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  “Why are you here, kid?” he asked finally.

  Gloria bristled. Just because she was younger didn’t mean she had to tolerate condescension. “Why do you keep calling me that?”

  “Calling you what?”

  “Kid.”

  He smirked. “Your question just answered my question,” he said, blowing a stream of white smoke rings.

  “Then tell me why I’m here, since you seem to know better than I.”

  A waitress came over, planting a glass of whiskey on the table. He winked at her, and she blew him an air kiss in return. As Gloria caught this cheap exchange, it dawned on her: Jerome Johnson met a million girls, just like her, every night of the week. Girls who smoked and drank and laughed with him—probably other, less innocent activities, too. Besides playing the piano, his job was to play them. And they fell right into his trap like helpless mice. Just as she had.

  But Gloria wasn’t like these other girls—she was different. Or at least, that was what she wanted to believe.

  “You’re here,” he began, taking a long sip of his drink, “to prove to yourself that you’re not just that: a kid. Even though you know that’s exactly what you are.”

  Gloria tried to keep her composure. “I’m the furthest thing from being a kid,” she fumed, her cheeks burning. “How old are you? Nineteen? Twenty? You’re not exactly a man yourself. And if you must know, I’m here for the music.”

  Jerome guffawed, slapping the table. “Music? What do you know about music? You’re a spoiled rich white girl.”

  Furious, Gloria stood up. No one had ever been so rude to her in her life! She knew she should walk away, find her friends at the bar, and have a good laugh about this insolent, low-class, ill-mannered—

  She realized she was thinking like her mother. That alone made her want to kiss him, right then and there, to prove she was different. Instead—she didn’t want to seem crazy, even if she felt it—she slid into his side of the booth. “I bet I know more about music than any girl—white or otherwise—in this joint.”

  He moved closer, his pant leg grazing her bare thigh. Everything about him looked strong—the shape of his nose, the cut of his cheeks, and the square line of his jaw. His eyes, though, were soft, a rich brown that almost hypnotized her. “What you know, kid, are the dusty old books you learn at your little girls’ private school. You know how to identify a Beethoven symphony or a Mozart concerto. You know the story of La Bohème because your parents have box seats at the opera. You know the song we danced to because you heard it on the radio.” He paused, lifting a strand of hair from her eyes. “I bet you don’t even know who wrote it.”

  Her heart was pounding so loudly she could barely hear herself think. “It was ‘When I Lost You,’ and it was written by Irving Berlin.”

  His dark eyes gleamed, but he shrugged. “Still doesn’t change the truth, pussycat. You’re here because you think this makes you free. Unlike the rest of your little schoolgirl friends, sneaking out without Daddy’s permission. Listening to the black man play his music and dirty your lily-white hands,” he said, gripping her arm. “But your driver will take you back home to your parents tonight. To where it’s safe. To where you have everything in the world. But you ain’t free, kid. You wouldn’t know how to be free if your life depended on it.”

  Gloria knew that if she cried, she would show herself to be that helpless little girl he thought she was. She could feel his palm burning into her skin. There was something alive in her, some ember that this night had lit like a match struck in the dark.

  She leaned in then, her lips almost touching his neck. “Too bad you’ve never heard me sing,” she whispered.

  Then, in one swift motion, she picked up his glass, poured the whiskey down her throat, and slammed the empty glass back on the table. She wiped her mouth with the back of her hand and abruptly stood.

  As she turned to make her dramatic exit, Gloria found herself face to face with the gorgeous black girl. The one she had seen Jerome canoodling with. Up close, the girl was even more stunning, her eyes a shimmering brown.

  Gloria was absolutely mortified. The drama of downing the whiskey was completely upstaged by none other than Jerome Johnson’s lover. “I’m sorry,” Gloria muttered to the floor.

  “Don’t sweat it. This time,” the girl said, falling into the booth where Gloria had just been seated and pinching Jerome’s cheek.

  Gloria wanted to get out of there as fast as she could. But then he would win, and she would look just like the kid he claimed she was. What would a flapper do? she asked herself. Go to the bar. Of course.

  Luckily, she didn’t spot her friends or her cousin—she couldn’t handle explaining anything. She barely understood her own feelings. She was relieved when Leif moved over to save her.

  He gave her a welcoming look of recognition. “Well, well, well, would you look at that! The virgin transformed into the Queen of Sheba!”

  As miserable as she felt, she cracked a smile. “Only for you, Leif.”

  “For that, you get my signature martini. On the house.”

  As Leif was busy shaking up a storm, Gloria couldn’t resist the impulse to look back at the scene she had just left. Sure enough, Jerome was engaged in what looked to be enthralling conversation with the gorgeous girl.

  Curiosity was quickly becoming her biggest flaw. When Leif presented her drink, she found herself saying, “So, Leif. A question for you.”

  “Shoot!” he said as he dropped a spear of olives into her glass.

  “I’m just wondering: Who is that lovely girl following the piano player around all night? Is she some kind of fan?”

  “You could say that.” He chuckled. “That’s Vera. One of the fiercest little flappers in the Windy City. Who also happens to be Jerome Johnson’s baby sister.”

  Gloria almost choked on her martini.

  Before she had a chance to fake lack of interest, there was a loud commotion from the stage. Carmen Diablo, the band’s lead singer, was in a rage, shouting something that was impossible to make out over the din in the room. Gloria watched as she mounted the stage, dramatically ripped her peacock-feather headdress off, and chucked it into the crowd, screaming, “I quit!” Then she charged off.

  For a moment, the volume of the room lowered to a hush. Gloria spotted one of the men from Al Capone’s table—Carlito, the tabloids’ favorite playboy gangster—walking over to Jerome and whispering something in his ear.

  Jerome grimaced; whatever Carlito was saying to him must not have been good. The noise in the room had returned to its regular volume, and she felt a poke at her bare back.

  “It’s not ladylike to stare,” Leif said as Gloria turned back to the bar.

  “I’m a flapper now, not a lady.”

  Leif gave her a sympathetic look. “A word of wisdom, from the man who’s seen it all? It’s gonna take more than a bob to make you a flapper.”

  Gloria sighed. She knew what he meant but didn’t want to admit it. For if it was true, she’d never become a flapper. Maybe she’d have a few more outings to the Green Mill, but once she walked down the aisle, there would be no going back.

  Leif slid another glass of something in her direction, but Gloria waved it away. “I think I’ve had my fix for one night.”

  “Not everything’s about you, Red.” Leif winked at her as a black hand darted out and snatched the glass.

  “He’s got that right.”

  It was Jerome. She could feel his slick suit against her arm, but she didn’t dare turn. Instead, she focused on unpinning an olive with her teeth.

  “So you’re a singer, huh?” he asked, taking a big swig of his drink.

  She gave a sharp nod.

  “And what would I hear if you were to sing?”

  “My voice,” she answered coldly. She could sense him smiling but kept her eyes on the olives.

  “Let me ask you another question: What song would I hear if I asked you to sing? Hypothetically speaking. Say, one from your school cho
ir?”

  Was he serious? She’d had enough of his sassy mouth. She swiveled toward him. “I would choose ‘Downhearted Blues.’ Hypothetically speaking.”

  “Really.” His dark eyes held a hint of approval. “Even our singer wouldn’t have touched that one. Or rather, ex-singer.”

  “You mean she wasn’t good enough to sing a Bessie Smith song?”

  “You mean you think you’re better than her?”

  “Not Bessie Smith, but certainly Carmen.” She stared at him unflinchingly. She wasn’t entirely sure she could back it up—Carmen had a killer set of pipes. And who was she? A girl who sang songs like “Downhearted Blues”—which she’d learned from a record she hid under her bed so her mother wouldn’t confiscate it—in the privacy of her own bedroom. To her pillow.

  However, if there was one thing she knew about flapperdom, besides the mandatory hair bob, it was that confidence was everything. Even false confidence was better than none at all.

  “Good luck to you, then, kid.” Jerome finished his drink and stood up just as another black man walked up. Gloria recognized him as the band’s trumpet player.

  “Listen, man, Carlito’s getting frisky. He says if we don’t get another vocalist to front the band by next week, ready to go up and play our full set, we’re done for. And I don’t think he just meant in this club.”

  Jerome shrugged him off. “So we’ll just call up my sister’s friend—what’s her name?—Mildred. Yeah, Mildred can really belt it out.”

  “Are you crazy?” The trumpet player took hold of Jerome’s shoulders and gave him a firm shake. “Mildred’s a beast! She’d ride us off the stage. Carlito said he wanted a pretty face, or else. And when Carlito says ‘pretty face,’ he means a pretty everything. Mildred looks like a wild boar … on her good days.”

  Gloria’s heart was thumping and her hands were shaking. It was now or never. “I’ll do it.”

  Both men turned to her and stared. The trumpet player gave her a thorough once-over. “Now, this is what Carlito means when he says ‘pretty face.’ “He grinned. “Who are you and where did you come from?” he said to Gloria. “And, most importantly, can you carry a tune?”

  “I’m Gloria Car—Gloria Carson, from a hick town so hick I moved to Chicago just to find out what gin tasted like. And to become a famous singer. Which means”—she batted her lashes coyly at the trumpet player—“I hope to God I can carry a tune. Otherwise, what the hell am I doing here?”

  “I like this girl! Where’d you find her?” Trumpet Player winked at her.

  “He found me on a street corner, singing for my supper.”

  “I hope you got a nice supper.”

  “It would have been a lot nicer had he not shown up.” She shot Jerome an I-dare-you look. I dare you to try me. I dare you to call me a kid now. Or a rich white girl. Or a faker.

  Even though that was exactly what she was.

  Gloria didn’t know what had gotten into her. Or what in God’s name had made her choose the name Gloria Carson. Coming from the country—well, that she’d stolen directly from Clara. Part of her felt like backtracking and immediately saying that she’d lied. Part of her was very impressed by her own quick thinking. But the dice had already been rolled. And she had rolled them herself.

  Jerome stared at her for what seemed like an eternity. “Fine. I’ll grant you one audition.” Gloria wanted to squeal with glee at the top of her lungs, until he said: “Tomorrow night. Eight p.m. sharp.”

  Which was exactly the time her mother had planned for her debutante dinner. At their house. With dozens of guests and all the society papers in attendance. It would be impossible to miss. “I can’t tomorrow night, it’s my—”

  “Be there tomorrow night at eight,” he said, cutting her off. “Or else I guess I’ll never get to hear your rendition of ‘Downhearted Blues.’ ”

  Then he walked off toward the stage to get ready for his next set. Which he would play well into the early dawn, when Gloria was already tucked away beneath her pink comforter, wide awake with the fear that she would never make it back to the Green Mill that next night. And would never see Jerome Johnson again.

  CLARA

  As Clara gazed at her makeup-free face in the mirror, she felt a surge of nerves.

  Tonight’s dinner—a gathering of pompous debutantes and their mothers—was all about crossing your well-bred ankles and sounding enthusiastic about country club croquet tournaments and recent betrothals. Normally, this kind of gathering would bring out the worst in her. But it was still better than being on the farm. Plus, if Clara was going to create a new life for herself here, she had to take the party seriously. This would be her first opportunity to show off the New Clara in Chicago. Clara the Good Girl. Clara the Saint. Clara the performer.

  That didn’t mean she couldn’t take a shot of liquid courage first. She opened her undergarment drawer, dug around, and retrieved the unassuming pink sock with the white-eyelet border that hid her flask of gin. She uncapped it and threw her head back.

  But midswig, she stopped.

  If Clara was going to commit to this new version of herself, she would have to get through the night sober.

  The grandfather clock struck eight and was immediately echoed by the insistent ring of the doorbell. There was no time to muse. She swiped on a coat of black mascara and a dash of bright pink lipstick—a girl had to cross the line somewhere—before hurrying downstairs.

  Aunt Bea was stationed in the doorway of the salon, policing incoming traffic. “Why, there you are, my dear,” she said. Clara knew her aunt would approve of the blousy pale blue dress, with its delicate floral pattern and waist-cinching belt. She had borrowed it from Gloria’s closet. Without asking. “I must say, you look lovely.”

  “Certainly not as lovely as you.” Clara hinted at a curtsy, and proceeded into the next room, Aunt Bea following close behind.

  Circling about the room were the mothers and daughters of Chicago’s most important families. The girls looked exactly as Clara had imagined: thin and pale, with blank expressions, and wrapped up like gaudy Christmas presents in colorful frills and bows and lace. It was almost shocking to see girls actually looking their age—sans vamp makeup and vamp attitudes—clinging together awkwardly, acting like the schoolgirls they were.

  Then there were their mothers, larger and stiffer versions of the girls themselves. The mothers gathered into groups, each trying to upstage the others with flashy diamond-encrusted baubles and equally flashy laundry lists of their daughters’ accomplishments.

  “Ladies, ladies!” Aunt Bea singsonged. “I want to introduce to you one of our guests of honor this evening, my niece, Clara Knowles, who will be staying with us for an indefinite length of time.”

  They all openly inspected Clara, as if she were a mannequin on display.

  “Where is the other guest of honor?” a voice trilled out.

  “Oh, you know our Gloria,” her aunt began, turning to Clara with a flush of panic that only Clara saw.

  Clara leaped right in. “She’s on the phone long distance with that darling fiancé of hers,” she explained. She added in a stage whisper: “He’s away on business, but not even his work can keep those two apart!” The women smiled wistfully.

  Clutching Clara’s arm, Mrs. Carmody cleared her throat. “Why, yes—you know young love!” She croaked out an entirely fake laugh. “Now hold on to those appetites, ladies. Wait till you see what our chef, Henri—imported directly from l’Hôtel Plaza Athénée—has whipped up for you!”

  The room fell into a pleased chatter, and Aunt Bea stealthily guided Clara into the hall. “Why didn’t Gloria come downstairs with you?”

  Clara honestly had no idea. But as she looked into her aunt’s worried face, she decided that this was the perfect opportunity to play the responsible older cousin. “Would you like me to lasso her for you?”

  “Thank you, dear.” Aunt Bea gave her a frightening smile. “And don’t be afraid to use an actual lasso if need be.�
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  Clara dashed upstairs, relieved to get away from the gawking. She knocked on Gloria’s door.

  No response.

  She knocked harder, then tried the doorknob. Locked. Finally, she knelt down and peered through the keyhole. Not only was it dark, but a sharp breeze stung her eye.

  The window was open.

  It wasn’t possible. No girl would be so harebrained as to sneak out of the house on the night of her own deb dinner. Though Gloria had been acting strange since last night.

  After they had left the Green Mill, she had slumped in the backseat of Marcus’s car with her eyes closed, presumably blacked out, for the entire ride home. At breakfast this morning, Gloria had stared blankly into her bowl of oatmeal, her face as pale as the lumpy gruel. Clara had assumed she was just overwhelmed by it all—she had felt the exact same way when she started going out in New York. But now …

  Clara couldn’t help thinking of that black jazz pianist, the one Gloria had danced with at the Green Mill. The way Gloria had looked at him, the way his hand kept dropping to her hip, the starry glaze that had sparkled in her eyes—it all spelled trouble. And the kind Clara knew all too well.

  Aunt Bea was waiting nervously at the bottom of the staircase when Clara came back down. “Is something wrong with her dress?”

  This was the moment, when her aunt was at her most vulnerable, to win her over for good. Once that trust was established, the threat of reform school would have no real weight anymore.

  Clara made a quick decision.

  “Aunt Bea, I have some bad news. Your daughter is not in her room.” She waited for her aunt to gasp before continuing. “You go and search for her,” Clara instructed, taking command of the situation. “Inquire with the waiters, check to see whether all the cars are here, unlock her door. I’ll take care of the guests—they won’t even notice her absence.” She watched her aunt’s face contort, shifting from confusion to panic. “And don’t worry,” Clara added, giving Aunt Bea’s hand a firm squeeze, “I’ll call the Tribune and tell them not to send the photographer.”