Dinner goes by smoothly and as uneventfully as I hoped—if I exclude the jealousy spewing out of Phoebe’s eyes as she stares at me and Alistair. I’m glad the other Black Cats aren’t around, hence the decent mood around our table.
The chief gets back on stage to announce the commencement of dance. The dance floor empties for participants, the music slows, the lights dim, and people head towards the bar in partners and trios. Mathias and Alistair have already gotten their drinks, I get an iced tea, and Phoebe and I force to make small talk.
She starts to get sluggish after three shots of whiskey. We’re just under drinking age, but Leif’s party defied that rule enough to undermine its significance—this party is no match.
“You know, Amy,” she says, rotating her fourth shot on the table. “I
