Page 6 of Unveil
I escape his clutches and glare at his grin. Aside from not having any scars, he’s the spitting image of our father, six-foot-four, black hair, fair skin. Although, we have no idea where his golden hazel eyes came from.
“If I’m ugly, you’re ugly,” he cackles.
“Are you calling Momma ugly?” I joke.
“Nope.” He smirks. “Can’t see the resemblance whatsoever. Your feral side gets in the way.”
All I can think to do is stick out my tongue, and he snorts. Even after all our low-key bullying, I’m still terrible at comebacks. Plus, he’s kind of not wrong.
Other than our eyes, Momma and I could be the ones who are twins. Mine are more like a clear lake compared to her moonlight ones, but we’re both short and fair-skinned. I’ve done my best to look different where I can—gotten tattoos, straightened my unruly curls and dyed them cherry cola red. After the thousandth time of being asked to sing an aria instead of perform an arabesque, a girl can get a complex.
Living in the spotlight, spending my life here in New Orleans at Bordeaux Conservatory—totally not awkward that it’s my family’s school, by the way—and never leaving anywhere without my overprotective parents, I’ve always been in Scarlett Bordeaux’s stunning shadow. I’m ready to break free, and I have just the plan.
We visited Appalachia, where Momma’s extended family used to live, a lot growing up. I loved the green and blue mountains. Hiking through the woods was so different from running through the Garden District’s pungent flowers. That freedom calls to me more than the stage ever has, much to my helicopter father’s dismay.
Which makes it strange that he’s not here, watching the last performance of my life.
“Back up, everyone! Curtain, curtain!” someone calls, and we all move in unison to let the curtain drop and give our final bows.
A song blares through the speakers as each senior group goes out for a bow. First the reluctant sound and backstage crew. Then the costume designers in their favorite pieces, theorchestra, who raise their instruments as they’re called. Next, the directors, actors, singers, and dancers begin to take their individual turns.
This production was nothing short of chaotic. The playbill creditedPhantom of the Opera,Moulin Rouge!,Sweeney Todd,Alice in Wonderland,Cinderella,Giselle,Raymonda,Manon,andSleeping Beauty,all remixed into a gothic contemporary piece created by the senior playwrights.
I couldn’t pick one favorite dance, so I choreographed a mashup ofGiselle’s Mad Scene and my Black Swan duet with Benoit. I’ve even combined costumes with mySwan Lakefeather bodice, a black feather crown, a veil, and a flowy, tulle romantic tutu that lands below my knees. I skipped the pounds of tattoo concealer I normally wear, so the gorgeous colored skull pieces on my upper right shoulder blade and left thigh are proudly on display. Any other tattoo and Dad would’ve freaked, but skulls are our family symbol. Pointe shoes finish the look, which I’ll miss in a masochistic kind of way. I don’t know if pain’s my kink, per se, but maybe if I ever lose my virginity, I’ll find out.
Speaking of getting laid, my boyfriend, Ozias, couldn’t make it tonight due to a last-minute family thing, and to be honest, I’m kind of glad. We’ve dated for six months, but I’m still not sure if he actually even likes me.
We’ve barely been physical, and believe me, I’ve tried. But it’s either Dad’s overbearing “someone must be guarding you at all times” philosophy or Zy’s “I respect you and Mr. Bordeaux too much” ridiculousness that gets in the way of anything past closed-lip pecks.
It’s gotten to the point that I can no longer stand Ozias’s white knight, goody-two-shoes nonsense. His straitlaced personality should’ve been my first red flag, not the fact that he barely touches me.
And the worst part? I know the difference. I know what it’s like to be needed in that passionate, all-consuming way, thanks to a masked stranger during my last birthday masquerade. One hot, steamy makeout in a dark corner behind a haunted pirate bar and I was ruined, I tell you. Ruined.
Then he was gone.
So actually, fuck that guy for leaving me hanging.
I wince at the annoyance building hot in my chest. Even my irritation at a stranger is stronger than anything I feel with Zy.
“You guys killed it!” Brylie shouts as she gives me and Benoit a pale-yellow shot.
“Shekilled it.” Benoit lands a sloppy kiss on my cheek, reeking of beer. I didn’t notice while we were dancing, his natural talent kicking in at the time, but someone clearly didn’t care about breaking a leg tonight.
“Ewww. Gross!” I give him a fake glare as I wipe the spit off my cheek with my sweaty shoulder, not much better, but then I smile and raise my glass to him. “Laissez les bons temps rouler! To you taking the Manhattan Classical Ballet by storm as principal!”
A blush creeps underneath his light freckles. “Please. Corps de ballet, first. You know that. I’m not a prodigy.” Before I can argue, he raises his drink. “And to you! May your dad loosen the leash enough for both of us to roam.”
We clink the plastic cups and down something that tastes suspiciously like straight gin. I shake my head at the burn but keep a straight face, even though I’m dying inside, so I can win the game. Benoit gasps, his expression contorting.
Yup. He always loses.
“Luna’s Liquor Poker Face streak is still alive!” Brylie laughs.
He groans. “I can’t help it. I’m like Loose and her tea. If there’s no sugar, I can barely keep it down.”
“Hey! Stop making fun of my Long Island Iced Teas.” Lucy crosses her arms, then adds smugly, “And y’all somehow forget that I’m the only one who can drink absinthe without throwing up.”
“Gin, absinthe… and she’s only twenty,” Brylie groans. “We’ve corrupted the good girl.”
