He pulls Maxine and Lena into quick hugs, careful not to crease their dresses. “Oh, I missed you,” he says to both of them and they hug him back, speaking about how dearly he’s been missed as well. Oliver was Haxahaven’s boy. The one boy we were allowed. He fit himself into our routines on weekends away from school. Haxahaven felt most like a real home when he was there. I miss watching him play cards with Maxine as the sun would set or pouring orange juice at breakfast for the little girls. His absence has loomed large these past few months.

It’s a deeply heartwarming reunion until Maxine swats him square on the chest. “Oliver Reginald Callahan, I can’t believe you tried to grow a mustache.” She chastises him even though he’s clean-shaven now. She howled when I told her of it earlier this evening while we were dressing.

“That’s not my middle name, Maxine.”

“You’re missing the point entirely.”

“I thought I’d look handsome with it. Dignified!”

A shorter boy I hadn’t noticed before pops out from behind Oliver. “Do you not think this man is dignified?” he asks in a thick French accent. The boy is shaped like a barrel, squat and broad chested. His brown hair is parted down the middle, revealing a face with ruddy cheeks and a kind smile.

“Ladies,” Oliver says.

“Not a lady!” Maxine interjects.

“Ladies, Maxine,” Oliver continues, “meet Pascal!” He gestures to the boy. “Pascal is my friend from school and my generous, unofficial Parisian guide.” Pascal grins at the praise. “And Pascal, these are my friends Maxine, Lena, and… Frances.”

He hesitates on my name like he wishes to say something more.

Pascal nods politely at each of us, extending his hand for a handshake. “A pleasure to meet you. Oliver speaks highly of you.”

“Pascal, if you’re the one encouraging our dear Oliver’s sartorial choices, I’m afraid I can’t say I’m pleased to meet you,” Maxine replies.

Pascal clutches his chest with mock horror. “I’m wounded, ma cherie!”

“No scaring him off yet, Maxine. The night is young.”

Oliver pulls a wad of francs from an engraved silver money clip in his breast pocket and pays the price of admission for all five of us, 1.25 francs a person. He hands it over like it’s nothing.

A man in a top hat and ridiculous devil’s mask waves us in, chuckling at our stunned expressions.

Inside the club is chaos wrapped in velvet and doused in candle smoke.

There’s a brass band playing somewhere. The bass thrums in my veins right through to the tips of my fingers.

All around us people are dancing, limbs and noise everywhere. Lena, Maxine, and I take identical pauses, our eyes wide at the sight of it all.

Oliver just smiles like he’s been here one hundred times before. He probably has been.