32. April

32

APRIL

JANUARY 2, 11:00 P.M.

I've walked all the way to the river before I finally hear from Renee. She hasn't answered my calls, but a text pops up on my screen.

I'm safe

Can you meet? There's something I need to tell you

I breathe out, sinking to a seat on the rocks at the edge of the Mississippi. The water churns at my feet as I text back.

Yeah, I'm at the river—where should I meet you?

She responds almost instantly.

Getting my car now, I'll pick you up

I pull my knees to my chest and look out to the horizon, the twinkling spires of the Crescent City Connection.

In the daylight, the Mississippi is ugly and brown, filled with trash and barges and probably also several creatures that could eat you alive, if the current doesn't get you first. At night, though, it looks different, the surface like a shimmering watercolor in the glow of downtown. It looks, now, like the powerful, monstrous thing it is—a living creature that bent this city to its whim.

This must be how Margot always saw it.

And now that I'm here, now that I feel her with me, I finally let myself think of that night, soaking in the details like salt in a wound.

It was the night of the ball last year, when Margot was Queen. I wasn't there—she hadn't invited me, which was just another nail in the coffin—and so when I saw Margot's name flash across my phone late that night, I jolted upright in bed. It was the first time she'd reached out in months.

I'm at the Deus Den , she'd texted. Can you come?

She didn't have to ask. When I got there, I half expected to find her in her Queen costume, but there she was in a classic Margot outfit: giant hoodie, leggings, and her favorite Doc Martens, the ones she said made her feel like she could stomp on any heart in her path. There was a black plastic bag on her arm, the kind they used at her favorite fake ID–friendly liquor store. From a distance, she looked worried, picking off the pearl-pink manicure that was so unlike her regular blue-black color. But when she saw me, she ran over to pull me into a hug.

"Thank god," she said, squeezing tighter. She smelled like her cotton-candy vape, a gross habit she'd picked up that year, even if the scent was weirdly comforting. "If I had to talk to one more debutante, I swear my head was going to explode."

There was something different about her—a fire crackling in her eyes, this almost frantic energy—but it was so good to hear her voice, to be near her, that I didn't question it. Neither of us brought it up, the rift between us. It was like acknowledging all the time we'd spent apart would break the spell, send us back to real life.

Instead, we went inside. The Den was cavernous in the dark, a forest of papier-maché creatures looking down on us from their floats. Margot pulled a pint of vodka out of her plastic bag, passed it to me.

"Cheers," she said.

"What are we toasting?"

"The end of my reign."

I smiled, taking the bottle. "Thank god. I've heard you were a bit of a tyrannical ruler."

She smiled back. "Let them eat cake."

For a while, we wandered the Den, laughing and talking and exploring the playground of floats. The whole time, the real questions I wanted to ask her were brimming under the surface, seconds from crashing up for air, but every time I got close, I stopped myself. The night felt almost normal, and I didn't want to ruin it. I didn't want to lose her again.

So when Margot turned to me with a wicked look on her face, I knew I'd say yes to whatever she was about to ask.

"What if we wrecked it?"

I blinked. "Wrecked what?"

We'd only had about a shot each, so the wild spark in her eyes was from more than just the alcohol.

"All of it," she said, gesturing around us. "This whole place."

It was so far from what I expected that I was briefly stunned.

"Why?"

"Because it's bullshit." Margot glared at the King's float, its throne empty and waiting. "Calling some old guy a king and giving him a queen young enough to be his daughter. Making him think he's literally royalty just because he's rich and white and powerful."

It was nothing we hadn't said before—Margot knew I thought all of it was bullshit—but there was a twinge of hurt under her words this time, something wounded beneath her confident rage.

"Did something happen?" I asked.

Margot looked away, and I knew then that I'd hesitated too long. For some reason, she needed me to agree to this, and I'd failed her.

"No," she said distantly. "I don't know. I'm just in the mood to break shit. But you're right. It's stupid."

"I didn't say it was stupid," I argued, even though we both knew I'd thought it.

"Whatever," Margot said. "It is."

Her hand tightened around the neck of the bottle, a wall rising up again between us. And I understood, suddenly, what this was. It was like her hidden cigarettes, her sad-clown lighter, all of the rumors about her bad-girl behavior that she ignored or even fueled because it made her feel impenetrable. Tonight, this need for destruction was another mask, a piece of armor to protect whatever was bruised inside. I knew that, and I was desperate to know what was really hurting her—just as much as I knew that wasn't what she wanted. What she wanted, more than anything, was a partner in crime.

And so I said something I shouldn't have.

"Well, maybe I'm in the mood to do something stupid."

She grinned, bright and vicious.

We made a mess together, wreaked way more havoc than two girls would seem capable of. We ripped flowers off of floats, dug under the gold leaf with our nails, hammered papier-maché faces with abandoned plywood boards, fracturing their skulls. We ripped into bags of parade throws and tossed them around the room, spilling beads, stuffed animals, and light-up toys like brightly colored innards. When we were done, I was almost in awe of it. The damage we could cause together. How good it felt.

And then Margot flicked on her silver lighter, the flame dancing in her dark eyes.

"No," I said, reason taking over. "No way."

"Come on," she said. "They deserve it."

I was silent, still, and that's when I noticed it: the desperation in her eyes. A need that came from someplace deeper. Someplace broken.

"April, please."

"I need you to tell me what's going on," I blurted. "What happened tonight?"

"Nothing. I told you."

"That's bullshit." The words rushed up from deep inside me, some raw, injured place. "You ghost me for months, and then ask me to come do arson with you like everything is totally normal? As if you didn't dump me for Lily fucking LeBlanc."

As soon as I said it, I knew we both heard it. What I really meant. Margot didn't dump me. It's not like we were a thing. Margot was my friend—my only friend—and I wasn't about to screw that up by catching feelings for a girl who, as far as I knew, was Kinsey scale–certified straight. But there were also times when I knew, deep down, that a part of me was a little bit in love with her. I didn't think she'd seen it, that soft, tender spot, but the way she looked at me then, I knew. She saw me, all the way through.

And I should have said it. I should have admitted it, just to see what would happen, because we were already playing with fire, weren't we? But I waited a moment too long. Because just before I could gather the breath, Margot asked, "Why do you hate her so much?"

And the moment was gone. Just another thing stolen by Lily LeBlanc.

"Because—" I paused, suddenly unsure. "Because she's fake. She's rich and spoiled and everyone loves her for no goddamn reason. And she actually thinks all this debutante shit is important. She's obviously going to be Queen next year, and she's proud of it. From the second she popped out of the womb, being a debutante has been the most important thing she'll ever do, and she doesn't even see how fucking sad that is."

Margot stared at me, something simmering beneath her glare. Then she shook her head slightly. "Funny," she said. "You just described me."

"What? No. You know it's all ridiculous. But Lily—"

"You don't even know Lily," Margot said. "You haven't given her a chance."

"Because she sucks, " I shouted. "Because she's been trying to steal you from me, just because she thinks she can have whatever she wants."

"She's stealing me? What, like I can't decide things for myself?"

I sputtered, face hot. "No, that's not—"

"Whatever." Margot snapped the lighter shut, shoving it into her pocket.

"Wait," I said. Panicked, now, feeling her slip through my fingers. "I didn't—"

"Have you ever thought that maybe I like having a friend who understands what it's like to be me?"

Shocked, angry tears sprang to my eyes, but I blinked them away, tightening my jaw.

"I understand you," I told her, but my voice came out weak.

She shook her head. "You don't understand what it's like to come from families like ours."

Ours, meaning hers and Lily's. Not mine. My biggest fear, raw and out in the open like a pulsing organ in her palm.

"Oh, so I wasn't born far enough into the one percent to get it?" I spat.

Margot shrugged. "It's like you said. Being a debutante is the most important thing I'll ever do, at least as far as my family's concerned."

"But you don't have to."

"No, you don't get it. I do have to." She hesitated. "And maybe I want to."

"You don't, " I argued. "You literally just wanted to burn this place to the ground."

"I don't know what I want!" She flung up her hands, her voice so sharp and pained that it startled me. "Maybe I'm angry. Maybe I'm trying to fix this. Because maybe I don't think it's so cool to fucking despise the place I grew up in."

Her words stopped me dead in my tracks. They were an accusation, plain and simple.

"And don't try to pretend you don't," Margot said. "The second you graduate, you're leaving and never coming back. Right? You say it all the time."

"I—" My voice wilted in my throat. She was right. It was exactly what Lily had implied that night on the levee, thrown back in my face.

You'll be out of here soon enough, right?

"Me and Lily are lifers. She'll go to Vanderbilt, fine, but she'll come right back here and settle down. She has to. Our families wouldn't let us leave, even if we wanted to. And I don't. This place is messy, and it's full of bullshit, and yeah, sometimes I hate it, but it's home. I love it enough to stay and fix the broken stuff. And honestly, April, I really don't understand why you're so ready to just leave it behind."

Because it's doomed, I wanted to say. Because this city is literally sinking. Because it's full of racists and elitists and politicians who think they have a right to tell us who we can love or what we can do with our bodies. People who want to stick us in tight dresses and heels and parade us around a ballroom like it's all we're good for, like it's an honor to be an object.

But it's also full of life and music and joy and people like Margot—people so brimming with it that all I can hope for is to catch a spark, to cup it in my palms like a firefly before letting it go.

But I didn't say any of that. I just stared at her, my mouth dry and my tongue stone.

Margot nodded.

"Lily was right about you," she said.

And that was it. The match that sent the fire roaring until it charred away every last part of this thing we'd built together.

So I did exactly what she told me I would: I left her behind.

The Den never burned, in the end. The Krewe found it wrecked the next day, and there was a brief panic about finding the culprit, about how they'd fix it all in time for Mardi Gras, but all of that was forgotten when Margot's body was found.

The parade still rolled that year, right on schedule. Even a dead Queen, it turned out, wasn't enough to break them.

But our secret has been threatening to break me ever since.

Only, the Jester didn't have it right, not all the way. Because as scared as I was of someone knowing what Margot and I had done to the Den, I was more terrified of facing what I'd done to her. Of knowing that I could have saved her, if only I'd stayed.

Now, at the river's edge, the wind whips by, raising goose bumps on my bare arms. I clutch my camera close, thinking this is the kind of night Margot would have loved. A little chill in the air. The distant sounds of the Quarter, the water rushing past.

And I cry—letting out everything that I've been pushing back, trying to fight, crying until I feel like a hollow husk of myself.

When I'm done, I do the only thing I can think of: I lift my camera, frame the river, and press the shutter.

Already, I know it won't be right. Water is always hard, and it takes more time than I've given it, but it's comforting to know it's there, this little piece of her safe in the square of my camera, where I can hold it to my chest.

Beside me, my phone lights up with a text from Renee.

Here

I wipe my eyes, knowing it's pretty much a lost cause—there's no way they aren't red and puffy—but I don't have time to worry about that. I slide my camera strap over my shoulder and turn back the way I came, finding her clunky gray sedan parked on Decatur.

I climb quickly into the passenger seat, looking over my shoulder before closing the door. Renee is still in her ball gown, and I tamp down the urge to take a picture: my getaway driver, ripping through the French Quarter in tulle and combat boots.

"Hey," she says.

"Hey," I answer, a little breathless, but I'm not totally sure if it's from the walk or the fact that I'm alone with Renee again. Her car smells like fake cherries, an air freshener pumping it through the vents, but it's kind of nice. A miniature sign dangles off a chain of beads from her rearview: BEWARE PICKPOCKETS AND LOOSE WOMEN .

"I'm sorry we ran like that," I blurt. "We should've—"

"April, it's okay. Y'all gave me a chance to get out." She shoots me a soft smile, nodding at my camera. "And that was pretty badass, by the way."

Suddenly, I don't know what to say.

"They're good, too?" Renee asks. "Piper and Vivian?"

"Yeah." I swallow, mouth dry. "I mean, they got out. I think they're both headed home. But someone sort of sent an email to our entire school exposing our deepest, darkest secrets, so are they good in a general sense? Jury's still out."

"Whoa, wait—what? Are you okay?"

"Are you?"

She smiles a little. "You already asked me that."

"You didn't answer."

"Neither did you."

"I…" I trace my finger around my camera lens, the circular motion not doing much to calm me down. "I don't know. I'm not sure if I can talk about it. But you're really okay?"

"I think so."

"Good." I pause. "There's something you wanted to tell me?"

For a second, she's silent.

"The guy in the wolf mask," she says. "I saw his face."

I gape. "What? How?"

"After y'all left, I realized it might be my only chance to figure out who he was. The Rougarou. The King. Whatever the hell we're supposed to call him." Her nose wrinkles, like the words have a bad aftertaste. "He's the one who brought her there, who might've killed her, so… I had to know."

I can't argue, because I've felt it, too, that need fueling the drive and danger in her eyes.

"So when the Lieutenant ran off after you—"

"Marty," I supply. "Detective Rutherford. That's the guy who's supposed to be working on Lily's case. He worked on Margot's, too."

Renee's eyes widen. "Motherfucker."

"Yeah," I echo, weirdly soothed by her anger.

"After Marty left, your little friend tried to help me get out, but I told him I was fine."

So Jason kept his word, at least. Not that it really redeems him.

"I went off with the Rougarou, let him pull me into one of those rooms in the hallway. He seemed freaked out, like he just wanted to get out of there. Hide. Anyway, we were in there alone, so I got an idea. I acted like I wanted to help, you know… calm him down."

Instantly, I pick up on the implication. "You didn't."

"Obviously, I didn't actually, but… I may or may not have gotten close enough to take his mask off."

My jaw drops, a mix of panic and pure admiration.

"You shouldn't have done that," I tell her. "Gone off alone with him. You could've…"

My throat closes up around what I mean to say. You could've ended up like Margot.

"Hey." Renee reaches across the driver's seat and cups my chin lightly in her hand. I freeze at her touch, briefly worried I might catch fire from the inside. "I'm fine. I'm here. Soon as I saw his face, I kneed him in the balls and got out of there. And I love that you're worried, but I'm in the middle of a really good story, so maybe you let me finish bragging about my badass detecting skills?"

God, this girl is even cooler than I thought.

"Okay," I manage, in a voice that sounds a whole lot squeakier than I'd like it to.

She smiles, dropping her hand. As soon as the warmth of her fingers is gone, I snap back to reality with a cold, creeping dread.

"Did you recognize him?" I ask.

She shakes her head, and I deflate.

"But you're good at faces, right?" She points to my camera. "Seems like part of the whole thing. If I describe him, maybe you'll recognize him, right?"

"I guess so," I say. "Maybe. But—"

"Great." A grin spreads on her lips. "Then it's time to play the most high-stakes game of Guess Who? of our lives."