Free Girl Before a Mirror by Liza Palmer Page B

on the floor.
    â€œAren’t you cute. Thank you, sweetheart,” Helen says, ruffling Sasha’s perfect black ringlets.
    The room falls into darkness.
    The entire crowd erupts in applause as my fingers tighten around my flute of champagne.
    A single spotlight illuminates a huge banner high above the Silver Ballroom. The man pictured is muscular and bedecked in a pair of jeans, cowboy boots, and a worn-in cowboy hat. According to the western typeface emblazoned across the top of the banner, his name is COLT . The crowd goes wild. Another spotlight and this time it’s BILLY and he’s a gladiator in the arena—ahot gladiator in an oddly sexual arena. Another spotlight and now we’ve got JAKE , the come-hither fireman. LANTZ , with his tangle of reddish-blond hair and scruff, stands on what looks like a moody moor in just a kilt. He’s shirtless, of course. TRISTAN is done up in his steampunk best: top hat, goggles, a tweed vest, and pinstripe pants. JOSH , with his tousle of black hair and piercing blue eyes, is perfect as any woman’s Austenian fantasy in his historically accurate garb. And finally, my personal favorite, BLAISE . Blaise’s blond hair is swept up and he appears to be sporting some kind of sparkly lotion, vampire fangs, and a brooding stare. The spotlights fall from their banners and circle as the electro music builds and builds. The crowd goes wild.
    â€œWelcome to RomanceCon!” a voice booms over the loudspeaker. The music kicks in and a flood of silver confetti falls from the ceiling as the stage comes to life—all seven men posed like Grecian statues in various stages of undress.
    Each man comes forward as the announcer calls his name to applause and catcalls.
    â€œThis must seem so strange to you,” Helen says, noticing that I have yet to close my mouth, choosing just to let it hang open.
    â€œEvery community has their own . . . their own standard of norma—” I say as Tristan steps forward in nothing but a well-placed fig leaf.
    â€œOh, that’s bullshit and you know it, Ms. Wyatt,” Helen interrupts.
    â€œI’m sorry?”
    â€œI’m not trying to be mean.”
    â€œNo, of course. I’ve always thought the word bullshit was an underutilized term of endearment,” I say.
    â€œI like you,” Helen says, with another blow to my back, spillingmy champagne. “What I mean is there’s something about this place that forces you to drop the act.” Billy comes forward and drops his toga to unveil an even smaller toga as if he’s some kind of risqué Russian nesting doll. I raise an eyebrow and look from Helen to Billy and back to Helen. “I know it seems antithetical, but there you are,” Helen says.
    â€œOh, come on. This is all just . . . I mean, you guys are selling a fantasy world,” I say, watching the women go crazy as the men hop down from the stage and the party really gets started.
    â€œTakes one to know one, dear,” Helen says. “You gonna drink that?” I pass her my flute of champagne and she downs it in one go. She hands me back the empty flute with a wink. A snap of her fingers to her assistants and just like that . . . Helen Brubaker is gone.
    â€œI think I’m in love,” I say to Sasha once Helen is out of earshot. Sasha just stands there shaking her head, trying to form some kind of word or sentence, but . . . nothing. I scan the ballroom and notice a table at the very back that looks like it has some kind of food on it. “Food.” I point to the table, apparently only able to speak in single-word sentences.
    â€œI’m going to head back to the hotel, if that’s okay?” Sasha asks.
    â€œI’ll be right behind you. I’m going to see if Preeti is here yet,” I say.
    â€œI’ll cab it back,” Sasha says, pulling her phone from her purse.
    â€œIs that the guy from the date the other night?” I