3. Piper

3

PIPER

DECEMBER 29, 8:40 P.M.

When I envisioned my first-ever debutante ball, I had a very clear picture in mind.

Beautiful dress, check.

Mom and Dad beaming as I rounded the stage, check.

One night when everything was so perfect that for once, just once, I could let go and have fun? I should have known that was too much to hope for. Because even if tonight hadn't turned into such a disaster, relaxing has never been in my DNA.

Exhibit A: standing here in this ballroom, I feel closer than I've ever been to shoving a walkie-talkie down a grown man's throat.

"A Jester," I repeat, laser-focused on the security guard. "He was dressed as a Jester, and he had a bucket. I saw him slip out that door, but I lost him."

"Can you give a bit more of a description, Miss…?"

"Johnson. Piper." One of the pins holding my hair in its Audrey Hepburn–inspired bun is stabbing my scalp, and I reach up to adjust it before stopping myself. I'd only mess it up. Not that it matters now. I was going for Breakfast at Tiffany's, but looking at all the other Maids with their half-up, half-down looks and fashion ponies or Lily's effortlessly stylish updo, I feel more stuffy than classic. "He was tall. But he had a mask on, so that's the best I can do."

"Thank you," the security guard says. "We'll be sure to keep that in mind."

Seriously? I want to yell, but I can't. I'm a Johnson, and Johnsons are calm and collected. Johnsons fix things. And it's time for me to step it up.

I give him my best blistering look, the one I've mastered from years of watching Mom. "Listen, if I were you, I would be a little more concerned about this entire situation, especially considering that it was Lily LeBlanc up there. Because if this isn't sorted out soon, it's on you, and her family will make sure you know it."

At that, his eyes bug out, his back straightening to attention. Finally. I don't know how to feel about the fact that I just sounded exactly like Mom, but I've got to admit that she always gets the job done. Hell hath no fury like a Johnson woman pissed. But I'll psychoanalyze that in my therapy session on Thursday.

"Of course, Miss Johnson," he says. "We'll be on the lookout."

They won't, but I've done my best to fix this mess. Now I just have to hope they figure out who pulled this stunt before Mom has an actual conniption.

Speaking of which, it's time to move on to phase two of my damage-control plan.

I do a quick loop of the ballroom, but I can't find her. Instead, I spot Dad at one of the tables bordering the dance floor, looking every one of his fifty-two years as he nurses a glass of his usual whiskey neat.

"Hi, peanut," he says wearily as I approach, kissing me on the forehead.

"Hey, Dad." I pull him in for a small hug. "Have you seen Mom?"

He squeezes me back for a moment before letting go. "I think she's engaged in damage control."

Like mother, like daughter.

"You didn't go with her?" I ask.

"You think she asked?"

"Touché."

"Gesundheit."

I roll my eyes at the classic Dad joke. I'm glad he doesn't seem angry right now, but also, I'm surprised he isn't. He's in Deus, so this disaster of a night reflects badly on him, too.

But Dad just sighs. "You look beautiful, peanut. I'm sorry this all went to hell in a handbasket."

His eyes are glossy, almost like he's on the verge of tears, and I realize what must be going through his head. Margot Landry. Of course. I kick myself for not seeing it before, how he might react to all those videos of her. In all his years as a psychiatrist, I'm pretty sure Margot's the only client he's ever lost.

"It's okay," I tell him, putting on a smile. "I'm having fun."

It's always my first instinct when his mood turns cloudy, like if I perform the role of perfect daughter more convincingly, it'll make everything better.

"I'll go make sure Mom's okay," I add.

Dad gives me another side-hug. "I'd bring reinforcements, if I were you."

"Already on it."

We both mean alcohol, of course. And I know how that sounds, but my parents are hardly alcoholics. They drink in the way every adult in New Orleans does: socially, which, in a city that's all about socializing, means pretty much always. Personally, I'm not a fan of alcohol, but I can't blame them. We have drive-through daiquiri stores, for god's sake. We're practically raised to be debaucherous.

Smoothing my gown, I march up to the bar and ask for a vodka tonic.

"That bad, huh?"

I turn to find Aiden Ortiz leaning against the bar, looking annoyingly tall in his suit.

"It's for my mom," I say snippily, both to him and the bartender, who's giving me a wary look. The bartender relents, making the drink, and I have to wonder if it's because he's met my mom already. Like I said, hell hath no fury like a Johnson woman pissed.

I turn back to Aiden, nodding at his own glass. "You're one to talk. Was being my Duke that difficult?"

"Shirley Temple," he says, swishing the drink. "But also, would you blame me? Escorting your royal highness around a ballroom was pretty taxing."

Aiden's eyes flash the exact color and stickiness of honey. They're another one of his irritatingly perfect qualities, along with his 4.7 weighted GPA and the Google internship he's got lined up for the summer before he starts at Stanford. He got in early action, because of course he did. I'm in early at Vanderbilt, which is just as good a school, but try telling that to everyone at Beaumont. They're all obsessed with the idea of their best and brightest leaving the South for four years at a flashy school, so long as they bring their diplomas back home to settle down, pop out some kids, send them to Beaumont, and start the cycle all over again.

I frown at his Shirley Temple. "Girly drink."

"Archaic gendering of beverages," he fires back.

My frown intensifies as I take Mom's drink from the bartender. For once, sneaking a sip doesn't sound like such a bad idea. But then I get a better one.

"You were up there with the Jesters. Did you see who did this?"

Aiden looks away. He knows something. Doesn't he?

But what he says is "I don't know. I was mostly trying not to die of embarrassment, and then everything happened so fast. All that Margot stuff…"

Aiden's stare flicks to the throne. He doesn't finish the thought.

I cross my arms, which are suddenly prickling with goose bumps. "You seriously didn't see anything?"

His eyes meet mine, and he shakes his head. "Seriously, Piper. I wish I had."

I chew the inside of my cheek. I don't know if I believe him, but I know the look on his face. It feels like a more sincere version of the look he gets in AP Gov just after making an annoyingly smart comment to shoot down an uninformed opinion. It's a look that means end of discussion.

"Fine," I say, walking away. "Bye."

"Always a pleasure, Piper Johnson," he calls after me, and I hear his annoying smirk without seeing it. I make a show of ignoring it, scanning the ballroom instead.

I spot Mom just in time. She's coming in through one of the side doors, looking very much like she needs this vodka tonic.

"Have they caught the guy yet?" I ask by way of greeting, handing her the glass.

"I knew you were my favorite daughter."

She takes a long sip, and I smile. I am her only daughter, so the competition is hardly fierce, but still, I feel a bubble of pride. I anticipated a need and filled it. That's what Johnsons do.

"And no," Mom sighs. "This entire thing is a disaster."

"Yeah, I know. I talked to security. They were zero help."

I catch a twitch above Mom's eyebrow—a telltale sign she's stressed.

"But the people who stayed seem to be having fun," I add quickly. I don't want to make her feel like this is her fault, even if it happened on her watch. "It looks like they got it all cleaned, too." I gesture at the throne area, which, aside from a conspicuous WET FLOOR sign, looks perfectly blood-free. "It's like it never even happened."

"Well, it did," Mom snaps. "And people aren't going to just forget that the presentation was vandalized with blood and"—she lowers her voice to a hiss—"and images of a dead girl. "

I shrink slightly. "I know."

Mom softens, pressing a manicured hand to her temple. "I'm sorry, Pipes. It's just unbelievable. After what happened at the Den last year…"

I lower my voice. "You think this has something to do with the vandalism?"

Mom nearly gave herself an ulcer trying to deal with it last year. On the night of the ball, someone vandalized the Krewe of Deus Den, the warehouse where they store all of the parade floats in the months leading up to Mardi Gras. So many floats were ruined that they would have had to cancel the parade, if not for the battalion of volunteers Mom assembled to fix them with barely a month to spare. They never caught the vandal, but soon, no one really cared anymore—because the day after the ball, they found Margot's body, and a dead Queen tends to trump petty vandalism.

They found her in her car, parked near the levee. An overdose—which, though tragic, wasn't entirely surprising. Margot was a party girl, infamous for all the old clichés: cutting school, crashing Tulane frat parties, hiding a flask in her locker. There was even a rumor that she almost got arrested once for drunkenly cursing out a cop at Mardi Gras, before they realized who her family was and let her off with a warning. Her death was awful, obviously, but not unthinkable.

Mom sighs.

"Maybe," she says, but I can tell she's not too invested in my vandal theory. Her sharp green eyes scan the ballroom, distracted. "Have you seen your brother?"

"Not since the presentation. Why?"

She looks around as if to make sure no one's listening, then leads me by the elbow a few feet away from the crowd. When she speaks, her mouth barely opens, and she keeps a placid look on her face, like we could be talking about our dresses or the hors d'oeuvres.

"Lily's lying about what she saw."

"What?" I follow her lead, hiding my surprise. "Like, you think she knows who did this?"

Mom nods, adjusting her faultless low bun. "I can smell a lie from a mile away. I'm hoping your brother can pull it out of her, if he decides to reappear. Lily said he was getting the car, but who knows where he got off to. He won't answer my texts." She sips her drink, catching the eye of one of the other Les Masques moms from across the ballroom, who waves. Mom waves back. She whispers to me, "Shelby Fontaine. Her daughter, Eugenie, is one of the Maids from St. Anthony's. The husband is an insufferable ass, but I made Eugenie's dress, and she does look lovely in it. I should go play nice."

"I can find Wyatt," I tell her. "See if I can get him to ask Lily what's up."

She gives my cheek a light touch with her gloved hand. "Thank you, Pipes."

Watching Mom float over to Mrs. Fontaine and her insufferable ass of a husband, I smooth out the satin of my dress. It's also one of Mom's designs, and probably my favorite thing I've ever worn: cap sleeves, white-lace detailing spilling from the bodice to the hem of the floor-length skirt. Even though I'm doubting my hair choice now, this dress makes me feel exactly how I was hoping to: classic and beautiful, like a princess at a royal wedding.

Mom runs a full-time business designing dresses, and the debutante market is her biggest. Every Maid or Queen worth her salt wears a Genevieve Johnson original, Lily included—and sure, I'm a little jealous sometimes that I have to share Mom's designs, but I'm so proud of her. Because I know how my mom comes off to people. I've heard the other Maids giggle about her at rehearsals. They think she's some ridiculous, sycophantic Southern belle who'd do anything to please the powers that be. But what they don't see, what I wish they could respect, is that even though Mom can be a lot, she's not the butt of a joke. She's a shark with a goal, and she knows exactly what role she has to play to get there.

And so do I.

Straightening my spine, I focus on my mission: find Wyatt, figure out what Lily saw, and fix the catastrophe that this ball has become. Mom said Wyatt was getting the car, so I make my way outside.

I find them faster than I expected. They're standing on the path that leads to the main country-club entrance, but some thing seems wrong. Lily's glaring at Wyatt, her arms folded, and his hands are shoved deep in his pockets.

"I told you I'm fine." Lily's tone is so uncharacteristically cold that it makes me hesitate. I stop behind an oak tree, just out of their sight.

"Obviously you're not," Wyatt grumbles. "You won't even look at me, just your stupid phone."

"Do you need, like, a full log of who I'm texting now?"

I grit my teeth. Something's definitely off here, because Wyatt and Lily don't fight. As much as they get on my nerves, they're pretty much the perfect couple. It's why they get on my nerves. At home, Wyatt can be moody and hotheaded, but I've never heard him talk to Lily with anything but cartoon hearts in his eyes.

"You don't need to act like I'm some possessive creep!" he snaps. "All I'm saying is it would be nice if my girlfriend wouldn't act so—" He stops, pointing at Lily's phone. "There! See? You can't even go two seconds without looking." He steps closer, reaching out. "Who the fuck is—"

"Stop."

"I just want to—"

"Don't touch me."

And now I'm overcome with the protective instinct that's been ingrained in me since the day we were born, when I emerged fourteen minutes earlier and a whole lot wiser than my asshole brother. I march out from behind the tree.

"Hey," I call, laser-focused on Wyatt. "Mom's looking for you."

He and Lily jolt apart like magnets with the same charge. Wyatt stares at me, and I wonder if he can tell from my expression just how much I've overheard. But we've never had that twin-telepathy crap you see in movies. Besides the blue eyes, we barely even look related: he got Mom's golden coloring, and I got Dad's harsh combination of pale skin and brown hair.

"Are you Mom's bounty hunter now?" Wyatt asks bitingly. Now that he's recovered from the jump scare, he's pissed.

"If the price is right." I turn to Lily. "Hey."

"Hi." She doesn't look happy to see me, and I can't fight the little pulse of hurt. In the past, Lily's tolerated me—little more than a polite wave or small talk as she and Wyatt head up to his room—but ever since I started helping her with her college application essays a few months ago, I've felt like maybe, maybe we were becoming real friends.

Not that it matters anymore. I got into Vanderbilt, Lily didn't, and now it's obvious that all she ever wanted me for was the favor.

Fat lot of good that did her.

With a quick glance at Lily, Wyatt stomps over to me and pulls me out of her earshot.

"What are you doing?" he demands, voice low.

"What are you doing? I heard y'all fighting. What's going on?"

His jaw twitches. "We weren't fighting."

"Does she know something?" I press, even quieter. "Mom thinks she was lying about what she saw. Did she see who—"

"I know you're jealous that you're not Queen, or whatever, but can you stop trying to shove yourself in other people's business?"

My face heats. That he said loud enough for Lily to hear. And it's not even true. Sure, being Queen is an honor, but I never had the illusion that it would be me. Lily's had this in the bag from the day she was born a LeBlanc.

I cross my arms, trying not to let the hurt show. "You're in a mood."

"Yeah, wonder why."

"Fuck you."

"Fuck you. "

Normally, those two words are a term of endearment, our best expression of sibling love, but now they feel charged. Real.

Wyatt sighs, running a hand through his hair. A truce. "Do you want a ride home? I'm driving Lily."

It's as close as he'll get to an apology, but it does nothing to soften the hurt still burning in my stomach.

"No," I tell him sharply. "I'll go with Mom and Dad." I start to leave, but something stops me. I spin around to face him again. "You may think all this is lame, but I don't. It's a family tradition, it's important to me, and someone tried to ruin it tonight. So even if you don't care, I'm going to deal with it. Like I always do."

I'm almost halfway back to the building before Wyatt calls after me.

"Right. Because who wouldn't want your help?"

It's like a current down my spine, making me stand up straighter. Does he know? When I turn back around, Wyatt's looking at me with that smug expression of his, the one that says he's won every battle before it even starts, because that's just how life works for him.

But he can't know. There's no way. Because if he did, we'd both have a shit ton more problems than we do right now.

I put on my best bless your heart smile, like the little Mom clone he thinks I am.

"Get home safe," I tell him, and then, murmuring to myself as I turn away, "Hope your relationship makes it past the first traffic light."