Vixen (25 page)

Gloria still needed to warm up, change into her dress, review the set list, and finish her vamp eyes. At least she had the dressing room to herself.

Until the door swung wide.

Gloria almost poked her right eye out with a mascara brush when she saw Vera Johnson’s image in the mirror.

“The boys are wondering how long you gonna be,” Vera said, standing in the doorway with one hand on her hip.

“Can you tell them I need a few more minutes? I’m running a little behind.”

She assumed that was cue enough for Vera to leave. Instead, the girl sauntered into the closet-sized space as if she owned it. “Don’t need to tell them nothing. It’s a girl’s prerogative to make a man wait.”

Vera’s eyelids were heavily lined Cleopatra-style, with a thick fringe of jet-black false lashes. A copper snake with rubies for eyes was wrapped around her slender upper arm, offsetting her bronze sateen dress and darker skin. She was beautiful. Gloria felt like an ugly, pasty ghost in comparison.

“Don’t overdo the makeup,” Vera said. “Face like yours is waterproof.”

They’d never had a conversation before, but it was obvious to Gloria that Vera hated her.

Yes, Gloria loved it when Jerome looked at her; and yes, she shivered when his fingers grazed the piano keys, making some of the most beautiful music she’d ever heard. But Jerome wasn’t her
boyfriend
. She had an engagement ring tucked away in her jewelry box back on Astor Street. Their singing lessons had been platonic, except for the occasional touch of his fingertips on her arm or her ribs, but those touches meant something only to her. To Jerome they meant nothing at all. He was black, she was white. He was poor, she was rich. It could never work. So why did Vera treat Gloria like a vamp out to steal her brother away?

Vera took a tube of lipstick out of her beaded clutch and used her pinkie to smooth the coral pigment onto her plump lips. “I hope you’re not going to wear
that
onstage,” she said, motioning to Gloria’s skimpy champagne silk slip. “Although I suppose that’d be one way to distract your audience from actually listening to your voice.”

Obviously Vera had no interest in hiding her claws.

“Ha, ha,” Gloria said. “I was about to put on my dress when—”

“When your worst nightmare walked right on in?”

Right
. This girl did not back down. Gloria ignored her
and opened the dress bag. It was satisfying to see Vera’s eyes widen as Gloria extracted her gown. It had taken Gloria two full weeks of scouring the racks of the city’s tony dressmakers to find the perfect debut outfit; she’d even skipped a European history exam to get it altered at a tailor’s in Chinatown. It was one of a kind: hand-sewn and fresh from Paris, a rich deep green covered in dazzling emerald sequins. Its scooped neck revealed her collarbone and a white swatch of skin above her breasts, which she’d wrapped and flattened. Finishing it off were a green headband with an enormous cloth flower, a single bangle, and a double strand of pearls she’d liberated from her mother’s jewelry box.

“That must have cost you a pretty penny,” Vera said, fingering the beadwork. “How does a girl from some little country town afford this kind of fancy?”

“It’s on loan,” Gloria lied, trying to steady her hands as she traced her eyes in black kohl. “From a friend.”

“Didn’t you just move here?” Vera didn’t miss a beat. “I don’t know what kind of ‘friends’ you been making, but I hope you don’t consider my brother one of them.”

“You know full well that Jerome—I mean, that Mr. Johnson and I have a strictly professional relationship.”

“Then why’d you just look so hot and bothered when I mentioned him?”

“Are you trying to tell me something?” Gloria asked, surprising herself. “Or are you just trying to be a bitch?”

Vera broke into a half-impressed smile. “Both.”

“Why don’t you like me?” Gloria wasn’t perfect, but people had always liked her.

“I don’t like you for my brother. I see how you look at him. Don’t do anything stupid like fall in love with him. Or else.”

Gloria felt her cheeks pinking. “Or else … what?”

“Baby, you don’t even want to go down that road with me.”

Just then, the boy in question barged in.

Jerome looked positively debonair. He was holding two cups of champagne, a cigarette dangling from his mouth, a black bow tie loose around his neck. He was wearing an untucked, unbuttoned shirt, revealing his tight white undershirt. Gloria sucked in a sharp breath. And she’d thought musicians were supposed to be scrawny.

“I need a moment with our singer before we go on,” Jerome said, frowning at Vera. He didn’t seem particularly happy to see her. “Alone.”

Gloria realized that she was basically nude. “Get out!” she yelled, shielding her chest with her arms and turning toward the wall. “I’m not dressed!”

“Don’t worry, I won’t look,” Jerome said, covering his eyes. Only Gloria could see that he was smiling.

Vera pushed her brother through the door. “Wait outside until I call you back. And don’t you dare come in until I do.” She slammed the door and clapped her hands together. “Come on, girl, we don’t have time to waste.”

“Thanks, but I can finish up by myself,” Gloria said.

“You’re stupider than I thought,” Vera said. She picked up the green dress. “Did you look at the hooks and eyes on this fancy dress you bought? Ain’t no way you’re going to be able to fasten that on your own.”

Gloria remembered the saleswoman’s helping her try it on. “Oh.”

“That’s right, ‘Oh.’ Now finish up your face so we can get you into this thing and out there onstage. Lots of people are depending on you.”

“So everyone keeps telling me.” Gloria slid out of her slip and stood up. “And like I said: I didn’t buy that dress. I borrowed it.”

“Uh-huh. And whoever loaned it to you just happens to be your size. And leaves the price tags on her clothes.” Vera pinched the little white tag between her fingers.

“Um …” Gloria didn’t know what to say.

Vera waved her off. “You think I care about that? All I care about is my brother keeping his job. Now let’s get you dressed.”

“My eyes are closed, promise,” Jerome said after his sister had vanished back into the club. He blindly took a step farther into the room. “Here. This will help loosen you up.” He held out the glass of champagne with one hand, the other still covering his eyes.

She took the glass and said, “You can look.”

He took his hand away and slowly looked her up and down, then whistled. “I hope you can sing in a dress that tight.” Gloria felt every inch of the silk-and-sequin dress covering her body—and she felt every inch of her body that wasn’t covered.

“It’s not like I’m wearing a corset,” she said, though the dress felt like one.

“You most definitely are
not
wearing a corset,” he said, letting out a low laugh.

“Do you really want to make me more nervous than I already am?”

“I’m kidding. And nerves are a good thing.”

“They are?”

“Sure. It’s high-voltage energy that you can harness and direct into your performance.” Jerome moved one hand to her shoulder. “Don’t worry. Just sing. You’re gonna knock ’em dead tonight.”

“Why does everyone say that?”

His hand lingered. “Say what?”

“Never mind.” Gloria hoped he wouldn’t notice her rapid-fire breathing, growing quicker with the pressure of his touch. Why did she always feel so out of control around him? She hated herself for it. No, she hated herself for loving every second of it. She looked at herself in the mirror. She looked good. No, she looked
great
.

“Listen, once you’re up there on that stage, you just have
to trust your voice,” he said, moving a strand of hair away from her eyes. “And you have to trust me.”

She knew it was wrong, so wrong, but in that moment, she prayed he would kiss her—wasn’t that some kind of backstage good-luck ritual, like saying
merde
? His lips would be the only reassurance she needed.

She held her breath and closed her eyes.

“Make a wish,” Jerome said.

She felt a finger lightly swipe her cheek. “What?”

“You had an eyelash.” She opened her eyes, dazed, to see a strawberry-blond sliver poised on the tip of his finger, like a crescent moon against a dark sky. “So you have to make a wish.”

You
, she thought.
You
.

She had an eerie feeling that once she set foot on that stage, there would be no turning back to the way things were before. “I don’t believe in wishes. Or maybe I just have too many.”

“You’re lying, kid,” he said. “You already made it: I could see it in your eyes.”

Before she could answer, the door was flung open and someone shouted, “We’re on!”

“Go on, then,” Jerome said, raising his finger again. “We have to get onstage. Make your wish.”

So she did. Gloria exhaled a stream of air, sending the eyelash into space.

CLARA

The notes.

They bothered Clara so much that she could hardly sleep. Most nights, she would violently awaken at four a.m., her body drenched in a clammy sweat, and be unable to fall back to sleep.

Fear would sneak up on her at unexpected moments during her too-empty days, when she was walking through the Art Institute or along the Chicago River. A ripple of goose-flesh would shiver across her skin, and she would be certain her note-sender was nearby—around the corner or behind her, watching and waiting.

She had her suspicions about who might be sending the notes. While she couldn’t be sure, somewhere deep inside
her heart, she knew. Why was he doing this to her? What exactly was he trying to prove?

Something needed to change, but the only thing in her control was her appearance. So Clara determined to shelve her goody-goody façade. Just for a short while—specifically, for Gloria’s limited engagement at the Green Mill.

Gloria would have performed her first show without Clara in the audience had it not been for a complete coincidence: The telephone had rung.

Clara had been alone in the house, and fearing it was her note-sender finding another way to torment her, she’d answered.

The person on the other end was no one Clara knew, but a man named Evan calling with a message for Gloria.

As soon as Gloria got home from school, Clara cornered her.

“Someone called for you this afternoon,” she said, standing outside her cousin’s bedroom door. Gloria was still in her school uniform. She kicked off her stiff brown shoes.

“Oh?” asked Gloria, dropping her books onto her bed and herself right after them.

Clara strolled inside and sat beside her.

“What are you doing?” Gloria asked. “I’m busy.”

“You don’t look it,” Clara said, pushing the books aside and lying beside her. “Besides, shouldn’t you be getting ready for rehearsal?”

Clara had read the description in books, but had never
seen it until now: The color drained from her cousin’s face. “I have no idea what you’re talking about,” Gloria said.

“I think you do. Someone named Evan called, telling you to swing by the Green Mill for some new sheet music. And to tell you that rehearsal was bumped forward an hour.”

Gloria sat up. “Oh, damn! What time is it? I’ve got to get ready!” She rushed over to her bedroom door and kicked it shut. “What do you want from me?”

“The truth, for starters,” Clara said. “After that, we’ll see.”

Gloria nervously ran her fingers through her hair. “Why would I tell you anything? You’re practically best friends with my mother.”

“Not fair,” Clara said. “And not true. If I were going to rat you out, I could have told Aunt Bea already.”

For a moment, Clara thought Gloria was going to sock her. Gloria balled her fists and let loose an angry little scream. “Why must you snoop into my business? What did I ever do to you?”

Clara raised her hands in surrender. “I’m not your enemy, Gloria. I’m just doing time here. You need to trust me.”

“Fine, but you have to promise not to tell anyone. Really promise—my life is on the line.”

“Cross my heart and all that jazz,” Clara said.

Gloria sucked in a big lungful of air and screwed her eyes shut. “Okay, here goes: I’m the new lead singer at the Green Mill.”