Madam Clémence is a plump woman with too-short arms, adorned in ruffles and puffs that remind me of a Victorian seamstress, and I wonder how she can possibly be a stylist of this age. She walks in short, shuffled steps between where I stand on a platform to take my measurements and the other side of the room where an array of colorful gowns is hung on mannequins.
But surely if she's Mrs. Roman's personal stylist, then she must be good at her job—excellent even. So I try to stand as still as possible while she painfully pinches at my waist, and prods the thin layer of fat over my stomach, pins jutting out of her pierced lips.
Shaking her head, she tuts disapprovingly. "You move too much, young girl." Her words are thickly coated in a French accent, pronouncing her r's gutturally from her throat.
I can only nod, afraid that if I speak, the needles in her hands will pierce my skin. When she steps away, giving me her back, I finally let out a breath I've been holding and watch as she shuffles away.
"I'm sorry, but is this going to take much longer?"
I refrained from asking this question when the first hour passed as I stood there, in one of the guestrooms of David's penthouse. I only had a glimpse of the opulent reception before I was rushed up the grand staircase by Madam Clémence to be fitted for a gown. But it's now nearing the second hour, and I'm getting tired. I'm also anxious that we won't have a dress sewn up before the gala starts. The seamstress is yet to adjust my measurements to whatever dress she's putting together. It's a good thing the event is being hosted downstairs.
She ignores my question, holding out two different fabrics in each of her hands; one a deep seaweed color, the other a shiny maroon. "You have nice dusky skin. These bold shades will contrast your skin, make you stand out like a star. Are you South Asian?"
"No, but my Mom's Persian, and my father's black. And I was actually thinking of something subtler," I suggest. The idea of standing out in a room full of these people sounds terrifying. "Nothing grand, just simple."
She whips her head to me with a shocked look, a deep crease forming over her fair forehead. She frowns as if I dishonored her. "Simple?! For the Roman's Annual Thanksgiving Fundraiser? Impossible!" She drops the materials in her hands and makes her way to me, running her hands over the tight bodice on my body. "No, no, no. You have the nice figure, mon chéri. Yes, maybe no breasts, and your thighs too muscular like the man, but still, nice figure. And beautiful skin. We must make use."
I wince as she pinches my thighs. "Thank you, Madam Clémence. But these are my only requests—to make it simple. Please."
She huffs, pushing her glasses up her nose bridge, and I think she's about to scold me again, but she softens her expression. "Fine. As you wish."
༺༻
An hour later, I understand why Mrs. Roman chose this seamstress as her personal stylist. Her hands are a magical pair, and what could've taken weeks to sew together took her a mere three hours, transforming a plain piece of fabric into something lavish.
As I stand in front of the body length mirror, I am awe-struck at the reflection that stares back at me. I look other-worldly, like I belong to a fairytale. The gown is an ivory white, slightly shimmering, with golden, delicate, floral embroidery across the bottom of the skirt. It flows around me in an angelic heap, trailing the floor when I move. The same floral design wraps around the bodice and the sheer sleeves that hang loosely over my shoulders to cover my arms.
It's as simple as it can get for this event, the skirt not protruding like it could stand on its own, but still ritzy enough for Madam Clémence's liking. And mine too, I admit despite the low neckline.
It is half-past seven, thirty minutes into the gala, and I can hear the distant chatter, elite laughter, and clinking against champagne glasses from here. I wonder if Theo is one of them.
The week passed, and he didn't make an appearance at school. The initial crossness I felt towards him faded and was replaced with alarm, so I relented and texted him on Wednesday. Still, no reply. Then, I finally overheard Atlas talking to Idris about Theo on a family trip. Why couldn't he just take a minute out of his day to answer my texts? Why couldn't he tell me beforehand? Just like that, the concern shifted back to anger and irritation.
But he has to be here today. Talk of this event was in every student's conversation and on many tabloid headlines, and Theo is a Roman himself. He can't miss it.
I stop fretting over the thought of him and decide that I have to get through this evening without him. It's okay if he doesn't make an appearance; this is just another thing I have to get through. The people downstairs are nothing more than empty bodies in pretty gowns and suits. But even as I try to convince myself, the lie seeps through as I walk out of the room, and the noises downstairs get louder.
When I near the grand staircase, I freeze at the sight below me.
The deep mahogany staircase splits only to meet at the bottom of what looks like a scene from a movie. The empty reception I glimpsed a few hours ago is transformed into a grand ball lit by yellow light from magnificent, blazing chandeliers. Waiters drift between the crowd of people in elaborate gowns and suits, carrying trays of champagne flasks that glint like stars amidst a wave of colors. Musicians play classical music while guests dance or gather in groups, talking over plates heaped with food.
My eyes sweep over the scene, looking for the one person I vowed to forget this night. But I'm only met with unfamiliar women and men plastering fake smiles and forced laughs, their eyes predatory like animals in a jungle. With an anxious squeeze of my heart, I realize that this is going to be harder than I'd anticipated.
I consider stepping back and hiding in the guest room until it's all over, but familiar, piercing grey eyes lock with mine. David Roman stands with a group of men, a flask in his hand. He merely raises his flask in salute in my direction with a nod, and I know that it's too late for me to hide.
I take a deep breath and descend the stairs, careful not to trip over my trailing gown by staring at the steps before me. They're granite, the color of candle wax, and I count twenty before I look up to see—
Theo. In all his glory, he stands in a fitted tux, arms locked behind his back as his eyes travel up my dress. My breath hitches when they land on mine, and I completely forget the past week.
His lips quirk. "Miss Black. You look . . . Exquisite."
He holds out an arm and I hook my hands around him, letting him lead us through the crowd. "You don't look so bad yourself either."
He laughs. "You know what, I'll take it."
"You don't deserve it."
"I'm sorry. I meant to call, but I spent the week with no service on a family trip."
"So I've heard," I relent, my eyes following a woman with metal shards sticking out of her frightful ball gown. "Where'd you go?"
"I'll explain later. Let's get a drink."
Although I'm reluctant to admit it, with Theo on my side, I feel less out of place, and it becomes easier to move among these high-class men and women. I relax a little, letting myself note the luxurious dresses and focus on their faces in hopes of recognizing someone. But this is not my world, and these are not my people. I find myself missing the crowded but snug air of a subway. Yes, it's a train full of unfamiliar people as well, but it gave me a sense of belonging—one that I will never get from this hall.
A familiar face ruses me out of my nostalgia. Tave stands in a dashing suit, leaning on the wall with a finger-sized appetizer in his hand, the other shoved in his pocket. His eyes lazily watch the hall. When he sees us, the bored, uninterested expression vanishes; he grins widely and lets out a low whistle.
"My, my, my," he drawls as he takes my hand, spinning me to let my dress twirl around. "Is this Sage Black that I see?"
I laugh at his dramatics, not used to the flattery. "What are you doing here?"
I've never bothered myself to wonder what Tave's parents do for a living, but if it grants him an invitation to this gala, then it has to be impressive.
He rolls his eyes. "My parents forced me to attend this shit show. I don't even see any money being raised."
"Doesn't work like that, buddy," Theo says, grabbing a drink from one of the trays on the table. He gestures to the appetizer in Tave's hands. "And you're not supposed to use your hands."
"Hmph," he grunts as he licks his fingers messily. "Makes my Mom mad, then that's how I'm gon' eat it."
Theo offers me a drink, and I sip it gingerly. The fruity flavor explodes against my tongue and there's an aftertaste of delicious spice.
Theo notices and says, "It's champagne."
I feel an embarrassed blush creep up my cheek, but he only smiles, dimpled cheeks and wrinkle-cornered eyes. "I've never tried it before."
I turn my eyes back to the crowd, afraid that I've been staring too long at his face. A woman in an extravagant dress, the heavily-furred collar reaching the crown of her head, walks in our direction. I can only stare at the marigold, cascading animal fur trailing the floor, and tense when she doesn't stop until she stands directly in front of me. I wait. But she doesn't talk, only stares expectantly at me, like she's waiting for me to do something.
And then I realize she's here for the buffet. With a furious blush, I step aside as she picks up two cups. Twice, already, I've made a fool out of myself in less than an hour.
"Nice coat," Tave mutters under his breath, his eyes trailing her back as she turns. "What are you like a camel right?"
The woman whips her head back to him, having heard his comment. All three of us simultaneously look away, and I fight to keep a smile off my face, laughter bubbling in my chest. I think Tave's had too much to drink.
She finally walks away, mumbling something along the lines of 'silly' and 'kids going places they shouldn't'.
Theo turns to me and offers his elbow. I take it. "Come on, there's someone you should meet."
"Who is it?"
He doesn't reply, and I wonder if he's even heard my question. I'm about to ask again when I note that a particular woman is staring at us. She stands alone with clasped hands in the middle of the crowd.
She is tall and striking in a crystal-beaded, midnight blue gown, and when we approach closer, her eyes watch me carefully, faintly lingering on my hands around Theo's elbow.
"Theodore, I was wondering where you disappeared." Her voice is deep, mellifluous.
"Luna, this is Sage Black—a friend of mine from school," he ignores her observation, looking at me as he introduces us. "Sage, this is Luna Roman, my mother."
I feel a jolt of shock at his words, followed by ire that he'd take me to his mother without telling me beforehand. Her eyes light up in recognition, and she holds out a hand. Fighting to hide the shock, I shake it, faintly wondering if she can notice my clammy palms. Why did Theo bring me to meet her?
Her eyes, I realize, are the same stormy blue shade as her son's. They also share the strong brow bone, but while it may make Theo look dark and ragged, it makes her look elegant and wise.
"Of course. I knew you looked familiar. I've heard a lot about you, you're quite famous around the Romans."
I laugh nervously, wondering what they could possibly say about me, and try to decipher whether she is pleased or not about whatever she's heard. But I only see a fixed smile and watching eyes—this must be where Theo got it from.
"It's a pleasure to meet you, Mrs. Roman."
Her smile falters, and Theo tenses under my hands. Did I say something wrong?
"Please, call me Luna."
I nod and decide not to test the name out loud. It feels weird to call the woman in front of me by her first name. Theo's mother. She holds such an impressive air, one of capable and independent women, and I try to recall the little things that have slipped from Theo about his mother. But I remember that he rarely ever spoke about himself. I only know that she's a widowed surgeon—a powerful combination.
Suddenly, everyone begins to quiet down. The chatter lessons to a low hum, giving room to hear the distinct sound of a metal spoon clinking against the glass of a flask. We turn to the center of attention.
David Roman stands at the front of the hall on a raised platform with a dashing smile. Alongside him are Atlas—who I see for the first time this night—and a curvy woman in a sparkling black and gold gown. Atlas's mother, I presume.
The sight of them is remarkable, magnetic; everyone's attention is drawn to them with either fear or adoration in their eyes. They ooze raw power and strength. In this jungle, they are the lions. And although it's in the lion's nature to fear no other animal, they do have enemies. It's the hyenas that stare at them with a hint of animosity and envy, evident in the tight clutch of their flasks.
The Romans have begun preaching about using their privilege to help the less fortunate, but I'm not listening and neither is anyone. They're all too busy posing for photographers who are here to polish their images. I glance around and doubt half the people here know the cause of this fundraiser.
It occurs to me that I'm out of place as I stand here. This is a hall full of people with concealed intentions, full of peril. I am surrounded by expensive perfume and wonder how much money this hall of people is worth. I think of the homeless man who strolls my streets at night, clothes poorly held together by a few threads, of his cold eyes rimmed with wrinkles of age and anger, so much anger at the world. I think of the twins hiding behind a doorway staring curiously at us and the distant look in their mother's gaze.
Yet here I am, standing among the same people in shoes worth more than my house. I am standing in a dress that can feed that man for a few months. I am standing and laughing and joking with them.
Suddenly, I'm hyperaware of everything around me; the heavy lashes on my lids, the sweet vanilla scent Madam Clemence drowned me in, the too tight and itchy bodice around my torso. I'm seized with the overwhelming sensation tear it off my body. I want to run, to leave. But I'm surrounded all around. My breaths come harder.
Theo touches the small of my back. He looks at me with a concerned expression, unaware of my spiraling as I clutch the champagne flute in my hand.
"I just need a second," I breathe out, catching sight of an opening to the terrace in the back.
Muttering low 'excuse-me's', I try to be as conspicuous as possible when I maneuver my way out of the crowd. I don't look back as I push open the glass doors and step out into the cold air of Manhattan, my dress trailing behind me.