“Mascarade de Bal,”
I look up from the mirror, finally getting the hot curlers off my blonde hair. “Masquerade Prom,” I translate Chey's French words, grinning. “I still can't believe you pestered me enough to attend this thing – even without a date.”
Cheyenne rolls her eyes. “Oh come on, you were going to attend in the first place.”
“I was coming for the party,” I point out, readjusting the lipstick on my lips.
“Are you girls done yet?” Asks Ian, opening the door to Chey's suite bedroom. “If you're done puffing your cheeks, readjusting the mascara and adding fake eyelashes, then please, by all means, let's head downstairs to the ball room already.”
We only call it the 'ball room' only because there's no other name for it.
Nodding, I put down the make-up stuff, making sure to look at
