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rule is that neither of them will leave me alone with my mother if things get out of control, and I guess this qualifies. Eleanor, Liz, and I give one another a look, and both of them take a few steps closer to me.
    “Hi, Mrs. Abney!” Eleanor voice chimes out, a welcome interruption, but too light and pretty for this time of night and this kind of conversation.
    “Hey, Mrs. Abney!” Liz adds, her tone thick with exhaustion. My mother ignores them both. She’s not done tearing me to pieces, not yet.
    “You don’t think. You just act,” she says. “Just like your father. That’s your problem.”
    I decide not to cry at the mention of my father, but promise myself that I can feel upset about it later, alone in my room, maybe when Eleanor is in the shower or something.
    “Who got it?” my mother says then. I can practically see her little ears prick up like a dog’s, hunting for the next target. She’s come straight from her gala event to find out the answer to this very important question. Her eyes settle on Eleanor, then comb over Liz—my only obvious competition.
    “Doesn’t matter. Not me,” I say. I didn’t want to say Gigi’s name. I don’t want to hear the things my mother will say about her or the accusations she will make. I don’t want Gigi, if she’s listening somewhere with the rest of them, to think she matters to me. Or my mother.
    “Who, Bette?” She leans in a little closer, so that instead of just seeing the Chanel on her lips I can practically taste the shit, that pitch-perfect perfume and the acidic way it mixes with her boozy breath. The combination hits my taste buds hard.
    “New girl,” I mumble.
    “Oh Christ,” my mother yells, breaking her vow to stay silent and calm in spite of everything. Liz steps away; even she can’t handle it. Eleanor grabs my elbow, like I might topple over from the cruelty without her help.
    “Her name’s Gigi,” Eleanor breaks in. “She’s really a totally different type from Bette, so I don’t think it was even really about the dancing—” She tries hard to protect me from the unstoppable gale wind that is my mother.
    “Gigi . . .” My mother puts it all together. The woman spent the summer reading up on the newest recruits to the conservatory. If anyone can put a face with a name, it’s her. “Gi—no .” She stops. Her eyes widen as she stares at Eleanor’s red face.
    I should feel relief. The pressure is off me so fast I almost lose balance, all that weight just sliding away. Eleanor’s grip on my elbow tightens.
    “Well,” she said. “We can certainly fix that.”
    I grab for her arm, knowing she’s going to head right for Mr. K. She knows he sometimes stays very late in his office. But my grip is too shaky and sweaty from the third degree interrogation that’s just gone down. And so she escapes, her gown sweeping behind her as she makes her way to the office with the kind of singular determination only ever rivaled by my sister, Adele. If I’m lucky, he’s not there, and she’ll just leave an angry, drunken voice mail that I hope his secretary will erase in the morning. She already has her cell phone in her hand, armed with everything she needs to make a fuss and to make a joke of our family.
    “It’s okay,” Eleanor whispers in my ear, which means it definitely isn’t. Eleanor only ever says that when things are really bad. Liz doesn’t say a word. Just lets her forehead frown and her mouth purse, acknowledging the complete mortification of this moment. She knows it’s bad. She doesn’t lie to me. Not even to make me feel better.
    Other students punch at the elevator button, no longer trying to stay quiet. There are guttural laughs and a few imitations of the great, drunk Mrs. Abney.
    I look over at one of the elevators. Will stands there holding it open for everyone, red hair gelled up with the color-enhancing treatment he puts in every night, his cell phone in his hand, no doubt sending out mass texts (and