As soon as it closes behind us, Clayton lets out a whoop and runs to the car, vaulting into the front seat of the convertible without using the door. Tucker laughs and gets in after him.
“Thanks for opening my door, dickwad,” Farrah says as she climbs into the back. Clayton starts the car, and rap music blares from the speakers. Tucker and Clayton start singing and doing choreographed robot moves, then laugh hysterically. Farrah slaps the back of Clayton’s head and tells him to keep his day job, which makes the guys both laugh harder. It hits me that I’m getting a close-up view of the Tucker I saw from afar—the one Ethan and I joked about from our spot by the vending machines in the caf while sharing a bag of jelly beans.
“Couple of buffoons,” Farrah calls over the music in a way that says she really doesn’t mind at all, but she rolls her eyes at me, and we share a secret smile. She rummages in her purse, then produces a tiny bottle of Jack Daniels, like the ones that are given out on airplanes. She leans in close. “A little help to get through tonight.” She looks pointedly at Clayton, then swigs a sip. “Here,” she says, offering it to me.
“Oh, no thanks,” I say, pushing it away. It’s a school night, and besides, Mom already made me promise her I wouldn’t drink. I’ve lied and snuck around enough. I want to keep my word.
“Trust me.” She leans in a little closer. “You don’t want to be sober when you meet Tucker’s dad.” She takes another swig, then wiggles it in front of me.
“She doesn’t want it,” Tucker says.
“All right, all right, then pass it over.” Clayton reaches around and snags the bottle, downing the whole thing in one gulp, then belches loudly. Tucker cackles.
“We’ll be there in, like, five seconds,” Farrah says, noticing my apprehension. “Don’t worry so much.”
I force a smile, wondering if I should have said no in the caf when I wanted to.
The sun is sinking low on the horizon by the time we arrive at the venue. If I was anxious about feeling out of place before, seeing the TV crews and photographers angling for photos of the arriving guests in their expensive suits and flashy gowns doesn’t help, and I have to remind myself that there’s no way for them to know I don’t belong here.
“Just smile,” Tucker says, sensing the direction of my thoughts. “They probably won’t ask you any questions, but if they do, just be polite and concise.”
“Or keep walking and act like you didn’t hear them,” Farrah says. “That’s what I do.” She smiles deviously.
Farrah starts smiling and waving as soon as we hit the red carpet. Ethan pops into my head. If he were here, no way he’d do it. He’d say you couldn’t pay him enough to be fake. But then Tucker and the others are all doing it too, and it feels stupider not to join in. Camera flashes go off, and I hear someone call out “Mr. St. Clair!” and then we’re inside.
The only word to describe the place is breathtaking. A staircase with an intricately carved gilded banister spirals to a second level and a balcony overlooking the dining room, where tables draped with creamy white tablecloths are set with softly flickering tea lights and fine china. A hand-blown crystal chandelier hangs over the dining room, and thick drapes cover windows that look out to a professionally manicured garden. In fact, the only thing that suggests we’re here for a charity event and not a wedding for royalty is the small stage at the front of the room with gold and silver balloons and a banner welcoming guests to the 9th Annual Children’s Hospital New Orleans Invitational Charity Event.
It suddenly occurs to me I’ve probably needed their charity in the past.
“This is gorgeous,” I say.
“You think?” Farrah appraises the place as if seeing it for the first time. Then she straightens and, under her breath, says, “Incoming. Just be polite and don’t encourage him.” And with that she and Clayton slip away.
I have just enough time to register Tucker’s soft groan before I see a man approaching. He wears a well-fitted suit and has the look of a man who models for catalogues, his salt-and-pepper hair combed back neatly and a generic smile on his face. He waves hello to someone across the hall, and then he’s in front of us.
“Tucker,” he says.
“Hi, Dad,” Tucker answers, his monotone voice showing just how happy he is to see him. His dad smiles, then turns his gaze on me, his eyes traveling from my face down to my chest. He makes a low whistle.
“Who’s your friend?” he asks Tucker.
My mouth drops open in shock, but he doesn’t seem to notice or care.
Tucker’s jaw is so tense it looks as if he could break his teeth for how much he’s grinding them together.
“Dad, this is Hope Callahan.”