“They didn’t.” But these were my parents. They wouldn’t have bothered with something so pedestrian as RSVPing to their daughter’s first gala. My mom’s plan was definitely to show up at the door and make a stink until they were let in. “I don’t even know where to put them.”
“So don’t put them anywhere,” Vienna said. I lifted my head from the bed so I could see her face. It was dead serious.
“What are you talking about?” It wasn’t like they could sit on the floor. Judging by the fit of my mom’s dress, she might not even be able to bend her knees.
“I’m saying don’t let them in,” she said. “They didn’t RSVP. They aren’t supposed to be there. They’re not particularly nice to you. Just… tell them the venue’s at capacity and there isn’t enough space.”
I sighed. I couldn’t even let myself imagine it—it would be too tempting. “I can’t.”
“Why not?”
“They’re my parents,” I said weakly. It had already caused enough family drama that I wasn’t holding my first gala at the Afton. If I didn’t let them come… well, I didn’t know exactly what would happen, but I knew it would be nuclear.
“Just because they’re—”
“There will definitely be a few no-shows,” I thought aloud, not at all because Vienna was totally right and I couldn’t handle hearing it, no way, absolutely not. “I’ll be able to slot them in somewhere. I’ll figure it out.”
She bit her lip. “If you’re sure.”
“I’m positive,” I said firmly. By the time we got to the gala, I’d have the perfect solution ready. It would come to me, and everything would be great.
Ithadto be.
CHAPTER
Three
In my previous life, I didn’t spend a lot of time in libraries. Public libraries, at least—the amount of gold shining in a place like the Morgan Library had made it a great place for photos that brought out the flecks of gold in my brown eyes, especially when it was after hours and I could dim the lighting as much as I wanted. But public libraries, full of free books and clunky desktop computers and… the public? No. If I wanted a book or a computer, I just bought it. If I wanted to become conversational in ASL or access a career network, I’d hire a tutor or DM one of my millions of followers who could help.
So when Vienna had first suggested the New York Public Library as a location for the gala, I’d been exceedingly skeptical. “I toured the local branch after my parents made a big donation on my behalf,” I said, deciding not to mention that it had been after I’d broken in at night on a party dare to steal the porniest book I could find (who knew the library would have security when the books were all free anyway?). “The carpet was brown and looked like it smelled like mushrooms, and the ceiling was drop and paneled, and the books were just regular books, not even pretty gold-foiled special editions that would look good with gala attire.”
“I was thinking the main branch,” Vienna said, and… oh, that made more sense. I hadn’t been to a gala there in ages,probably since prepuberty, which was why it hadn’t been top of mind—the kind of organizations that held galas in spaces like libraries didn’t tend to want Pomona Afton on the invite list. “Not only is it a beautiful space, but I think holding it there would be good publicity for you. All payments to use the space go toward the library itself, and pretty much all of your scholarship recipients use the library, so it’s almost like you’re making a double donation.”
Pomona Afton, doubly generous. I liked the sound of that.
And I loved the way the New York Public Library looked right now, its tall white pillars aglow in the dusk. The famous pair of lions, Patience and Fortitude, guarded the entrance. People raised phones and cameras in the air as I posed against the backdrop emblazoned withTHE POMONA AFTON FOUNDATION. The people taking pictures shouted intelligent questions about my organization’s mission and what advice I would give to students looking to apply for one of my scholarships and what fillings I’d selected for my signature pink donuts this evening.
JUST KIDDING. “Pom, now that you and Vienna are friends again, can you tell us about your fight?” “Pom, now that Opal’s been sentenced to life in prison, do you think any of your other friends might be murderers too?” “Pom, there’s a rumor going around that you’re pregnant, can you confirm?”
Why were the rumors always that I was pregnant and not that I was, say, perfectly happy being a cat parent for now? But I couldn’t yell or even calmly contradict them without them starting rumors that I was on that new drug that made your skin incredibly dewy and your eyelashes long and lush in exchange for wild mood swings. So I just smiled and posed and stuck to my canned lines about how delighted I was to be kicking off my very first nonprofit with all of my nonmurderer family and friends, and then I was whisked inside to the main hall.
My heels clacked on gray-veined marble, which also shone up the walls and alllll the way above me in the cavernous domedceiling. Elegant staircases soared upward to a veranda overlooking the main space, which was scattered with round white tables and glittering with candles refracted through the light of champagne flutes.
“It looks incredible,” I said, turning to Vienna, but she was already striding in the other direction. To do what? The gala hadn’t even officially started yet. Barely anyone was even here.
I turned back when someone clapped me on the shoulder so hard that a less adept heel-wearer might have toppled. “Pomona Afton,” someone roared in my ear, someone who—I wrinkled my nose—had already consumed enough whiskey to the point where I was glad there weren’t any open flames at mouth level. “You look absolutely gorgeous in that dress.”
I managed to plaster on a smile by the time we made eye contact, but only because I had the extra few seconds it took him to raise his eyes up from my boobs. “Good evening, Mr. Phlume,” I said. “It’s wonderful to see you.”
He puffed up his chest, which I had on good authority was already puffed up via inserts to make his slim frame a little more imposing. Other than the slimness it seemed no personal trainer or customized diet could conquer, he was average-looking in every way: dishwater-brown hair; ordinary features; a scruffy beard he probably thought made him look a little more interesting but that just looked unkempt. “How could I miss a gala honoring yours truly?”
I couldn’t help but bristle a little bit at that. Excuse me, but this gala was honoringmetruly.
And the kids.
I forced that smile to go brighter, brighter, brighter than the sun. For the kids. Because helping those kids meant making him happy. “You are absolutely the guest of honor,” I said. “I hope you’ve got your grand speech ready.”
I had mic-cutting power and would use it if he started talking about how he’d grown up working hard and earning everythinghe had and that was all my scholarship kids had to do too. Conrad Phlume had made all his money the old-fashioned way: by inheriting it. His father was descended from some oil baron or something and bought up a bunch of real estate in the city back when it was cheap, then started letting his son manage his holdings before passing them down altogether. Getting lectured to work hard by someone who’d never worked hard in their life was extremely annoying. Or so Gabe has told me.
