Chapter 1 - Friday After Five
This is a brand‑new project I’m still drafting, and I’ll be rolling it out at a steady pace. I’m very open to thoughtful feedback as the story grows. This is a true passion project, and I really hope you enjoy walking through 1928 Dallas with Blanche and Betty.
The city wakes up, Betty arrives crooked and chaotic, and the girls step into the night like they own it.
Blanche POV
Friday at Five in Dallas is when the city streets start hopping. Businesses are locking up, streetcars are full, and the sidewalks start to buzz with people ready to embrace the nightlife and forget the week. I am waiting in the lobby, of course. I am always waiting on my chaotic, crazy Betty. I was born less than fifteen minutes before her and have been waiting at least that long ever since.
She is not my blood sister, but we have been neighbors and friends since birth. We went to the same school and were expelled together and that is just the way we like it. You might say we are not conformists, and that would not be wrong. Betty might have cornered the market on coloring outside the lines of conformity. I make every attempt to stay in the lines, but inevitably Betty drags me out every time. I will never admit it to her. I love every second. But then I do not have to admit it. She knows. We are that close.
The lobby smells faintly of floor polish, old paper, and cigarettes. The brass doors of the elevator gleam like they were freshly polished. I smooth my skirt and check my curls in the lobby’s mirrored wall. They have stayed neatly pinned despite the switchboard headset, just the way I like them. I fold my hands again and wait.
The elevator dings and out comes my girl.
Her hat is a bit crooked, the seam of one of her stockings is askew, and her T‑straps click a little too loudly on the marble floor. Her ruby red dress hugs her waist and flares at the hips, swaying with every step. Her curls bounce like they have their own agenda, and her lipstick is the kind of red that makes men forget their wives’ names. All five foot five of her screams trouble. She spots me waiting in my usual place and flashes her signature trouble has arrived smile. It is the smile of a girl who will have fun getting us into trouble tonight.
“Boss chasing you around the desk again?” I ask, glancing at her hat.
“Of course,” she answers.
“Did he catch you?” I follow up, glancing at her seams.
“Not today, he didn’t.” She winks at me as she loops her arm into mine and adjusts her hat with the other. The seam she ignores because she is Betty.
“Betty, you could make the devil himself blush.” I shake my head and squint at her.
She throws me a wicked grin, and we slip out onto the street. A streetlight flickers overhead, casting long, strange shadows that stretch and snap back with each pulse of light. A Model A Ford rolls past, its engine rumbling low, headlights cutting through the dusk as we pass the Magnolia Building, its limestone façade catching the last of the sun. Men spill out of its doors loosening their ties, trading the day’s ledgers for the promise of liquor and jazz. The whole block hums like it is shaking off its manners for the night.
The air outside is warm and carries the sharp tang of hot metal from the streetcar line and magnolia trees. People move past us in a steady stream. Men in rolled up dress shirts already shedding their suit jackets. Women brush past us in dresses that still hold the shape of the day, leaving behind the scent of jasmine and powder. The city feels alive, like it is waking up just because we stepped into it.
Betty walks with a bounce that makes her curls shift and her skirt swing, drawing the eye of many a passing gentleman. Her stride is longer than mine which pulls me along. Years of practice have given me the muscle memory to match her. I joke to myself it helps to keep me thin.
A handsome young man leaning casually against a lamppost catches my eye. His tie is loosened, his sleeves rolled up exposing strong arms. He tosses me a smile so warm it steals my breath. I look away too quickly, pretending I did not notice. Betty notices everything. She bumps my hip and smirks. “Oh, he's swell,” she murmurs. “You’re allowed to look.”
The streetcar rattles past us, spitting sparks from the overhead line and scattering gold across the brick street like someone striking a match. A man leans out and whistles. Betty waves as though she knows him. There is every chance she does. Betty collects attention the way other girls collect costume jewelry. She seldom keeps them long, but she keeps them entertained. I collect details and information. We make a good pair.
We round the corner toward Elm as a neon sign starts buzzing to life. Music is already spilling out of clubs even though the sun has not completely set. The city hums with the promise of a night that could go anywhere, and it usually does. A saxophone wails from somewhere down the block. A trumpet answers. Laughter rises from a doorway ahead. Someone calls out to a friend across the street. It blends like a symphony into the kind of evening that lists a million different possibilities.
A woman ahead of us suddenly stops as though someone called out to her. I glance around and see no one looking her way. The moment passes and she moves on. A shiver runs down my spine that I cannot explain. Maybe it is just the way she seems out of step with the rest of the city.
Betty squeezes my arm. “Ready to tear up the town?”
I mentally shake off the weird feeling and smile. “I’m always ready.”
“Best hurry so we can get our booth, and you're in for a surprise tonight.”
The night is young and so are we. There is a dance floor calling our name and a corner booth with a bottle of gin tucked discreetly under the table for us.
We step into the evening like it belongs to us. Maybe it does.
If you are interested in the back story of Blanche and Betty being expelled, you can find those details on the Community section of Ream at https://reamstories.com/cleodenton. That content is free to followers.
© 2026 Cleo Denton. All rights reserved. No part of this work may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means without prior written permission from the author.
