outside, the large flakes kissing the leaded windowpanes. The waxy mistletoe and the candlelit
wreaths that--if she squinted her eyes just so--looked like explosions of gold.
But the curtains... well, those she had to remember down to the last filigreed stitch so she could
report back to her mother about them. They were exquisite, all burgundy velvet with shimmering
gold-thread fleurs-de-lis. Her mother, a New Orleans native, loved fleurs-de-lis. When Ariana was
nine, her mother had given her a gorgeous gold fleur-de-lis necklace for Christmas. That had been
Ariana's favorite Christmas. The last happy one she could remember. The last one before her
father started taking those extended business
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trips. Before her mother started to fade away. Ariana had never taken the antique necklace off, as
if it could somehow tie her to those happier times.
"Whoops, sorry!" A drunk junior in a rumpled Betsey Johnson dress knocked into Ariana on the
way to the bathroom, giggling and slurring and groping with her acne-scarred date.
With a blink, Ariana returned to her body, and the sounds of the ballroom rushed her ears at full
volume. The band was playing "All I Want for Christmas," and a girl let out a shrill shriek as her
boyfriend lifted her off her feet and spun her around. Ariana sighed and pushed away from the
cool comfort of the column, giving her teeth a quick flick with her tongue to clear away any
wayward lip gloss as she wove her way through the crowd.
As she slowly approached her table, Ariana took a mental picture of her friends. The Billings Girls.
She loved to watch them from afar, study their mannerisms, note their tics and gestures and
habits. More than anything, she loved when she caught them doing something gross or stupid
when they thought no one was watching. Like picking their teeth, or adjusting their boobs in their
dresses, or checking out cute-but-dorky Drake boys from across the room. She liked to make
mental lists of their imperfections. It made her feel less imperfect herself.
Of course, finding imperfections among the Billings Girls was never easy. It took a practiced eye.
They were, after all, Easton royalty. Which meant that Ariana was Easton royalty. She had been
ever since September, when she'd taken her place as a junior member of Easton's most elite dorm.
Now the Billings Girls, the ones her mother
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had always talked about as if they were characters in a fairy tale, were her dorm mates. Her