Fake Daddy To Be

Finally, the Grand Central stop is called and I get off with a crowd of people, all of us with places to go and things to see. I make my way up to street level, and immediately my heart sinks. There’s already a line of people waiting to get into Cipriani’s. Oh well. I was hoping that I wouldn’t have to stand in line during a chilly evening, but I guess in New York, everyone stands in lines. After twenty minutes, the queue has moved up enough so that I’m almost at the door.

The restaurant is bustling. Actually, Cipriani’s more than a restaurant. It’s a historic event space with a brown-red brick exterior hasn’t changed since it opened in the fifties. The family name, Cipriani, stands out in backlit cursive text above the entrance, and well-dressed people greet each other at the door.

I take a discreet selfie using my phone. It’s very tacky to be doing this, but everyone is on Instagram these days, and besides, I want Ava to be able to enjoy the moment vicariously. I send the pic to my best buddy, and she replies with a crying emoji. Then into my inbox pops a selfie of my buddy sprawled in bed surrounded by crumped tissues with a bottle of Nyquil on her bedstand. I laugh and text back a heart. I hope she feels better soon.

But now, my pulse is beginning to race because Ava and I aren’t really invited guests. No, the Black and White Ball is a fancy-dress shindig that only the cream of society gets to attend. But Ava’s brother works in IT, and when he heard us raving about the event, he offered to get us tickets. At first, we were confused.

“How are you going to get us tickets?” Ava demanded into her video screen.

Her brother shrugged with his fingers flying over the keyboard.

“You know I can hack into anything,” he said. “I’m sure event cybersecurity is lax. It won’t be any trouble at all. What was it called again?”

Ava stared at him.

“Are you serious? It’s the Black and White Ball.”

But Tom didn’t even answer. Instead, he stared at his screen, his fingers tip-tapping away, and sure enough, within a day he’d gotten us two tickets to the party. Of course, he didn’t use our real names. Instead, I’m Trixie Dickson while Ava is Sarah Testes.

“Is this your brother’s idea of a joke?” I asked my friend while staring at the tickets. “Testes? Dickson? Is Tom really fifteen at heart?”

My friend merely shrugged and giggled.

“I’d say he’s about thirteen, given his level of immaturity. But who cares? He got us tickets and now we’re going to par-tay!”

At the time, I was ecstatic without considering the consequences, but now, Tom’s hacking is going to be put to the test. It’s come to the do or die moment: will there really be a ticket for Trixie Dickson at the door? Or am I going to be humiliated forever when I’m turned away?

I hand my phone to the ticket taker, shaking a bit from nerves. The woman is tall and lithe with a sleek asymmetrical bob and a very professional-looking black sheath dress. There’s a burly man standing next to her with his arms crossed, and immediately, my soul crumples.

But I put a happy smile on my face, like nothing’s wrong. Fortunately, the woman scans my ticket, and then lo and behold, the light on her handheld blinks green. I resist the urge to release a relieved sigh.

But Ms. Priss shoots me a sharp look, like she knows I’m an imposter but doesn’t have proof.

“Have a good night, Ms. Dickson,” she says in a polite voice.

“I will!” I sing before gliding inside. I made it! I’m in! I snap another quick selfie in the foyer of the building and then stroll into the ballroom itself.

Oh wow. The inside of the venue is even more gorgeous than I imagined. It smells like olives, wax, and a heady evergreen fragrance. It’s got a modern rustic feel to it, with hardwood floors and beams with accents of copper and steel. The large windows are draped with luxurious silver curtain swags, and grey marble tables set up around the perimeter are laden with Italian delicacies. Snapdragons, lilies, roses, and a multitude of colorful blooms act as centerpieces. They give pops of color among the sea of black and white outfits because of course, that’s what the Black and White Ball is about: all guests must dress in black and white, although I suppose I’m bending the rules a bit with my grey ombre.

Smiling, I grab a glass of champagne from a passing waitress and try to look like I belong here. It’s intimidating because the other guests look so elegant. Some of the gowns must have cost at least a thousand dollars with their intricate embroidery and sheer panels. But I try to look confident because I’m wearing an expensive gown too. Of course, it’s rented but no one knows that.