“Tell?”
Sophie licked her lips. “You know—” She started to laugh and then stopped. The room was poised with the hush of deliberate listening. A fizzy sort of anticipation bubbled in my gut.
“You know,” Sophie said again. “Your mom. It’s not like she’s . . .” Sophie mouthed, “Obvious.” She gave me a winning smile. “Not like Ali Baba or anything.” And she picked up the laugh from where she had abandoned it before.
Isabella stretched out her foot and kicked Sophie’s shin. “You are such a dunce—Maria Montez is Dominican,” she said.
I was so filled with gratitude I could have floated out of my seat.
Sophie waved her hand. “Come on—you know what I mean about Bridge. Like, if you didn’t know, you wouldn’t know, you know?”
Eleanor rooted around in her velvet purse. “I have some new lipstick,” she said loudly. “Bridge, you want to try?”
Isabella let out such a gruesome groan we all turned to look at her. She slumped against the window. “Jeez, you are such a pill. I’m sick of messing around with makeup. Let’s play a game. Or are we just going to be stuck inside all afternoon being bored to death?”
The danger of Isabella’s boredom was palpable, and we looked between each other in an agitation of despair. Meredith shot me a terrified, collusive grimace, and my stomach relaxed. I forgave her jibe in a rush. Perhaps it was quite funny? Perhaps being compared to an Oriental Pearl was flattering? I bunched my hands into fists. Maybe Sophie was trying to be nice to me. To point out no one could tell. Why did I have to take everything so seriously?
“Izzy’s right,” Sophie said. “Let’s go down. I think we kept the boys waiting long enough.” And she raised her eyebrows at Isabella.
There was a twinge in my gut. Was Ralph downstairs? Would I have to speak to him? To be nice to him? I steeled myself. I’d have to summon my most enthusiastic laugh for the inevitable, rowdy teasing boys always employed when trying to prove to themselves that girls were entertained by them.
The lamps in the room flickered twice and went out. We all shrieked although we weren’t afraid. It was almost blue in the room. The clouds had darkened outside and the heavy sound of rain was clattering against the windows. With the air conditioner off, the room grew syrupy with the smell of vanilla hand lotion.
“Miss Sophie?” a woman’s voice called up the stairs.
“Sarah?” Sophie groped for the door handle.
“The power’s gone out, miss. Just stay put. I’ll bring up some candles.”
We whispered and clutched each other—the unexpected drama was a thrilling disaster. Sophie’s maid brought up two lit candles and passed one to Sophie. “Mind you don’t trip on the way down the stairs,” she said, gesturing for us to follow her.
Giggling and shushing one another, we fell behind Sarah, and every few steps she called out, “Mind the edge of the carpet,” or “Railing on the left,” even though we could just about see anyway. Sophie was holding her candle low next to her bodice, and an apricot loop of light glowed around her. Isabella ran to her side and pushed her arm through Sophie’s. I followed at the back, behind Eleanor. The bottom of Mrs. LeBaron’s portrait came into view, and the vases; then the beady eyes of the taxidermied bear cub loomed out of the shadows, and when Eleanor crashed into its ashtray we all yelped.
Downstairs was now filled with guests. It was muggy and close with damp silk as women filed through the corridor. Gold candlesticks had been placed on the sideboards, and through the murky light I took nervous, shallow glances for Mama but couldn’t spot her. I lingered at the bottom of the staircase. Through the windowpane on the front door I could see that our car was gone from the driveway. So that was one thing to be grateful for. There were more guests than I’d realized, maybe thirty adults. Mrs. Quincy was checking her reflection in the hallway mirror, adjusting an oddly whimsical pair of earrings shaped like mallards. Mr. Robinson, the fire chief, was humoring Father Brennan as he delivered a long, monotone speech about the renovation at St. Christopher’s. The sideboard was now stacked with a tasteful display of arthritic, formal gifts: a rosary, a silver carriage clock, a bottle of wine to be set aside. It was clear that Sophie’s birthday was merely the excuse and not the occasion. It was noisy in the crowded space, and people began filing into the ballroom, where I could hear Mrs. LeBaron calling for Sophie. The girls were nowhere to be seen. My belly was heavy. I turned and went back into the kitchen so I could pretend to search for a drink. Somehow, it would be much lonelier to be standing on the edge of the crowd. In the kitchen, pails of ice were being loaded onto the counters by hassled-looking men in white waistcoats making dashes into the rain to retrieve platters of sodden fairy cakes. The kitchen floor was streaked with grass and crushed ice. I stood by a table of punch and took a glass, watching the orange slice bobbing dolefully in the liquid.
Isabella tapped me on the elbow. “Briddie, there you are. Come, we’re playing sardines.”
“What?”
“Come on.” She looked over her shoulder and motioned for Alison and Meredith. “I got Briddie.”
“Where’s Eleanor?” Alison said.
“Reading?” I offered.
Isabella snorted. “Briddie, you’re awful.”
“What about Sophie?” Alison said.
“The president of the Rotary Club is giving a speech.” Isabella stuck out her tongue and crossed her eyes. “It’ll be ages—I’ll go out of my mind. Come on, we did it last year at my sweet sixteen.”
I had the strange sense I was rolling backward. Of course Isabella had birthdays before she moved to St. Cyrus. She had friends even before Sophie. I pictured a row of girls in peach silk dresses marching in a procession along Main Street.
Isabella ushered us past the table of punch and through a swinging door into a deep pantry. A chink of light through the hinge shone on rows of canned tomatoes. It smelled like sawdust, and there was a baited mousetrap in the corner. “Count to fifty,” Isabella said. “That way we can all have a chance before the power comes back.” Isabella slipped out the door and it squeaked shut behind her.
Meredith cleared her throat. “Do you think she’s really hiding?”
“What?”
“Last time we played sardines, Izzy was in Ralph’s car all along.”
The sides of my face tingled. “Why?”
Alison and Meredith giggled. “Bridge!” Alison squeezed my arm. “You’re so bad.”
I didn’t understand what was so controversial about that, but at least they were laughing with me now instead of just in my direction.