All in on You

Chapter Twenty-Four

This is my Met Gala.

Scratch that, that's a lie. For one thing, there's no ridiculous theme, unless you count 'extremely rich and historic hockey franchise' a theme. And second thing, I like to think I'm not wearing a ridiculous dress.

I thought that for a beat because this is by far the best opportunity I've ever had in my life to dress to the hilt. But despite both having Gala in their name, the focus of the events couldn't be more different. I'm not exactly breaking news when I say that the Met invites some—let's face it—bizarre fashion. For the Saints Gala, though, I'm not looking to stand out as fashionable. I'm just hoping I look appropriate. You know, it's a delicate balance to strike amongst the guidelines that Faulkner forwarded, which described the dress code as "formal;" Scar's insight that the women tend to wear longer dresses; and my intention to look sophisticated enough so that I signal to everyone that I take the evening seriously yet not too serious that I look like I overvalue my place in the organization.

I guess what I'm trying to say is that I aim to be a well-dressed chameleon tonight. Get it? Because I want to blend in yet look chic while doing so.

I'm feeling good about my outfit choice. It's a black, one-shoulder velvet dress that falls just a centimeter above the floor when I'm in my heels. The sleeve on my right shoulder is a cap sleeve and is decorated with a few gold rhinestones. Simple, yet classy. At least that's what Scar and I thought when I tried it on at the downtown boutique the other week.

"Ugh, I'm in love with your dress," Rebecca says. "If you weren't a few inches taller than I am, and I actually had a reason to wear it, I'd definitely ask to borrow it."

"Meh. I'm going to ask to borrow it anyways," Jules agrees, releasing a strand of my hair from her curling wand.

So it turns out that all my friends approve of my dress, which is steamed and hanging pretty on the door of my armoire in my room.

Only a few minutes until I trade in my white satin robe for the dress. Elise and Jules insisted that they finish casting their spell before I change, which I agree with, because it'd be such a shame to spill foundation or something on it.

The four of us are in my room in various states. I'm perched on a stool Jules brought over from our kitchen. She and Elise are hovering over me: Jules, my hair, and Elise, my face. While I'm by no means a beauty expert, I know enough to style my hair and makeup in a way that I think is flattering. But still, my friends demanded they give me the makeover this evening, because it's an "experience" and "more fun that way." Rebecca is sitting cross-legged on my bed, tossing microwave popcorn—the extra buttery kind—into her mouth. I kind of envy her.

But then I remember I'm about an hour away from seeing Angelo Bradford in what's likely going to be a designer suit, and safe to say, I'm pretty okay with my situation again.

Elise cocks her head and looks at me with the tip of her tongue peeking out from the corner of her mouth.

"How do I look?" I dare to ask.

She finished my makeup a few minutes ago, which is why Jules is now curling my hair in what the magazines call Old Hollywood waves. But Elise wasn't sure she was done, and wanted to take a break before deciding if my face needed any final touches.

"You know what," Elise says. "If I do say so myself, I did a perfect job. You look beautiful, Harlow."

I'm giddy to see the final look.

"I think your hair will go well with it," Jules says as she wraps a generous chunk of hair around the barrel.

"Thanks, guys. I couldn't have done this without you."