I let out a sigh and grit my teeth. “I’m not dressing up.”

“Of course, dear,” she purrs, victory in her voice. “Wear your usual. You always look so nice.”

Because my style is modeled after hers.

“Uh-huh. Just you wait.”

“Don’t be bratty like your sister.”

I smirk. Elena was the one who went off to New York to college (the nerve of her leaving the South), traveled Europe, then gave up her chance to be a physician to be a librarian turned sexy-lingerie maker. She’s the rebel, and I’m the spare, the one Mama believes will never step out of line, but these days I’m teetering on a tightrope, and I don’t know which way I’ll fall. With a sigh, I end up telling her about CERN, and she can’t keep the relief out of her voice. She never wanted me to even apply. At least someone is happy about it.

Later, after the wine has chilled me, I circle back to the party. “Did you invite Devon?”

Dialogue in the background vanishes; she’s clicked off the TV. “Do you want me to?”

My hands grip the phone. “Just trying to get a feel for how many people will be there.”

“Have you seen him since the wedding?”

I don’t like her tone—it’s as if she’s taking notes.

“Briefly.” It’s not an outright lie, but I don’t want to get into a convo about Devon and all that entails.

“He’s not really your type, dear. He’s from California.”

She says it like he’s been in prison. I roll my eyes.

“And he has not one, but two earrings.”

“I can count.”

“And those tattoos? Bless.”

Which is why she’s never seen my pitiful attempt at ink.

“He’s a playboy,” she continues. “Who was that girl at the wedding? She had on enough makeup for a glamour shot.”

“All women are different, Mama. Don’t judge us.”

“Well, y’all don’t go together. You need a hometown boy and babies.”

I exhale. “Never mind him. See you soon . . .” Before she can say anything else, I rush out “I love you” and hang up.

I plop down on the couch and pour another glass. After pulling out my notebook, I find my goals and pencil in a new one, right under Go to Switzerland, V-Card Must Go, and Write a Sci-Fi.

Buy a Dress Up To My Ass.

By midnight, I’m at my desk typing away, wearing my favorite cutoff frayed shorts and a tank top, listening to the sky rumble with a summer storm. At least the front will bring cooler air. I’m headed to the kitchen for water when the power goes out, shrouding my apartment in splotchy darkness. Glow from my laptop sends shafts of light to parts of the apartment, slicing through the black. Maybe it’s the storm or a car hitting a transformer nearby. Power outages aren’t the usual, and I can’t recall a single one in the year and a half I’ve lived here.

I peek out the window and see that the rest of the city is still lit. After fumbling around, I grab a flashlight out of the kitchen drawer and head to the front door, stiffening as the light catches a curl of gray mist slithering in from the hall and dancing under the crack at the bottom of my door. For a moment, I’m frozen.

The fuse box. Myrtle mentioned an electrical issue in the basement.

Fear inches up, and I snap out of my daze and jerk open my door. No flames or crackling sounds, but the smell of smoke drifts to my nose. There’s a layer of the fog around my feet, near the stairwell, and my heart flies, even as I recognize it’s not dense or thick.

Instinct takes over, and I shut my door to block as much smoke as I can and dash to the stairwell and take the steps three at a time. I fall down the last two in my haste and fall splat on my ass on the landing, not noticing any pain, and jump up. I reach the second-floor door to Myrtle’s hall and fling open the door, already running. The smoke is thicker here, two inches off the ground and rising with every second. Jerking my tank up over my lower face, I’m already screaming her name before I reach her brass knocker, beating on the wood.

My chest rises rapidly, and I count the number of times I slam my fist on her door. Fifteen. Calling her name.

She opens her entrance just as the annoying sound of smoke alarms pings around us, ratcheting up my anxiety level. Took them long enough!

“Thank God! Must be a fire! Smoke is coming from the vents and up the stairwell!” I take her arm, not mincing words. “Where’s Pookie?”

“What?” She looks disheveled, apparently asleep for hours, her robe askew, feet bare.

A rumbling, cranking sound reaches my ears just as water spouts from the sprinkler system in the ceiling. She had it installed years ago for the hallways. “Myrtle! It’s a fire! Get the dog!” I tell her, and she pales and weaves on her feet.

“Can’t be. Electrician said it was fine—”

I put my hands on her shoulders and lower my voice, infusing calm under the urgency. “Come on, Myrtle, sweetie. Where’s your dog?”

“In my bed.” She points back into the apartment as she steps out in the hall, looking around with wide eyes. She gasps as I leave her and fly inside, grabbing the lump of trembling brown fur off her comforter and stuffing him in my arms. On the way out, I snatch her purse and cane. She has the alarm system wired to 911. Fire trucks will come. I strain to hear them, but it’s only just gone off . . .

She scoops Pookie up and follows me at a slow pace that makes me want to scream. I hurry her along to the stairwell, giving orders as I help her the few paces down the stairs to the first level. “Walk slowly down the steps—yes, that’s good. One at a time. You’re doing great.” Horror hits. “The new guy!” If the fire’s in the basement, he’s getting the worst of it. “Don’t open any doors to the basement,” I tell her, thinking out loud. “Back draft.”

“What?” she yells, her face draining of more color.

For half a second, I think about explaining that a back draft can be caused by introducing oxygen to an oxygen-deprived fire zone; then the combustion would reignite, and the carbons and black smoke would explode and take down anything in their path. But there’s no time.

I take a deep breath, and it’s mostly clean. Must be calm for her. Reaching out with my palms, I don’t feel any heat on the last door and open it to a roll of smoke on the first floor. “Just go slow, okay, Myrtle—awesome, you got this. Shut the stairwell door—yes, good—now, let’s get you out the front door. I’ll get the new tenant, okay?”

She nods, clutching Pookie, her eyes wide as she coughs. Fear rising, I dash past her as she walks outside to safety. Just as I reach his door, the tenant opens it, cat in his hand. Thank God. “Fire,” I breathe, and he gives me a jerky nod and heads to the exit at the front of the building. Smoke tumbles thick and dark, and my eyes water as they dart to the basement door, hearing crackling sounds but no visible flames.

“Where are you going?” the man yells as I turn back to the stairwell.

I bite my lip, eyeing the smoke level in the stairwell. It’s not bad there, not thick yet, just tangling around my knees. There’s an escape ladder outside my kitchen if things get hairy—but they won’t.

“My nana’s pearls.” His mouth drops, and before he can yell at me, I take off in a sprint, legs pumping.