“I haven’t seen you in class for a while,” Miss Page remarks. “What have you been up to?”
“I returned to school and have been working on my thesis.”
“That sounds impressive,” says Mademoiselle Speranzeva.
“It just so happens that I’m traveling to Jamaica with Katherine.” As soon as the words leave my lips, I wish I hadn’t said them.
“Really?” Mademoiselle Speranzeva sounds dubious.
“Are you working for Katherine?” Ruth Page asks straightforwardly.
“Our expeditions are entirely independent. Katherine is studying African dance in Caribbean culture—”
“Yes, we know,” Miss Page interrupts.
“Of course,” I reply. “I will focus on the history of the Maroon people by recorded interviews of their oral storytellers.”
The two women exchange glances, their eyebrows raised.
“How interesting,” Miss Page says in an unconvincing tone. “When did you make this decision? Katherine hadn’t mentioned you’d be joining her.”
“My joining her expedition happened rather suddenly.”
“It would have to be very recently,” the Russian ballet teacher states.
The conversation follows the familiar pattern that always occurs when I’m around them. A rush of inadequacy washes over me, and I hate that I can’t seem to shake this feeling.
I wave at an imaginary friend across the room. “Oh, excuse me. I’m being summoned.” With a smile, I hurry off, hoping to avoid running into either of them again that evening.
The friend I mention seeing is actually Katherine. She is standing at the buffet table, holding a glass of champagne in each hand.
“Are you ready for this?” she asks, handing me a glass.
“How did you manage to escape the photographers so quickly?” I respond, impressed.
“How did you manage to run into Ruth and Mademoiselle?” Katherine shoots back.
“Oh, you saw that? It was no trouble. They were delightful.” I gently pick up a shrimp-filled deviled egg from the tray on the buffet.
“The reporters aren’t here for me,” she adds nonchalantly. “Did you know Mary McLeod Bethune was here?”
“No, she’s not. She’s in New York City.”
“Then it must be someone wealthy, like Edith Rockefeller McCormick.”
“She died three years ago.”
Katherine squints at me. “So, do you know the whereabouts of every famous woman in Chicago?”
“No, just those two. But if you don’t recall, Mr. Abbott and his wife are hosting this reception primarily for the Count and Countess di Abbatino.”
“I thought it was for Josephine Baker?”
“She got married? I didn’t realize she was a countess now.”
“Well, she’s not, and ha-ha. You don’t know everything. I don’t think she’s even married.” Katherine raises her glass ofchampagne, toasting to several people as they pass. “What a wonderful reception! Don’t you agree? Here’s to our hostess, Mrs. Abbott!”
This behavior is unusual for Katherine—she is bold and attention-grabbing on stage but more reserved, much like me, at social gatherings.
