Shooting Star - Staci Hart Page 0,3

means to make that happen.

And with a detonation of pleasure in my heart at the thought, I figured out just how I might do it.

2

What If

“I have an idea,” I said with a smile on my face and my pink-and-gold planner under my palm.

Joss and Betty perked up in their seats. Zeke flinched, sagging in his chair, looking dapper by way of fashion but hungover behind his sunglasses.

“You don’t have to yell, Stella,” he said.

“Drink your Bloody Mary and hush,” I ordered. “So last night, I was just watching everyone be together. I could feel it. Euphoria.”

“Collective effervescence,” Joss offered. “When we come together and feel the same experience. Like tapping into the same energy at the same time. Like what you feel when you go to a concert. Or church.”

Zeke snorted. “If we walked into a church, I think we’d spontaneously combust.”

“Betty would for sure,” I said, dodging a potato wedge. “But yes, exactly that. God, I missed that. But it wasn’t just the party—it was the whole thing. The treasure hunt. The costumes. The atmosphere. It felt like we’d walked through a doorway into the ’40s, totally immersive. All I could think was how I just wanted to live in that feeling. And I had an idea for another party.” My lips curled up in a smile. “So remember the Bright Young Things?”

Zeke popped up straight, flipping up his glasses. At the intensity of the light—which was nil inside the restaurant—he put them back, but rather than sag back into his seat, he leaned in. “It’s like you’ve never met me. They’re the reason I dress like this.” He gestured to himself, a decidedly vintage look to his cuffed shirt and suspenders, his hair—which was chin length in the front when down—neatly combed, exposing his undercut.

I sat back with a smile on my face and let him take it away, just like I’d known he would.

“Here we go,” Betty said, tossing a potato wedge in her mouth rather than at me.

Zeke cut her a look.

“You can tell me, Zeke. I can’t remember,” sweet Joss said, smiling as she lied her face off.

“Celebrity culture wouldn’t exist without them. They were the face of the youth in London after World War I, the generation of carpe diem. The country lost nearly a million people in that war, and the younger generation had a lust for life that broke the mold the aristocracy had used for hundreds of years. And from the most audacious of those youths was born the Bright Young Things. Everyone wanted to know where the were, what they were doing. Everyone wanted to be them. Well, everyone young, at least. And their king was Cecil Beaton.”

“Well, I don’t know about king,” I started. “Stephen Tennant—”

Zeke cut me a look. “Cecil Beaton was king. End of.”

“So I was thinking. It’s almost New Year’s. What better way to ring it in than with a Bright Young Things party? It’s the ’20s all over again.”

Now all three of them leaned in. Zeke looked like he was about to crawl out of his skin with excitement.

“We could have a White Party. Send fancy invitations with art deco details of gold. Tell them to dress in all white, vintage ’20s, but we won’t tell them where they’re going, only that they need to bring a bottle of champagne. Send vintage cars to pick them up and drive them out to an orchard. White dance floor. White everything. And no one will know who threw it.”

“Just like the first Bright Young Things party,” Zeke breathed.

“It’s like Gatsby,” Joss said in wonder. “But, you know. Not depressing.”

“It’s genius,” Betty whispered. “You’re a goddamn genius.”

“All I did was steal a party from people who were much smarter than me. Don’t call the papers or anything,” I joked, opening my notebook. “I already started researching. I found an orchard and called them—it’s their off-season, so they’re free—and a place that rents vintage cars said they’d have to bring some in, but they can do it too. They won’t be authentic. The oldest I could get was ’40s, but—”

“No one will care. Literally no one,” Zeke interrupted. “This is happening. We are doing this.”

My brow arched. “We? Like the we who threw the Victory Party?”

“Okay, you. But with our moral support,” Betty amended.

“Do you think it will be cold?” Joss asked. “I mean, it’s January in New York.”

“So we have enough space heaters to light the dance floor on fire. It’s a full moon too. And, Zeke,