Page 34 of The Locked Ward

Georgia looked like a different person when I visited her yesterday. Tonight I’m the one who has undergone a transformation.

I stand in front of the full-length mirror in her walk-in closet, turning to glimpse myself from every angle.

I’m wearing one of my sister’s dresses, a black floor-length Oscar de la Renta.

It’s composed of structured tiers of lace and tulle, and the bottom has a mermaid flare.

I had to squeeze into Spanx to get it to zip up, and I’m wearing the highest heels in her closet because it’s two inches longer on me than it would be on her.

My feet are already beginning to ache, but I barely notice them.

With my hair styled by Glamsquad and a makeup tutorial that I followed on YouTube, I hardly recognize myself.

I also discovered Georgia’s jewelry drawer and chose a few delicate rings and diamond hoop earrings. I haven’t finished organizing her closet, so her evening bags are still strewn in a corner on the floor. I pick out a small black clutch from the top of the pile.

The gala begins in thirty minutes, and I want to be on time.

I call up my Uber app and study the options. I can take a regular Uber for $14.95. Or I can take a luxury vehicle for four times the price.

I choose the Lincoln because money isn’t a concern for me right now.

I’ve checked Georgia’s sock drawer.

Hundred-dollar bills—$10,000 in total—were rolled up inside her socks.

I have no idea why Georgia would keep that kind of money around—maybe it’s a rich-person thing—but she clearly wants me to use it if I need it. She wouldn’t have told me to borrow her socks otherwise.

I tuck the lip gloss I borrowed into her clutch purse, then look down at my phone. The Uber is five minutes away.

When I walk to the elevator, I again pass the neighbor with the little white dog. This time, she nods at me approvingly. I guess I look like I fit in here now.

I walk out into the crisp, starry night as the black Lincoln pulls up.

A family is strolling down the sidewalk, and the little girl stops and stares at me.

The driver leaps out and hurries around to open the back door for me, the first time I’ve ever had an Uber driver do this.

I climb in, making sure the mermaid swoosh of material around my ankles is safely inside before the driver shuts the door.

Outside, the little girl is still staring at me.

Is this all it takes? I wonder. Maybe the image we project shapes who we become as decisively as our genetic blueprints.

Because it isn’t just the dress and makeup.

I feel different on the inside, too. I’m exuding something I can’t put my finger on, but it’s akin to confidence.

It’s the thing that is making people stare at me.

Then I realize I know what it is. I noticed it in the first pictures I saw of Georgia. It’s charisma.

The Lincoln driver pulls up at the hotel at the stroke of 7 and a bellman hurries to open my door. I thank the driver and step out. My foot wobbles in the four-inch heels, but luckily I’m still holding on to the vehicle’s door.

“Are you here for the ALS fundraiser?” the bellman asks.

“Yes.”

“Right this way, miss.” He leads me inside, holding the door for me. A woman at a table outside the party room greets me and gushes over my dress, then checks my name against the guest list.

“Enjoy!” she calls after me as I step inside.

The room has been transformed into a wonderland.

Lush plants and flowers are draped everywhere, making it feel as if we’re inside a greenhouse, and high round tables glow with the golden light of candles flickering inside votives.

A band is playing a Rascal Flatts hit on the elevated stage, and bartenders in dark suits stand ready in front of bottles of premium liquors, with gleaming silver dishes full of cut limes and lemons and maraschino cherries.

I’m one of the first ones here. But not the first.

Because I see a group of about ten people raising champagne glasses in a toast in the center of the room. I recognize the guy with the prominent nose and teeth: Harrison. And clinking his glass with the others is Colby Dawson. The senator’s son.

“Champagne, miss?”

I turn and accept a flute from the waiter.

Already people are beginning to stream in through the entrance. In another few minutes, this room will likely be filled.

It’s now or never , I tell myself. I take a big swallow of champagne and walk toward Colby, but keep my head averted, as if I’m watching the musicians instead of where I’m going.

He’s starting to turn away from the group, which is good, because it means he’s going to be walking toward me, too.

Just before I get to him, I give a little lurch, as if I’m about to trip.

And I throw my drink onto his jacket.

“Oh no!” I gasp.

“It’s okay,” he tells me as a waiter rushes over with a napkin. Colby takes it and dabs his jacket.

“Can I get you another drink?” he asks.

“I feel like I should be getting you one,” I tell him.

A waitress comes by with two fresh champagne flutes, and Colby trades our empty ones.

“I’m Colby,” he says.

“Amanda.” No one but my parents have ever called me that, but I like having another layer of protection over my true identity.

“Nice to meet you.”

“I bet you say that to all the girls who throw drinks on you,” I joke.

He looks surprised, then laughs. Instead of a comeback, he looks at me like he’s waiting for me to continue the conversation. So I do.

“I’m new in town,” I tell him. “Where are some fun places to go?”

“Oh—um… I mean, if you like to eat, Charlotte has the best restaurants.”

I’m about to ask another question when a tall, rail-thin woman appears, clutching Colby’s arm and shrieking a hello. She pulls him away, telling him he has to come say hi to someone named Hunter.

I watch helplessly as Colby moves away from me and my chance evaporates.

Then I square my shoulders. No , I think. Not tonight, not in this dress, not in this life.

I approach a bartender and ask for a pen. I take a cocktail napkin from his stack and write my name and number on it with the message I’d love to see you again.

Then I walk directly to Colby and hand it to him.

The thin woman is mid-story, her hand still clutching Colby’s arm, and her eyes shoot daggers at me.

“You might want to have this in case we bump into each other again when I’m holding a drink,” I tell Colby.

I see him look down and clock what I’ve written. A shy smile spreads across his face.

“Have a wonderful night,” I tell the sour-faced woman. Then I float away, into the crowd.