“But Chris said the party was very informal. He told us to dress casually. Why are we going to get our hair done?” I asked Mom as we slid into the car waiting for us in front of The Carlyle on Saturday afternoon.

“What do men know about parties?” she huffed. Our usual driver, Benny, moved quickly to get behind the wheel but not before winking at me.

“It’s being held in his loft! He said he’s wearing pajamas!”

“You’re so gullible, Cherry. Listen, everyone involved with the show is going to be there. I’m not going to this party looking like I just fell out of bed. And neither is my daughter! Anyway, you’ll love the pampering you get at Christo’s. Didn’t you enjoy the day you spent at the spa?”

“I can’t believe it’s going to take us twenty minutes in traffic to move two miles crosstown, Mom.”

“It’s Manhattan, sweetie. Is it any worse than the freeway in L.A.?”

“This place. Christo On Fifth. Isn’t it supposed to be noted for working on curly hair? Neither of us has curly hair, Mom.”

“You need to get some wave in your hair, Cherry. Nothing worse than limp, straight, boring hair.”

“Are the producers paying for this?”

“Of course,” Mom sniffed.

Christo On Fifth was located on the third floor of a nondescript building north of Times Square, above a Chipotle Mexican Grill. After Mom and I stepped out of the elevator, we were immediately greeted by Christo himself, internationally renowned haircutter to celebrities from every corner of the world, having already established salons in Los Angeles, London, Paris, and Tokyo in his 25-year career. He enthusiastically bussed Mom on both cheeks and, when I flinched as he approached to do the same to me, he daintily shook my hand instead.

“Bashful beauty, isn’t she?” Christo commented as he smiled at me. “We’re going to make your flaming red hair literally illuminate the room. You’ll be the belle of the ball tonight!”

“It’s just a cocktail party in an artist’s loft—”

“Christopher Chang! Ah, yes…” He turned to one of his assistants. “Cecile, please give me this month’s Vogue.”

“Mrs. Warren is reading it right now in her chair,” Cecile responded.

“I’m sure she won’t mind if we borrow it for a moment? Please…”

Cecile swiped the magazine right from under Mrs. Warren’s nose, muttering apologies. She handed it to Christo, who paged through it until he reached a layout of photos. Turning it toward Mom and me, he stabbed the pages with his index finger.

“I’d love to do his hair. Perhaps you can put in a word?”

“I’m good friends with his sister. I’ll tell her you’re interested in his hair,” I offered.

Christo clapped his hands together. “Thank you, dear girl. Now, there’s going to be a short wait so please have a seat and tell my girl what we can get you. Coffee, tea, wine?”

“You know what I’d like, Christo. That special Greek iced coffee I had last time in your L.A. salon. That was yummy!” Mom exclaimed.

“Of course, my father’s recipe. He always added a little honey to an ordinary frappe. You too, my little kopela?”

“Do have one, Cherry. They’re delicious!” Mom advised. I nodded as Christo snapped his fingers at Cecile.

After having my hair washed, I was led back to my chair where Alexa, my stylist, stood, a big smile on her face.

“Where’s my mother?” I asked, searching the room.

“She went to the ladies’ room. It’s all that honey in the coffee, maybe.”

“I prefer the Frappuccino you get at Starbucks—”

“Don’t say that within Christo’s earshot. He claims they stole the recipe from his dad.” She leaned down close to my ear. “It’s nice to do a trans girl’s hair—”

I reflexively moved my head away. “How…how did you know? Do I look too…masculine?”

“No, not at all. You’re a beautiful girl, Cherry. Your mother told us…that is, she told Christo.”

“How could she? She’s so brain dead. Telling people like that.”

“Don’t worry. We have nothing against transwomen. Christo’s really cool with diversity and everything. In fact, I’m trans myself.”

“Have you had…you know…bottom surgery? I can’t yet. I’m only 16. 17 in September!”

“I’m saving up for it. Maybe in another couple of years. My health insurance won’t cover it.”

“Well, I would’ve never known, Alexa. And I’ve been told I have excellent trans-dar.”

“It must be wonderful having a supportive mother like you do,” Alexa said as she started combing my hair.

“Most of the time, I guess. We don’t really spend much time together. I go to boarding school back home in California.”

“All the same, at least your parents acknowledged your dysphoria and got you treatment. My father disowned me when I told him I wanted to major in cosmetology at the Fashion Institute. It took me six years to complete my B.A. I haven’t been back home, even for holidays, in all that time. My mother has to sneak out to the city to visit me every month or so.”

“That’s sad. I thought people in New York were a lot more liberal than that.”

“Not my dad. Not my dad. So, want some more wave in your hair?”

“Mom doesn’t want boring so, do your worst.”

---

Mom knocked on the door to my bedroom as I tried to find an outfit to wear to the cocktail party. As I searched through my practically empty closet, I made sure not to mess up my new hairdo or the makeup they’d put on my face at the salon, such as it was.

“Honey, I’ve got the perfect dress for you to wear. Open up.”

I swung the door open to see Mom holding out what looked like a green prom dress.

“Mom! I’m not going to the prom! Can’t I just wear the outfit I wore to dinner at the spa? I haven’t shaved my legs!”

“Nonsense, Cherry. Your grandfather has more hair growing out of his ears than you have on your legs. You have nothing to shave, lucky girl. Now, put this on.”

“Why do you get to wear an LBD and I have to wear a prom dress?”

“Do I have to remind you that you’re sixteen? Hurry up. Isn’t your boyfriend supposed to be here soon?”

“Anders isn’t my boyfriend, Mom. He’s on my film class team and I asked him to help me shoot some b-roll stuff for our project.”

“Is that girl Charlotte also coming along?”

“No, she couldn’t come. Something about going out of town with her family this weekend.”

“How convenient. Chop chop, sweetheart!”

Five minutes later, I heard the doorbell ring and Mom go to answer it.

“Anders, nice to see you again. Come in.”

“Hello, Ms. Brooks. Is Cherry ready? I saw your car service parked out front downstairs.”

“Cherry, your boyfriend’s here. Time to hit the road.”

Fuming at my mother, I rushed out of my bedroom and stalked into the living room, where Anders stood in his light blue shirt and dark blue dress slacks, holding his Canon XL2 digital camera.

“Wow, Cherry, you look beautiful. That dress is bonkers!” Anders was about to snap a photo when I held up my hand.

“What? This old thing?” I did a semi-pirouette and my skirt flounced saucily. I hoped my legs looked as smooth as Mom swore they were.

“I feel really under-dressed,” Anders said, lowering his camera. “You said it was kind of informal, Cherry. But you two look great.”

“I thought they’d have a DJ, not live music,” Anders remarked, as we spotted Carson and his band setting up their equipment against the far wall of Chris Chang’s loft, in front of one of Chris’ wall-size abstract paintings.

“It was my idea. Why have canned music when you can have real musicians playing real music.” I waved to Carson as he turned away from the wall. He waved back but returned to fussing with the knobs on his amplifier.

“So what’s the plan?” asked Anders.

“After the speeches and toasts, we should just wander about and take it all in visually. If I see an opening, maybe we can talk to some of the luminaries—”

“Like your mother?”

“Well, she’s one of the stars of the play. No interviews. That wouldn’t be kosher tonight. We’ll just capture some stray chatter. Who knows, we might not be able to use any of the footage from tonight.”

“Now behave yourselves, kids,” Danny advised us, Maia at his side.

They were both nattily dressed. Danny had even trimmed his beard. Maia wore something other than her usual t-shirt and sweatpants combo.

“And no alcohol for either of you. Just stick to soda.” Danny stopped after taking two steps away. He turned and raised his voice to get above the growing din. “Don’t try to interview anyone. It’s a party not a press conference.”

“Don’t take him literally, Anders. I’m sure we can ask some harmless questions, here and there. Let’s circle the room. I’ll stop you if there’s someone we can focus on.”

Chris Chang hushed the crowd, holding a glass of champagne in his hand. He was wearing pajamas, just as he had promised. It turns out he had just launched a men’s clothing line, featuring his artwork. Bob and Frank Balsam, the owners of the Netherlander Organization, several Broadway theaters, and the producers of “Blues For a Diva,” added their remarks and offered more toasts. Chris and the Balsams predicted the play would be the smash hit of the 2018-2019 Broadway season.

We circumnavigated the party several times as Anders’ camera captured candid interactions among the guests. A laugh here, a guffaw there. Some playful banter between the Balsams and members of the cast. Glasses were raised high and copious amounts of bubbly quaffed. Servers strolled the interstices of the crowd, offering appetizers on gleaming trays.

Of special note to me was seeing Mom and David in rapt conversation by one of the windows that framed a view of the Manhattan Bridge, its lights just now turning on as we approached 7PM. Perhaps her interlude with Trent was now over. And I could see Trent in another corner of the loft, surrounded by a gaggle of young women. They worked for either the Netherlander Organization or the ad agency Chris Chang was involved with.

In another corner of the loft, Chris was handing a glass of champagne to Annie Flaherty. Their eyes were only for each other. The evident magnetism between them was proof that I had some talent as a matchmaker. I searched the room for Philippa. She was sitting on a couch, sloshing her drink nervously as B-Loved was trying to put the moves on her. An unlikely couple, I’ll say.

I must have stood in place, lingering on the sight of Mom and David at the window, when Anders nudged my shoulder.

“Are we going to just circle around like sharks or should we go in for a kill? I thought you wanted to chat up some people.”

I broke myself out of my trance and pointed to a woman in a pantsuit, just finishing her chat with Maris Lafferty.

“That’s Leah Dalton!”

“Who?”

“Leah Dalton. She’s the podcaster who covers show business. You know, movies, TV, theater, the whole shebang. I guess they invited her to get some advance publicity for the play.”

Leah stood alone after Maris walked off. She looked like she was searching the crowd for a familiar face. Someone to speak to. Perhaps she’ll speak to us.

“Do we want to talk to her?”

“Sure, why not. It’ll blow up her ego even more than it already is. We could offer her our footage to stream on her podcast. That is, if she says anything halfway usable…”

“I’ll be right behind you,” Anders reminded me.

“Don’t get me in the shot, Anders. We just want soundbytes from her. Okay?”

“Shame not to have you in frame, Cherry. You look really nice.”

“Thank you, Anders, but I don’t think we need to see me on screen.”

“Ms. Dalton? Hello. I’m Cherry. That’s Anders behind the camera. We’re film school students, working on a class project. Can we get your observations about the party and/or the play that’s opening in September?”

She took another of her champagne and looked right into the lens of Anders’ camera.

“Normally, I don’t cover Broadway or any theater for that matter. My subs are not really into that stuff. ‘Hamilton’ was the exception to the rule and, frankly, my audience is not the target demo for ‘The Lion King’.”

She giggled into her glass.

“But I was very intrigued with the unusual casting for this play that’s part drama, part musical. First, you’ve got Trent Foster, of all people, in a lead role and he’s singing as well. Second, you’ve got Lulu Brooks and David Wetherell in lead roles. There’s a comeback story for both of them in this. I mean, come on, they haven’t had a hit film or TV series in this decade. Third, it’s being directed by Dan Dantley, a noted gay film director, who’s never worked in theater, and it’s written by his partner, Maia Everly, a transwoman! My god, what a hodge podge!”

“So why cover it?” I asked.

“It’s a trainwreck just waiting to happen. I give it a 50/50 chance to actually make it to opening night. There’ll be more drama offstage than on. Sorry, but that’s the truth.”

“Who invited you to this party?” I asked, hardly concealing my growing unease speaking to her.

“The PR firm that represents the Netherlander Organization. They thought they could expand their audience by having a podcaster spreading the word about the play. Same way they think having Chris Chang design their visual media will expand their audience. Good luck on that.”

“Why aren’t you live streaming this?”

“I don’t think my subs want to see me scarf up free eats at a cocktail party. I mean, if this was the after-party for the Grammys or the Oscars, maybe they’d be interested.”

“Well, thanks for talking to us, Ms. Dalton.” I turned away and Anders lowered his camera.

“I’ll tell you what, though, there’s one story that might interest my subs. I heard that Lulu Brooks possibly has a transgender child that she’s been hiding in a boarding school in California,” Leah said as we started to walk away.

“Why would that interest you or your viewers?” I asked, spinning around.

“Just another in a long line of scandals that Lulu’s been involved in. I mean, the marriages, divorces, child custody fights, backstage affairs with co-stars. She’s excellent fodder for social media. And, now, if she has a transgender child to boot. Wow, that’d boost my subs by hundreds of thousands if I got the scoop.”

“Even if that were true, wouldn’t you feel bad about doxing someone and inflicting unwanted attention on them, possibly making their lives unbearable?”

“As a journalist, I don’t judge the facts, I simply report them.”

“But there’s no journalistic value in reporting—”

At that moment, Chris Chang asked the crowd to quiet down. He was standing in front of Carson and his band.

“Friends and honored guests, it is my pleasure to introduce you to a band of young musicians my sister Philippa and her friend Cherry brought to my attention as the perfect performers to entertain you tonight. Here are The Vandal Savages!”

At the end of their twenty-minute set, Carson introduced their final number as a dedication to me. He pointed me out in the crowd. I tried to hide my face out of embarrassment as everyone applauded me.

“Hey, they’re good! Now that’s something my audience would really be interested in. Excuse me, I’m going to see if I can get them on my podcast. Nice talking to you. Good luck on your class project.” She fought her way through the crowd to reach the band, who were talking to Trent Foster.

“What a sleaze,” Anders remarked.

“Kids,” Mom called out to us. “David’s offering to drive us home. You too Anders.”

“No motorcycle tonight, David?”

“Change of pace, Cherry. In any event, I can only fit two on my bike. My car seats five comfortably. So, are you in?”

“Cherry! Cherry!” It was Carson, running toward me. “Trent really likes us and wants to set up an audition for his label here in New York. It’s all because of you! We just needed a chance and you gave it to us!”

“That’s great, Carson!” He hugged me ferociously. “I can’t breathe!”

“Sorry,” Carson released me. “Let’s celebrate! Shake Shack? Our usual?”

I looked at Mom, David, and Anders.

“Mom, can I?”

“You go ahead, Cherry. But don’t stay out too late.” She turned to Carson. “Play nice, okay?”

“Yes, Ms. Brooks, scout’s honor. We’re just gonna have some burgers and—”

“And curly fries!” I shouted. Carson and I high-fived each other. I saw Anders fidgeting with his camera. “Anders, we’ll go over the footage on Monday if you want. Call me. Okay?”

“Sure. Monday.”

“Well, lad, let’s go. I’m parked a couple blocks away. We’ll drop you off first.”

“That’s alright, Mr. Wetherell. I can take the subway home.”

“That’ll take almost an hour,” David pointed out.

“I take the subway all the time. It’s nothing. See you Monday, Cherry. You really looked nice tonight.”

“See you at home, sweetie.” Mom kissed me on my forehead before walking out with David.

“That’s so embarrassing. Sorry you had to see that. Mom thinks I’m 5 years old.”

Carson smiled. “So, what’s with you and this Anders dude? I think he’s stuck on you.”

“He’s somebody I sort of knew when I was someone else.”

Carson gave me a quizzical look.