I feel ridiculous; underdressed and overly aware of how much glitter is on my face.
"Come out," Maddy had said.
"It'll be fun," Tiff had said.
"It'll be good for you," Amber had added.
"You have to get out of that dark dungeon of despair you've condemned yourself too," I had said to myself.
So here I am. Awesome. Catching a passing reflection of myself in one of the house's—perhaps estate or manor might be more apt—darkened windows, I half expect the specter of a long-dead schoolmarm, or some other keeper of all things femininely proper and sacred, to appear in the shadows of the antebellum porch and box my ears, scolding me for my scantily clad form that left little to the imagination. I can't help tugging at the hem of my dark crimson skirt (mini skirt would have been an exaggeration), reminding myself not to bend over.
"Stop fidgeting, you look great," Amber whispers, elbowing me in the ribs like we are still on the playground in third grade.
"Seriously, Hannah, you look freaking fabulous. Who would have known you had that body under those hideous sweaters you insist on wearing 24/7?" Maddy adds.
"Besides no one will know who you are, that's why it's called a 'masquerade!' You get to wear masks!" Tiff enthusiastically crows, gleefully tapping her own bejeweled and feathered mask.
Maddy snorts, shaking her head, "I thought it was so you didn't know who you were taking home for the night!" She jiggles her sequined booty in emphasis.
I turn to bolt for the stairs off the porch, but all three of the girls, my so-called besties, block my escape.
"Hannah you promised," Amber says, her breath laced with a pre-party kamikaze shot.
"No more hiding from the world," Tiff jumps in. "No one here knows about you, and even if they do they won't know it is you because you're wearing... a mask." She dramatically taps her mask again with a mischievous grin.
Maddy hooks her purple gloved arm around my black one and escorts me to the front door, our matching stilettos making loud clicks on wooden porch floorboards. "Time to return to the land of the living and leave the past in the past," she says matter-of-factly.
"Easier said than done for a history PhD candidate," I whisper under my breath.
"Shh," Maddy replies in a heated whoosh. "Tonight you get to be anybody you want and nobody will be none the wiser tomorrow." She slurs her words slightly and giggles as she hiccups with her own pre-party kamikaze shot, which she'd followed up by shot-gunning a beer for old-time's sake, or so she'd said.
As she hammers the doorknocker with determined force I wish for the hundredth time since I'd stepped out of the car and seen the grand Old Dubois Plantation outlined in the moonlight that I had partaken in a cocktail (or five), just to steady my rattled nerves. I had not been to a party, well since before Christmas. I'd avoided being around large groups of people with prying eyes and too many questions. However, it was the whispered side comments murmured behind my back that stung the most. So I just don't go.
Too late now. Amber and Tiff flank us giddily on either side in excited anticipation.
They have been waiting for this party all semester. It was Spring Break: no papers to grade, our own research on hold (at least for the next 48 hours), and invites to an annual masquerade party that is always the talk of campus, and the town, and hell, probably the entire southern half of Louisiana. To get an invite to the Dubois Annual Masque meant we had arrived. Or Maddy had somehow slutted her way on to the guest list, as she was wont to do every now and again.
However, tonight you would not have known who was the slut and who was the campus shut-in. Each of us was coiffed in an equally revealing mini skirt, complete with fishnet stockings, stilettos, and push-up bras that were barely concealed by glittering tops. Maddy was decked out in a deep purple and slate gray; Tiff had picked a cotton candy pink skirt and a pale blue corset; Amber had gone all white with a laugh. And for me they had decided upon a dark, blood-red skirt overlaid with black lace and a black sequined bodice trimmed with blood-red laces that accentuated, even created, sensuous curves and lines that I never knew existed.
And of course there were the satin, elbow-length gloves, which looked more suited for an evening gown ensemble than sexed up party. In fact, I'm pretty sure my arms have more fabric on them than the rest of my body combined.
The door swings open in a blaze of light, laughter, and music. I squint for a moment, hesitating at the threshold, contemplating a dead sprint for the car. Then the image of me snapping an ankle on the stairs as I try to navigate them with 5 inch heels and the subsequent tangled, spread-eagle flail toward the expansive, expertly manicured lawn stilled my adrenaline. The grass deserves better. The next moment my potential for escape vanishes as the girls usher me through the doorway and into the party.
Alcohol, I need alcohol. I haven't had a drink, well, it's been awhile, but the only way I am going to survive tonight (unless I can somehow master blending into wallpaper in the next ten seconds) is if I have a glass in my hand, now.
As if reading my thoughts, the girls push me through the throng of pulsating bodies and masked faces toward a table covered with every brand and vintage, as far as I can tell.
"Shots!" Amber screams, grabbing plastic neon shot glasses and shoving them into our hands.
I slam mine back in half-a-heartbeat and don't even hesitate when another shot magically appears in my hand a second later.
"Round two!" Tiff grins wickedly and we all throw our heads back in unison.
"Whoooo!" Mandy shrieks, gyrating her hips and linking her arm around my waist. "Let's party!"
*** I don't remember losing the girls, but one by one we had floated away from each other, caught up in the intoxicating rush of the mob. Everywhere you look there are strangers mingling, laughing, groping as if they have known each other for years. You can't go more than ten steps before hitting another ad-hoc bar set up. I am having a hard time believing anyone will be able to remember, much less talk about, the party tomorrow. I know the edges of my world have softened, my nerves have quieted, and I can feel the warm, soft burn of liquor dancing through my veins. I haven't felt this relaxed in, well, I can't remember; I don't want to remember.
I wander down a long, shadowy hallway lit dimly by twinkling lights glowing on pale blue strings hanging from the ceiling. Door after door opens onto countless rooms filled with intimate gatherings and mini-parties. I slip in and out of these effortlessly, talking when I wanted to talk, flirting and touching here and there before detaching myself and moving on unseen to the next room. No one asks for my name, no one looks at me as if I something to pity. Incognito definitely has its perks.
Somewhere in the sprawling house a clock strikes midnight and I wonder briefly where my girls have gone. Maybe I should go find them, god knows what sort of trouble they're getting themselves into to. The heat of the hallway pushes in on me from all sides and I feel the music blasting through my heels from the floor below. I rub my left wrist absently, feeling a faint raised outline under the silky fabric. My fingers trace its length halfway up my arm.
I need fresh air, I think, shaking my head and touching the mask against my face to make sure I'm still hidden. I cross over to one of the curtained windows recessed between the doorways, hoping one of them is open.
Fanning myself with my hand I take another sip from my drink, finishing it in one long swallow, a refreshing burst of one part citrus and three parts vodka. I can feel my buzz starting to lift and know I'll need another drink soon or I'll feel like Cinderella without her glass slipper. I place my empty glass on a small table next to the heavy, velvet curtains and push the fabric aside to find the window.
But I don't touch glass, just open air. The curtains part slightly and I see the old hardwood floors extending beyond their cover. It's another room.
I step through, out of curiosity more than anything else.
I find myself standing in a small space not much wider than my arm span, bracketed on either side with a single white candle burning with an amber glow, casting shadows across the walls. Behind me are the curtains I had just stepped through, and in front of me are yet another set of drapes, these a rich midnight blue.
Why would you hang two sets of curtains? I think hazily.
I can't help myself, ignoring that little voice deep inside of me that is whispering feverishly at me to do an about face and march my skimpily clad behind out of there this instant. Instead, I gently part the thick, velvety curtains and peer through. I almost laugh out loud when I find myself facing yet another curtain. However this one is just a sheer pale wisp of almost translucent lace that does little more than soften the image behind it. A gracefully wrought iron railing that comes up to the hem of my skirt lies between the two layers of fabric, halting any forward progress I can make, at least in these heels.
Deep down I am still imagining there to be a window on the other side of the curtain, maybe overlooking a secret inner courtyard haunted by some jilted lover's ghost. That would explain the sentinel drapes.
However, my imagination falls inelegantly short.
As my eyes adjust I see through the lacy haze a large, open room dominated by a massive fireplace at the far end, lit with a low, smoldering fire that throws shifting shadows across the room and its occupants. Leather armchairs and chaise lounges form a large arc in the middle of the chamber, centered about what appears to be a low dais or altar covered with dark plum and wine colored cushions. Men in masks recline with brandy in hand, a few with cigars, one with a pipe, watching, staring. Here and there a couple of gentlemen dip their heads in conversation, laughing at their own joke, before turning their attention back to the altar.
