“Did I hear you say Marc Jacobs?” shouted Dauntay Shalom. His cultured, effeminate, horrified voice rang out from the cigarette-littered front porch of a brick house in Chico. “I don’t give a shit!”
Only Dauntay was on the porch, his angular eyebrows casting streetlight shadows over a lean face. Partiers stumbled past below.
“Keep having your beer conversations about Marc Jacobs! I don’t give a shit! I’m a diva! I’m a fashionista! I don’t give a shit! Report cards? Students? Fuck that, I’m a diva!”
He fell silent and took a long pull from his cigarette, his manicured hand shaking.