Sabrina

I zoom in on the prize. The box sits high on the shelf, atop an old Candyland, a beaten-up game of Twister, and a 1980s Trivial Pursuit. Not just the ’80s flashback version. The actual 80s version from shortly after the game came out when US history questions stopped at President Carter.

I reach for the Monopoly box and yank it off the shelf. It imitates a Jenga tower and tumbles down.

“Ouch.” The cardboard smacks my face, and Marvin Gardens and its brethren scatter as the game spills onto the floor of the Salvation Army, where I’m now standing in the midst of an iron, a race car, a thimble, and dozens of pink and green bills.

Crudola.

Maybe I am cursed. Maybe Sasha was right.

Making sure I don’t flash anyone as I bend to the linoleum floor in my once-a-kimono-now-a-cool-red-dragon-skirt, I gather up the spilled pieces.

A woman with wild and curly brown hair and kind eyes joins me. “Let me help you.”

“It’s no big deal. I’ll just pick it up, and then I’ll take it.”

“Are you sure you want it?” Her voice is gentle, full of concern over a game that looks like it’s seen many lives. “It’s missing a lot of pieces. We were going to toss it because the last time someone wanted to buy it, he said there was no Boardwalk and then left in a huff.”

I smile. “Boardwalk is the dream, isn’t it?”

She smiles back. “I’d like to live on Boardwalk.”

“You’re telling me,” I say as I grab some stray bills. “But I don’t plan to play the game. I need it for the money.”

The woman arches an eyebrow and gives me a curious look. She lowers her voice and talks to me like I’m in third grade. “You know the money isn’t real, right?”

“I do know that,” I say, laughing.

She takes a beat and screws up the corner of her lips. “Why don’t you just take the game for free?” she says in a conspiratorial whisper, sliding the box toward me.

“Are you sure?”

She winks. “It’d help me out to get it off the shelf. Plus, I have a Mega Monopoly that needs a good home if you want another one.”

Mega Monopoly has the biggest bills. That makes it even more perfect. “You’re an angel.”

“Happy to help . . . you.”

I swear she nearly added someone in need, and I bristle. Do I look that needy? I’m not starving. Yet.

But hey, I’ll chalk this up as a victory since I don’t need to shell out three bucks for an old game. Take that, universe. My dress can’t be cursed, because how else can you explain why I’m now thanking the saleswoman and leaving the Salvation Army with not one but two free Monopoly boxes in the canvas bag on my shoulder?

As I head home, I wave to the woman who runs the dry cleaner near me, and she smiles back. Passing the florist on the corner, I ask how business is, and he tells me it’s coming up roses. When I turn the corner at the bodega, I nod at the guy who’s rearranging the sandwiches on display in the window. He smiles and mouths, Roast beef today? He winks. I shoot him a dirty look and mouth back, Never roast beef.

I’ve lived in New York City my entire life. I grew up in Queens and commuted to Manhattan for college, attending NYU on a patchwork quilt of cobbled-together scholarships. I can’t imagine living in any other city. This place, despite all its issues and price tags, is my home.

I want to stay here, but I don’t know how long I can last, even given my unusual living situation. I’m damn grateful for my crazy cousin, Daisy, who’s generous and well-off enough to let me live in her rent-controlled apartment while she gallivants around Europe.

Her place makes it possible for me to pay other bills. Bills my mother won’t pay since she’s too busy wasting her own money. Bills like the ones needed for my little brother to go to divinity school. Kevin is brilliant and determined, and he wants to do good in the world and become a pastor. I’ve taken care of him since we were younger, reading him Percy Jackson and Harry Potter in grade school, tucking him in at night when he was in middle school, helping him with math in high school, and making sure he got into college, since Mom did such a crap job of everything, especially mothering. That’s why I petitioned to and became his legal guardian when my mom left. He’s more than my brother. He’s mine to look out for, and I want Kevin to succeed more than anything. I understand where his drive for ethics, and right and wrong, and compassion comes from.

I send him a quick text.

Sabrina: Is your nose in Spinoza and stuff? :)

Kevin: No, it’s in classical theories of religion. Geez. Can’t you remember my schedule? Also, I’m in the library right now, studying.

Sabrina: Prove it. Send me a picture.

Five seconds later, a close-up of his big blue eyes and floppy blond hair in front of shelves of tomes pops onto my screen.

Kevin: You should have been a lawyer. Always asking for proof. It’s impressive.

Sabrina: It’s called being skeptical, even of my favorite person.

I add a zebra for no other reason than I like emoticons of animals.

I bound up the steps that lead into my building in the East Village as my phone rings. I gasp quietly at the caller ID. It’s the main line for Up Next, the most prestigious magazine in the country. I submitted my best articles there the second I was canned.

I answer with the speed of light. “This is Sabrina Granger.”

A deep male voice barks at me. “Bob Galloway here.”

I gulp. The Bob Galloway? He’s the top editor at the magazine. “Hello, Mr. Galloway.”

“I’m calling because I read your clips and we might have a story for you.”

I nearly break into a tap dance, and I don’t even know how to tap-dance. “You do?”

“I wanted to see what your availability is in the coming week. We’re looking for someone who knows business and knows how to write a goddamn feature. Seems damn impossible these days for those skills to reside in the same person, but you appear to be able to both write and make sense of a P and L sheet.”

“Yes, I’m absolutely available,” I say, loving that he already knows what I’m good at.

“Great. Let me finalize some details. I’ll be back in touch later tonight. If you don’t answer, I’ll assign it to someone else.”

Damn. He works round the clock, and he’s tough as nails. Works for me.

“My phone is literally glued to my hand.” I cringe at my incorrect usage and quickly correct. “Well, not literally, of course. But I’ll be a quick draw.”

He manages a small laugh. “Good to hear. But keep the other hand ready to write with.”

“Yes, sir.”

I release a huge, happy breath when he hangs up. Maybe my luck is truly changing. All I have to do is hold on to this phone at the party like my life depends on it.

Because it does.

* * *

An hour later, I finish my costume. I try it on, turn in front of the mirror, and slide on my mask.

It’s perfect. It’s sexy and smart, and I’ve always wanted to wear a mask like this.

Confession—I love masquerade parties.

Addendum—I haven’t been to many masquerade parties.

In my mind, I’ve attended countless soirees and balls. I’ve dressed in elegant gowns, worn satin gloves up to my elbows, and descended grand staircases wearing a butterfly mask or a black satin one with silver and red feathers rising high on the side.

I run my finger along the gold outline of my mask, remembering my fascination with these stories when I was younger. As a girl, I was obsessed with historical romances. I found the tattered old books on my mother’s shelves, and I didn’t know she’d stolen them from the library. Innocent then, I gobbled up her contraband tales, devouring forbidden stories of the most rakish rakes, of the most roguish rogues, of the most devilish dukes who attended such masquerade fetes in hope of seducing the women they’d always had their eyes on.

Naturally, the hero could only seduce her if they were both in disguise, for she was a commoner and he was a titled man who could only be with a lady.

Or something like that.

I give a coy curtsy in the mirror then a shy little smile, pretending I’m the star of the story. All that mattered to me in those tales was that both hero and heroine were in disguise—half masks, eye masks, even full-face masks that could be pushed up at the critical kissing scene. I’d watch their seduction play out on the page. Mistaken identity, playacting, lords in disguise—all of it was so delicious.

Some scenes were chaste, and some were not. A waltz with an unknown lass, a stolen kiss in the hallway, a secret moment—every room was a potential location for a tryst at a masquerade ball, especially the library. If they went to the library, you knew it was going to be oh-so-good.

I flutter my hand over my chest, as the heroine would do.

No matter how far they went, they’d always leave on their masks. Names hardly mattered when you could zero in on his lush, knowing lips.

The mouths of the men in masquerade were made for sin. For making a woman weak in the knees—drunk on a kiss.

I fell for the hero’s charms too. As the heroine swooned, I’d swoon. As the charming duke with raven hair kissed her throat then licked a path to her heaving bosom, my skin flushed hot too. I’d flip dog-eared page after dog-eared page, consumed by the tale, picturing the plunging necklines on the women and the tight breeches on the men that, naturally, barely concealed their manhood.

How I longed to be at such parties.

I turn away from the mirror, heading to my jewelry box on the bureau. I don’t attend many such parties in real life though. Most of the masquerades I’ve gone to over the years have been the standard Halloween variety. The masks the men wore were of gorillas, zombies, or President Nixons.

Suffice it to say, none of those made me swoon.

I suppose the closest I came to a true masquerade party was in college when the drama boy I dated senior year invited me to one, and costumes and masks were plentiful and traded freely. So were kisses between the girls and boys, the girls and girls, and the boys and boys.

When I found him kissing one of the other drama boys, I ditched my Venetian mask and headed straight for the wine coolers.

I suppose I’ve never had great luck with men, or masquerade parties.

But perhaps that will change tonight.

I slide a third gold hoop into my right ear. Three tiny earrings on the right, one on the left. I weave a tight braid down my hair on the right side, since my mask rises high on the left.

Makeup comes next, and as I learned from those tales, one should never skimp on makeup. I slide a glittery gold shadow over my eyelids, then finish off the mascara.

When I’m done, I spread my arms wide, staring at my reflection in the full-length mirror on the back of my bathroom door. Yes, my wedding dress has given its life to the cause. Nothing is left of it but shreds.

Fitting.

I leave and head uptown on the subway.

On the train, barely anyone gives me a second look. God, I love this city. I could be dressed like this for work, for fun, or for giggles, and no one would question it or even bat an eye.

I exit and emerge above ground in one of the most picturesque parts of Manhattan: the Upper East Side, or, as I like to call it, What Movies Want Us to Believe. This is what the rest of the country must think Manhattan is like, based on the sheer number of rom-coms shot here—blocks lined with four-story brownstones and canopied with trees. Wealthy women walking small dogs and beautiful couples kissing on the glittering stoops of those homes, since movie kisses always take place by a lovely glittering stoop.

I don’t know any stoops that glitter. But in the movies, they do.

I turn the corner, looking for the boutique hotel, 10 East Club. It’s a landmarked building, with the feel of old New York, when the city toasted itself in the Gilded Age.

When I reach it I lift my gaze, drinking in the gorgeous red brick, the white window panes, and the window boxes, teeming with flowers. The doorman in his cranberry-red uniform holds open the brass door for me. This is New York at its finest. Rich, moneyed, old New York.

But inside, it’s going to be flooded with all the new money the internet has brought to the country’s financial capital.

Ready or not, here I come.

I drop the mask, gold and white, so it covers the top half of my face down to my nose.

Time to network.

* * *

Champagne flows freely. Silver and gold lights are draped along doorways and over crown moldings, twinkling like fireflies in the softly lit space. Chandeliers sparkle on the ceiling. Music thumps loudly, and waiters circulate, offering appetizers.

But that’s where the similarities to the tattered paperbacks I used to read end.

The costumes aren’t lavish ball gowns and coats and tails. Instead, I spot a young woman at the photo booth wearing an Instagram sign slung around her neck and a feathered mask awkwardly hugging the lenses of her eyeglasses. Next to her, a skinny guy has donned virtual reality goggles as his masquerade mask. I watch from the bar, peering at the scene with Courtney as we refill our champagne flutes.

“We’ve raised nearly twelve thousand dollars already,” she whispers to me from beneath the hat of a Pokémon Go Trainer. The cost of admission tonight goes to an organization that promotes math and science learning to children from lower-income homes.

“That’s amazing. I’m proud of you,” I say as she waves at a man with a white sheet over his head. He’s no ghost—his costume is marked with 404 error—webpage not found.

She turns back to me, eyeing me from head to toe. “And I’m proud of you. I knew you were crafty,” she says, gesturing to my ensemble, “but this is a whole new level.”

I curtsy, no small feat in my short white dress—it’s not the wedding dress though. It’s a new one I picked up on sale. The remains of my wedding dress adorn my arms. “Why, thank you. If I don’t nab a job at a publication, I’ll consider making costumes from discarded bridal wear.”

“You’ll get a reporting job like that,” she says with a snap of her fingers. “You talked to Henry, right?”

I nod since he’s one of the tech bloggers she wanted me to meet. “And Caroline as well,” I say, naming the woman who works as a producer at a cable business network. I chatted with her briefly about doing some on-camera reports. “She said I’d have to ditch the three earrings if they were to consider me.”

“You’d obviously ditch the earrings.”

“Obviously. And also, obviously,” I say, giving her my most deferential nod, “you were right that it made sense for me to attend.”

She smiles brightly. “Of course I’m right. Now, before you try to skip out of here early, you need to talk to Evil Kermit. He runs a podcast network that just started. His real name is also Kermit.”

I give her a look. “He’s named Kermit and he dressed as Evil Kermit?”

She crosses her heart. “Swear. We funded the tech his network runs on. He’s the front man for it. And he gets a kick out of his name.”

“Evidently,” I say, keeping my eyes peeled for a guy in green.

She scurries off, and I weave through the crowds, passing a woman dressed like Candy Crush, and a couple of guys wearing animal masks and ears, so they’re Snapchat filters. Like a surveyor, I scan the crowd as music plays, a mix of rap and hipster, and I’m pretty sure it would be some sort of sin to play Ed Sheeran or Taylor Swift here. God forbid the taste be anything but ironic.

When I spot a man in green, he’s removed his Kermit face mask, and he looks exactly like Seth Rogen, a little round in the middle with a thick beard and glasses. I head over and introduce myself. “I hear you’re the man to meet,” I say, then tell him I spent six years at the paper, covering the internet business and writing industry features.

He scoffs. “I know your work. We don’t exactly do your type of journalism,” he says gruffly.

I straighten my spine. “What is my type of journalism?”

“Long, detailed, thoughtful, analytical . . .”

I don’t know if that was a compliment or a backhanded-AF compliment. I play it calm as I reply, “Long or short, the goal is always to be fair, to get it right, and to go the extra mile when asking questions.”

He rolls his eyes, and now I know he wasn’t complimenting me at all.

“Why would you think that’s not a good approach?” I ask.

He leans in close. “Because you’re sucking up to me at a party, that’s why.”

“I’m not sucking up to you at all,” I say defensively. I’d really like to give him a piece of my mind.

“Then why don’t you tell me what you could really bring to the table? Tell me why I’d want you on my network, and don’t give me a canned answer.”

I’ve faced off against CEOs, corporate executives, and douchebag billionaires who flaunt their McLarens like the car is a ticket for a woman to drop to her knees. This life-size puppet doesn’t scare me. “No, Kermit, I meant it. I wasn’t sucking up to you. I believe in being relentless and being fair. That’s why I do what I do. I’m not giving you a canned answer because I’m not sufficiently interested in sucking up to lie. Either you like my style, or you don’t.”

His eyes narrow. “I believe in taking risks. Being scrappy. Going for broke. That’s what I do, and that’s who I want to work with.” Before I can answer, his eyes drift across the room, and he speaks again. “I need to talk to someone. I’ll catch you another time.”

Kermit, who is aptly costumed tonight, turns away, his cloak trailing behind him.

As he exits, I’m unable to make heads or tails of that interaction, though it’s safe to say there won’t be any work coming my way from Kermit the Douche.

I head to the nearby bar, so I don’t look like I was ditched by a frog. I spot a button on the floor, like the kind you’d use to make eyes on a sock puppet. It’s bright red, with the word start on it in black marker. Grabbing it, I tuck it into my clutch in case I come across someone missing a button.

As I wait at the bar for the bartender to pour my champagne, I watch the crowd. Some people are dancing, most are mingling, and even though my phone hasn’t rung, it’s still a good night.

I’ll drink this champagne then get out of here. I could probably make some headway on a new minidress I want to make from some emerald-green velvet I snagged at a thrift shop. Hell, if I play my cards right, I can catch a subway in ten minutes, spend some time with my Singer, and brainstorm story ideas to pitch to Henry and Caroline.

Sounds like a good end to a decent night.

The bartender hands me the champagne. I thank him, take a quick sip, and have just set it down to leave, since I shouldn’t sew while buzzed, when I hear a voice.

“You’re no ordinary angel. You’re a next-generation angel.”

I turn around and see a man dressed all in black, with lips that are made for sin.