The Genovian national anthem is easily one of the most horrendous pieces of music on the planet. It sounds like a mad composer decided to breed "My Bonnie Lies Over The Ocean" and the theme from M*A*S*H and then add all sorts of ugly little instrumental frills.
As we descended the grand staircase that led to the ballroom, Mia started waving like a ninny. Queenie had to grab her arm and hiss, "Be dignified!" at her.
Not that it was going to be easy being dignified. Mia had roped me into taking one of her boyfriends as a date. He had started out being sort of cute, like a puppy, trying to hold my hand and giving me these gooshy looks. Mia had chosen a blonde boy with a face like a weasel.
I approved of Queenie's taste in men. She had brought her bodyguard, Joseph. Joseph was very large, very handsome in a swarthy way, and very continental. The only drawback was that he kept glancing around for, I guess, ninjas, instead of paying attention to Queenie. She didn't seem to mind.
Two weeks before the ball, Queenie had forced me to grow my hair out. Then she drove me to an extremely expensive salon on the Upper East side and made me dye it chestnut brown. I had it in a sort of boyish Winona Ryder style, which was at least better than fluffing it and plopping a tiara on top, like Mia had done.
Mia was wearing the ugliest frothy pink thing I had ever seen. At least 20 yards of tulle had been sacrificed to make it nice and poofy, and I could swear I saw a whalebone hoop somewhere under there.
I had elected to wear a conservative pinstriped suit with a skinny-but-loose skirt. The only concession I'd made to Queenie's insistence that I "represent the office of Duchess with all the nobility and grace you can muster" was a pair of faux-diamond Victorian dangly earrings I'd picked up in a Greenwich antique shop. I was pretty sure they were slowly turning my ears green.
Queenie sent Mia and Weasel-boy off to stand in the receiving line, then leaned over and whispered, "Go observe. This is a good place to learn important diplomatic skills."
I scanned the ballroom, looking for a vantage point. There was a narrower staircase leading to a little balcony that overlooked the entire ballroom. It seemed like a good place to start.
I sent Puppy-boy off for some drinks, instructing him with painful exactitude as to what I wanted. He set off eagerly.
After he was out of sight, I got up to the balcony and watched.
I had chosen a good place to watch. The balcony was high enough so that I could see the entire ballroom, yet close enough to the floor that I could just tell what people were talking about.
The first thing I noticed was that there were clearly two types of people on the floor. Half of the people were composed of serious-looking men in ill-fitting suits and sharp-looking women in dowdy pearls. The Harry Truman and Margaret Thatcher type, real politicians.
The other half were dashing men in tuxedos and ladies in extremely fancy dresses. Dan Quayle and Jackie Kennedy types, socialites.
Both halves seemed to move in the same patterns. People collected in little groups and talked for about five minutes. Then the groups slowly spread out and formed other little groups, with each member of each group acting as a representative for their previous group. It was like watching a very slow nuclear reaction.
The interesting thing was that while socialites and politicians shared the same floor space, there was never a socialite in a politicians' group or a politician in a socialites' group.
I was lost in a reverie of sociological thoughts when someone tapped me on the shoulder. "Pardon me?"
I whirled around. "What do you--oh, it's you." Puppy-boy had returned with the drinks.
"The bartender had a little trouble with yours," he said, handing me a vile orange concoction. I had completely forgotten what I had asked for. He studied his feet. "Um...they're starting to play dance music. Would you like to...?"
I took a sip of the sticky-sweet concoction. It tasted a little like Pez. "Eh, why not?"
The orchestra was playing a nice, slow waltz. Couples on the dance floor were swaying gently, or stepping around each other in a dignified and graceful manner. So naturally the first thing Puppy-boy did was decide to dip me. Unfortunately, his scrawny little arms were unused to supporting 135 pounds of duchess. I fell, hard.
I was surrounded immediately by concerned people in fancy clothes. "Is she all right? What happened? Give her air! Don't move her...Fetch my smelling salts."
So I faked it. "Oh goodness," I murmured, holding a limp hand to my forehead, "whatever happened to me? I feel a bit dizzy..." At that point, a blue-haired matron covered with pearls shoved a bottle of something under my nose. I nearly choked on the fumes.
Joseph was right there, pulling me up. "I think she's had enough dancing for one night," he rumbled, giving a stern look to Puppy-boy. He helped me to the edge of the dance floor and sat me in a high-backed chair. "Are you all right, miss?"
"I'm fine," I assured him, then thought better of it. If I feigned sickness I'd be able to get out of this glittering refuse dump. "But I am a tad bit dizzy," I admitted. "Perhaps I should go back to my quarters."
Queenie showed up. "Rachelle, what happened?"
"I dropped her!" wailed Puppy-boy. "It's all my fault...I'm so sorry..."
"She says she feels dizzy," Joseph relayed to Queenie.
Queenie nodded. "Very well. I'll call a maid to escort you back to your room." She leaned in and hissed in my ear, "I know you're faking it. You're not the kind that faints. I would expect this kind of behavior from Mia, not from you."
"My back hurts, and I do feel a little dizzy," I said. That part was true. Apparently Puppy-boy had forgotten to ask for my drink without alcohol. It wasn't the first liquor I'd ever imbibed, but I was used to Maneschewitz, which has more sugar than alcohol in it. And the stuff in my drink had probably been the kind of liquor that's aged in a monastery and is 350% proof. I made a mental note to only drink, in the future, if I wanted a really good excuse to get out of an extremely boring function.
As we descended the grand staircase that led to the ballroom, Mia started waving like a ninny. Queenie had to grab her arm and hiss, "Be dignified!" at her.
Not that it was going to be easy being dignified. Mia had roped me into taking one of her boyfriends as a date. He had started out being sort of cute, like a puppy, trying to hold my hand and giving me these gooshy looks. Mia had chosen a blonde boy with a face like a weasel.
I approved of Queenie's taste in men. She had brought her bodyguard, Joseph. Joseph was very large, very handsome in a swarthy way, and very continental. The only drawback was that he kept glancing around for, I guess, ninjas, instead of paying attention to Queenie. She didn't seem to mind.
Two weeks before the ball, Queenie had forced me to grow my hair out. Then she drove me to an extremely expensive salon on the Upper East side and made me dye it chestnut brown. I had it in a sort of boyish Winona Ryder style, which was at least better than fluffing it and plopping a tiara on top, like Mia had done.
Mia was wearing the ugliest frothy pink thing I had ever seen. At least 20 yards of tulle had been sacrificed to make it nice and poofy, and I could swear I saw a whalebone hoop somewhere under there.
I had elected to wear a conservative pinstriped suit with a skinny-but-loose skirt. The only concession I'd made to Queenie's insistence that I "represent the office of Duchess with all the nobility and grace you can muster" was a pair of faux-diamond Victorian dangly earrings I'd picked up in a Greenwich antique shop. I was pretty sure they were slowly turning my ears green.
Queenie sent Mia and Weasel-boy off to stand in the receiving line, then leaned over and whispered, "Go observe. This is a good place to learn important diplomatic skills."
I scanned the ballroom, looking for a vantage point. There was a narrower staircase leading to a little balcony that overlooked the entire ballroom. It seemed like a good place to start.
I sent Puppy-boy off for some drinks, instructing him with painful exactitude as to what I wanted. He set off eagerly.
After he was out of sight, I got up to the balcony and watched.
I had chosen a good place to watch. The balcony was high enough so that I could see the entire ballroom, yet close enough to the floor that I could just tell what people were talking about.
The first thing I noticed was that there were clearly two types of people on the floor. Half of the people were composed of serious-looking men in ill-fitting suits and sharp-looking women in dowdy pearls. The Harry Truman and Margaret Thatcher type, real politicians.
The other half were dashing men in tuxedos and ladies in extremely fancy dresses. Dan Quayle and Jackie Kennedy types, socialites.
Both halves seemed to move in the same patterns. People collected in little groups and talked for about five minutes. Then the groups slowly spread out and formed other little groups, with each member of each group acting as a representative for their previous group. It was like watching a very slow nuclear reaction.
The interesting thing was that while socialites and politicians shared the same floor space, there was never a socialite in a politicians' group or a politician in a socialites' group.
I was lost in a reverie of sociological thoughts when someone tapped me on the shoulder. "Pardon me?"
I whirled around. "What do you--oh, it's you." Puppy-boy had returned with the drinks.
"The bartender had a little trouble with yours," he said, handing me a vile orange concoction. I had completely forgotten what I had asked for. He studied his feet. "Um...they're starting to play dance music. Would you like to...?"
I took a sip of the sticky-sweet concoction. It tasted a little like Pez. "Eh, why not?"
The orchestra was playing a nice, slow waltz. Couples on the dance floor were swaying gently, or stepping around each other in a dignified and graceful manner. So naturally the first thing Puppy-boy did was decide to dip me. Unfortunately, his scrawny little arms were unused to supporting 135 pounds of duchess. I fell, hard.
I was surrounded immediately by concerned people in fancy clothes. "Is she all right? What happened? Give her air! Don't move her...Fetch my smelling salts."
So I faked it. "Oh goodness," I murmured, holding a limp hand to my forehead, "whatever happened to me? I feel a bit dizzy..." At that point, a blue-haired matron covered with pearls shoved a bottle of something under my nose. I nearly choked on the fumes.
Joseph was right there, pulling me up. "I think she's had enough dancing for one night," he rumbled, giving a stern look to Puppy-boy. He helped me to the edge of the dance floor and sat me in a high-backed chair. "Are you all right, miss?"
"I'm fine," I assured him, then thought better of it. If I feigned sickness I'd be able to get out of this glittering refuse dump. "But I am a tad bit dizzy," I admitted. "Perhaps I should go back to my quarters."
Queenie showed up. "Rachelle, what happened?"
"I dropped her!" wailed Puppy-boy. "It's all my fault...I'm so sorry..."
"She says she feels dizzy," Joseph relayed to Queenie.
Queenie nodded. "Very well. I'll call a maid to escort you back to your room." She leaned in and hissed in my ear, "I know you're faking it. You're not the kind that faints. I would expect this kind of behavior from Mia, not from you."
"My back hurts, and I do feel a little dizzy," I said. That part was true. Apparently Puppy-boy had forgotten to ask for my drink without alcohol. It wasn't the first liquor I'd ever imbibed, but I was used to Maneschewitz, which has more sugar than alcohol in it. And the stuff in my drink had probably been the kind of liquor that's aged in a monastery and is 350% proof. I made a mental note to only drink, in the future, if I wanted a really good excuse to get out of an extremely boring function.