by Libba Bray
Mr. Garland made plans to come a little before the party to set up. I couldn’t wait to share the news. Back in the kitchen, I was greeted by an empty table and dirty dishes. I thought about calling Connor, but he’d said they were going to Spartanburg to visit his grandparents for the day. The news was burning a hole in my throat. I had to tell somebody.
I ran upstairs and set up my camera. When the red light flashed, I grinned into the lens. “Okay. So here’s an interesting turn of events. The local paper is going to cover me covering my class. Pretty cool, huh? Whoo-hoo!” That last part seemed so Campfire Girl. I’d erase it later and rerecord till it was perfect. Technically a documentary is supposed to be unrehearsed and totally real. Like a video diary. But I supposed it wouldn’t hurt to erase one small part. Especially if it made the filmmaker look like ah excitable dork.
I still had the urge to tell someone about the paper.
Carrying a peace pipe. (otherwise known as Oreo cookies), I drove over to Jared’s house. He was out front, mowing the lawn. For a second I didn’t recognize him. He had his shirt off. His chest had filled out. A lot. For a second I understood why Dee had the hots for him. Embarrassed, I honked the horn. “Hey, Jameson! Get dressed. You’re scaring the old ladies around here.”
Jared cut the motor and pulled a Spiderman T-shirt over his head.
“Foot in Mouth brings peace offering to Plays with Matches,” I said.
Over the proverbial cookies and milk, we made up. I told him all about the reporter, and he was jazzed for me. Jared hinted that he had big news, too. One of his comic books was going to be published, but that’s all he would tell me. I tried to tickle it out of him, but he wouldn’t budge. Mr. Jameson walked in mid-tickle fest.
“’Scuse me. Didn’t mean to interrupt anything.” He pretended to cover his eyes.
Jared jumped back. “I mowed the back. I’ve just got to finish the front.”
“Don’t worry about it, son. Paying attention to your girlfriend is more important, isn’t it, Kari?” He winked at me.
“Kari’s not my girlfriend,” Jared growled.
“We’re just good friends, Mr. Jameson,” I said, trying to help Jared out by emphasizing the “friend” part. Parents could be so obnoxious at times.
An idea struck me, and I seized my chance. “Actually, one of the school’s prettiest girls is, like, absolutely gaga over Jared.” Jared shot me a warning glance. I ignored it. It was my girl prerogative. Plus mentioning it in public was a good way to goad him into asking Dee out, which he was clearly too shy to do on his own. “She told me she hopes Jared will bring her to my party.”
Mr. Jameson was bating up the whole me-Tarzan, you-Jane thing. “Really? So, son. What are you waiting for?”
“I better finish the lawn before it gets too hot.” Jared put his milk glass in the sink.
“Listen, Jared. You take my advice. Call that girl and ask her out. She’s not gonna wait forever, you know.”
Jared snorted. “You’ve never met Dee.” He was in Obstinate Boy mode.
“I happen to know that your friend Mark is thinking of asking her out.” I was winging it, trying to create a little jealousy action.
“You see there?” his dad practically shouted. “Someone else is already in line, waiting to advance. Are you gonna stay in the foxhole, soldier? Or are you ready to move out?”
“Does everything have to be a military metaphor with you, Dad?”
Mr. Jameson filled the door frame. His lips went tight and flat as fishing line. After a minute he said, “Do what you want. I’m through giving advice.” He opened the fridge and pulled out some lemonade.
Jared let out a mournful howl. “Fine,” he said, grabbing the phone. “I’ll do it if it will make you guys happy. This could be the end of a beautiful friendship.”
“You don’t know that,” I said coyly.
Jared fixed me with a look I’d never seen before. “Don’t you know it never works out when friends date? You’ve been watching the wrong movies, Kar.”
I was fueling up for a battle when he laughed it off. He gave his best sexy eyebrow wiggle. “So. The newly scrumptious Miss Malloy wants me to put the swerve on her, eh? Live in fear, Greenway, live in fear.”
Mr. Jameson slapped Jared on the back. “There you go, son.”
I could literally hear Dee’s squeal of delight when Jared asked her to my party. It wasn’t a very romantic proposal. Just your basic nervous monotone delivered over the phone and all. It was Jared’s style. But hey—he’d asked her out! I was psyched.
After he hung up the phone, Jared brushed past me on his way back to the yard and his lawn-mowing duties. I followed him out.
“Hey, Jared—”
Jared answered by starting up the lawn mower to drown me out. “Sorry, Karnage. Gotta get a mow on.” He cut a clean line, heading toward the side of the house, and he didn’t look back.
chapter 12
Before I could say “major panic attack,” Saturday night had arrived with a beautiful white tent courtesy of Ever’s Hardware and a sound system Theo had found through mysterious channels. I didn’t care how he’d found it; I was just grateful. My little bro had even put on a tie for the event.
At seven-fifteen I took a deep breath and went to do a final check. I couldn’t believe how great everything looked. With a massive cleanup and some votive candles, our house could pass for livable. I’d tacked up big swaths of white paper to cover the yellow walls and left markers for everyone to write down their random thoughts. The food table had a whole House Beautiful vibe. Lila’s fat-bellied gods were doing duty as table supports. And Joe had come through with what looked like a yummy, nonfishy array of eats. Good, stick-to-the-ribs comfort food. It wasn’t as fancy as Levenger’s, but it wasn’t bizarro world, either.
I hoisted up my camera and took a quick pan of the triple-layer cake decorated with icing roses, the platters of hors d’oeuvres, and the dozens of sodas on ice. Mom had bartered some tarot card readings with Joe for the extra layers on the cake. I wanted to capture this whole evening and play it again and again. My first real movie.
Isis brushed past me, carrying a tray of chocolate cookies she’d made herself. It was a little shocking to see her face. She’d pulled her hair into two ponytails that were just this side of Hello Kitty. But at least she wasn’t wearing her standard ghoul makeup and black dress. Seeing her in my old denim jumper, which I knew she hated, made me feel kind of guilty about the way I’d treated her. I promised myself I’d spend more time with her when school was out.
“Thanks, Rach,” I said, putting the finishing touches on a watermelon fruit bowl. “I mean, Isis. You’re the best. Really.”
She shot me a worried glance. Unexpected sentiment unnerved my baby sister. I gave her a hug, anyway, and went upstairs to inspect the troops. Lila had managed to find a tan—not beige—skirt, a white top, and a wig with a bun. It was like having Mrs. Butterworth spring to life, but at least it was seminormal looking. Mom had on her Sunday best. Well, what would have been her Sunday best if she went to church on Sundays. I gave her a kiss and thanked her for everything.
I felt pretty pleased with myself for pulling off the impossible makeover of the year, both the house and my family. Collecting bet money from Jared was going to feel pretty sweet, too. Soon we’d have a house full of teenagers talking about their lives. And I’d be able to look through my lens and focus on them completely without worrying that my life would crash down around all of us.
Mr. Garland arrived at seven-thirty with the Gazette photographer. They asked me to pose by the plywood bandstand that Jared, Dee, and I had built on Thursday night. It felt a little strange having the camera turned on me for once. I hoped my new dress would stand out in the black-and-white photos. I’d paired it with some black Mary Janes from the back of my closet and little white anklet socks, just like the swing dancers at Café Vortex. With any luck, the world would be introduced to Kari Dobbins, no longer an Odd Dobbins but a swank,
together filmmaker on the rise. Please, please, please, I prayed.
Jared and Dee came right at eight. I showed them the house and the backyard. We sat by the food table and waited, listening to taped music over the sound system.
Dee kept picking at her cuticles. She only did that when she was beyond uptight. Jared played hovercraft by the chips and dip. They kept catching each other’s eyes and looking away. It was beyond awkward, like they’d suddenly forgotten how to talk toe each other. Hormones do strange things to people.
“Back in a minute,” I lied, making a beeline for the house. The truth was, I was totally preoccupied with the party. In the kitchen I passed a guy I’d never seen before. He had thick, dark hair and a serious but nice-looking face. He seemed to be rearranging some crudités on a platter.
“Hi,” I said, giving a slightly perplexed look at my very first, non-best-friend guest.
He looked up, then went back to fixing the platter. “Hi.”
“Uh, can I help you?”
He shrugged and looked a little sheepish. “Just looked a little messy. I’m John.” He extended his hand and gave me a firm, Warm handshake.
“John. I’m Kari.”
“Yeah, I know.”
Okay. Not just every guy comes to a party to tidy up the plates. Very curious. “Do you go to Greenway?”
“Just started. Been living in Oregon with my mom.”
“Oh,” I said. The phone rang. “Excuse me.”
It was Connor on the horn. “Listen, I’m running a little late, but I’ll be there as soon as I can, okay?”
“No problemo,” I said, although I was dying for him to get there.
I’d run out of things to fuss with, so I stood out on our front porch and waited. Minutes ticked off my watch like gun blasts, and still nobody else had shown up. I trained my camera on the street, picking up the sounds of dance music from the backyard, and willed someone to arrive. A pair of headlights came around the corner, and my heart fluttered with excitement. I panned the street, dropping into professional mode.
“Well, it’s eight-fifteen, and Skylark Drive is pretty quiet. Arriving late is apparently one Of many Sweet Sixteen customs.” The headlights headed slowly down my street. I couldn’t quite see the car yet. Was it Jen Appleton? Connor? No, Connor would probably walk.
I was a little miffed that he hadn’t shown up yet, that he was running late on the biggest night of my life so far. I swatted the feeling away like a gnat.
The headlights drew closer. “And here conies someone…” The car drove past us and down the street without stopping. “…else.” A new panic gripped me to replace the old my-family-will-be-too-weird panic. What if no one came? I’d be massively humiliated. Beyond humiliated—I’d have to move to Mexico. Years from now the Gazette would run a whatever-happened-to article on Kari Dobbins, hostess of the only Sweet Sixteen party without guests.
Just then Mr. Garland stepped onto the porch from the side yard, startling me.
I “Didn’t mean to scare you. Say, what time did you say this party was starting?”
“Uh, between eight and eight-thirty,” I said, stalling. I didn’t want him to give up and leave.
He pulled my invitation but of his pocket. “Says eight.”
“You know how it is with these wacky kids today,” I said, forcing a brightness into my voice. “They all like to be fashionably late.”
Mr. Garland checked his watch. “Well…”
I was just sinking into blankie-and-thumb mode when I heard car doors slam, followed by loud talking. A crowd of about ten of the drama kids, including Dave Kimball, wandered into the front yard. I started to breathe again.
“Excuse me,” I said to Mr. Garland, who took a seat on the porch and fanned himself with his notebook. I practically leaped off the porch steps, then got a hold of myself. Coming off as a love-starved Doberman pup I was not the image I wanted to convey.
“Hey, glad you could make it,” I said coolly.
Hey, Kari,” Dave said. “Good tunes. Where’s the party happening?”
“Actually, you’re the first ones here,” I said haltingly.
“Lame-o,” mouthed a small girl with bright red lipstick. I had to keep them from doing the old we’ll-be-back-later thing.
“I’m glad y’all are here first. It gives me more time to get y’all on film without any distractions.”
This made Dave preen like a peacock. He did a tight spin and struck a Saturday Night Fever pose. “Excellent,” he said, dropping the pose. “Where’s the food? I’m starving.”
I pointed them toward the food table and waited for them to admire the careful menu selections. No one noticed. Instead they descended on the ribs and biscuits like vultures in party clothes.
Oh, well. I let them mill and talk and eat for a while, soaking up the night air and the dance music. When I thought no one was looking, I turned on the camera and started to film. Suddenly the party ground to a halt. They were staring right into the lens. Not exactly the natural teen state I was going for.
“Um, you know what? Can y’all just pretend I’m not here? Just go on and do what you’d do at any party, okay?” I gave them a second, then framed Dave and a girl named Alison in a tight shot. The cake was centered perfectly between them, giving the shot a nice balance. Pretty decent composition for a first try. Then I started listening to what they were saying.
Dave’s voice trembled. “They don’t know how long she has. It could toe a matter of weeks.” He covered his face like celebrities do when they want the public to think they don’t want their pictures taken, but you Can still see them. A strangled sound came from his throat. Oh my God. Dave Kimball was choking at my Sweet Sixteen! Then I realized he wasn’t in need of a Heimlich. He was crying. Fake crying. And not very well, either. I shut off the camera.
“Dave? What are you doing?”
He snapped to attention, all smiles. “Did you like it? I can cry at the drop of a hat. My drama coach says I’m a shoo-in for a soap.”
Clearly Dave wasn’t getting the whole real-life aspect of the documentary. He was treating it like one big audition tape. Fortunately more kids were drifting in. I grabbed a few—jocks, brains, and ravers for starters— and took them into the living room to shoot. Pulling out a stack of index cards with questions on them, I started firing away at my subjects.
“So, Ian, why do you think Sweet Sixteen parties are important?” I asked a raver in baggy cords and flannel.
“I don’t know.” He shrugged. “Something to do. Not a whole lot of that in this town.”
“Dude.” His lanky friend laughed. “That was such a stupid answer.”
“No such thing as a stupid answer,” I said. “It’s a documentary. You say what you feel.”
“Cool,” Ian said, nodding thoughtfully. “Then I stand by my original statement.”
“It’s a total rite-of-passage thing,” a girl named Sarah broke in. She was currently in the running for “most likely to become class valedictorian.” “I mean, one minute you’re a kid, and the next you have a driver’s license. You hold other people’s lives in your hands from that moment on.”
“Or it could just be a great excuse to shop and make your parents crazy.” Swinging the camera around at the sound of his voice, I caught Connor leaning against the bookcase. I literally stopped breathing. He was wearing the jacket I’d bought him. A corsage box was in his left hand. The reason for being late, no doubt.
Instant forgiveness, coming right up. He walked over and pinned a beautiful spray of sweetheart roses on my collar. The raver dudes snickered, and my face went hot and numb.
“Keep going,” Connor whispered. “You’re doing great.”
I turned the camera on him. I asked the next question playfully, but I really wanted an answer. I don’t know why it felt so important to me. But it did. “So tell me, where do you see yourself ten years from now?”
“Bogus question.” The answer didn’t come from Connor but from a guy in the corne
r. John. The anal-retentive, food-arranging guest I’d met earlier. It stung to have my carefully thought out question called bogus, especially in front of the crush of my life, but I had to keep my cool. I was a professional now.
“John, right?” I asked icily.
“Right.”
“Okay, John. You’re on.”
“It’s just that everybody assumes life starts when you get out of high school. Like what you’re doing now is pointless or something. It’s so condescending.”
Sarah broke in. “Exactly. Everything is geared toward preparing you for some future you can’t even, like, get a handle on, it’s so nebulous.”
A jock in the corner spoke up.” And then your parents tell you to enjoy high school because it’s the best time of your life.”
More kids were crowding into the living room and voicing their thoughts. It was just what I was looking for—a window into the minds of sixteen-year-olds.
“So…,” I started, hoping a question would come to mind to keep the energy flowing. “Is that what Sweet Sixteens are all about? Finding the best time of your life? Doing something that isn’t pointless?”
“It’s about making out!” a handle in a yellow button-down shouted. There was a chorus of laughter. I didn’t want to lose everybody, though.
“Seriously,” I said.
“Seriously.” It was John again. “Do you have to have a reason to party?”
Irritation crept into my voice. “Well, yeah. Don’t you?”
“No, man. I think that’s the point. That for one night you can just be sixteen. Do a cheesy line dance. Ask a girl out.” He fixed me with what felt like an X-ray stare. “You don’t have to prove anything.”
Who was this guy? Why was he challenging me in my movie at my party?
For some weird reason, his comment left me feeling unbalanced, like a door with a loose hinge. I wanted there to be a rhyme, a reason, and a reward for everything. For misfit daughters. For dads who died young. For loneliness. A party wasn’t just a celebration—it needed to mean something, to get you somewhere.
