Free Illuminate by Aimee Agresti

of their eyelashes. A girl twirled, finishing her move with her back to me. She wore a one-shoulder plum dress that came to a screeching halt midway down her thigh. She swung her glossy auburn locks and I caught a glimpse of her bare shoulder: it seemed to be looking back at me. Branded there was a tattoo of an open eye so vivid I thought it might blink. The iris was black with a white pupil and a pentagram inside it, and it was fringed with lashes of orange and red, resembling a burning flame. It looked oddly familiar. And then, a glance at the crowd before me showed me why: I spotted another tattoo on the bicep of one of the guys, peeking out just below his sleeve; and one on the ankle of a blond woman with miles of wavy hair.
    The girl with the ankle tattoo and all the hair drifted off from the group, appearing at the table beside me. I tried not to stare as she lifted an open bottle of champagne from an ice bucket and pulled a crystal champagne flute from the neat rows of glasses lining the back of the table. Bubbles frothed as she poured. I recognized her from my Googling: Raphaella. She was a model and socialite, always going to the best parties and photographed with important people. I had seen a few of these faces show up in my search, now that I thought about it. The one with the shoulder tattoo, Calliope, had been written about in an art magazine or something like it.
    With delicate fingers, Raphaella held the glass out to me. “Cheers,” she said. “This is liquid gold. Aurelia’s favorite. The best you’ll ever taste.” The gesture was warm but her tone wasn’t so much; it felt a little like she was doing a job. I caught myself before getting too hung up on it: Haven, try to be a little less sensitive for a change, please? I took the glass from Raphaella’s hand.
    “Oh, wow, thanks.” Her chilliness aside, I was still oddly touched. It was kind of nice to feel included, even if I didn’t plan to drink it. I looked over at Lance. He hadn’t touched his drink. He sat there, almost invisible, taking everything in from behind those glasses, his hair still messy from his nap. He and I were like bookends, fencing in this party that raged between us.
    Raphaella poured a glass of champagne for herself and took a seat next to me, crossing her endless spider’s legs. She took a dainty sip from her slender glass. I decided I should try to be friendly.
    “You’re Raphaella, right?” She nodded and smiled softly, her kohl-rimmed eyes two beautiful blank buttons. “I’ve seen you in magazines and things. You must have such an exciting life modeling and all. Do you hang out here a lot? I just started this internship. I’m really excited to be here.” I was rambling now. There was a long, painful pause.
    “I would be nowhere without Aurelia and the Outfit,” she said, as if it were the most obvious and mundane of facts repeated emotionlessly millions of times, such as Chicago is cold in the winter.
    “Aurelia said that being here can open doors. I guess she really meant it.”
    “She did. I promise you.” This she said sternly, as though making sure I was paying attention. Then she smiled again, taking another sip.
    “That’s good to know. Do you have any exciting upcoming jobs?”
    “Yes, there’s the cover of the Chicago Tribune ’s Sunday magazine next month, Chicago magazine’s special spring fashion edition, and spreads in Glamour and Seventeen .” She said it all much more flatly than I would have if it had been me with that news to tell. “I’m sorry,” she said before turning away to whisper something to the girl seated beside her with the pin-straight jet-black hair and almond-shaped eyes.
    I pretended to be fascinated watching the fizz of my champagne. The flames behind me breathed heat onto my neck. They were a tough group, these people, tough in a different way than the kids at school. There, they were just rude and hostile with no manners whatsoever, but here there was something