah. Right. That tiny offense.”
We looked at each other for a moment and I found myself staring directly into his green eyes--his kind, honest, nothing-to- hide green eyes. Slowly, Josh smiled, and I found myself smiling too. Then his gaze traveled down and settled, for the briefest of seconds, on my lips.
And just like that, my heart flipped.
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Flipped. For Josh Hollis.
I looked away quickly, suddenly warm. Josh instantly did the same. Thomas. I was going to this party to see Thomas. Of course, Whittaker chose that very moment to finally arrive.
My head was spinning.
“Evening, Josh,” he said congenially. “It seems you're in my seat.”
My stomach clenched with nerves as Josh looked at me. I shrugged with my eyes. “See you later?” Josh said as he stood, Whittaker backing up to make room.
“Yeah.”
Whittaker sat down next to me and slung his heavy arm around my shoulder. “This is going to be an incredible night.”
'Yeah,“ I replied, toying with my masquerade mask as I stared at Josh over the top of the seat. He was talking to Gage and Dash now, laughing as if nothing was weird. 'Yeah, it definitely is.”
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WALK OF FAME
By the time we stepped off the train in Grand Central Station in New York, almost everyone was sufficiently wasted, so I wasn't that surprised when Kiran and Taylor came up behind me, hooked their arms through mine, and dragged me through the main lobby, laughing and whispering, drunk with absolute freedom. Our voices echoed off the incredible domed ceiling high above as we scurried along, trying not to trip over our gowns. I couldn't believe I was in New York City, center of the known universe. But even more shocking? I was there with these people, in an exquisite ball gown, earning the curious and awed stares of everyone around us.
I felt like a debutante, a celebrity, someone who was certainly not me.
“Where are we going?” I asked the moment we emerged clumsily onto the sidewalk, a six-legged princess in too-high heels.
The rest of the crowd brought up the rear, gabbing loudly and confidently, not caring who heard or who stared. The cars on the
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avenue raced by, honking and veering and slamming their brakes. A hot dog vendor pushed his cart along the curb, cursing at no one and everyone. A pack of kids in Spider-Man and Bratz costumes scurried after a pair of harried-looking moms. Two huge men in black leather jackets screamed insults at each other as they plowed right through our group, causing Rose and Cheyenne to jump out of their way. Five seconds in the city and already I had seen more hustle and bustle than I had during a lifetime in Croton, Pennsylvania.
“You'll see!” Kiran trilled, dragging me off down the sidewalk.
A pack of college-aged kids in elaborate vampire robes and white powder glided by us, checking us all out. A tall guy in a monkey costume gripped hands with a beautiful girl dressed up like Naomi Watts from King Kong and pulled her across the street. Ghouls and goblins shouted out taxi windows and a limo went by with four guys shoved up through the sunroof, each dressed in drag with tremendous boobs, “Woo-wooing” at the top of their lungs.
“Love New York on Halloween,” Noelle said, taking a drink from a flask. “It's when all the crazies come out.”
We walked a few blocks, making a few turns, until my feet started to throb in Kiran's wicked-high heels and I began to wonder why these ridiculously rich kids hadn't hired a limousine or at least hailed a cab. But the longer we walked, and the more passersby stopped in awe, the more I understood. They wanted these people to see and admire them. That was what this walk was all about. It was their walk of fame.
And it was fine by me, pain or no pain, because I got to see the
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city. I did my best not to gape as we strolled by swank boutiques and canopied restaurants. Tried so hard not to stare through the brightly lit windows into brownstone mansions, some starkly decorated with white walls and high ceilings, others jam-packed with overflowing bookcases and antique artifacts. Didn't even flinch when we traipsed past a woman pushing a stroller who might or might not have been Sarah Jessica Parker and who may or may not have paused to admire my gown. But I did take it all in. I took it all in and filed it away and told myself over and over that I belonged here. That I was not going to wake up. That all this was really happening. To me.
We emerged onto a wide avenue with islands down the center that were full of trees and bushes. A middle-aged couple in evening wear glided by us, the woman's silk skirt swishing behind her as she walked, her humongous diamond-and-ruby earrings sparkling under the streetlights. I surreptitiously glanced at the street sign over my head, trying not to seem too bumpkin, and smiled. We were on Park Avenue. The Park Avenue. It actually existed and I, Reed Brennan, was on it.
“This way!” Dash announced, leading the pack across the street.
I passed by an idling Rolls-Royce and tried not to stare at the uniformed driver as Kiran, Taylor, and I fell into a rhythm with our steps. We followed the others up the street as I glanced into each and every lobby, noting the elaborate marble floors, glistening chandeliers, gorgeous flower arrangements. I was completely
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dumbstruck by all the opulence, and Kiran and Taylor were having fun listening to the clip-clop of our heels--so much fun that we almost walked right by the rest of our friends when they stopped, en masse, in front of a wrought-iron gate. Apparently we had arrived.
Dash hit a buzzer that was built into a gray stone wall, and two seconds later an imposing man in a green doorman's uniform with gold tassels appeared. He looked us over with disdain, as if we were rabble off the street.
“Can I help you?” he said through his nose.
Noelle stepped up, nearly shoving Dash aside. The doorman had the humanity, at least, to appear stunned by the gorgeousness that had appeared in front of him. His eyes trailed down to the spot just above her cleavage, where her own Legacy pendant glimmered.
The man's thin lips twisted into a smile and he bowed his head. “Welcome.”
He unlocked the gate, which gave an ages-old squeal. Dash flashed his sleeves, showing off a pair of Legacy cuff links--the guys' version of a pass--and the man bowed to him as well. Whittaker took my hand, detaching me from my friends, and showed his cuff links as we passed. The doorman glanced at my chest and nodded and my skin sizzled with excitement. I was in. My plus-one had been rendered. Now it was time to get to the task at hand.
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THE WELCOME
“This place is unbelievable,” I whispered to Whittaker as we wove our way through the milling guests. His hand was hot and sweaty and practically crushing mine. All I wanted to do was stop and take a look around, but Whittaker was in a rush to get who knew where.
“Come on. We have to get a good spot for the welcome,” he said, hurrying me along.
I held my mask up with my trembling free hand, struggling to see in the candlelight. I would have taken it down, but everyone else seemed intent on wearing theirs, and I didn't want to look like the gawker I was.
“The welcome?”
Whittaker didn't reply. It was so dark I could barely make out the faces around me, especially with my line of sight partially impaired by sequins. If the lighting remained this way throughout the party, I would never be able to spot Thomas. Especially not if he was wearing a mask, like everyone else was. My only hope was that Thomas would choose to be different. Not a bad bet, actually.
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All around me skirts swished, drinks were sipped, hushed voices murmured. For the party of the century, it was quite tame at the moment. I scanned the crowd and saw no one familiar, not even the people I had come with. Everyone had dispersed the second we stepped off the elevator, disappearing within the sea of hidden faces.
Finally Whittaker paused near a wall and I was able to take a breath. He whispered something to a tall, skinny waiter, who returned momentarily with two drinks on a tray. Whittaker handed me an extremely pink beverage in a frosted martini glass and took the short, dark snifter for himself. I attempted to hold the glass with one hand and sloshed some of the liquid over the side onto the exquisite marble floor. Apparently I needed some practice.
Decision time. Take off the mask or make a complete mess? I tucked my mask under my arm so I could hold the drink with both hands.
“Who lives here?” I asked.
“The Dreskins,” Whittaker said, unfazed as he surveyed the dozens of coutured legacies milling about the great room. “Donald Dreskin, Dee Dee Dreskin, and their parents. They're good friends of the family.”
“Oh. So you've been here before?” I asked.
“On occasion,” he said. “And every year for this. The Dreskins have been hosting the Legacy since before I was born.”
He was so incredibly blase about the whole thing. As if every day he was whisked up to the two-floor penthouses of Park Avenue
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buildings in private elevators that required special keys to work. As if this apartment, which stretched the entire span of the building on both floors and was bigger than my entire house times five, was just another home. So far all I had seen was the wide-open foyer with its story-high Picassos and its deco chandelier, followed by this humongous room with its windows overlooking Central Park--the Central Park--and I was ready to faint with awe.
Suddenly there was a distinct murmur throughout the crowd as everyone turned in our direction. I glanced over my shoulder to see what the fuss was about and saw that the two grand doors behind me were opening. The floor on that side of the room was raised three steps, creating a sort of stage.
“Ah. Here we are,” Whittaker said expectantly.
Through the doors stepped a tall man in a tuxedo, wearing a wooden mask of a grotesque, leering clown face. He clasped his hands in front of him and everyone fell silent.
“Welcome one, welcome all,” the man said, his voice only slightly muffled by the mask. “As the master of ceremonies for this year's Legacy it is my honor, my privilege, to invite each and every one of you into the inner sanctum.” There was a sizzle of anticipation felt even by me, although I had no idea what was going on. The master raised one finger in warning. “But remember, what you see here . . . what you do here . . . who you touch here . . . who you screw here ...”
Knowing laughter all around.
“All will remain here,” he said. "For this is the Legacy, my
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friends. You are the chosen. So make your peace now with whomever you worship, and never . . . look . . . back."
With that, the master stepped aside and everyone moved to the doors at once as if an emergency evacuation had been called.
“What's in there?” I asked Whittaker as he tugged at my hand. After that speech, I was feeling more than a little wary.
“You'll see,” Whittaker said with a mischievous smile.
His grip on my hand tightened as we neared the double doors and I wondered, for the first time, if I might have gotten myself in over my head.
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DANCE, DANCE
Walking through the doors was like going through the looking glass. A tremendous ballroom had been draped from ceiling to floor with swags of red, black, pink, and purple velvet and chiffon. Ropes of sparkling mirrors dangled everywhere, catching the strobe lights and sending prisms over the hundreds of masked faces. Acrobats hung from cloth ropes tied to the ceiling, twirling and whirling over our heads, their barely clad bodies painted in swirls of color. In the center of the room, most of the partygoers were already starting to dance to the deafening beat being laid down by a DJ in the far corner. On a circular stage next to him, a small orchestra played a frenzied song, their music intertwining with the beat to form some seriously eerie, exotic, almost frantic music. Gorgeous women in elaborate costumes circulated around the room, offering drinks and ushering people behind curtained-off areas.
My head spun. There was too much going on around me. Too much mayhem, too much activity. Just too much.
“Reed!”
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Kiran appeared out of nowhere and grabbed my hand. “Come dance!” she shouted.
I looked at Whittaker, who waved me off. “Go!”
“I'll find you!” I said. At the moment he seemed like the one and only solid thing in my life.
“Or I'll find you,” he promised.
Then, for the hundredth time that night, I let Kiran drag me away. We passed by a large opening like a coat-check
room, where a tall woman dressed like an angel was handing out gifts of various sizes, wrapped in white paper. A pack of girls took their gifts and rushed off to an alcove with them.
“What are they doing?” I asked.
“The white gift. The Legacy's answer to favors,” Kiran said over her shoulder. “Nothing worth less than a thousand.”
“A thousand dollars?” I said, gaping.
“Yeah, but you still never get what you want,” Kiran shouted. “The swap party happens later.”
Unbelievable. This party was unbelievable. Who knew there was this much wealth in the world?
Finally, Kiran somehow found Noelle, Dash, Ariana, Taylor, and Gage on the dance floor and dove right in, twirling me around once before letting me go and leaving me to my own devices. I had never been much of a dancer and for a moment I was self- conscious, until I really took a look around me and saw how everyone else was doing. Suffice it to say, there wasn't really anyone to impress. I closed my eyes, lifted my arms, and let myself go.
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Cathartic. That was the only word to express the feeling. The longer I danced, the more all I had been through, all I anticipated going through, faded into the background. The music was so loud it seemed as if it was coming out of my bones, through my pores, reverberating from my own body and crowding out everything else.
This was perfection. Yes, perfection. Insulated in the center of the dance floor. Insulated from Whittaker and those alcoves and whatever might be going on within them. Insulated from Natasha and her threats, from Constance and her accusations, from Thomas and his betrayal and the worry that surrounded every thought of him. This was my comfort zone. If I could just stay here among my friends for the rest of the night, I would be fine.
“Having fun?” Noelle shouted, twirling over and throwing her arms around my neck. She moved against me, completely sure, completely un-self-conscious. I did my best to mimic her movement, her confidence.
