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more beautiful, than that fucking Firth. Fucking bigheaded twit. I’m her best friend, after all, and if anyone knows what she needs, it’s me. Shit. Hold on.” Her finger pops up, and the pacing resumes. “That is
not
acceptable. He was hired for his fucking expertise, so he should have a plan B. Everyone has a fucking plan B. Wait. Hold on. What are you waiting on? We’ve got to get you dressed and downstairs!” Even though she’s looking right at me, it takes me a moment to realize she means me. “The song and video presentation should only take fifteen minutes tops. And please greet people, Piper. No one has seen you all day. And don’t be too embarrassed to cry when Curtis sings. He wants it to be a moving experience.” Before I can respond, she takes me by the shoulders and ushers me toward the door. “Go, go, go!” she gunfires. I wait to feel her five-hundred-dollar shoe in my ass before she shuts the door behind me.
    â€¢Â Â Â â€¢Â Â Â â€¢
    T he ballroom is decorated art deco style with miniature Chrysler buildings and Model Ts made from finely cut crystal on every table. The male waitstaff wears spats and coattails; the females, beaded flapper dress with feathered headbands. A quartet plays jazz tunes near one of two gurgling champagne fountains. The lighting is low enough that everyone has a warm, golden glow. The football player and his teammates huddle around one of two makeshift bars, their huge round bodies stuffed into their tuxedos until they look like steroid-pumped penguins huddling before a play. Girlfriends and wives cluster at tables. Their barely-there gowns show off their well-oiled skin and firm bodies shaped by personal trainers and silicone. There are enough weaves in the room that I imagine whole villages of Chinese and Indian girls running around newly bald.
    I’m helping myself to a few hors d’oeuvres when Mom walks over, decked out in silk organza, cut to show off her bare shoulders and cleavage. Even now that she’s a self-proclaimed child of Christ—or whatever—her old ways still tend to make themselves known: low neckline, a skirt above the knee, too-tight sweaters. She can’t help herself. Mom has gotten by on her looks even more than Margot has. And I suppose it would be hard not to; she’s always reminded me of those classic beauties—the Dorothy Dandridges and Sophia Lorens. Growing up, she’d wanted to be an actress, and she even starred in a few off-off-Broadway plays. Her first and only Broadway play, the short-lived
Cat’s Cradle
, starred an up-and-coming actress named Piper Michaels. Mom loved Piper’s acting and her name. Mom’s career as an actress ended when she turned nineteen and met my dad, a wannabe playwright and all-around loser.
    Her smile fades as she looks over my dress. “What’s with the burka?”
    I’ll admit that I’m a tad underdressed, but what do people expect from a high school teacher? Besides, my dress is still nice, in a sixties-style, post-mod kind of way. “I like my dress just fine.”
    â€œThat makes one of you,” she quips. “How are the girls?”
    â€œFine. They were asleep when I left. Danielle is with them.”
    She leans in close to my ear. “Did you see the mother?”
    I have no idea what she’s talking about.
    â€œCurtis’s mother. To your left. Tacky silver dress?
Braids
.”
    I spot her in no time, laughing with a group of women. Her dress is the silver and black of Curtis’s team, and her tiny synthetic braids are cut into a bob.
    â€œWhat about her?”
    Mom lowers her voice. “She brought
collard greens
.”
She points to the buffet table against the east wall. I notice three large gray pots that don’t fit in with the buffet-style service platters and crystal glasses. “Collard greens,” Mom repeats. “And corn bread.”
    â€œOh my