The French Market reminded me a bit of Europe, with the open-air stalls and the handmade souvenirs. It’s like an overpriced flea market without any air conditioning, I thought, haughtily.

There was something awful in the air, a mixture of old burlap, meat, and funeral flowers.

“Wait up.” Mara again. Great.

“Tinsley and Rosalee spotted a palm reader,” Mara said, ducking under the tent to join me. There were stalls and tables packed in tightly; people selling a collection of shit. Graphic T-shirts, handmade soaps, and candles. Bottles full of sand, beaded jewelry, and bags of homemade sweets.

“I don’t want to get my palm read,” I said, stopping at one of the stalls with Christmas ornaments made out of blown glass. The woman behind the table flashed a big smile, showing off a mouthful of metal piercings. Just what I always wanted. Ornaments in April, I thought, shrilly. Mom would have hated this place. Good thing she hung back at the mansion with Georgia.

“Me neither,” Mara, said, falling in step beside me. We strolled through the market, which was remarkably crowded, even for a Saturday morning, during non-carnival season. I hadn’t expected to see so many people.

As I glanced at their faces, I realized I couldn’t tell them apart—locals from tourists.

This seemed like the sort of place you could blend right in and disappear, but also find community if you really wanted to.

Perhaps when Mom was gone, I could move to a place more like this one. Streets filled with noise and color, unlike our secluded farm roads back home where everybody knew each other. A place filled with people and things to do. A place where Mom wasn’t around judging my every move.

I stopped at a table with a cooler of soft drinks and paid four bucks for a bottle of Coke. I was still suffering from a mild hangover, less from the alcohol itself—I was used to that—and more from mixing it with too many pills. I held the cool soft drink to my cheeks and forehead, rolling it around.

“Want a soda?” I said, turning to look over at Mara who was bent over a table inspecting a dainty piece of beaded jewelry, while chatting amiably with the young man working behind the stall.

She glanced over, pointed at my drink, and rolled her eyes.

“Thank you,” she told the boy and walked back over to me.

“What do you say we get out of here and get a real drink?” she suggested.

“Isn’t it kind of early?” I said, looking around at all the strangers. It was early, but it wasn’t too early for me. Not too early to get a little buzz going…