“Nobody wants to dance with me.”
“I’ll get Sam to dance with you.”
“I don’t want you to make someone dance with me. You know perfectly well what I mean. It might be different if Jericho were here.”
“I tried to get him to come, Pie Face, honestly I did. But he’s pos-i-tute-ly allergic to having a good time. Why don’t you order another Orange Juice Jazz Baby?”
“They’re five dollars!”
“Come on, Mabesie. Live a little. It won’t kill you. Oh, they’re playing my favorite song!” Evie dashed out onto the dance floor before Mabel could stop her. It probably wasn’t her favorite song; she just needed an excuse to get away and avoid Mabel. Sometimes Evie could be so selfish.
Mabel saw the drunken Scotty lurching toward her with a sloppy “Heyyy, Maybeline, honey,” and ran and hid behind an enormous potted fern, plotting all the ways she was going to kill Evie when this evening was finally over.
Theta walked the corridors of the club, dragging her fur wrap behind her. Some people recognized her with a “Hey, aren’t you…?” To which Theta would say, “Sorry. You must have me confused with another party.”
Behind her, a man called out “Betty!” and Theta turned quickly, her heart beating fast. But he was calling to a redhead, who yelled back, “Hold your horses! I need the little girls’ room.”
Theta had had enough. She didn’t want to go home, but she didn’t want to stay, either. She wasn’t sure what she wanted except something new, something that made her feel anchored to her life. She felt like she could float away at any moment. Sure, she had Henry, wonderful Henry. He was like a brother to her. It was Henry who had saved her life when she’d first come to the city, desperate and starving. And it was Henry who’d saved her life a second time. They’d always be together. But lately, she’d felt a hunger for more. It had the shape of destiny about it, this feeling, though she couldn’t begin to put a name on it.
A crowd of revelers caromed down the hall, and Theta ducked into the first room she saw. It appeared empty, but as she came around the side of a green wingback chair, she saw that it was occupied by a handsome young man with a book of poems. He was so absorbed in his reading that he didn’t even notice her.
“Must be some book,” she said, startling him.
Memphis looked up to see a striking girl with jet-black hair smoking a cigarette and watching him.
“Walt Whitman.”
“Mmm,” Theta said.
“I’m a poet myself,” Memphis said. He held up his small leather journal. Theta took it and flipped through the pages, opening to a series of numbers written in the back. She raised an eyebrow. “Doesn’t look like poetry to me. More like a bookie’s tab.”