crowd and her mask and the middle of the night. She saw herself in a taxi, making up addresses in neighboring states—figure out what states are around here, she noted to herself—until it drove her far away, out of sight.
The party was a start, she decided, even if she didn’t know of what. And the idea of being unseen, disguised as everyone else—it appealed. What would it feel like? she wondered. Perhaps a bit like being behind the scenes.
Elsa was still at the table with her, unpacking pots and brushes from vinyl cases, waiting for Honey to sit back down so she could resume her work.
“Are you going?” Marlow asked her. “To the party.”
Elsa blinked at her, then looked quickly over her shoulder. Honey and David were lost in a linens debate. When Elsa met Marlow’s eye again, her meekness had evaporated. She had almost a wicked look in her eye as she ran two fingers gently down the side of her own face, tracing her flawless black skin. “Me?” she said to Marlow, smirking. “I don’t think so. I would clash.”
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Orla
New York, New York
2016
“I’m sorry,” Marie Jacinto said through a mouthful of cheese filling. She was eating a Danish as Orla sat across from her. “I had a morning. Didn’t get to breakfast yet.”
“That’s all right,” Orla said. She smoothed the kink the cap had left around the crown of her head. She stared at the gaps in Marie’s thinning red hair as the agent bent over her manuscript, which Orla had emailed to her assistant the day before. She hoped Marie took all day. When Orla headed toward the building’s revolving door, Mrs. Salgado had walked into the Lady Foot Locker next door. Orla was pretty sure no one had ever gone into Lady Foot Locker to do anything other than wait.
Marie took a zealous bite of her Danish. Flakes sprayed across Orla’s pages. “So,” Marie said. “This is...”
“It’s, um, a novella.” Orla leaned forward, willing the pitch she had prepared out of her mouth. “Originally, I conceived it as a full-length novel, but I think the brevity actually suits the subject matter, because it’s about a girl who believes she’ll have an extraordinary life, but she hasn’t done much at all.”
Marie scrunched up her face like she was waiting for a sharp pain to pass.
“I used to have a character in there who was raised Orthodox Jewish,” Orla added. “I could definitely put that back, if you think...”
Marie sat back and flattened her hand on the paper. “This is my fault,” she said. “I thought, when you agreed to take this meeting, that you might be pitching a different project. I mean, I know who you are, Orla. I know you haven’t given any interviews.”
Orla sat there, her stomach sinking and hot. “You mean,” she said, “you thought I’d want to write a book about Floss? And Aston? And...” She dropped her voice to a whisper, in case a vent in Marie’s office led straight to one in the Lady Foot Locker. “Anna?”
Marie leaned forward and folded her hands. “Well,” she said, “why would you write about a fictional girl that nothing’s ever happened to, when you could write about you—a real girl, with an extremely dynamic real life?”
Orla shook her head. “That stuff isn’t my life,” she said. “It’s just some weird things that happened. A weird year.” She pointed at her book. “Maybe if I tell you about some of the themes behind—”
“Oh, but I’m just not interested,” Marie said, in the same tone she might have used to say that her Danish wasn’t blueberry. “Though I’d love to talk about this other idea.”
Orla looked down at her lap. Her pants were stretched so tight across her thighs, the fabric shone. “It’s just this book,” she said. “That’s all there is.”
Marie took her time chewing and swallowing. “If you change your mind,” she said, “you have my card.”
* * *
Mrs. Salgado followed her all the way home. Orla watched her settle back in her chair and went inside without saying anything. She found Melissa in the apartment, cleaning it vigorously.
“This place is a fucking dump,” she told Orla, showing her the rust-brown paper towel she had been rubbing along the counter. “And your fridge is full of rotting food.” She held up a blue-and-white container—months-old chicken from Gayle, Orla realized, feeling suddenly like she could cry. She turned away, trying to find air from elsewhere. It was like Melissa had angered every festering thing