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ExcerptThe third glass of champagne. Or the fourth. If you’re alone at a party where you don’t know anybody, you need something in your hands. You move around a lot. You look across the room like you see somebody you recognize and you walk in that direction. Or you stay in one of the bathrooms until someone knocks, or you look at the paintings on the walls, or you sit on one of the long sofas and pretend to be listening to the five-piece band and the woman singer. She was supposed to be famous, but Kylie had never heard of her. |
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| Kylie could look across a huge living room with polished marble floors and see the owner of the house in his tuxedo shirt with the cuffs rolled up, talking to a bunch of his friends. Probably his friends, but on South Beach, do you ever know who your friends are? Do they bring you to a party and then dump you? She thought about going over and saying hello and it’s a nice house, but he might ask who are you? Were you invited? The images split and drifted apart. Kylie mumbled, “Oh, shit, I’m wasted.” She walked to the buffet table near the windows, the lights of Miami a mile west, reflecting off the low-hanging clouds. It was all fuzzy without her glasses. The window reflected blurry candles, trays of food, flower arrangements, and a thin girl in a short black dress. Kylie flipped her hair over her shoulder and ate a miniature quiche. When she turned around, she saw someone familiar. She squinted. Jason. His curly blond hair and red shirt had grabbed Kylie’s attention. His friends were obviously flamers, not that she cared. She walked over and tapped him on the shoulder. “Hi.” “Hey! How are you?” “I can’t find Alana. She’s been gone for like an hour. Have you seen her?” “Don’t worry, Ky, she’ll turn up. She always does. Why don’t you find a place to sit down and wait for her?” “I guess I will. Thanks.” He returned to his friends, and Kylie took another flute of champagne from one of the servers walking around with trays, obviously a model, so gorgeous you had to wonder what planet people like that came from. Steadying herself on the walls, she went through the house again, in and out of rooms she had already seen. A dining room with a long table; a media room where people were playing Guitar Hero on a flat-screen TV; the kitchen with caterers running back and forth. In one of the bathrooms she saw some girls cutting lines of coke on the vanity. They offered her some. Kylie shook her head and went out. She found a narrow staircase in the hall behind the kitchen. Sipping her champagne, steadying herself on the handrail, Kylie went up. At the top, a man in a black T-shirt and pants stepped in front of her. She stared at his hair and thought of a red brick. His shoulders were square, too. He said, “Can I help you?” “I’m trying to find a friend of mine.” She hiccuped. “Her name is Alana Martin. Do you know her?” “I don’t think so.” “She’s a little taller than me? Long brown hair and a black halter dress? I came with her, and it’s late, and I have to leave. She’s not—” Kylie hiccuped again. “—anywhere else in the house, so logically she has to be upstairs.” “Sorry. The upstairs is Mr. Medina’s private area.” “Please? I have to find her.” The man shook his head. “Girl, if she was up there, I’d tell you. All right?” “Thank you.” She held on going down, trying not to catch her stiletto heels on the carpet, Alana’s Jimmy Choo knockoffs, which were too big. Why had Alana lent her this dress and helped her with her makeup if she was just going to take off, leaving her friend, supposedly her friend, at a party where she didn’t know anyone, with five dollars in her purse? It was rude. Making her way again through the crowd in the living room, even more people now, Kylie knew that if she didn’t get some air she would faint. She walked through one of the sliding glass doors, left open so people could go in and out, air-conditioned air pumping through it. Past midnight, still hot and sticky outside, even with the fans and the misting machines hissing out clouds of vapor. The bartender, a tall blonde girl, was wiping down the bar, nothing else to do except look good. Kylie walked over to the pool and leaned on a chair. She counted four people swimming in their underwear. No Alana. A transvestite had passed out on one of the chaises in her polka-dot dress. Her wig was crooked. None of this surprised Kylie. Six months in Miami, you learn a lot. You see things, somebody hooks you up with a job, you get to know people, and you feel like you’re fitting in, if you have a friend like Alana. And then she dumps you. “Bitch. Where are you?”
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