Queen of Babble

“No one,” I assure her quickly. “It was just an idea I heard being kicked around-”

“By whom?” Mrs. de Villiers wants to know, still looking horrified.

“You know what,” I say, wanting to die. “I think I hear my friend Shari calling. I have to go-”

And then I do just that, jumping up and darting out of the house just as quickly as I can.

I’m dead. I’m so dead. I can’t believe I did that. Why did I do that? Why did I open my big mouth? Especially about something that has nothing whatsoever to do with me. NOTHING. God, I’m such an idiot.

My cheeks flaming scarlet, I hurry across the lawn to where Chaz is already ma

“There you are,” Chaz says when he sees me. He seems to notice neither my flaming cheeks nor my advanced state of nervous paranoia. “Thank God. Start cracking open some of those champagne bottles. Where’s Shari?”

“I thought she was out here with you,” I say, reaching for a bottle with trembling fingers.

“What, she’s still inside changing?” Chaz shakes his head, then looks at the frat-boy type standing in front of him. “What can I get for you?”

“Stoli on the rocks,” Frat Boy says.

“Sorry,” Chaz says. “Beer and wine only, man.”

“What the fuck?” cries Frat Boy.

Chaz levels him with a look. “You’re on a vineyard, pal. What did you expect?”

“Fine.” Frat Boy is sulking. “Beer, then.”

Chaz all but throws a bottle at him, then looks at me. I’ve gotten the little metal cage off the champagne bottle, but the cork is eluding me. I don’t want it to pop off and hit anyone.

Why did I tell Mrs. de Villiers that Luke wants to be a doctor? Why did I let slip that thing about the lipo? Why am I physically incapable of keeping my mouth shut?

“Use a napkin,” Chaz says, throwing me one.

I give him a blank look. I have no idea what he’s talking about. Am I drooling now, on top of everything else?

“To pull the cork,” Chaz says impatiently.

Oh! Looking down, I wrap the napkin around the cork and pull-and it comes out easily, with a gentle pop, and no bodily harm to anyone.

Sweet. Okay. So there’s one thing I can do right, anyway.

I am totally getting the hang of this. Chaz and I have a nice little rhythm going…that is, until Shari suddenly appears.

“Where have you been?” Chaz wants to know.

Shari ignores him. It’s only then that I notice her eyes are blazing. And that she’s staring straight at me.

“So just when,” Shari demands, “were you going to tell me you didn’t actually graduate yet, huh, Lizzie?”

The dawning of World War I found women’s fashion going through a change almost as hot as the political climate. Corsets were abandoned as waistlines dropped and hemlines rose, sometimes to ankle length. For the first time in modern history, it became stylish not to have a bustline. Small-breasted women everywhere rejoiced as their more endowed sisters were forced to purchase chest “flatteners” in order to fit into the most popular fashions.

History of Fashion

SENIOR THESIS BY ELIZABETH NICHOLS

20

If you can’t say something good about someone,

sit right here by me.

– Alice Roosevelt Longworth (1884-1980), U.S. author and wit

Ican’t believe he told. I trusted him and he completely betrayed me!

“I…I was going to tell you,” I say to Shari.

“Kir royale, please,” says a woman who looks as if she might be regretting her decision to wear long sleeves in such warm weather.

“When?” Shari demands.

“You know,” I say, pouring a glass of champagne for the woman, then adding a splash of cassis. “Soon. I mean, I only just found out myself! How was I supposed to know I had to write a thesis?”

“If you paid a little more attention,” Shari says, “to your studies, and a little less to clothes and a certain Englishman, you might have realized it.”

“That’s not fair,” I say, passing the woman her kir royale and only splashing a little of it down on her hand. “My field of study is clothes.”

“You’re impossible,” Shari spits. “How are you going to move to New York City with Chaz and me if you don’t even have a degree?”

“I never said I was going to move to New York with you and Chaz!”

“Well, you’re definitely not now,” Shari declares.

“Hey,” Chaz says, looking a

Shari steps in front of me and says, “May I help you?” to the large woman I’d just been about to wait on.

“Hey,” I say, hurt. “That’s where I was standing.”

“Why don’t you go do something useful,” Shari says, “and go finish your thesis.”

“Shari, that’s not fair. I am finishing it. I’ve been working on it all-”

It’s right then that a shriek rends the stillness of the evening. It seems to be coming from the second floor of the house. It is followed by the words “No, no, no,” uttered at the unmistakably high decibel achieved by one person, and only one person, staying at Mirac:

Vicky Thibodaux.

Craig, who is standing in front of the table where we’re serving, glances at the house. Blaine, behind him in line, says, “Don’t do it, man. Don’t go. Whatever it is, you do not want to know.”

But Craig looks resigned.

“I’ll be right back,” he says, and starts toward the house.

“You’ll regret it,” Blaine calls after him. Then, to me, he says, “There’s a sucker born every minute.”

“Did it ever occur to you that there might be something seriously wrong?” Shari, who is clearly in no joking mood, asks him. It’s clear she’s not sharing Blaine’s unconcern-though she’s one of the few. Everyone else on the lawn, seemingly used to Vicky’s outbursts, is steadfastly ignoring what they’ve just heard.

“With my sister?” Blaine nods. “There’s been something seriously wrong with her since the day she was born. It’s called being a spoiled brat.”

It’s right then that Agnes comes ru

“Who wants me to come?” I ask in wonder.

“Madame Thibodaux,” Agnes replies. “And her daughter. In the house. They say it is an emergency…”

“All right,” I say, putting down my napkin. “I’ll come. But-” Then, stu

Agnes blanches, then realizes she’s been caught.

“Don’t tell Mademoiselle Desautels,” Agnes begs.

Chaz, amused, grins at her. “But if you speak English, why did you pretend you didn’t?”

Now Agnes, instead of being pale, is blushing.

“Because I do not like her,” she says with a shrug. “And my not understanding English a

Whoa.

“Um,” I say, “okay.” To Chaz and Shari, I say, “I’ll be back in a minute. Is that okay?”

Shari, her lips pressed into a thin line, refuses to comment. But Chaz, rapidly filling glasses, looks at me and says, “Go on. Agnes can take over for you. Can’t you, Agnes?”

“Oh yes,” Agnes says, and begins opening champagne bottles with the ease of someone who happens to be an old hand at it.

I don’t hesitate a moment longer. I race around the table and head for the house, relieved to be out from under Shari’s glare…but also furious that Luke told her. Why? Why did he say anything when only just this morning he promised he wouldn’t?

And okay, I may not exactly have kept his secret…