Flirtinis with Flappers (11 page)

Sort of like someone else I knew. Minus the hedonism, of course. In fact, minus anything remotely fun. Hm. Maybe these people were onto something. They certainly did look like they were having a great old time. Not a care in the world. Maybe I should follow their example. Lighten up a little and try to enjoy my time in the twenties. After all, how many opportunities does one have to travel back in time?

Though, I suppose, this was all easier said than done, considering I was apparently the evening's entertainment. And, of course, there was that whole pesky "find Nick the Prick and stop him from changing history" thing I had to contend with. Saving the world didn't leave much time for a girl to kick back a few and let her hair down.

Daisy grabbed my hand and pulled me along. We entered the house itself and followed a long ornate hallway that opened into a huge ballroom. Dim chandeliers dripped from the ceilings. Champagne fountains cascaded on scattered tables. Waiters dressed in black tuxes wandered around with trays filled with drinks or fancy-looking canapés. And a five-piece jazz band—with…was that Louis Armstrong on the trumpet?—played gaily from a raised stage on the far side of the room.

"Wow, good turnout," Daisy marveled. "But then, everyone always ends up at Don's house, whether they were invited or not."

I nodded, scarcely able to take it all in. This was incredible. Absolutely amazing. I couldn't believe I was actually here, witnessing a 1929 gala firsthand. The sights, the smells, the sounds. It was overwhelming to my mortal senses. I wanted to memorize each and every detail so I could go over it all in my mind when the stimulation ended. Maybe I could even write a history book when I got back to the twenty-first century. Or at least a time-travel romance…

I scanned the room, watching as couples teamed up to dance, holding their hands out as if they were waltzing, then bobbing from side to side in what seemed a silly manner to me but must have actually been cool in their scene. Kind of a twenties version of twerking.

I sighed. There was no way I was going to find Nick in a crowd like this. Perhaps it'd be better just to enjoy myself and revisit the mission in the A.M.

"Daisy, my baby!"

I stepped back as an extremely intoxicated thirty-something man with watery eyes and pasty skin leaped through the crowd to throw his arms around my friend. He looked as if he was actually going to crush her small, birdlike frame, and she didn't appear pleased to be crushed. A moment later, she grabbed him by his shoulders and pushed him away from her.

"I thought you were moving back to France, Scott," she scolded. "For Zelda."

The man hung his head, looking slightly abashed. "I am. I am," he insisted. "Tomorrow morning. Really. But I couldn't leave without one more party, now could I? Especially not at Don's. Don throws the absolute best parties. Everyone says so."

Daisy rolled her eyes. "Yes. Of course. You came for the party. As usual, Scott, you're all wet."

He grinned. "Well, of course I also came to see you, my love." He placed a hand on her forearm. She shook it away.

"How many times do I have to tell you, Scott? I am not your love," Daisy said with a scowl. "You have a wife, remember? A wife named Zelda? Probably suffering away in France all by her lonesome while you chase women at parties and drink far too much hooch?" She shook her head. "Men. I swear to God."

I scratched my head, trying to figure out what was niggling at the back of my brain. This guy. He seemed so familiar. But why? Who?

Then it clicked.

Scott.

Zelda.

Oh my God.

"You're F. Scott Fitzgerald!" I exclaimed, my eyes widening in disbelief. "You wrote
The Great Gatsby
!"

The man turned to me, his skin deepening into a blush, and shrugged his shoulders. "Yeah. Terrible failure that was."

"Failure? Are you kidding me? There's not a high school in the country that doesn't—" I stopped short. What was I saying? I couldn't explain to this guy how his book had become a worldwide classic. I couldn't tell him about the multitude of movies inspired by it, even one with Leonardo DiCaprio playing Gatsby. He'd think I was nuts.

Too bad I couldn't, though, seeing the look on his face. He really thought he was a failure. Very sad that the world would not recognize his genius till after his death. I wished there was some way I could reassure him that his literary masterpiece would be remembered forever and that he'd go down in time as one of America's greatest writers.

"Well, I loved it," I said, changing tactics. I could at least compliment him personally. "I thought it was brilliantly written."

"You did?" he asked, looking amazed. In fact, he actually stopped pawing Daisy for a moment to turn and look at me. "Really? You're not just saying that to make polite party chatter?"

"I never make polite party chatter," I insisted. "I loved the book. Now, let me ask you. When you wrote the scene where Daisy and Gatsby were—"

"Come on, Louise," the real-life Daisy interrupted. She grabbed my hand and started dragging me away. "Scott, we'll see you later. We have to get Louise all dolled up for her act."

"What, I couldn't I ask him a question?" I sulked, as she led me through the crowd. I couldn't believe I'd missed my one opportunity to find out what really was behind one of my favorite novels. "I loved that book."

Daisy laughed. "You're probably the only one in the country who read it. Besides, I'm sick of him carrying a torch for me. He needs to go back to his sick wife and stop following me around."

I stopped short, something dawning on me. "So…you're Daisy?"

She rolled her eyes. "Last I checked."

"No, I mean, you're Daisy in the book. He named the character after you."

The flapper let out an exasperated sigh. "I guess. Maybe. He's crazy and usually drunk. You can't take anything he says seriously."

"Yeah, but how great is it to have a character in a book named after you? Doesn't that thrill you just the littlest bit?"

"It gives me the heebie-jeebies, if you must know." Daisy shook her head, leading me through a side door and into a small changing room flanked by large mirrors. "As does old Scotty himself."

I gave up. There was obviously no convincing her that being the literary inspiration for one of America's most important books was reason to be impressed.

Daisy shut the door behind us and held out her hands. "Here you go," she said. "You can change here. You're on in about fifteen minutes."

"Great," I said, rolling my eyes. "Just super." Only fifteen minutes till doom. Till everyone figured out that I was a complete fraud. I'd at least hoped for a half hour.

"Louise, what's wrong with you?" Daisy asked, her big brown eyes studying me with concern. "You're usually excited about performing. And you're so terrif at it, too. I wish I could be half as good on the stage as you. You're better than Mary Pickford, even. You could be in movies if you stopped messing around with the fellas and moved to Hollywood like I'm always sayin'. You know it's true."

Right. Forget fooling the whole party. I couldn't even fool one girlfriend.

"Sorry, Daisy. I was just thinking."

"You think too much, Louise," Daisy said, pressing her lips together sternly.

"Yeah, yeah." I glanced into the mirror. Louise's face stared back at me. She really was a pretty girl. All blonde and doll-like, with little bow lips and sparkling blue eyes. No wonder all the guys chased her. Well, at least Sam.

Speaking of Sam, I wondered if he'd arrived at the party yet. Hopefully, he'd be more than fashionably late and miss my act altogether. After all, seeing my sure-to-be lousy performance might vastly change his opinion of Louise's charm.

Not that that would necessarily be a bad thing. Then, at least, I wouldn't have to worry about resisting his advances anymore. His oh-so-tempting, smoldering advances. I wouldn't have to worry about his lips pressing against mine, crushing my mouth. And I'd have absolutely no reason to be concerned about his long fingers deftly exploring my body in a way that made me go slightly insane.

I shook my head. I needed to get my mind out of the Sam gutter and back on my impending doom…er, act.

Anyway, Daisy was right. I was completely overthinking this whole thing. Worrying about nothing. This was the twenties. I didn't have to do a Lady Gaga dance routine, and no one cared if I had a voice like Lana Del Rey. (Of course, I couldn't lip sync like Ashlee Simpson, either.) These kids didn't even have YouTube. Not to mention, they were all so wasted, probably no one would even notice a few screwups from the night's entertainment.

And so what if they did? Missing a few notes would never convince anyone I was a spy girl sent from the future to stop her ex-boyfriend from messing with the St. Valentine's Day Massacre. They'd probably just assume Louise Rolfe had had one too many glasses of champagne.

Yup. I could
do
this. I could fool them. I even had the perfect song. If only I could remember all the lyrics…

I realized Daisy was staring into the mirror at me.

"What?" I asked, suddenly feeling self-conscious for no good reason. "Do I have pie on my face or something?"
(I'd wolfed down three slices at the nearby diner on the way here. After all, I figured calories didn't count when you were using someone else's body, and I planned to take complete advantage.)

"Oh. No," Daisy said, her face instantly turning beet red. She quickly exchanged her fascination with the mirror for one of the floor. "You're fine. Sorry. Do you want me to get out of your hair or something?"

"Sorry," I said, feeling bad to boot her. Still, if I was going to pull this off, I needed all the practice time I could get. Which now was down to about seven minutes, including the costume change. "Do you mind if I have a little alone time? I've got to go over my song."

"Sure. No problem. I'll beat it," she said, her face falling. I cocked my head in confusion. The girl suddenly looked as if someone had just run over her pet hamster. What had I said? "I'm dying to go Charleston anyway."

"Uh, okay. Have fun," I said, more than a bit puzzled. What was her problem? I'd just asked for five minutes of privacy, not the end of our friendship. Jeesh. Talk about overly sensitive. Was I missing something here?

Throwing me a halfhearted grin, Daisy turned to exit, shoulders slumped and dragging her feet.

I sighed. "Daisy?" I called out after her, not wanting to see her go away upset, even if I had no idea what I'd done to make her so sad.

She stopped, not turning around. "Yeah?"

"Thanks for the pep talk. It means a lot that you believe in me. Even if I don't always show it."

"Yeah?" Her voice sounded hopeful.

"Ab-so-lute-ly," I twanged, just like I'd heard others do. I was definitely getting the hang of this twenties speak.

"Good." Daisy turned around, her smile looking more real this time. "'Cause I do. I really do think you're terrif."

I laughed. "You're pretty terrif yourself. Now go Charleston." I turned back to the mirror. "I have an act to prepare for."

"And now, for this evening's entertainment—the one, the only, the sassy superstar of the south side. The vamp vixen of Victor Street. I give you, Miss Louise Rolfe."

The tuxedoed emcee put his hands together, urging the audience to start clapping as the spotlight shifted to me over on stage left where I stood waiting in the wings, trembling like crazy. I drew in a breath. I knew I should have had a few cocktails to steady my nerves.

Too late now. Donning my biggest smile, I strutted out on the stage. God, there were a lot of people at the party. And every pair of eyes was fixated directly on me and my very skimpy, skintight outfit. Thank goodness I wasn't in my own skin. My big butt would have sent people screaming from the ballroom before my voice even began to offend their eardrums.

Stop thinking, Dora, and start singing
.

I cleared my throat and took the mic off the stand. Here went nothing.

"Come on, babe, why don't we paint the town?

And all that jazz?"

My voice sounded a bit on the trembly side as I recited the first lyrics of the only twenties song I knew. Not that it was an actual twenties song, I didn't think, but hey,
Chicago
the musical was set in the twenties, and we were in 1929 Chicago, so I felt it was somehow appropriate. Better than that "Voulez-vous coucher avec moi" song from
Moulin Rouge!,
which was the only other show tune I could think of with such short notice.

The only hitch was, I wasn't sure I actually remembered all the words to this one.

"I'm gonna put…blush…on my knees.

And roll my…thigh highs…down.

And all that jazz."

That didn't seem quite right to me, but then, hey, the crowd wouldn't know the words either, so I guessed I could safely fudge them, right?

Right.

"Start the car.

I know a…totally cool…place

Where the…flirtinis…are fine

and you don't need mace."

Much to my delight, the band behind me started picking up the melody in that clever way that always happens in the movies. At first, this freaked me out a bit—like, how can they possibly play a song that's yet to be composed?—but then I decided not to look the gift accompaniment in the mouth. After all, I had more important things to ponder. Like, could I actually pull this off?

"It's just a…really loud bar

Where you'll fight and get a scar.

And all…that…jazz."

I strutted around the stage, channeling Catherine Zeta Jones, making up words as I went. This was kind of fun, actually. I scanned the crowd. They seemed into me too, bobbing their heads and swaying from side to side.

They liked me! They really liked me! Maybe I was better than I thought. Maybe when I got back to the twenty-first century I could create my own act. Go on tour. Make millions.