As though he can tell what I’m thinking, Steven says, “She’s not the prettiest girl, but she’s decent. And her dad’s chief of the Regulatory Office, so we’ll be all set up. That’s how we scored an invite to this shindig.” He laughs. “Not bad, I have to say.”
Even though we are practically the only two people left on the deck, I suddenly feel claustrophobic.
“I’m sorry.” I have to force myself to look at him. “I should get back to the party. It was great seeing you, though.”
“Pleasure’s mine,” he says, and winks. “Enjoy yourself.”
I can only nod. I step through the French doors and snag the hem of my dress on a splinter in the threshold. I don’t stop; I give my dress a sharp tug and hear it tear. I push through knots of partygoers: the wealthiest and most important members of the Portland community, everyone scented and powdered and well-dressed. As I make my way through the room, I pick up on snatches of conversation, an ebb and flow of sound.
“You know Mayor Hargrove has ties to the DFA.”
“Not publicly.”
“Not yet.”
Seeing Steven Hilt has destabilized me for reasons I can’t understand. Someone presses a glass of champagne into my hand, and I drink it quickly, unthinkingly. The bubbles fizz in my throat, and I have to stifle a sneeze. It has been a long time since I’ve had anything to drink.
People whirl around the room, around the band, dancing two-step and waltz, arms rigid, steps graceful and defined: patterns forming and reforming, dizzying to watch. Two women, both tall, with the regal looks of birds of prey, stare at me as I push past them.
“Very pretty girl. Healthy-looking.”
“I don’t know. I heard her scores were rigged. I think Hargrove could have done better….”
The women move off into the swirl of dancers, and I lose the thread of their voices. Different conversations overwhelm them.
“How many kids have they been assigned?”
“Don’t know, but she looks like she can handle a litter of ’em.”
Heat starts to climb into my chest and cheeks. Me: They’re talking about me.
I look around for my parents or Mrs. Hargrove and don’t spot them. I can’t see Fred, either, and I have a moment of panic—I’m in a room full of strangers.
That’s when it hits me that I have no friends anymore. I suppose that I will make friends with Fred’s friends now—people in our class and rank, people who share similar interests. People like these people.
I take a deep breath, trying to calm down. I shouldn’t feel this way. I should feel brave, and confident, and careless.
“Apparently there were some problems with her last year before she was cured. She started manifesting symptoms….”
“So many of them do, don’t they? That’s why it’s so important that the new mayor aligns himself with the DFA. If they can shit a diaper, they can be cured. That’s what I say.”
“Please, Mark, give it a rest….”
Finally I spot Fred across the room, surrounded by a small crowd and flanked by two photographers. I try to push my way toward him but am blocked by the crowd, which seems to be growing as the evening goes on. An elbow hits me in the side, and I stumble against a woman holding a large glass of red wine.
“Excuse me,” I murmur, pushing past her. I hear a gasp and a few nervous titters, but I’m too focused on getting through the crowd to worry about what has attracted their attention.
Then my mother is barging toward me. She grabs my elbow, hard.
“What happened to your dress?” she hisses.
I look down and see a bright red stain spreading across my chest. I have the inappropriate urge to laugh; it looks as though I’ve been shot. Mercifully, I manage to suppress it.
“A woman spilled on me,” I say, detaching myself from her. “I was just about to go to the bathroom.” As soon as I say it, I feel relieved: I’ll get a break in the bathroom.
“Well, hurry up.” She shakes her head at me, as though it’s my fault. “Fred is going to make a toast soon.”
“I’ll hurry,” I tell her.
In the hall, it’s much cooler, and my footsteps are suctioned away by the plush carpet. I head for the women’s room, ducking my head to avoid making eye contact with the handful of guests who have trickled out into the hall. A man is talking loudly, ostentatiously, into a cell phone: Everyone here has that kind of money. The air smells like potpourri and, faintly, cigar smoke.
When I reach the bathroom, I pause with my hand on the door. I can hear voices murmuring inside, and a burst of laughter. Then a woman says, very clearly, “She’ll make a good wife for him. It’s a good thing, after what happened with Cassie.”
“Who?”
“Cassie O’Donnell. His first pair. You don’t remember?”
I pause with my hand on the door. Cassie O’Donnell. Fred’s first wife. I’ve been told practically nothing about her. I hold my breath, hoping they’ll continue speaking.
“Of course, of course. What was it? Two years ago now?”
“Three.”
Another voice: “You know, my sister went to grade school with her. She went by her middle name then. Melanea. Stupid name, don’t you think? My sister says she was a perfect little bitch. But I guess she got hers in the end.”