“ ‘Lovely woman’ is how you describe someone with a pleasant personality, not a beauty. And that hair!” Dorsey chuckled to himself and held his hands out around his head. “David, do you forget I’ve kissed Ms. Venezuela?”

Liza gagged. This dude is really feeling himself, and Mr. I-only-kiss-supermodels feels some kind of way about my hair? Typical Eurocentric beauty standards.

David shook his head. “You are a snob, Fitzgerald.”

“Don’t give me those big baby blues. I am a realist. These girls are looking for their next meal ticket.”

“The women at the country club are doing the same,” David shot back. Dorsey was thoughtfully silent.

A student’s tuba connected with Liza’s backside then, and she jumped, thinking it was a fresh schoolboy. This, unfortunately, put her directly in the line of sight of Dorsey Fitzgerald. She smoothed her hair self-consciously.

Breathe.

She was making her way over to him before her brain registered the movement.

“It’s called a twist-out,” Liza offered, patting her coils once again. She was unsure why—with livelihoods on the line—she started her tirade by defending her hair, but she didn’t want to lose momentum. Her voice was buoyant with false confidence. “And it’s magnificent.” She flashed her phone. “As of thirty minutes ago, it has its own hashtag.” Liza looked down at her phone. “And I quote, ‘On God, Liza’s twist-out could solve world hunger.’ ”

David’s face grew red, and he clearly had the decency to be embarrassed that Liza had overheard the uncharitable things Dorsey said. She could see David mentally recapping the conversation while Dorsey squinted at her hair. David rushed to her side.

“I’m David. You’re Liza, right? Your sister is such a talented dancer.” He rolled his head at the word such for emphasis.

“Yes, we all are.” Liza’s barb went over David’s head, but Dorsey smirked and signaled for a server carrying plastic flutes of cheap champagne.

“And your hair,” David continued, “is glorious. Please don’t mind Fitzgerald.” He leaned in closer. “He’s not very sociable.”

“Nonsociable does not equal culturally insensitive,” Liza said with a huff, “and your friend can probably speak for himself.” She plastered on her prettiest smile. You’ve got bigger fish to fry tonight, girl. The entire neighborhood is watching. Don’t ruin it all over hurt feelings.

Dorsey took a long-stemmed glass from the server’s tray and took a quick swig. He then dug into his jacket pocket and pulled out the two rumpled ten-dollar bills Liza had given him and tipped the server, whose eyes widened as he gave Dorsey another drink.

“Did you say something about cultural sensitivity?” Dorsey’s eyes were a sharp indictment.

“You could have corrected me,” Liza said. Her eyes followed the crumpled bills out of sight.