“Detroit 1, Los Angeles 0” by A.C. Powell (fiction, ’10)

Detroit 1, Los Angeles 0

Before dinner, the clothes were brought out. Tomorrow, Milly Marsten was going to a red carpet thing. The red carpet of the year. The nomination had shocked the family, but Milly’s cousin Ruth had been more shocked than the rest. Milly was without levels, thought Ruth, and no one without levels ought to be vastly rewarded for doing practically nothing. And now, dresses were required. It was absurd. The nomination had shocked the world too. Perhaps others noticed that Milly was without levels. Nonetheless, tomorrow there would be photographers, a globe’s worth of watchers, and what Milly wore would be noticed and documented. Because of the red carpet, her family was up from La Jolla, and before anyone could bear to eat, they begged to see the dress.

Milly, who knew how to hold out just long enough not to look too eager, skipped down the long, white hallway, from her powder puff of a living room to her bedroom, where her closet thronged with dresses delivered by Neiman Marcus on Wilshire. The stylist had been there all afternoon and left drained, without a firm decision.

Back to the living room skipped Milly, cradling a stack of silks in candy colors, as well as a strand of something clear and bright. Into the crook of one elbow, she had locked a pair of silver shoes so potently metallic the vamps reflected her pink chin and open mouth, which hung open, panting decorously.

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