2. Vivian

2

VIVIAN

DECEMBER 29, 8:25 P.M.

I don't think. I move.

Balling my giant skirt in my fists, I run to the middle of the stage, only one thought in my head: my best friend is covered in blood.

But I've barely made it a few strides before the lights turn back on and I realize I was wrong. It isn't blood. Lily's dress is ruined, but the stain is too bright to be real. Paint, maybe. And suddenly, I feel a little stupid.

But also, what the hell just happened?

I look out at the crowd. Some people are still sitting and whispering into their gloves, but most are up and elbowing their way to the exits. Mrs. Johnson is trying to corral them with her still-dead mic, but it's a losing game. This is as much of a free-for-all as the canned-goods and bottled-water aisles when the city issues a hurricane warning. And maybe we should be running. Because even though everything seems fine, I can't shake the creeped-out feeling: someone just threw fake blood at Lily in a ballroom haunted by a dead girl. One who, just last year, was sitting on the same throne.

Someone waving pulls my attention. Mom, standing out from the crowd with the height and strawberry-blond hair her strong genes passed on to me. I wave back, and she grabs Dad's arm. They both look relieved. I'm far enough away that for a second, I could believe they aren't in the middle of an epic divorce, the kind the other debutante parents are probably gossiping about over wine and oysters at country-club brunch, even though it's not a huge shock. Mom and Dad stuck it out as long as they could, but now that my older brother, Spencer, is in his second year at LSU, and I'm a senior at Beaumont, I'm pretty sure they figured, close enough.

Just before I go to meet them, something flashes to my left. A jester hat. I stop in my tracks as one of the Dukes, a tall boy, slips out the ballroom door with what looks like a bucket tucked into his side. A bucket that, if I had to guess, just played a starring role in the newest sequel to Carrie.

Nice try, asshole. I pick up my speed to follow him. If only I could actually move in this dress. But just as I open the door, a hand grips my arm.

"Viv!" It's Savannah, worry all over her face. "Are you okay?"

"Yeah," I breathe, glancing into the hallway. Shit. The Jester's gone. And the door's blocked anyway, too many people spilling out. "I think so."

Sav sighs, folding her arms over her long emerald dress. "I knew I was in for some horror-movie crap when y'all made me come to this, but I didn't think it would be so…"

" Carrie ?" I joke weakly.

"Oh my god." Her mouth hangs open. "They Carrie 'd the debutante ball."

Normally, I would laugh, but I'm still coming down from the panic. Looking back at the throne, I realize Lily and Wyatt are gone.

"We should find Lil," I say.

Sav nods. "But if she starts doing telekinetic murder, we're seriously going to have to revisit this friendship."

I know Sav's trying to break the tension like she always does, but I can still feel how freaked out we both were a few seconds ago. Reaching into the pocket of my dress, which is the only part I could really get behind, I grab my phone and shoot my parents a text to say I'm fine and going to check on Lily. Just as I hit SEND , mic feedback screeches.

"Everyone, may I have your attention, please." A familiar soft Southern accent: Mr. Pierce, standing at the announcer podium.

Besides being the Head of School at Beaumont, Mr. Pierce is also one of the leaders in the Krewe of Deus, the organization that runs Les Masques. Basically, if Les Masques is the debutante JV league, Deus is varsity, the real deal. If we're lucky, us Maids will all be invited to the Deus Ball when we're in college, but I'm not holding my breath. At that ball, the Queen is always a twenty-one-year-old debutante, and the King is a respected old dude from the Krewe, usually wearing tights. Which, you know… gross. For lots of reasons.

Mr. Pierce clears his throat. "On behalf of the Krewe of Deus, I want to sincerely apologize for the disturbance of tonight's presentation. Rest assured, whoever is behind this cruel and disrespectful joke will be punished. Country-club security is already taking measures to track these pranksters down."

Security? Looking around the room, all I see is one barely adult dude in a green country-club uniform mumbling into a walkie-talkie. Figures. If I had to bet, the biggest crime this guy's ever solved here was probably a drunk grandma misplacing her shawl.

"We hope this little blip won't derail such a fine evening. Genevieve and the Ladies' Krewe have worked so hard to make this a fantastic night." Mr. Pierce nods at Mrs. Johnson, who gives a smile that barely hides the rage in her eyes. "And we all know how much the young ladies of the court and their families have been looking forward to this honor."

Right, this honor. It's what everyone says about scoring a Les Masques invite, Dad included, but I'm pretty sure every senior girl with a dad in Deus is asked to be a Maid. Being a debutante is probably the closest I'll ever get to nepo-baby status.

Anyway, if this is such an honor, every Maid still onstage probably shouldn't look so close to bolting. Half the crowd, too. I spot Coach Davis sitting a couple rows behind my parents. He's here with his girlfriend, Ella or Emma or something, who was apparently a Deus Maid a few years ago. I'm a little embarrassed that he's here, honestly. Coach moved from Texas last year, when he got the job teaching PE and coaching soccer at Beaumont, so I can only imagine what this all looks like to him. There's deb stuff all over the South, but this is about as over-the-top as it gets.

Seeing me, Coach shoots a thumbs-up with a questioning look, like, You good? I shrug, and he gives a somber nod. At least someone gets it. I turn back to the stage.

"Please, continue enjoying your drinks and the music," Mr. Pierce says. "Let's give these young women the night they deserve."

He claps his gloved hands, sparking some weak applause from the half of the audience who hasn't escaped, and Mrs. Johnson snatches the mic.

"Laissez les bons temps rouler!"

She waves at the band, and they reach for their instruments, swinging into another jazz song. Everyone seems to relax a little, and I feel it, too, like I'm cooling down from a long run. Because this is a debutante ball. Sure, it's creepy as hell, but it's not like anything can go that wrong.

"Do you see her?" Sav asks, straining to see over the crowd.

One of the few nice things about being five foot nine and wearing heels is that I don't have the same problem. I spot them by the side door of the ballroom. Lily's ditched her crown, scepter, and cape, and her parents are shuffling her out, Wyatt trailing behind them like a golden retriever.

It takes a minute to push through the crowd, so when we finally catch up with them in the hallway, Wyatt is gone, and Lily's talking to her parents, their voices hushed. Right away, I get the sense we've walked in on something we shouldn't be seeing.

"I told you," Lily is saying. "He had the jester mask on. I couldn't see."

"Don't play dumb." Lily's dad, so harsh it makes me tense up.

"George." Lily's mom. "Can you lower your—"

"You saw his face, Lily."

But Lily isn't looking at her dad anymore. She sees us and folds her arms over the bright-red splatter on her dress. It's almost funny now, how fake it is, but something about the warning look in her eyes digs a pit in my stomach. Her parents clock us, too, and the pit gets even deeper.

"Girls." Mrs. LeBlanc's gloved hand brushes her pearls. "So good to see you."

"So sorry to interrupt, Mrs. LeBlanc," Sav says. "We just wanted to make sure Lily was okay."

"I'm fine." Lily closes her hand around her necklace, the single diamond teardrop she's worn since her thirteenth birthday. The one she always touches when she's lying.

I've been Lily LeBlanc's best friend since kindergarten, and she hasn't gotten any better at hiding her tell.

Before I can say anything, the hallway door swings open and Mrs. Johnson runs out, kitten heels clacking.

"Lily! Goodness, I am so sorry, sweet pea. Are you okay? Are you hurt?"

In a flash, Lily's whole face changes with a bright smile that deepens her dimples. "I'm okay. I mean, that's what I get for wearing white, right?"

Mrs. Johnson laughs like she's Lily's number-one fan. I swear, the second Lily and Wyatt started dating sophomore year, his mom probably popped the champagne and fired up the future wedding Pinterest board. But Lily always knows how to get people in her pocket. It's one of my favorite things about her: one second, she's a debutante princess, and the next, she's a monster on the field, stealing the ball out from under the other player before they even know what hit them.

"So gracious. I swear, this girl was just born to be Queen," Mrs. Johnson gushes, hand on her heart. Then, noticing Sav and me, she gets a look on her face like she just smelled something bad.

Checks out. We've spent half of high school hanging around the Johnsons' house with Lily, Wyatt, and our other friends, but Mrs. Johnson has never liked us much. Me because my family isn't old-money enough, and Sav because her family is actively antidebutante. Which I don't blame them for: Sav's mom is Black, her dad white, and even though all this stuff apparently "isn't racist" anymore, I wouldn't touch it with a ten-foot pole if I were them. I didn't really want to touch it at all, but my parents insisted, and with the way things have been at home lately, I wasn't about to rock the boat. Sav's only here because Lily and I promised her a full year of aux privileges in exchange for coming, even if it means she'll blast Six the musical at all of our pregames.

"Speaking of our Queen," says Mrs. Johnson, bringing her attention back to Lily, "where's your consort gotten off to? Because if he up and left you here to deal with all this alone, he'll be getting a stern talking-to at home, believe me."

"He's getting the car," Lily says with a laugh. "Don't worry. He's learned from the best."

"Oh, hush," Mrs. Johnson teases, clearly thrilled to be buttered up. "Now I know it's such a chore, but you wouldn't mind coming with me for a few minutes, would you? Security has just a few questions."

"I'd love to help, but I really don't know if I can," Lily says, using the same tone that always gets her extensions on homework. "I barely saw anything. It was so quick, and then he was gone."

She touches her necklace again. Another lie. I watch Lily's face for some sign of what she's hiding, but she doesn't look my way.

"Of course," Mrs. Johnson says. "But anything you remember might help to—"

"We appreciate your diligence, Gen, but I think Lily would like to get home and rest." Mr. LeBlanc lays a broad hand on his daughter's shoulder. He's changed just as quickly as she did: the sharp tone and angry stare are gone. Now there's only a sympathetic smile. "I'm sure you can imagine that tonight hasn't quite been the royal treatment she was hoping for."

He says it like a joke, but there's a warning flare in his eyes. Mrs. Johnson picks up on it, her neck blotching.

"Of course. And again, I'm so sorry. If I'd had any idea that someone here was planning this sort of—"

"Thank you, Genevieve. You've been more than helpful." Lily's mom gives an icy smile, not even trying to hide it with charm like Mr. LeBlanc did.

"Well." Mrs. Johnson sniffs. "I'll let y'all get home, then."

"I'll let you know if I remember anything that might help," Lily says.

"Thanks, sweet pea." Mrs. Johnson turns to me and Sav again, like an afterthought. "And girls, if y'all saw anything, don't hesitate to let me know."

With another robotic smile, Mrs. Johnson clicks back down the hall and into the ballroom. As soon as she's gone, Lily drops the sweet look.

"I'll go see if Wyatt got the car," she mumbles to her parents. Then she heads for the exit, pushing her way through the double doors like a warrior princess leaving a bloody battle.

Lily's parents look at each other, like there's something they want to say but can't when me and Sav are still standing here.

"Well," Lily's mom starts. "Maybe we should—"

"Oh!" I blurt. "Um, I just remembered I have Lily's keys. I'll go catch up with her."

It's a lie, but I don't wait for anyone to stop me. From the look on her face, Sav knows what I'm really doing. As close as the three of us are now, Sav didn't start at Beaumont until middle school. I'm the one who's known Lily since we were in kindergarten, dreaming of the day we'd be tall enough to use the monkey bars on the playground. And whenever Lily has a secret, I'm the one who can pull it out of her.

Outside, it's colder than it was when the ball started. At least, what passes for cold in New Orleans at the tail end of December, which is maybe fifty degrees.

Lily's about halfway down the path that leads to the front entrance of the country club, under a bending oak tree. Her phone lights up her face, and her gloves are off and balled up in the crook of her elbow.

"Lily."

Her head snaps up, scared, but then her shoulders loosen. "What's up, Viv?"

At the sound of my nickname, I relax, too. I walk toward her, my ugly white heels pinching at my blistered feet.

"Ugh." I stop, wincing. "Please tell me why I thought it was a good idea to run four miles this morning and then wear heels?"

Lily smirks. "Because you're in love with Coach and you want to be his favorite player of all time."

I laugh, even though the joke felt more like a dig. Too accurate. Not that I'm in love with Coach. He's not un attractive, I guess, but also, ew? He's, like, twenty-five. Still, I'd be lying if I said it wasn't his voice in my head when I went on my run earlier, that I wasn't thinking he'd be proud. I want to be pissed, but then Lily grins, and I can't do anything but let it go.

"Okay, first of all, his favorite player would be you, " I tell her. "And you're totally changing the subject."

"Which is?"

I sweep an arm at the building behind us. "What the hell?"

She's silent. I cross my arms and stare her down. Literally. I have about eight inches on her, so it's not hard.

"Who threw the fake blood at you?"

Her hand reaches up to her collarbone. "I don't know."

"You're touching your necklace."

She drops her hand. "So?"

"I've played, like, a hundred games of BS with you. I know when you're lying."

Her mouth opens, about to argue, but then her phone lights up. A text from an unsaved number. Before I can read it, I feel Lily staring. Her face is cool, almost unreadable, but it's obvious she caught me looking at her screen. I look away, guilty.

"Wyatt just texted," Lily says. "He got the car. I should go meet him."

"Okay."

We're quiet for a second, ignoring the truth, which is that we both know the text Lily just got wasn't from Wyatt. I'm supposed to be the person Lily tells everything to, and for some reason, we're both going along with this obvious lie.

Lily gathers up her skirt.

"I saw the guy leaving the room after everything happened," I tell her. "One of the Jesters. He had a bucket."

Lily sighs, and I can see the exhaustion on her face. I couldn't tell on the stage, but up close, dark circles shine through her under-eye concealer. It makes me uneasy all over again. Lily never looks anything but put together. It's her weird superpower, even in 8 A.M. physics.

"It was probably one of the Dukes being dumb." She shrugs. "Jason or someone. He seemed kind of wasted when y'all were up there."

"Oh, believe me, I know. He went way too hard at the pregame." I roll my eyes at the memory of him stumbling as we looped around the stage. "But I don't think he did this."

I can't explain how, but I know, and I can't deny the panic spilling through my veins like a tequila shot: Lily knows who did this to her, or has a guess, and for some reason, she's lying about it.

Before I can find it in me to call her out, Wyatt appears at the end of the path, walking toward us like Lily manifested him, TikTok–tarot girl style.

"You sure you're okay?" I ask Lily, lowering my voice so he can't hear. "Just, with all the Margot stuff, I would be a little freaked if I were you, so it's okay if you're not—"

"I'm fine, Viv." She reaches for the diamond again, then catches herself. "I promise. Go have fun, okay? I'll text when I get home."

Okay, now I'm a little annoyed. Does Lily seriously think I'll just go have fun when she's being this cagey? She's the one who actually cares about this deb stuff, not me. Sav and I would both rather be home in sweats, but here we are. Because even though I'm a Maid, everyone knows it's all about the Queen. This is Lily's night, not mine.

Wyatt catches up to us, sliding an arm around her tiny waist. A stray lock of golden hair falls onto his forehead, and I feel the stupid urge to brush it away, but I'm not supposed to be having thoughts like that about my best friend's boyfriend of almost two years. Anyway, Lily beats me to it. She tucks the hair behind his ear, and he kisses her wrist, blue eyes locked on her.

"Car's parked out front." He glances between us, like he's noticing me for the first time. "Everything okay?"

Lily smiles. "Yeah. Perfect."

But as he pulls her closer to his side, I catch it: a little twitch of her face, her muscles tensing.

I wish I didn't see it. I wish it didn't give me a little rush of hope.

"I'm going back in," I say. Too loud, like I need to announce it to all the ancient oak trees, too. "Text when you get home?"

"Of course," she says.

I turn and walk back inside in my uncomfortable shoes, everything I could have said going sour in my mouth like bad champagne.