“If I see Teddy, I’m going to shake the truth out of him like lights out of a fucking Christmas tree,” I say. “You’re telling me he didn’t know?” We tried while we were getting ready. Marion dismissed it as a rumor, though she wouldn’t know the truth anyway, since she lives under a patchouli-scented rock, and Teddy’s calls rolled to voice mail.

Noni swallows hard. “Don’t say anything tonight. Okay? We don’t even necessarily know if it’s true. We don’t want to make a scene.”

“This isn’t my first goddamn rodeo, Manon,” I say, glugging down my champagne.

When we pull up a half hour later, Mama’s hyperenlarged face beams with posed humility on the screens above the car. Pixels of freckled skin shower the crowd with angelic light: Mireille Foix Hammick, the caption reads, Icon of Film.

Icon of Film. Ugh. My stomach burbles beneath the damn corset, and I burp champagne. Sort of a tribute to Mama, honestly, who drank her body weight in the other champion of French grapes (Burgundy) weekly. I open the door before I can second-guess myself—camera flashes blind me, shouts ring in my ears.

“Ready?” I say, turning back to face Noni. Her face is pale and drawn in the shadows of the backseat. Sometimes I forget how painful the spotlight is for her.

But you don’t know me if you think I can’t do this in my sleep.

Powered by a cool rush of adrenaline, I strut down the red carpet to the institute’s door, royal-waving (screw the lightbulb, touch the pearls) at faces erased by rows of enormous lights. I hold Noni’s hand in mine—it’s dripping wet—and I feed her all the energy I can. I smile as big as possible without my cheeks bursting and take in the scene: They made sure the Foix Institute suited Mama perfectly. Dressed in silk and dripping in lanterns, it exudes glamour. And the crowd: It’s too surreal an experience to not appreciate. I might be sort of famous online, but I’ve never seen clamoring, sweating throngs like this. One fan leaps out of the shadows wearing two white fox ears and a distorted mask of Mama’s face, the eyes alone punched out. Sharp-edged holes exposing two glassy beads.

“I miss her!” He moans, collapsing over a waist-high metal barrier. “She will return to me!”

Noni shrinks back just as he crumples, pushed aside by rabid teenage fangirls bearing signs with Mama’s face.

“They’re only children,” Noni whispers to me. “Why do they care?”