a slum somewhere.
I stand up straight and suck everything in. It makes me sweat more, but I fan myself lazily and try to look unimpressed.
"Martin is over by the bar." Momma whispers to me and walks away with Daddy. Emily and I let go of each other. We are royalty of the South. We are not to clutch each other in fear. We do not fear the fine people around us. They are not strangers. They are my kin. My family that is forced upon me based on class and wealth.
In truth, I'm not comfortable with any of them, except Angie. When I see her all my fear and pain melts. Relief fills me as she comes rushing up. Her face is a huge beaming grin. She has no doubt been at something unholy.
"Why Miss Huntington, you look ravishing. Or rather like you'll be ravished. That dress leaves nothing to the imagination. Let me guess, your dear mother is trying to make an attempt at closing the deal on the cattle sale?" Her sarcasm is duly noted and her giggle tells of liquor and a cigar possibly. I laugh and pinch her arm.
Emily gives her a look and rolls her eyes. "Yes, well, this dress fit two weeks ago. Now however, it seems our mother had it taken in to ensure the assets that sweeten the deal are being displayed properly." We speak properly in public, always.
Angie feigns a surprised look, "Not your sweet mother, who only ever has your best intentions and desires in mind. I refuse to believe that. Let's get a drink shall we." Emily waves me off and goes looking for Greg. She always is looking for Greg. He never chases her. He never is the assertive one and she seems content with it, or even to prefer it. He truly is the sweetest boy in all the South.
I can't help but wonder if Emily has nailed it on the head. Has our dear mother taken my dress in because she too heard the rumors about Martin Ryan?
The night smells of bourbon and cigars. Only the women drink from flutes and even then it's only the proper women. Free thinking women, like Angie, drink from rock glasses.
I see a woman with short dark hair in a pantsuit and know, we have Yankees at the party. Women from California and New York are infamous for their freethinking and feminism and pantsuits. My daddy cusses about it regularly. The civil rights act has him, and every other gentleman in Louisiana, frothing at the bit. I like to watch them froth over something I secretly admire, but am too well trained to speak of.
I spy Martin at the bar, holding a rock glass and smiling at a woman in a red dress. It fits like mine does and his eyes are planted in her chest, just like a cad would. Just like Angie said he was. I blush and look down. I have been dressed like a whore for him. He is not the man I thought he was. He is the other kind, not a real gentleman. I've been fooled and no doubt my momma knows what kind of man he is.
I shake my head and avert my eyes, "On second thought, Angie, I don’t want to find him." She's right, I don’t want a man who has already tasted the whole world without me.
She smirks and turns us to the right. I see him catch my eye. He smiles but I don’t. He is smiling at my dress and the prospect of taking it off. I can't smile at that. I'm a lady.
Angie drags me to the parlor, where the French doors are open, revealing a massive patio. We step out into the night and I know she feels it too. The Louisiana air sparkles at night. Mystery and old magic can't help but float in the heavy air with the soft jazz music.
She grips my hand. She knows.
I can feel tears surfacing.
My dress is so tight that the tears don't reach my face, thankfully. They're trapped in the satin somewhere.
She passes me a smoke and lights her own. She holds the flame out for me.
I drag from it as it lights and the soothing feeling of the smoke fills my lungs. Instantly, the pain in my head is gone. I enjoy the lightheaded feeling I get. Angie says it's because I only socially smoke and if I smoked regularly it would go away. But I don’t want it to. I like it. I like feeling
I stand up straight and suck everything in. It makes me sweat more, but I fan myself lazily and try to look unimpressed.
"Martin is over by the bar." Momma whispers to me and walks away with Daddy. Emily and I let go of each other. We are royalty of the South. We are not to clutch each other in fear. We do not fear the fine people around us. They are not strangers. They are my kin. My family that is forced upon me based on class and wealth.
In truth, I'm not comfortable with any of them, except Angie. When I see her all my fear and pain melts. Relief fills me as she comes rushing up. Her face is a huge beaming grin. She has no doubt been at something unholy.
"Why Miss Huntington, you look ravishing. Or rather like you'll be ravished. That dress leaves nothing to the imagination. Let me guess, your dear mother is trying to make an attempt at closing the deal on the cattle sale?" Her sarcasm is duly noted and her giggle tells of liquor and a cigar possibly. I laugh and pinch her arm.
Emily gives her a look and rolls her eyes. "Yes, well, this dress fit two weeks ago. Now however, it seems our mother had it taken in to ensure the assets that sweeten the deal are being displayed properly." We speak properly in public, always.
Angie feigns a surprised look, "Not your sweet mother, who only ever has your best intentions and desires in mind. I refuse to believe that. Let's get a drink shall we." Emily waves me off and goes looking for Greg. She always is looking for Greg. He never chases her. He never is the assertive one and she seems content with it, or even to prefer it. He truly is the sweetest boy in all the South.
I can't help but wonder if Emily has nailed it on the head. Has our dear mother taken my dress in because she too heard the rumors about Martin Ryan?
The night smells of bourbon and cigars. Only the women drink from flutes and even then it's only the proper women. Free thinking women, like Angie, drink from rock glasses.
I see a woman with short dark hair in a pantsuit and know, we have Yankees at the party. Women from California and New York are infamous for their freethinking and feminism and pantsuits. My daddy cusses about it regularly. The civil rights act has him, and every other gentleman in Louisiana, frothing at the bit. I like to watch them froth over something I secretly admire, but am too well trained to speak of.
I spy Martin at the bar, holding a rock glass and smiling at a woman in a red dress. It fits like mine does and his eyes are planted in her chest, just like a cad would. Just like Angie said he was. I blush and look down. I have been dressed like a whore for him. He is not the man I thought he was. He is the other kind, not a real gentleman. I've been fooled and no doubt my momma knows what kind of man he is.
I shake my head and avert my eyes, "On second thought, Angie, I don’t want to find him." She's right, I don’t want a man who has already tasted the whole world without me.
She smirks and turns us to the right. I see him catch my eye. He smiles but I don’t. He is smiling at my dress and the prospect of taking it off. I can't smile at that. I'm a lady.
Angie drags me to the parlor, where the French doors are open, revealing a massive patio. We step out into the night and I know she feels it too. The Louisiana air sparkles at night. Mystery and old magic can't help but float in the heavy air with the soft jazz music.
She grips my hand. She knows.
I can feel tears surfacing.
My dress is so tight that the tears don't reach my face, thankfully. They're trapped in the satin somewhere.
She passes me a smoke and lights her own. She holds the flame out for me.
I drag from it as it lights and the soothing feeling of the smoke fills my lungs. Instantly, the pain in my head is gone. I enjoy the lightheaded feeling I get. Angie says it's because I only socially smoke and if I smoked regularly it would go away. But I don’t want it to. I like it. I like feeling
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