Illustration by Thisbe Wu
This piece was a joint winner in the fiction category of the 2025 Wallace Prize.
Pale steam floated up through the grate onto the sidewalk. Peter, clad in carefully tailored white tie, vaulted down from a black SUV and took a few steps towards the Metropolitan Club’s iron gate, its curved spears gilded at the tips. Grace Murphy, following Peter, lifted the skirt of her snow-white dress, almost tripping on her way down. Mr. and Mrs. Murphy came out after her. Grace flashed Peter a dopey look, smiling at him with slightly crooked teeth. He was to escort her into womanhood.
“By the way, a bunch of us are hosting an afterparty.” Grace was referring to herself and some of her friends from high school, who were also debutantes. “You should come. We rented out a bar a few blocks away.”
The two were only vaguely friends, and Peter had been surprised when Grace invited him a few months ago. At first, he had wanted to refuse. Grace wasn’t all that pretty, and he couldn’t imagine making conversation with her for an entire night. But, after a girl and three frats rejected him in late October, he reconsidered it. Grace deserves a chance, he thought, and he didn’t have anything else planned for winter break. He texted her back: “So sorry I didn’t see this / I would love to come.”
He resented the hassle the whole affair had turned out to be. Only a week before, he had learned that his prom tuxedo wasn’t appropriate for the debutante ball; he needed white tie, not black tie. He sheepishly asked his parents to buy him a set, and they shamed him into thinking that shelling out $1,500 at a moment’s notice was a burden for them. (It was not.) There was a practice reception, practice dinner, and information session all the night before, and then, the next day, drinks with Grace’s family, a photo session, and then, finally, the ball.
They passed through the gate and into the courtyard, where parents, debutantes, and escorts were gathering in a throng. The club’s pallid marble facade framed a pair of dark mahogany doors. Inside, a staircase rolled down like a tongue, flanked by red-velvet wallpaper, artificial shrubs, and metal handrails. Grace exchanged hellos with former classmates, reciting obscenely cheery “How are you settling in”s and “You look so gorgeous”s and “I’m unbelievably thrilled to see you”s.
Watching her, Peter writhed in contempt at her high-pitched voice and flattering gesticulations. Could anyone actually be this excited to see someone else? He glanced around at unfamiliar faces with pasty, sunken cheeks, laughing and babbling, and a heat wave radiated along his skin. His shoulders tensed. Even though nobody was bothering to look at him, he still felt foreign eyes all over his body.
“What’s the bar?” asked Peter, just to stave off their silence.
“It’s called Joe’s,” Grace answered. Peter didn’t have a follow-up. Grace glanced at her “Mother and Father,” as she sarcastically referred to her parents. “I’m not into this ritual,” she admitted. “Don’t you think it’s so sexist? My parents said if I didn’t debut, they wouldn’t take me to Paris.”
“Poor you.”
“You’re right. I want to go to Paris,” Grace conceded. “But I could do chores or babysit. I cannot imagine why they care about this so much.”
“I’m getting hungry.”
“Dinner’s in an hour.”
“Do you know everybody here?” Peter asked.
“Most of them. I’m not friends with everyone.” Grace spoke casually, not at all comforting Peter.
The two made it to the staircase, and Peter extended his hand, palm up. He trembled, just a little. She took his hand, grasped his white cotton glove with hers, and they climbed the steps together.
The Great Hall was a square. Sloping down on opposite sides, marble staircases lined the walls and converged at a landing near the bottom. Sapphire stained-glass windows loomed above, backlit and coating the room in royal blue light. A solitary lantern, brilliant and caged in gold ribs, was suspended from an ornately carved dark-wood ceiling. A live band drummed out jazz. A scent of whiskey and lavender wafted through the air.
Grace bolted in pursuit of a gin and tonic, and Peter lost her in the crowd. As he searched for Grace, someone else caught his eye. He stared at another debutante, clad in frosting-white silk, her eyes flitting like a doe’s. Her figure was thin, a matchstick dipped in milk, and her neck, long and smooth, curved up like a swan’s. Her golden hair was tied up into what looked like a choux-pastry puff, perched on the top of her head. Standing still, he tracked her around the room with his eyes for a few minutes, having forgotten about Grace. The chattering of the crowd had faded out of his ears. These girls really are getting debuted into womanhood, aren’t they? Peter thought. How perfect. As if drawn by the gravitational pull of a celestial body, he sauntered in her direction.
“I got you champagne.” Grace stopped him and held out a bubbling flute while clutching a stubbier glass in her own hand. Peter kept staring at the girl with the swan neck until Grace nudged him with the flute. “I think you look very cute in your garb.”
“Who’s that?” Peter gestured across the room.
“Priss Carrington. A WASP straight from the nest. Her ancestors are dukes. Her dad’s a big private equity guy. Mom graduated from Harvard and now runs Spence’s parent’s association.” Grace scoffed.
Peter didn’t absorb what she was trying to convey, and the image of Priss only became holier.
“Thanks.” Peter grabbed the flute.
“I just saw my middle school enemy. I heard she was in rehab.”
“Okay.”
“I said hi to her. I felt bad. Her parents were never around.”
“Sure.”
“I felt bad. Are you enjoying yourself?”
Peter was burning. Every moment spent with Grace was one not spent with Priss—one where Priss spoke with another man. His fingers spasmed, and he was bulging out of his white-tie tails, which were crimping his neck and binding his wrists. A drop of sweat dripped into his champagne.
“Yeah. Hey, I see someone I recognize. Be right back.”
“Who is it—”
But Peter was gone. Finally escaping Grace, he locked in on Priss like a missile, barreling through the crowd between them. But, just twenty feet shy of his goal, he felt a hearty blow to his right shoulder. Peter stumbled a little, turned, and recognized the person who had punched him: Daniel. He stood about half a foot taller than Peter, the same as in high school.
“I didn’t know you’d be here,” said Daniel, bringing Peter in for a brief bear hug.
“I’m with Grace.”
“I’m escorting Emily.”
How’d Daniel swing that? Peter wondered.
“Dude, we look so gay,” he remarked. He glanced over Daniel’s shoulder and spotted Priss walking away from where she had been standing. Who was that guy she was just talking to?
“It’s so nice to see everyone back,” Daniel said. “I love it when people dress up.”
“I know nobody,” Peter replied. He had felt an initial relief that Daniel was here, someone he knew. His lie to Grace ended up partially true. But that relief had quickly dissipated. He was worried that Priss would suddenly see him, approach him, talk to him, and for some reason he couldn’t muster that kind of strength right now. Thinking for a moment, Peter figured that Daniel was making him nervous. He always seemed small next to Daniel, physically speaking, and it didn’t help that Daniel’s facade always looked so placid and confident.
“D’you rush a frat?” Daniel asked.
“Nah. I wasn’t into it. Did you?”
“K-Sig. I love it, man. Great group of guys, super fun parties. Feel like I’m at home there.”
Peter swallowed a thick glob of spit. There was no way Daniel could be enjoying college this much, he thought. Who could find “home” in a semester?
“Hey, I’m not sure if you know about, um…”
“About what?”
“Uhh—well, I’m sure it’s fine that I’m telling you this.” Peter took a long sip of champagne, drawing out the pause. “There’s an afterparty, if you didn’t know. Everyone’s coming. I’m sure you can sneak in.”
“Really? I’ll ask Emily about it.”
Peter smirked. He thought Daniel looked like an ox. Disgusting and uncouth. His white tie was clearly rented.
“Take a look at that girl. To your left.” Peter pointed to the corner of the hall where Priss was standing.
“Yeah?”
“Isn’t she hot?” asked Peter.
“She’s pretty.”
“A fine, fine thing.”
Daniel didn’t respond.
“How’s Emily?” Peter added, eager to revive the conversation.
“Good. Sorry, I see someone I know off there. It’s good seeing you, man.” Daniel delivered a parting pat on the shoulder and walked off. Finally, the path to Priss was clear. Knowing people was such a burden, Peter thought. It was labor. He remembered the first time he met Daniel, the first day of high school. For what felt like minutes, they played one-on-one basketball for an uninterrupted hour. Their friendship formed so naturally. They spent every minute of freshman year together.
What happened to them two? Daniel made varsity basketball, while Peter didn’t and ended up dropping the sport—in Peter’s mind, that definitely changed things. But, most of all, Daniel ultimately resented Peter for being rich. He never said that, but Peter knew it. What control did he have over his wealth? Or Daniel’s lack thereof? In fact, he felt poor among their peers at Riverdale, whose families had second and third houses in the Hamptons and Aspen and “summered” in Europe. There existed far better targets for Daniel’s communist antipathy than him. Peter believed that the specific circumstances of his own birth caused him great misfortune.
Darting towards Priss, her back facing him, Peter began scheming what he’d say to her. “Do we know each other?” or maybe “Have we met?” Something to set the stage. “Are you Priss Carrington by chance?” No, too bold. The approach was to be delicate. “What’s your name?” Something as simple as that? “You beautiful goddess, how might I brighten your night?” Probably not.
“Excuse me, all debutantes and fathers, please come to the back,” said a matronly voice over the speakers. The music had stopped. The debutantes and their fathers started scrambling. Priss ended the conversation she was having and went off with a few girls. She passed right by Peter, her dress grazing his shin. She didn’t look at him. Peter’s chest pounded like a bell.
The mothers, escorts, and guests all faced the stairs in anticipation. About fifteen minutes after the announcement, the lights dimmed, and the same matronly voice introduced the ceremony, gave thanks to sponsors, and finally started the debuts. Girls and fathers, arm in arm, began descending the stairs. At the landing where the staircases converged, each girl-father pair paused, illuminated by a bright spotlight, and waited for the voice to announce their names. Then, the girls parted from their fathers and lined up on the left-hand side of the staircase. Grace and her father descended in the middle of the order. Her father, who looked like a melting marshmallow, smiled ear to ear. While they were in the spotlight, he whispered something to Grace, and she chuckled. She didn’t look bad, Peter thought. Her charcoal hair sat neatly on her shoulders. Her smile was nice.
Priss walked down the stairs with her father, a gaunt, placid man. They didn’t look at each other. Only at that moment did Peter get an unobstructed view of Priss. Large and buggy, her eyes motionlessly gazed into some vanishing point. Her cheekbones, jutting out, cast shadows on her emaciated face. Her skin was so smooth that Peter imagined if he poked a needle into it, it would crinkle like taut saran wrap.
The ceremony lasted ten minutes. There: these nineteen-year-old girls were now society women on the marriage market. Dinner was called.
Peter found Grace and her family in the dining room, already sitting down. A row of thin arched windows, draped with blood-red curtains, looked out onto the street. Above, the ceiling featured three neoclassical frescoes painted in long ovals, heavenly depictions of white angels, fluffy clouds, and bronze harps.
“So, Peter, where are you from?” Grace’s mother asked. They were making their way through the appetizer: a luscious truffle risotto, sprinkled with verdant parsley and creamy to the fork touch.
“I grew up here in New York.”
“I mean your parents.”
“They immigrated when they were young.” Peter was used to these questions.
“Inspiring! It seems they did well for themselves. Raised an excellent son. You know, our family isn’t so far removed, either. Maybe two generations from Derry. Scott?”
“Yes, I think that’s right—two,” Grace’s dad confirmed. The conversation wandered to another topic.
“I’m sorry,” Grace whispered to Peter.
“I don’t mind.”
The risotto was taken away; cuts of seared filet mignon on a buttery pomme-purée mound were delivered shortly after.
“Just wondering, do you know if Priss is coming to the afterparty?” asked Peter.
“I’m sure we invited her. Why?”
“I’m just wondering.”
“Okay,” Grace replied, in a tone that indicated she knew Peter wasn’t just wondering. She slumped back into her chair and sipped her Negroni, which was her fifth drink of the night. They continued eating.
“I’m not going to finish my filet, if you want it,” Grace offered. Peter gladly took the plate with two-thirds of the meal left and stacked it on top of his own finished plate. “I love men,” said Grace. “Their stomachs are black holes.”
“You’re the hungriest after you’ve just eaten.” Peter also had the magical sense that if he ate quickly enough, they all would go to the afterparty faster, and he could access Priss sooner.
As he was forking up his second helping of red meat, Peter peered through a rift in the curtain, which exposed a slim rectangle of the darkened sidewalk. A man, wearing a beanie and smothered in old, stained coats, walked by in a shiver. He descended into a subway stop, entering the pool of decrepit yellow light emanating from underground. Peter watched the man until he went out of view. He turned away from the window, eating the filet even faster than before.
Dinner ended in relative silence. Grace picked up a Manhattan to top off her drinking at the Metropolitan Club—there would be more at Joe’s, she assured everyone—and had to use the bathroom before they left. Peter waited by the coat check, where people were wrapping themselves in checkered cashmere scarves and buttoning on tawny wool coats. He spotted Daniel by the door and Priss back by the threshold leading into the Great Hall. In his mind, they were the two moons of his night, orbiting around him.
“I’m ready.” Grace had come out of the bathroom. They left together.
Joe’s Bar sported an orange neon sign above its doors. Inside, the decor was going for a Western-saloon-chic and had cheap wooden tables scattered throughout. Even though the bar was only a few blocks away, Grace and Peter arrived in an Uber to avoid the cold. After flashing their fake IDs to the bouncer, they descended into the shadowy, damp basement that was rented out. Only a few cove lights lit the hazy space. Debutantes and escorts began filling in, re-exchanging hellos and loosening buttons.
It wasn’t long before Peter noticed Daniel climbing down the stairs into the afterparty. He was chatting with some guy Peter didn’t recognize. Peter rolled his eyes. Why would Daniel have actually taken up the offer?
“You made it,” Peter said to Daniel, having approached him despite his disappointment. He could afford to be friendly, just for a bit.
“It’s getting packed,” replied Daniel.
“Dude, I think I’m scoring tonight.”
“That girl? Prue?”
“Priss, yeah. I don’t think she’s here yet. We hit it off.”
“Do what you want,” said Daniel dismissively, glancing around the crowd. For some reason, Peter was instantly transported back to high school. How many times had he talked to Daniel looking off somewhere else?
“What the fuck is wrong with you?” Peter shouted. Even though he spoke spontaneously, out of a rageful instinct, he didn’t regret it. He couldn’t actually afford to be friendly for that long. “What the fuck are you doing here? Nobody wants you here.”
“Are you okay?”
“Why’d you stop being friends with me?”
“No way you’re asking me that right now.”
“You’re such a prick,” said Peter. Daniel stared at him with genuine incredulity.
“You’re not actually mad about this,” he replied.
“Yes, I am!” Peter couldn’t imagine why Daniel was being so difficult. Couldn’t he just curse him out? That would be preferable.
“I think you’re jealous and insecure and whatever,” said Daniel, “and you can’t express it, and you’re pinning it on me.”
“What?”
“But I don’t get it,” Daniel continued. “You’ve lived with a silver spoon up your ass your whole life. The world could be set on fire, and you’d be fine.”
Peter gritted his teeth, and his nostrils flared like a bull’s.
“You didn’t answer my question,” Peter blurted.
“Did you think we were that close?”
As soon as Peter heard that, he thrust his right fist at Daniel’s face, aiming for his cheek. His suit was constraining his torso, so his first attempted hit didn’t touch Daniel at all. He shuffled around in his white tie for a moment. Daniel wasn’t reacting, only confused at Peter’s movement. When he finally freed himself, Peter launched a lousy swing at Daniel, who easily blocked it with his forearm. Peter desperately grasped at Daniel again, but Daniel stopped him by holding his shoulders and easily shoved him aside. He turned away and walked off, not offering a parting word. The fight was so meager that nobody really noticed; perhaps that was the most disappointing part for Peter.
Collecting himself, Peter found Grace sitting alone in a booth and joined her. Joe’s had become crowded, loud, and steamy. Priss hadn’t come yet, as Peter was keeping track.
“What did you talk to Daniel about?” Grace asked.
“Nothing.”
“Are you okay?”
“I was never really friends with him.” Peter didn’t want to ask Grace if she saw their fight, and he certainly didn’t want to explain any of it. He stared off blankly, feeling Grace’s gaze still on him. On the one hand, the situation deeply embarrassed him, but on the other, he had always wanted to say those things to Daniel. A scenario that he had been constructing in his mind for years was realized just now—even his failure to land a hit on Daniel, his physical inferiority, had been envisioned. He knew that he would explode, then lose, and then wallow.
“You’re in love with Priss,” Grace said.
“What?” Peter whipped around, feigning ignorance and surprise.
She didn’t buy it at all. “You couldn’t stop watching her all night.”
“So you’ve been watching me watch her?”
“Please stop.”
“Nobody has said anything about it.”
“Don’t act like you aren’t brazen.”
“You’re wrong,” said Peter.
Grace’s eyes drooped exhaustedly, and her words were spilling out like gasoline. She couldn’t control herself, Peter judged.
While slipping in her seat, Grace grabbed Peter’s shoulder and crawled up onto him. She grasped his hand with hers and leaned close. Peter shot her a confused expression. Past her shoulder, he could make out other escorts and debutantes drawing closer to one another, dancing intimately and caressing each other. He saw Priss walk in.
“Kiss me,” said Grace.
“What the fuck?” Peter stared at her crooked teeth.
“I’m taking a big risk here. You and all.” Still glancing over Grace’s shoulder, Peter saw Priss by the bar ordering a drink. “You’re staring at that bitch right now,” continued Grace. “I’m sorry. She’s lovely. Not a bitch.”
“Grace.”
“You don’t want to kiss me, do you?”
“No,” Peter replied.
“Nobody likes you. I took a big risk just inviting you. I always imagined you had a soft side somewhere. Some chivalry.”
“You’re very drunk.”
“I just realized something. I should have never felt bad for you.” She patted Peter on the cheek, held his gaze for a second, caught her breath, and then stumbled off. Peter watched as she shoved her way through the crowd. While touching the spot on his cheek where Grace had touched, he saw her join a group of her high-school friends, who hugged her and took her in. What would they say about him? He recalled high school: Grace had always treated him kindly, but Peter had always figured that she was a kind person in general. Had she felt that way towards him for a long time? How long? Since when? Was that what her invitation to this debutante ball was all about? Was she thinking of him while she was at college? Not anger, but an uncomfortable tenderness radiated along this skin.
Priss was still at the bar. Did she see them? Surely not. Well, hopefully not. At least she didn’t see his and Daniel’s “fight.” Still thinking about Grace, Peter bolted across the room, focusing his eyes on Priss’s swan neck. Grace’s advance had made him nauseated and paranoid.
“Hey. Hey!” Peter began shouting as he got closer. Priss turned around, confused. She made eye contact with him, for no other reason than that his voice was the loudest. Tripping a little bit, Peter grabbed the surface of the bar and stabilized himself. He caught his breath and looked at Priss, who seemed concerned.
“Are you all right?” Priss asked. Her voice was light like a bird’s chirp, just how he imagined it.
“Yes, thank you.” He shook himself a bit and smiled. “I don’t think we’ve met?”
“I’m Priss.” She looked away towards the bartender, seeing if her drink was ready. Peter couldn’t believe he was already losing her attention. He needed to lock it down.
“I’m Peter.”
“Nice to meet you. I hope you have a nice Christmas.” She picked up her drink and walked away, not bothering to look back.
Bitter saliva flooded Peter’s mouth. He felt like a fifty-ton meteor had hit his chest. As he watched Priss leave him, his vision swirled. His stomach churned. And then, like a crashing wave, he vomited all over the floor. He looked at the green-brown puddle of masticated risotto and filet mignon that he had spewed out. For a moment, everyone in the room shut up and stared at him. His vision went black.
When he came to, Peter found himself in a booth, some vomit still coating his lips. His vision began unblurring, and he glanced around the room. By the jukebox, Priss was talking with Daniel, leaning over him, massaging his muscular shoulder with her hand. Daniel’s arm arched around Priss’s waist. On the opposite side of the room, Grace was still talking with her friends, laughing and smiling. He felt poor.