The Casquette Girls

by Arden, Alys

  “You are going to have to trust me on this one.”

  Coming from Désirée Borges, these were not words that made me comfortable, but the urgency in her voice made me obey. I ripped off my tee and slipped on the slinky cami I had taken from a box of my mother’s abandoned things a couple years ago. It barely covered my stomach. I was tugging on it when a pair of tiny black spandex shorts hit my face.

  “Shorts, now. Do not say anything to Annabelle about changing your clothes, and especially don’t say I made you do it.”

  Her comment activated my defenses for the night as I realized she was breaking some kind of code. Is Désirée actually doing me a solid?

  I slipped on the shorts, which had become far too short after I’d hit my final growth spurt, and she watched me untangle the gris-gris from my chain and tuck it into the slip. “Where did you get that necklace?” she asked.

  “Umm, your grandmother gave it to me.”

  “No, not the gris-gris. The other one?”

  “Oh, family heirloom.”

  “Hmm,” she said as if contemplating, and then turned to dig through my closet. “Put on these.” She tossed me a pair of plastic flats. I let them fall to the floor.

  “I’m not wearing jellies. There’s still glass everywhere—”

  “Flip-flops?”

  “Ugh, no! How does that help? I am wearing sneakers or my Docs.” I was beginning to regret accepting this invitation. I stepped into my boots to show her I meant it. Her eyes went to the ceiling.

  “Don’t say I didn’t warn you.” She grabbed my arm and pulled me back down the stairs. Her behavior made no sense, especially since she was slumber-party-ready in an oversized cotton T-shirt and leggings.

  I caught a glimpse in the hallway mirror as we went out the door. I looked completely ridiculous in the shiny shorts, nothing but cream-colored lace covering my cleavage, burgundy Docs, and two messily braided pigtails. I looked like a bumpkin teen prostitute.

  “Who cares?” I whispered with a sigh. “It’s just a sleepover with a bunch of snobby girls.”

  I pulled the gate closed and felt the mechanical pieces lock. Annabelle honked the horn again as I leapt down the stoop.

  “Hey, sorry to keep you waiting,” I said, squeezing myself into the back next to Dixie. “I couldn’t find my phone.”

  Désirée shot me a look of approval from the front passenger seat.

  Crammed into the row behind us were four freshman girls wearing a mix of boxer shorts and scrubs, and one timid-looking girl who had on some kind of unfortunate moo-moo. Dixie had obviously given careful consideration to her outfit: a purple, satin nightgown and a matching robe. As if that wasn’t enough, she wore giant, purple, furry slippers that looked like tie-dyed sheep dogs.

  The minions next to her were fellow classmen, Jaime, in a Tweety Bird nightie, and Bri, in a XL Saint’s jersey with seemingly nothing on underneath. She caught me looking at her ankle boots and had to tighten her lips to contain giggles – the shoes were unusually fancy for such an occasion. Something was up.

  Just as my suspicions were aroused, I saw Annabelle Lee looking over my attire from her rearview mirror. A slow smile spread across her face. Something was definitely up.

  “All right, ladies, per Sacred Heart tradition, you each have to wear one of these blindfolds until we reach the secret location.”

  “Secret location?” peeped a small blonde from the back. “Aren’t we going to your house, Annabelle?”

  “Don’t ask questions,” Jaime said as she turned and tied the first blindfold on her.

  I searched Dixie’s face for any sign that she might know what the hell was going on. She didn’t seem too concerned, which made me wonder if she was in the know.

  “Dixie, you tie Adele, and I’ll tie you,” Bri ordered.

  “My pleasure,” Dixie said sweetly, securing the black cloth into a bow at the back of my head – just a little too tight, letting me know who was in control.

  “Where are we going, Annabelle?” I asked. Suddenly the idea of being blindfolded by a bunch of girls who hated me didn’t seem like the smartest idea in the world.

  “It’s not about where we’re going. It’s about how much fun we’re going to have.”

  I could sense panic from the backseat, but I refused to ask another question or seem alarmed in any way. There’s no way I was going to give Dixie or any of these princesses the satisfaction.

  * * *

  The ride only took a few minutes, so I guessed we were still in the Quarter, or the Marigny, depending on how many stop signs she had blown through, although I couldn’t really imagine the Queen of Uptown going past Esplanade Avenue.

  My door opened, and Annabelle helped me step out of the car. “Be careful, we wouldn’t want any mishaps before the party even starts.”

  The phrase “kill them with kindness” suddenly had a whole new meaning. I tried not to grow nervous as Annabelle linked her arm through mine and pulled me up the curb onto the sidewalk. Behind us, Dixie wasted her breath complimenting Désirée, and, as per usual, Désirée ignored her.

  We walked about two blocks, and then Annabelle commanded, “Quiet until we arrive.”

  This would not be difficult for me; Dixie, on the other hand…

  Feeling the stone under my feet, I deduced that we were still in the Quarter, and a few minutes later a loud creak gave away an iron gate. Then echoes of clacking high heels sounded like we were being shuffled down a narrow passage. High heels?I dragged my hand along the wall. Brick. We’re still outside… maybe heading into a courtyard. A damp breeze kicked up a familiar smell. It was dull, but I would have recognized it anywhere: the mix of booze and bleach that only a barroom could produce. I used to wake up to that scent as a child – right after my mother left, my father had kept me with him at work until the wee hours, too scared to let me leave his sight.

  Annabelle led me up a flight of wooden stairs and into a space that must have been incredibly dark because now there wasn’t even the faintest bit of light coming through the blindfold. I was suddenly very aware that it must be close to 9 p.m. and we would soon be breaking curfew.

  “All right, this is good. You can take off the blindfolds.”

  It took only a second for my eyes to adjust to the minuscule amount of light shed by the single gas lantern in the dank room, and only another second to realize that the juniors were no longer sporting pajamas. Each was decked out in a tight dress, ready for a night out on the town. Jaime must have been wearing the turquoise halter number underneath her Tweety Bird nightie. I yanked on my camisole, feeling seriously inadequate next to her. The girl could easily have been a swimsuit model.

  Terror cracked through Dixie’s pageant façade as she shed her robe.

  “Flip-flops. Now!” she demanded from one of the freshmen, trading her ridiculous slippers. I guess she hadn’t been in the know after all.

  My jaw clenched as I watched the rest of the juniors pull accessories from their bags, but I was more terrified of what would happen at school on Monday if I bailed now than I was of proceeding. I peered down at myself. Utterly ridiculous.Annabelle Lee was looking at me too, laughing and saying something to Désirée, who gave me a look that wasn’t exactly sympathy but seemed to say, “I tried.”

  I guess my outfit was a serious improvement compared to the others being hazed. In a more risqué closet, my camisole could have been a top, and my shorts, hot pants. Just thinking the words “hot pants” was mortifying. The group of freshmen looked completely childlike in their pajamas. One girl seemed irate, and I could sense a revenge plot turning in her head, while the other three were on the verge of tears, anticipating the public humiliation that loomed ahead.

  “Everyone ready?” Annabelle asked. “Follow my lead.”

  A strange sense of familiarity crept up as we walked a series of quick twists and turns. Where the hell are we? I searched for clues, but it was so dark I might as well have had the blindfold on.

  “Who do
we have here?” a deep male voice echoed as we turned into a long hallway.

  Annabelle signaled to the freshmen to walk past him.

  “I don’t think so, sister. Let’s see some ID.”

  He shined a flashlight, blinding us. His voice sounded familiar, but my eyes refused to peer into the bright light to get a look at him. Annabelle let out a hushed grunt in frustration, but then to my surprise she whipped a plastic rectangle over to the bouncer, who sighed but let her pass. Désirée, Bri, and Jaime each did the same and continued down the hallway.

  Dixie’s stammered in her sweetest Texas-beauty-queen drawl, “Sir, it looks like I forgot my license. I can really be such a ditz sometimes.”

  Sometimes?

  “No ID, no entrance.”

  As Dixie continued to try to flirt her way inside, I heard scuffles behind me and turned to find the freshmen scattering like mice. I didn’t have a fake ID either; I relaxed a little and began to follow them out.

  “Little Addie—”

  I stopped in my tracks.

  “Adele, is that you?”

  I walked back to the bouncer, who turned the flashlight on himself. An awkward smile spread across my face as I tried to act casual.

  “Hey, Troy.”

  The gruff man was a friend of Ren’s and also a longtime employee of my father’s. At least, he had been before the Storm. My smile turned genuine as I realized there probably wasn’t a bar in the entire French Quarter I couldn’t get into, for better or for worse. He gave me a hug and then pulled up my arm to better examine my outfit.

  “That’s quite a different look you got going on, girl.”

  Dixie watched us with her mouth gaping.

  “Don’t ask,” I begged, making him laugh. “It’s a costume I’m testing out for a school play.” I was appalled at how easy the lie flew out of my mouth. Maybe I was more like the Sacred Heart girls than I thought.

  “Shoulda figured it was something like that. You always up to something crazy.” He gave me another hug and then passage. “Do me a favor and tell your Pa ’bout all these kids trying to get into this bar.”

  “Uh, okay,” I answered, with zero plan to engage my father in any conversation that would place me somewhere one of his old bouncers was guarding.

  I took one last look back and saw Dixie glaring at me with her arms crossed. The last thing I wanted to do was to walk into this weird place, but I couldn’t pass up the opportunity to have something Dixie wanted and couldn’t get – this would probably be my only chance. I gave her a little wave before I pivoted on my heel and flipped my hair, like I’d seen Désirée do so many times before. Only my version involved braided pigtails.

  * * *

  There was a door with candles on both sides at the end of the corridor. The scent of cigarettes grew stronger as I approached it, and then muffled music and merriment on the other side drew my hand to the knob. Here goes nothing,I thought as I pushed it open.

  It was some kind of old parlor room. I felt like I had walked into someone’s house. Two men in suits sipped cocktails near a candle-lined fireplace. Others were huddled on couches engaged in deep conversation. A couple kissed in a dark corner. There was an odd sense of familiarity about the room. The billowing cigarette smoke made my eyes water; I hurried along.

  As I walked past a series of windows, I pushed aside one of the heavy drapes – the tall windows still had their storm boards up but now, instead of keeping the weather out, they were keeping the flickers of candlelight and noise inside, obviously to hide from the curfew. Slipping from room to room in the darkness, I felt like I had unwittingly traveled to a night-gone-by.

  The deeper I walked into the secret house, the more packed it became with folks from all walks of life. Young and old. Glitz and glam. Tattered and torn. I stopped when I entered a small ballroom, instantly taken aback by the scene, especially after the dullness of the last month. On a small, wooden, candle-lined stage, an androgynous female wearing a flapper shift, oodles of metallic-gold eye makeup, and a blunt bob belted out“La Vie En Rose,”while a pianist with a waxed mustache, bow tie, and bowler hat accompanied. People were draped over cabaret-style tables, soaking in the performance.

  Suddenly paranoid about fitting into the hip scene, I approached the makeshift bar to get a drink; the bartender recognized me right away. By day, Liza was an architectural grad student, but now she better resembled Cleopatra. She glanced at Annabelle’s group, shot me a look of sympathy, and slid me a glass tumbler full of clear liquid.

  “You’re gonna need it,” she said with a wink of her ostentatious false eyelashes. “Oh, wait.” She signaled for the drink back, reached under the bar, and then plopped something into my glass, making it fizz over. I licked the spillage from my hand and saw a limp, yellowish slice of lime sinking into the bubbles. Whoa, fruit. I raised the glass to her.

  “Merci beaucoup.”

  She brought one finger over her lips to indicate silence, and then gave me a strange look when I tried to pay for the drink.

  Prepared for the wretched taste of alcohol, I took a small sip from the iceless glass and turned to find the group. The gin assaulted my taste buds; I tried not to make a face as I took a bigger sip. Don’t drink it too fast, Adele.I had a feeling I was going to need all of my wits to navigate this situation. I started to move in their direction.

  The old house was falling apart – the paint was cracking, the wallpaper was peeling, and the furniture was a hodgepodge of hurricane-survived pieces someone had likely collected in a hurry for the secret club. Despite the physical conditions, it was energetic and alive, as if the scene itself had a pulse. The kind of pulse only illegal activity could illicit.

  The sultry singer held the final note, and the crowd roared. But only for a moment, then they began to shush each other, whispering, “The curfew! The curfew!” The shushing only contributed more to the excitement. I felt like I had warped into a prohibition era – people were so ecstatic just to be out. This place is so cool. If it’d been open pre-Storm, I’d have known about it, surely. I’d have to ask my dad if he’d heard anything.

  Dad.

  I slowly turned a full circle. It was certainly unrecognizable, but I had been here before. The alleyway, the bouncer, the bartender. I was in la garçonnière of my father’s bar.

  “Shit.”

  * * *

  “Excusez-moi,” I repeated continuously as I pushed through people, wanting to get away from the bartender who knew me. I tried to not show any outward signs that I was frantically trying to compose myself on the inside as the evidence became more obvious – the door to the bathroom, the chandelier, a rug that used to be in our living room.

  Ugh. How did I not recognize this place right away?

  Originally, these small buildings at the back of properties (often mistaken for slave quarters) were private homes where French boys were sent from the main house to live when they turned fifteen. I’m not really sure why… to become men? This garçonnière had been rented out to the same old man most of my life. When he died five years ago, my father discovered termites in parts of the building; he had the house treated, but we didn’t have enough money to renovate it, so it had sat vacant since.

  Not only was the room looking familiar, I began recognizing faces among the mélange of college students and gutter punks: our neighbors; a group of brass musicians who played with Alphonse Jones; ol’ Madame Villere, wearing pearls and white gloves, sipping a warm martini. Despite the volume in the room, Ren still managed to make himself noticeable. He and Theis were sitting around a center table with a few other goths. Whatever story he was narrating had the full attention of his group.

  Totally paranoid, I waited until I was safely hidden by a gang of people near the left corner of the stage before I continued scanning the crowd, sucking limey gin-and-tonic through the tiny black straw.

  My head did a double take when I saw Isaac’s tiny ponytail sitting at the bar. Sadly, I could recognize the contour of his broad sh
oulders in his white T-shirt. When the wall repairs had to be put on hold because of supply scarcity, he started fixing anything around the house that needed fixing in exchange for his art lessons. Not that my father cared; he’d gladly give Isaac free art lessons for life just to have another male around the house. But Isaac wouldn’t have it any other way – which, of course, made my father like him even more. Apparently so much so that he was letting him stay in the bar underage.

  Wait, how does Isaac even know about this place?

  My irritation compounded, knowing my father had told Isaac his big secret and not me.Wedidnot have secrets. And to top it all off, Isaac hadn’t told me either! Ugh! Talk about secrets causing scandal and distrust. So much for him trying to get closer to me. I imagined myself storming over to him and throwing the remainder of my drink in his face.

  “Mademoiselle?” A tap on my shoulder interrupted my silent rage.

  I turned and jumped an inch off the floor – a man with a clown-painted face was extending a tray of small drinks. So. Random.

  “No, thank you.” I shook my head, and the Marcel Marceau lookalike retreated with a bow.

  Désirée was easy to spot across the room because of her height. Her trajectory led me to Gabe. Shocker. Annabelle did not look thrilled following Désirée, but I watched the queen bee’s face go from annoyed to intrigued when Désirée stopped at the table of Adonises.

  The elder Medici was at a corner table directly across the room from me, sitting with a few other equally runway-worthy people. A gorgeous woman with dark curls said something to the man next to her. Were they the missing relatives? They both sipped their drinks and stared severely at Ren, who was still entertaining his group with ardor. I assumed the back of the dark-haired guy across from them was Niccolò.

  I took the last sip of my drink, and suddenly became hyperaware of my working-girl outfit. I tugged on the thin satin and slouched a bit, hoping to cover my exposed stomach. Annabelle laughed loudly at something Gabe said. Anger boiled inside me.