Jukebox

by Gina Noelle Daggett

  On Halloween day, the front porch of their sorority house, a mansion on fraternity row, was loaded with jack-o-lanterns. An orange sign hung from the upstairs balcony that said Halloween Party Saturday. It was a party thrown with Beta Phi, another U

  of A sorority. Sloan Weasle was a Beta Phi and always tried to be

  chummy with Grace and Harper each fall when their sororities converged for the annual affair.

  For the party, Grace had made her choices. Nico would be her date and they would dress in togas. Harper had procrastinated until the day before.

  “I’m going stag,” she decided.

  “No you’re not,” Grace insisted, and proceeded to hook her up with one of Nico’s friends, Brooks, another frat boy from the same stone. Harper had seen Nico and Brooks playing pickup football on the main lawn together, drinking massive steins of beer at Dirtbags Bar, dressed in starched white Polos on their way to Panhellenic Council. They were always together.

  “We’ve got to do this,” Grace said. “For us.”

  The afternoon of the party, a parade of girls came in and out of Harper’s room, all wanting to gossip about the night ahead.

  One of them was Barb, Harper’s roommate from Europe.

  “I need help,” Barb whined. “My cape ripped. Do either of you have a sewing kit?”

  Harper looked at Grace, who was stationed out in her room, on the carpet stretching. In unison, they both said, “Sorry.”

  Towel in hand, Harper headed for the washroom. She wanted to beat the rush, the massive pilgrimage to the showers two hours before any event.

  The set of showers, stalls separated by smoky glass, were empty. Harper started with her hair, wetting it sufficiently before lathering up the shampoo. Next, she loaded her loofah with soap and began scrubbing her body. She was bent over shaving her legs when someone entered the adjacent shower. She heard Grace’s snigger and then the faucet turn, a familiar squeak all the old spouts made.

  On the steamed glass, Grace drew a heart on the partition separating them. Harper put their initials in its center. After Harper rinsed the shampoo from her hair, she pressed her breasts against the glass and then her pelvis. On the other side, Grace did the same. Their tongues met on the glass as their fingers, hooked over the top of the stall, touched above.

  It wasn’t long before they were interrupted by the roar of girls suddenly looking for a shower.

  Playtime was over.

  In similar terrycloth robes, their wash buckets dripping on the worn carpet, Grace and Harper went their separate ways after their shower. They split up at the sleeping porch, headed to their respective rooms. The quarters for the president were on the far end of the north wing, and Harper’s room was on the south end of the house near the staircase.

  As Harper got to her room, she ran into Barb, who was wearing Harper’s blond afro wig.

  “Where did you…” Harper started to ask. She stopped when she noticed Barb was also laced into her roller-skates.

  “I hope you don’t mind,” Barb said, wheeling by. “Grace said you wouldn’t.”

  Harper stood motionless. Speechless.

  Using the walls to stabilize her, retro Barb made her way down the hallway and disappeared around the corner.

  Instantly, Harper feared the worst. Barb had rooted through her closet to find what she was wearing. The seven steps to her bedroom felt like seven miles. Her feet could have been made of lead, and everything around her faded into gray.

  On her desk, amidst other costume pieces—a green St.

  Paddy’s hat, bunny ears and handcuffs—her European photo album was wide open.

  Slowly, a horrified Harper shut the door and sat down. Her hand shook. It was open to Paris, a shot Barb took of Harper on the phone. The damaging photos of Grace and Harper were sticking halfway out the back.

  Harper closed her eyes and said a small prayer. Please God.

  Please.

  Had Barb gone any further?

  Had she seen anything else? Her face had revealed nothing.

  If Barb had seen the sexy pics, Harper thought, wouldn’t she have left it open where she stopped? Or put it back in the closet?

  Or maybe she didn’t see anything?

  These were questions to which there were no answers, so

  she tried to have faith that their secret was still safe. Putting the album together, Harper thought, was an awful idea, and keeping it at the house even more dreadful.

  Grace was right. It was too dangerous. I’m a fool, Harper thought. How could I have been so stupid? It wouldn’t happen again.

  Before heading out that night, wearing a full nun’s habit with a fake baby bump underneath, Harper hid the album in her dirty clothes and swore she’d take it to the apartment the following day. That’s where it belonged, Harper thought, along with anything else that could jeopardize their reputations, expose the mysterious force that had brought her and Grace together.

  Held at the downtown Rotary Club, the venue for the Halloween party was decorated to the hilt. Inside, every lightbulb had been swapped with a black light and a hundred glow-in-the-dark bats hung from the ceiling on elastic bands.

  Smoke machines filled the room with an eerie fog and cobwebs covered every reachable fixture and doorway.

  As the party got started, Barb showed up with Sloan, who was dressed up as a bloodsucking vampire. From the bar, with Grace beside her, Harper watched them arrive together, Barb rolling through the door on Sloan’s arm.

  Slowly, Harper felt the warmth drain from her face.

  She was already on edge with Nico and Brooks in tow, but seeing Barb again, and with her enemy to boot, was almost more than Harper could take. She pulled a dripping beer from the trough of chilling bottles and ordered tequila to go with it.

  “Did you let Barb get into my closet this afternoon?” Harper asked Grace, throwing back the shooter then biting the lime.

  “Yes,” Grace said. “She was desperate.”

  Feeling desperate herself, a grimacing Harper looked at Sloan and Barb again. They were standing near the coat check, still arm-in-arm, laughing hysterically.

  “Why do you let Sloan get to you like that?” Grace asked.

  “Just ignore her.”

  “You don’t understand,” Harper sighed. She hadn’t told Grace about the album and wouldn’t.

  “Let’s go grab seats,” Grace said. The room was filling and so were the tables for dinner.

  “Save our spots,” Grace said, ditching her purse before racing to the dance floor with Nico.

  Harper turned away and set her things down too. Could she really rise above this tonight, she wondered. Having also just started her period, she was like an exposed nerve. Everything sensitive. On high alert.

  She leaned Grace’s and Nico’s chairs against the table, indicating they were taken, and then slammed the rest of her beer.“Come on,” Brooks said when “Bust a Move” started. He grabbed her hand and led her beneath the disco ball.

  Even though she was in a state, Harper forced herself to dance, trying to make the best of it. Purposefully, she kept her back to Grace and Nico, dancing a few feet away.

  Finally, two songs later, the tequila made its way to her bloodstream and Harper let go. She closed her eyes on the dance floor and allowed the rhythm move her.

  When dinner was announced, the DJ transitioned to something jazzy and Brooks and Harper headed to their table, where Grace was deep in conversation with Nico.

  Harper was alarmed to see Barb and Sloan planted in their chairs.

  “These are our seats,” Harper protested.

  “Sorry,” Barb barked. “Not anymore.” She pointed to another table. “There are seats over there.”

  Steam may’ve actually blown from Harper’s eardrums and Brooks apparently could see it.

  “Come on. Let’s just—”

  He was interrupted by Sloan. “Don’t worry,” she said, a line of dry blood dripping from her vampire mouth. “We’ll keep an eye on Grace.
Make sure she behaves.”

  At Sloan’s condescension, Barb snorted.

  Harper looked to Grace for backup, but she was still busy chatting with Nico, oblivious.

  00

  “Whatever,” Harper snapped, flashing on the open photo album. “Let’s go.” She grabbed Brooks’ hand, suddenly wanting affection as they headed to another table.

  After dinner, Harper scanned the room for Grace, who was nowhere to be found. Their seats at the table were empty. Brooks busied himself with a group of fraternity brothers at the bar and she went in search of Grace.

  She looked under each bathroom stall. She checked the foyer where partygoers bobbed for apples and were having their way with the popcorn cart.

  Grace and Nico were nowhere to be found.

  On her way back to Brooks, Harper noticed the patio door was ajar. Through the jade glass above the handles, she saw fire flames.

  Her body followed her curiosity.

  Outside, couples were gathered around a fireplace built into a worn brick façade on the edge of the courtyard. At first glance, there was still no sign of Grace. But then Harper suddenly spotted them—Grace and Nico roasting marshmallows on the far end of the patio.

  With her hand on her faux pregnant belly, Harper watched them intently. Almost stalker-like. They were making s’mores.

  Pulling his marshmallow from the fire, Nico blew on it and then held it up for Grace. Carefully, she took a bite and he finished it. She then fed him a piece of graham cracker and gave herself one. Harper’s heart leapt from her chest.

  This loaded exchange continued as Nico broke off a chocolate square and slid it into Grace’s mouth. When Grace playfully bit Nico’s roasting stick, Harper stepped back. Things around her started to fade. She took several more steps backward when Grace licked the chocolate off his index finger.

  How could this be happening?

  Emotion overwhelmed Harper like the swell of a tsunami, slow at first and then with irreversible devastation. As it consumed

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  her, Harper wished it would carry her to the depths of the ocean and leave her there to drown.

  With measured steps, Harper backed up until she reached the main doors.

  Spinning, in shock and on the edge of drunk, she turned and rushed out of the party.

  0

  “Lady In Red”

  Chris De Burgh

  The Valley Debutante Ball fell on a blistery Saturday that year, just days before Christmas. In a champagne-colored, floor-length gown, Harper rode with her grandparents to the soiree at the Phoenician Resort. As post-debs, it was Harper and Grace’s responsibility—or rather, obligation—to attend each year. It had been three years since they’d been presented.

  The valet winked and offered his hand as Harper stepped out of the car. It made her feel sexy. Straight. She’d worn her hair down, soft and easy, and around her neck were the pearls her dad gave her for her debutante ball years before.

  Inside the foyer of the grand ballroom, she turned quickly when she saw Sloan near the coat check. Even though she tried to dodge her, Sloan spotted Harper, waved and headed her way.

  Like her mom, The Bitch, Sloan’s stringy brown hair was pulled so taut it made her eyes slant awkwardly. The in-your-face diamonds were gaudy, Harper thought, and the lacy dress she wore with its rough edges matched her personality.

  “Hello Sister Harper,” Sloan said, giving her an air kiss and a fake hug, a very light tap on the back with no body contact.

  “Where’s Grace?” Sloan asked, looking behind Harper. “I’ve never seen you girls apart. It’s weird.”

  0

  “She’s on her way.”

  “You two sure are connected at the hip these days,” she said, spinning around her new Tiffany engagement ring.

  Harper rolled her eyes and searched the grand foyer for Grace.

  “Did you hear I got engaged? Mark finally popped the question.”

  “I did. Congrats,” Harper said. “Are you pregnant or something?”

  “Very funny.”

  Harper wasn’t laughing.

  Grace arrived. As if Harper had stuck cotton in her ears, everything was silenced when she saw Grace at the door.

  She moved through the room on Dean’s arm like a celebrity.

  Watching her, Harper was weightless, hovering an inch off the carpet.

  With her blond hair in a French twist, Grace was polished, her beauty crushing. Harper worked her way through the crowd of people. Between faces, she could see Grace’s smooth curves, the fitted, red dress they’d found together at Saks.

  From twenty feet away, Grace spotted Harper too. Grace’s smile was measured and captivating. Across the high-ceilinged lobby, Grace’s eyes revealed things they shouldn’t have. In a room full of those conditioned to notice glances, intonations and long embraces, Grace obviously didn’t care.

  Grace looked Harper up and down as she approached.

  “Stunning,” Grace said, touching her forearm. “Absolutely stunning.”

  The lights dimmed, signaling everyone to their seats.

  Extravagantly decorated, the ballroom was an ocean of white.

  Fish swam around in the flower vases, their colorful fins graceful in the water. Harper had learned the hard way that the fish—

  bettas—are vicious and must be kept in separate bowls. Like so many in the ballroom, they tear each other to shreds when given the opportunity.

  Back to the wall, she sat by her grandparents, who greeted old friends nearby while she freshened her lipstick. From across the room, she caught Grace’s eye as she lined her lips. She scooted

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  over one setting so they, as always, had an uninhibited view.

  During the debutante presentation, Harper flirted with Grace; she was a hundred feet away, but it felt like inches. They were the only two people in the room as they played their little game—Grace blew kisses while Harper licked the salty rim of her margarita.

  The crowd roared and the debutantes, girls who’d known and gossiped about each other their whole lives, walked off the stage. Harper clapped and smiled at her grandfather, Papa, who’d cranked his neck to blow her a kiss. Nonna, leaning back in her chair with her camera, snapped a shot of Harper.

  As the debutantes danced, Harper, in her mind, floated above the ball and disappeared into the crystal chandeliers, remembering Grace the night before at the sorority house.

  Everyone had left for winter break and they had had the whole Gamma mansion to themselves. After lighting mesquite in the old fireplace, they exchanged gifts.

  Grace gave Harper a sixteenth century poesy ring from England, one engraved with the French words autre vous et nul—

  You and No Other. Harper, having struggled for months to find the right gift, chose a pair of gold earrings, Lee Brevard Maori Hearts.

  “I give you my heart,” she said in her card. “You’re my everything.”

  Afterward, they each read Shakespeare’s Sonnet Eighteen to one another before christening the chapter room—a daring move even though they were sure everyone was gone. They started on the couch and then moved to a pallet on the Burberry carpet.

  Still lost in fantasy, Harper went further into the sky. Grace was calling her again, telling her to keep going, to take her where she’d never been before. A slow wash of pleasure moved over Harper, covering her heart.

  Amidst her spell, a lustful trance she’d drifted into a hundred times, she let fear go—until, like a broken window in the night, Harper’s fantasy was shattered when she caught eyes with Cilla.

  Harper hadn’t noticed she was sitting beside Grace the whole time.

  0

  In Harper’s mind, she came crashing down from the sparkling ceiling, knocking over wine, breaking gladiolas in half, and smashing the centerpiece into jagged shards. She and the betta flopped on the table, fighting for their lives.

  Cilla’s glare burned like acid against her skin. Harper quickly looked back to the dance flo
or, and then to the stage to gather her composure. She took a deep breath, pressed the coarse napkin to her lips and excused herself to the restroom.

  Even walking to the door, she could feel Cilla’s eyes boring a hole in the back of her head. The heat told Harper that everyone knew. That she was in serious trouble.

  When she grabbed the brass knob, her fingers trembling, Harper stole one more look as she slid into the foyer.

  Cilla stared her down until the door separated them.

  0

  “Private Eyes”

  Daryl Hall & John Oates

  In the minutes following the visual confrontation, Harper stepped outside to calm her nerves. Her hands shook; she was short of breath.

  Shivering, she tried to convince herself that what had happened wasn’t what had happened. Why would Cilla have looked at her with such disgust?

  Something was wrong, but she was baffled at what it could be. Maybe Harper had misread her look? Was it really directed at her? Maybe Cilla was daydreaming?

  No matter what Harper did, however, she couldn’t smother the truth—Cilla was sending her a message, a nasty one she couldn’t quite interpret, but one she knew was loaded with anger.

  And ownership.

  As she negotiated her return to the ballroom, Harper promised herself she wouldn’t look at Grace for the rest of the night. Not even once. This new strategy would smooth things over, make it all better. Harper was convinced.

  Dean startled Harper when he pushed open the door.

  “Little peanut,” he said, digging in his pocket for a cigar.

  “What are you doing?”

  “Getting some air.”

  0

  “You’ve been out here for a long time.”

  Harper crossed her arms. Had he seen what happened? Had Grace? She moved her attention to the sky.

  “It’s bloody cold,” he said, taking off his coat, putting it over her shoulders. “You must be freezing.” Against his leg, Dean opened his Zippo then lit his cigar.

  Standing next to him, Harper could feel his warmth, see her breath, proof she was still alive. Cilla’s slingshot of animosity hadn’t been fatal.