Page 2 of Phantom
He grimaces and puts the phone to his ear just as a mobile DJ wheels a cart down the center of Bourbon Street. I squeal and clap like one of those cymbal monkey music boxes. Without a glance back at my Debbie Downer friend, I get lost in the dancing, gyrating crowd traveling with the DJ.
Hot guys lean over the railing of the balcony above me, demanding to see my tits. I giggle wildly and rip off my brand-new black lace see-through crop top that Iborrowedfrom a Royal Street boutique today once I’d realized I’d spent all my stipend money. Winding my arm back, I throw it up to them and cheer when they fight over it, ripping it to shreds. I’m still covered by my black bra, but the boys don’t care. The sky rains beads down on me anyway. I try to catch them all but end up tripping and falling over the plastic balls onto the gross pavement, landing on my knees. A burst of laughter rolls out of me, until a burning sensation stings my skin. My black curls spill over my eyes and I pull them back to see better.
“Oh no…” I gasp quietly at the sight of tiny glass shards embedded in my kneecaps.
It’s fine. I don’treallyfeel it. I’minvincible. A little glass doesn’t hurt, and any pain I feel inside—or out—will all disappear once Ifinallystart drinking.
Jaime reluctantly agreed to go to Bourbon Street to dance my restless energy out, but since we stepped onto the street itself, he’s been nothing but a buzzkill and trying to drag me back into the dorms at the Bordeaux Conservatory of Music.
The school and the New French Opera House take up the whole block from Toulouse to St. Louis and Dauphine to Bourbon. We haven’t gotten far at all. Hell, I bet if I tried hard enough, I could sling one of my new beads and hit a corner window.
As fun as that sounds, I decide against it, not wanting to risk reminding Jaime that he could literally slingmeover his shoulder and take me back, no sweat.
A big sigh from deep within my lungs makes my bare shoulders sag in the sticky summer night air. With the exhale comes a huge wave of exhaustion that nearly has me collapsing the rest of the way to the ground.
But I fight it. I’ve been fighting it for four days straight. No sleep means no nightmares. No nightmares mean only happy Scarlett. I figured it out just a week ago and it’s been magical, taking me out of my mopeyness in no time.
To combat the urge to close my eyes, I focus on the pretty strobe light shining from the top of the bar in front of me. It sparkles into the midnight sky, making the stars shine magnificently with the kaleidoscope of colors.
I lie back with my elbows resting on the raised sidewalk and get comfy, ignoring the lumpy shard that’s keeping me from straightening my leg all the way out and has the audacity to try to ruin this moment. A commotion behind me breaks my concentration as I’m about to get situated, and I’m brutally yanked up by both arms.
“Hey! Let go of me!”
“Ma’am, you have the right to remain silent…”
Two hot New Orleans cops read me my rights while they carry me to a parked police SUV at the corner of Bourbon and Toulouse Street, right outside the New French Opera House.
“Fuck!” Jaime curses from somewhere behind us and my eyes widen. My New Orleanian best friend never curses in anything but Spanish, French, or his own personal combination ofSpanglench. Not unless shit’s really hit the fan.
“Stop fighting us, ma’am, or we’ll have to tase you.”
“Let go of me and I’ll stop fighting!” I screech and kick. “Jaime! Help!”
“She’s a junior at Bordeaux Conservatory. Her dorm is right behind me. I can take her home,” Jaime offers, having finally caught up to us.
“No can do. She’s hurting herself at this point and we’ve already made the arrest while she was screaming at us.”
“What are you arresting her for?”
People gawk and I glare at them. They only laugh in response.
Assholes.
“Drunk in public and disorderly conduct. Usually we let those types of crimes slide in the Quarter, but she’s out of control, sir. We have to at least stick her in the drunk tank for her own good.”
“Drunk!?” I scoff, trying to escape their hold, but the cops squeeze tighter on my biceps. “I haven’t even drank anything!”
“Yeah, fucking right,” one of them grumbles. “Let’s see what the breathalyzer says back at the police station, sweetie. We’ve still got you on disorderly conduct.”
I growl back at the cop, but stop when Jaime gives me a pointed look and mouths for me to “shut up.”
“She’s actually telling the truth,” he answers out loud. “I don’t know what’s going on with her, but she needs help, not jail. Can you help her?” He shoves his phone in his pocket and carves both hands through his thick, dark-black hair, messing up his pompadour.
Jeez, the guy’sreallybent out of shape. His hair isalwaysperfect, and his normally Broadway-worthy timbre has an annoying pleading quality to it.
But a tiny voice rising over the jazz radio in my thoughts tells me he’s right.
Something’s seriously wrong with me.
