The Casquette Girls

by Arden, Alys

  “Surprise?”

  “Please accept this token as a modification of our tradition.” The heavenly combination of sugar and fry wafted as he extended the white bag.

  “What?” I uncrumpled the paper. “Oh my God!”

  “Café du Monde is officially back in business – well, at least for two days a week until they can get regular deliveries of ingredients. Who knows when that’ll be.”

  I shoved one of the warm beignets into my mouth and took a large bite, blowing confectioner’s sugar all over my bed.

  “I know they aren’t sugar cookies in the shapes of ghosts, but—”

  “This is way better than sugar cookies, Dad!” I mumbled through a stuffed mouth, inadvertently blowing more powdered sugar on him. He laughed.

  My mother used to bake sugar cookies every Halloween. It was a task my father had taken over after she left because Halloween has always been my favorite holiday. With all the chaos, I hadn’t even realized the day had arrived, and I certainly wouldn't have expected to uphold our traditional baking session. I looked over at the costume I had cherished not so long ago, but had collected dust ever since I arrived home from Paris.

  “Thanks, Dad. Thank God something’s finally reopened.” Soon, all of my attention was consumed by strategically pressing the beignet so that it absorbed as much powdered sugar as possible.

  “My pleasure. All right, I’m gonna try to sleep all day. Tonight is sure to be crazy. The buzz is that people have been flooding back into town the last couple of days to be home for the festivities. What are your plans for tonight?”

  “Um… I’m gonna hang out with Désirée.” Although our plans hardly involve trick-or-treating.

  “You’ve been hanging out with her a lot lately,” he said with a little trepidation.

  “Well, she’s the only person at Sacred Heart with any kind of tolerance for downtown. And,” I added, “we invited Isaac.”

  “Oh, good. What about that boy from the bar?”

  The vague reference to Nicco felt like a squeeze to my heart. “Um, probably not.”

  “Costume?” he asked, changing the subject, but I caught the look of relief.

  “You know it’s a surprise, Dad!”

  “Okay, okay. Stop by Le Chat Noir on your way to the parade—”

  “The parade is still happening?”

  “Oh, yeah. In full force. It’s what people are coming back for.”

  “Awesome. Merci beaucoup pour les beignets, Dad.”

  “Anything for you, baby-doll.” He kissed my forehead.

  I took advantage of his close proximity and wrapped my arms around his neck. The moment he began to shift away, I hugged tighter. He pulled me in with a gentle rock until I was ready to let go.

  “Everything’s going to get better, Adele.”

  “I know it is, Dad.” Especially if everything goes according to plan.

  He kissed my head again, snagged a beignet for himself, and closed the door on his way out.

  I squirmed under the covers, eager to get back to sleep. A hard-edge protruding from under my pillow poked my arm. The DVD. I pulled it out and then aggressively stuffed another beignet into my mouth.

  Don’t open it, Adele.

  I popped open the plastic case, and a piece of paper, folded thrice, landed on my chest. For a minute I just stared at it, trying to convince myself that everyone would be better off if I set the note on fire. But then I conceded to curiosity and ripped it open.

  In otherworldly handwriting was a long Italian quote, presumably from the film. I grabbed my phone and prayed to the network gods for a strong enough signal to run my translator app. The circle on the screen began to spin. I shook my phone, as if that would give me more bandwidth. The spinning icon had a hypnotic effect, and for a moment I didn’t even realize that I was staring down at the English words.

  “Sometimes at night the darkness and silence weigh upon me… We need to live in a state of suspended animation like a work of art, in a state of enchantment. We have to succeed in loving so greatly that we live outside of time, detached.”

  I read the quote three more times. Then suddenly had the urge to spring out of bed, run for the nearest DVD player, and indulge in the narrative that these words, so à propos, had been plucked from. Instead, I chucked the DVD across the room to prevent myself from any such romantic downward spiral. I fell back into the bed and slammed my still-damp pillow over my face.

  What kind of twisted trick is this? Love? Is this his ploy to rattle me on D-Day?

  If it was… it was working.

  * * *

  I awoke a few hours later with the energy usually summoned by my favorite holiday. But soon enough even the smallest thoughts made my nerves nip. Should I even bother making my bed?

  Yes. If today was my last day on Earth, then people would inevitably come into my room after I was dead, so I wanted it to be clean.

  I flipped on the radio and nervously hummed along as I picked up dirty laundry, imagining my father tomorrow morning, sitting on my bed, crying. Would my mother cry? Would she even care? I had bitten the bullet late last night and texted her back, but hadn’t gotten a response.

  I grabbed my phone to double-check, but all I saw were my own words staring back at me.

  Adele 11:47 p.m. What do you need to talk to me about?

  “Whatever.”

  I threw the phone back on the bed. My expectations of my mother were so low, a stupid text message, or lack thereof, was nothing to get disappointed over.

  Last night’s memories flooded my mind. Me, Désirée, and Isaac. Who’d have thunk it? This power – magic, whatever it was – had made me feel electric in the past, but practicing my abilities with those two was far more ecstasy-like.

  Fourteen hours later, I was still basking in the euphoric high.

  Poor Isaac.At least Désirée and I got to ease into the whole cursed-attic thing. He got a crash course. Thank God I hadn’t had to drop the whole “vampires exist” bomb on him as well. Then again, being able to turn yourself into a bird would probably make it easier to believe in the unlikely natures of others. I, however, was still living in a perpetual state of semi-shock.

  Isaac could always just fly away if the situation got too out of control. Although, my gut told me that if things got messy, Isaac would never bail. Dee, on the other hand… well, I hoped not.

  “Ugh! Don’t think like that.” I kicked shoes into the closet, tossed in an armful of clothes, and slammed the door. “Désirée is not going to bail.”

  Our plan was mediocre at best, but if we wanted any chance of pulling it off, absolute trust in each other was essential. And trust wasn’t something we had had a lot of time to build, especially as a coven. Does three even count as a coven? I couldn’t shake the feeling that I was responsible for this whole mess. Or at least, my family was. Am I unnecessarily putting Désirée’s and Isaac’s lives at risk? I mean, Minette and Lisette died getting these vampires into the attic. Why did Lisette demand I give them what they wanted? If there is more to what they want than just breaking the curse, why the hell aren’t any of them willing to just come out and ask me for it?

  “Totally shady,” I grumbled, snatching up a fresh towel and walking towards the bathroom.

  Eighteenth-century grudges?

  Feuds?

  Curses!

  AGH!

  With a loud pop, the lightbulb in the floor lamp spontaneously combusted, spraying shards of glass all over the floor.

  “Dammit, Adele, chill out!”

  * * *

  My phone buzzed as I walked out of the steaming bathroom.

  Annabelle 3:40 p.m. D + A, where have u bitches been hiding? Everyone’s going downtown tonight 2 this Halloween homecoming parade. Guess I’ll see u there, since it’s ur stomping ground.

  Oh, joy.

  There were also a couple of group texts from Désirée and Isaac.

  Désirée 3:32 p.m. I “mended” the attic shutter u destroyed. Isaac is goi
ng to rehang it at the convent.

  Isaac 3:34 p.m. I already hung it, but one of the stakes for the hinge is missing, so it’s not very secure. Going to the salvage yard to try to find a replacement. Fingers crossed that they have something.

  My fingers flew over the digital buttons as I hurried my reply.

  Adele 3:51 p.m. Thanks, Dee. Isaac, don’t bother, I have the missing stake. I’ll bring it tonight. Meet y’all at Le Chat. 6pm?

  Isaac 3:52 p.m. Word.

  Désirée 3:53 p.m. Don’t be late.

  I typed something snarky, but before I could press send, caught sight of a paper airplane lying on my bed. That definitely hadn’t been there pre-shower. I tightened the towel around my chest, as my eyes darted around the room.

  Nothing.

  Regardless, I hurried to the window and slammed it shut before returning to the homemade toy. I could see the pencil lines peeking through before I slowly unfolded the plane – it had been made from a page ripped from a sketchpad. Even though the sharp lines made it seem like the artist had been in a hurry, there was enough detail to capture my expression perfectly. The words “last night’s dreams” were beneath my portrait. Isaac. In the picture, the attic window was behind me, shutters closed. The rest of the page was filled with flames, feathers, and vines. Not an inch of the paper had been left uncovered.

  Smiling, I rested the drawing on top of Nicco’s note, and sat down at the vanity. I soon found myself wondering if he had also made one for Désirée.

  * * *

  I lingered under the warmth of the blow-dryer, slowly twisting my waves. There was something ceremonial about getting ready, as if I was getting into character. With the anticipation of tonight’s events setting in, I went to the garment rack to retrieve my costume for the final act. My magnum opus.

  The base structure of the dress was a vintage burlesque costume I’d found at an antique shop in Le Marais, near ma grand-mère’s house in Paris. The shop owner had told me the costume once belonged to some famous vaudeville dancer. I had no idea if that was true, but I felt no remorse handing him my grandmother’s credit card. She had instructed me to buy dresses, but never specified what kind. Every weekend thereafter, Emilio (then Émile) drove me to the atelier, where I took a Master Class on couture beading. I didn’t even want to know how many hours I had spent hand-stitching the thousands of beads and sequins that now adorned the corset. Émile had constantly teased me about wanting to view my masterpiece – never in my wildest dreams did I think he would actually get to see me wear it.

  I slipped into the bodice. The weight from the beads made it feel a bit like armor, and it took a yogalike contortion for me to tie the laces up my back, but it fit perfectly. The short skirt of dangling bead strands and ostrich feathers fit high on my waist and showed off my legs, over which I pulled on a pair of shimmery nude tights. My feet tapped to the drums as the DJ played “Iko,” and all of the candles in the room lit up as I sang along.

  For inspiration, I opened my father’s art history book and flipped the pages until I found the painting Absinthe Drinker by Viktor Oliva.

  I swept a large makeup brush over my face, leaving a trail of sparkles down my chest, shoulders and arms until my skin reflected light like a disco ball. Black mascara. Shiny peach lip-gloss. Finally, I piled my waves on top of my head, secured them with strategically placed bobby pins, and inserted a large green plume into the crown of twists. I couldn’t help think of Isaac as I gave the silky feather a quick stroke.

  Now, for the pièce de résistance.

  The wings were simple cuts of iridescent chiffon that attached to a choker around my neck and hung down my back like a shimmering cape. The ends attached to my wrists so that they blew open when I raised my arms.

  I stood in front of the mirror and blinked a few times, barely recognizing myself. I felt beautiful. My heart thumped, realizing I was about to play the most dangerous role of my life.

  I hoped the lavish costume wasn’t my death shroud.

  The clear plastic, Barbie-esque shoes I had bought in Paris certainly weren’t going to work for tonight, so I wriggled on my worn high-tops, laughing.

  “Désirée is not going to approve. C’est la vie,” I said to my reflection.

  I tucked the gris-gris and Adeline’s necklace into my cleavage and blew out the candles, ready to leave.

  “The stake!” I yelped, running to my nightstand. A surge of strength traveled through my arms to my shoulders as soon as I retrieved the metal object from the drawer.

  Again, its weight felt powerful in my hand, but this time I recognized something else. A familiarity.

  The enchantment.

  Adeline.

  With nowhere else to put it, I tucked the metal through the laces of my corset, and then made sure I could easily grab it through my wings.

  For what might be the last time, my keys flew into my hand. I paused and then set them back into the bowl. I didn’t need them anymore.

  * * *

  Instead of going straight through the gate to the courtyard, I waved my hand over the front door to unlock it and walked through the old bar my grandfather had opened so many moons ago. So many of my childhood memories were set in this bar: an eight-year-old me doing my French lessons with my legs dangling from a bar stool; ol’ Madame Villere telling me about the birds and the bees when I was nine (and my father subsequently freaking out on the crazy bat); listening to Cajun plantation tales from Ren; hearing about the healing powers of crystals from Wiccans; Caulfield Mooney sneaking me sips of Scotch to cure my junior high coughs. Could tonight really be my last night at Le Chat Noir? I suddenly felt all grown up.

  I made my way to the back door, pushed through the overgrown banana-tree leaves, and crossed the courtyard to the stairs of the garçonnière. In the third-floor ballroom, I found my father standing behind the makeshift bar and transferring clear liquid from plastic jugs into empty gin bottles.

  “I’m not even going to ask,” I said as I approached, pretending I didn’t know what he was doing.

  “It’s really best you don’t.” He smiled and shook his head without looking up.

  I suppose it had been unfair to hold my father to telling me everything when I was keeping so much from him – but I was just trying to protect him. I guess he was just trying to protect me too. He secured the large jug to a funnel and finally turned to me. His eyes bulged like a cartoon’s.

  “What are you wearing?”

  “La Fée Verte.My costume!” I whirled around. “I’m the Green Faery!”

  “I know what you are; I’m a bar owner, for Christ’s sake!” He held his head. “My sixteen-year-old daughter is dressed up as a hallucinogenic.”

  I took that as a compliment and twirled around a few more times with exaggerated glee. “Well, you did raise me in a bar and ship me off to Paris at sixteen.” I was finally getting my payback.

  “Why does it have to be so short? You look twenty-five!”

  “Stop, Dad! You are going to make me self-conscious.”

  “Good, then maybe you will put some pants on.”

  “Dad!”

  Before he could protest further, the door opened, and Désirée walked in with an even shorter plaid skirt, braided pigtails, and a white button-down shirt tied at her waist, cropping her stomach.

  “Oh, lord,” my father said with a slap to the head. “I know your father didn’t let you leave the house in that.”

  Before she could answer, our third wailed through the door. “Macalister!” Isaac carried a tangle of black curls.

  “I don’t envy you tonight, son,” my father said, shaking his head. “You are going to have your hands full.”

  “You have no idea,” I murmured under my breath.

  Isaac didn’t say anything.

  “Pick your jaw up off the floor, Isaac,” my father said sternly.

  “Sorry, Mac.” With rosy cheeks, he turned and greeted me and Désirée.

  “Is the bathroom locked?” Désirée aske
d, patting a tiny backpack. “I need to do finishing touches.”

  “I’ll show you the one downstairs,” my father answered. “The one up here is officially hazardous, thanks to termites.” They walked off, and I heard my father pleading with her to unroll her skirt before the sound of their voices faded, and I was left alone with Isaac. My stomach jerked.

  I would never have admitted it to him, but he looked hot in his simple get-up: black leather pants with a matching vest over a fitted white V-neck. A few strands of hair fell to his chin from his usual nub of a ponytail. We looked at each other awkwardly, but neither of us said anything.

  He pulled a long red silk scarf from his pocket and hung it around his neck. I opened my mouth to guess who he was, but he held up his hand. “Wait.” He bent over, flipped the wig onto his head, and tied back the long, synthetic curls with the scarf.

  “Oh my God, you’re REN!”

  “Yeah.” He tried to say something Cajun, but he couldn’t stop laughing.

  “It’s amazing!” I yelped, throwing my arms around his neck, catching us both off guard.

  “No, you’re amazing,” he said with the utmost sincerity, lifting me off the ground.

  I loosened my grip around his shoulders, but he didn’t move his arms from around my waist, and I dangled against his chest for a moment. “You look beautiful,” he whispered before letting me slowly slide down.

  “Merci.” I felt every inch blush from my neck up. “I made it while I was in Paris.”

  “You’re obviously really talented.”

  “Too talented.” My father cleared his throat as he walked back into the room.

  We jumped apart.

  “Dad, Isaac is Ren!”

  “I spent all morning trying to find the wig, so I didn’t have time to hunt down a ruffly shirt.”

  “Where did you get leather pants?” I asked, casually trying to create a little more distance between us by leaning on the bar.