by Jen Malone
Everyone looks at me.
“Eight,” I fill in. Eight weeks of SAT study so I can take a practice test in September. Eight weeks of racking up enough volunteer hours to be considered for the school volunteer award. Eight weeks of listening to Bubby go on and on about the newest eligible eighty-year-old to move into her complex. Eight weeks of marina work to try to boost my bank account. Eight weeks, eight weeks, eight weeks.
“So that’s somewhere between eight and sixteen parties, so we could earn—”
“A lot of money,” Vi chimes in. She’s stopped twisting her ponytail and is smiling. I know she’s thinking about that kayak for her dad. She only stops to look at it every day. “I’m in.”
“Becca?” Sadie asks.
“Yes . . . if I can bring Ryan. You know how he’s dying to practice his acting skills or whatever. He won’t be able to say no to this!” She grins at us like she expects us to be jumping up and down. “Oh, don’t give me that look. You know we’ll need a boy for some of these parties.”
“Fine. But we’re only paying him if he’s actually needed,” Sadie says. “So . . . Lauren?”
Ugh, I hate saying no to my friends. Especially to Sadie. They’re all looking at me so expectantly. And I feel really, really selfish. Maybe if I moved my volunteer work to Wednesday and stayed up a little later to study . . .
“Remember how you gave me that shell and told me I was on a new journey? Well, maybe you are too,” Sadie says.
Sadie knows me way too well. Of course, I know her just as well, and I definitely know when she’s bringing everything she has to convince me. And I’d give in too, if I didn’t have this SAT class. There’s no way I can move everything around or stay up later and still get it all done. Selfish or not, I’ve already committed to all this stuff. People expect me to show up and to be perfect.
“Sades, I—”
Sadie looks right at me. “Lauren, did you or did you not have fun on Saturday?”
I nod.
“Did you like writing that script for the murder mystery?”
“Yes.” That was the best part. It was nice writing something that wasn’t due for a class.
“Y’all know how crazy busy I am with swimming and volleyball and surfing,” Vi says, her red nose shining in the flashlight’s glow. “But I’m thinking, even though this party idea will take time away from all that, it’s something we can do together. And it’s fun!”
“You need some fun,” Becca says to me. The super-serious look on her face almost makes me laugh. It’s like she’s holding a fun-intervention for her study-addicted friend.
“Just think of all the different kinds of parties we can come up with. And then make them happen—together!” Forget the flashlights, Sadie’s smile could light up the room on its own.
“And we can make moolah, cash, dough, scratch, MON-EY!” Becca says, rubbing her hands together like some cartoon villain. She’s probably thinking about some skirt or pair of shoes her parents refuse to buy for her.
I pinch the bridge of my nose. “Will y’all stop ganging up on me? I said I can’t do it. I’d explode from all the stress.”
“But it won’t be the same without you,” Sadie says.
She’s completely guilting me. And it’s so hard to say no, especially when I really want to say yes. “Look, I’ll help you set it up. Make a business plan and all that. But really, that’s all I can do.”
Sadie’s smile falters a bit, and a few tears leak out of her eyes.
“Wait, why are you crying?” Becca asks.
“Did I make you cry?” Now I feel really awful. What kind of friend am I?
“No. But I’m not giving up on you yet, Lauren. I’m crying because I’m so, so, SO happy!” Sadie says through her tears. “We’ll plan so many parties, the law of averages means my mom will have to make at least one of them. But that’s totally a bonus. Really, I’m just psyched to have the best friends in the world.”
Except Lauren. Sadie doesn’t say that, of course, but I still feel like the most horrible, selfish best friend in the world. I don’t have a choice, though. Future Lauren would not be okay with Right Now Lauren if I blew off my responsibilities to hang out with my friends and then didn’t get into Cornell or Harvard.
But somehow that still doesn’t make me feel better.
“Lauren!” Becca’s waving at me. They’re all leaned into one big, squishy Purple People Eater hug. I join them, wrapping my arms around Becca and Sadie, and putting on a pretend smile like some sort of fake friend.
“Now let’s get down to business.” Sadie scrubs the tears from her face with the back of her hand.
“What did you say you were going to write, Lauren? Business stuff?” Vi asks.
I fumble through the mess on the floor and find a notebook and my lucky test-taking pen. The least I can do is help them get this started the right way. I really want to write Business Stuff at the top, but that’s super unprofessional. Even if I’m not an official part of the business, I want to make it look the best I can for my friends. After an hour, we have something like a plan written out.
Party-Planning Business
Company Owners: Sadie Pleffer,
Violet Alberhasky, Rebecca Elldridge
“No one calls me Violet,” Vi says as I read the page out loud.
“This is a business plan,” I inform her. “You have to use your full name.”
“No,” she says as she lunges for my pen.
“Okay, fine!” I cross out the -olet from her name.
Goal: To plan parties for kids (or anyone who wants to hire us).
“Except sixth-grade boys. They’re way too immature,” Becca says.
“I’m not writing that down,” I say as I tap the notebook with my slim black pen.
Benefits for Customers: We handle all the planning, book the venue, get the cake and food, book entertainment, buy party favors, send out invitations, and clean up afterward.
“Can’t we hire someone to clean up?” Becca asks. “Picking up all those chips from the porch of the Poinsettia Plantation was a nightmare.”
“Not if we want to keep the money we make,” Sadie says.
Tasks: Will be split evenly among all business owners. If someone can’t get something done, she needs to tell the others right away.
Cost: Depends on the party. Simple parties will cost less than extravagant parties. Cost will include cake, party favors, food, etc., and that part will be paid up front because we don’t have any money.
“Whatever, Miss Moneybags.” Vi elbows me.
“I’m not a part of this, remember? And besides, that’s for college.”
Transportation: Bike.
“What if something’s really far away?” Vi asks.
Becca shoots me an innocent grin. “I think Lauren should drive us in that golf cart.”
“For the ninetieth time, I’m not in the business. And I can’t drive the cart with anyone else in it. You know that.” Becca’s only begged me at least once a week since January to take her somewhere in the golf cart.
“My mom is way too busy to drive us anywhere,” Sadie says as she pushes dirt around the floor with her finger.
“And my dad works all the time,” Vi says.
I throw my arms up. “Okay, fine. If you’re really desperate—and I mean really, intensely desperate—I can guilt Zach into driving you somewhere. But you might regret it. Remember how much he complained just taking us to the Plantation House? And he’s a really awful driver.”
Advertising: Get parents to make copies of flyers and put them up everywhere. Order free business cards online.
Officers:
“I nominate Sades for President,” Vi says.
“Seconded,” Becca says.
“Since Becs got that party with Mrs. Campbell, maybe she should be in charge of booking parties and advertising?” Vi tightens her ponytail and looks like she wants to say something else. “But, um . . . what does that leave for me?”
I s
tudy the paper in front of me. “A treasurer. You need someone to take care of the money. And probably someone to take notes at any business meetings.”
“I know someone who’d be perfect for that,” Becca says in a singsong voice. She flutters her eyelashes at me and that guilty feeling pinches my stomach again.
“No, already. Not me. It has to be Vi.” I add another line to the business plan.
Sadie—President, Vi—Secretary/Treasurer, Becca—Booking/Advertising
“How about ‘Queen of Booking and Advertising’?” Becca smooths her straight red hair like she’s ready for us to pop a tiara on it.
“This is a democracy,” Sadie says. “No queens allowed.”
I set the notebook next to the flashlight basket, and we all lean in to admire it.
“We need a name,” Becca says. “Parties 4 U?”
“Plethora of Parties?” I suggest. Then I clamp my mouth shut. This isn’t my business.
“What does ‘plethora’ mean?” Vi asks. “How about BVS Parties, or SBV Parties? You know, our initials?”
Becca giggles. “Those sound like diseases. We should do something less obvious.”
“Wait.” I run Vi’s disease names though my head again. There’s something there if I use Rebecca instead of Becca. “RSVP!”
“RS—what?” Vi blinks at me.
“RSVP. Répondez s’il vous plaît. Please respond,” I translate. “The fancy-schmancy French way of saying ‘Hey, can you make it or not?’ ”
“It’s on the bottom of every invitation. RSVP.” Sadie says the word like she’s testing it out. “It’s kind of . . . perfect.”
“And get this: R for Rebecca, S for Sadie, V for Vi, and P for . . . whatever,” I add.
“We should change it to RSVL. Then you’d have to join because your name is in there.” Becca gives me this sneaky smile.
“Yeah, no.” It’s not as if I can change the French language. Also, it’s like a sign. My name doesn’t fit when everyone else’s does, so obviously it’s the universe telling me that I need to concentrate on everything else I already have lined up this summer. Not that signs are really a thing. But if I did believe in them, this would definitely be one, and who am I to argue with the universe?
I hold the pen over the notebook. “So, RSVP?”
“That’s perfect.” Vi unfolds her long legs and leans forward in a stretch.
“Very classy,” Becca adds.
Sadie brushes her bangs out of her eyes and smiles. “RSVP it is.”
I add the name to the top of our business plan. I mean, their business plan.
Becca’s phone buzzes and she groans. “It’s Dad,” she says. “My presence is required at the Visitor’s Center tomorrow. I’m supposed to fill in as the guide for the walking tours.”
“What happened to Pete?” I ask.
“Said he needed to clear out of town before the Fourth of July crowds descend on us.” She stands up and brushes imaginary flecks of dirt from her dress. “Better enjoy my freedom today, then.”
“Wait, y’all should figure out who’s doing what first.” I write down all of their names under the words Action Plan.
“I’ll make some flyers and ask Mom how to order business cards. And we can pass out the flyers at the Fourth of July parade and cookout next weekend,” Becca says as she hands me my backpack.
“I’ll . . . um . . . well, there’s no money yet, and everything we talked about is in that business plan,” Vi says. “Wait, I know! I’ll make a spreadsheet so we can track all the money we earn.”
A spreadsheet. I could whip that up in two minutes flat. Two minutes that would be better spent memorizing another vocab word definition, I have to remind myself. I tear the business plan from my notebook and pass it to Sadie.
Sadie carefully folds the pages and stows them in her purse. “I’ll put together some planning worksheets so that they’re ready to go once we book a party.”
I cap my pen and load everything back into my backpack. Then we climb the steps, and I lock up the Purple People Eater.
“To RSVP!” Becca says. “This is going to be so much fun!” She holds up her hand. Vi and Sadie do the same—a group high-five. I look away because it hurts just a teeny-tiny bit that I’ve taken myself out of the group like this. It would’ve been kind of nice if my name happened to be Patricia or Pam or Petunia. Okay, maybe not Petunia. But maybe if the sign had been there, I could’ve moved some things around. Maybe.
My phone belts out a rap song. It’s a text from Bubby.
Party on, Lo baby!
How Bubby already knows about RSVP, I don’t know. But I can already imagine how disappointed she’ll be when I tell her I’m not part of it.
“And we’re going to make tons of money,” Vi says as the four of us walk down the dock. “We could make more than your mom, Sades.”
Sadie smiles, and Vi gives her a sideways hug.
“Maybe we can do another play like we did for Molly’s party, but this time I could take the role of Ryan’s girlfriend,” Becca says.
Vi rolls her eyes. “I wonder if we should set up some kind of taste-testing with caterers? Like what Sadie’s mom does for the brides. So, you know, we’ll learn about who’s the best.”
“I know who’d be the best,” Becca says. “You.”
“Just think of all the trips we’ll get to make to Party Me Hearties.” Sadie has this far-off look in her eyes, like Party Me Hearties is the Six Flags of Sandpiper Beach instead of this sprawling party supplies store on the mainland with bad lighting and cranky salespeople.
“This is going to be the best summer ever!” Becca says.
I can’t stand Party Me Hearties (I mean, that name. Really.) and want to die at the thought of having to be in a silly murder-mystery play. But . . . there’s something kind of lonely about walking behind my friends as they go on and on about this stuff. They don’t even look back at me as I climb into the parked golf cart. It’s almost like I’ve gone from best friend to fake friend to nobody in an hour.
I try to imagine my college savings account skyrocketing as I put in hours at the marina and the size of the scholarships I’ll get when I ace the SAT. Not to mention my parents’ faces when I do all of that. It’ll totally make up for everything Josh and Zach haven’t done. And it won’t make for such a bad summer, right?
If I ignore the little twinge in my heart when I think of my best friends having fun without me.
Becca
Daily Love Horoscope for Scorpio:
Keep your friends close today, and your enemies even closer.
History with swishy Southern belles and romantic old plantation houses? Yes, please. History about the so-small-it’s-majorly-a-miracle-we-have-our-own-zip-code town, where I’ve lived my entire life? Snore, snore, snoozefest.
At least Daddy’s not making me dress up in the pirate costume to give the walking tour this time because, take it from me, horizontal stripes are exactly no one’s friend. And that stuffed parrot I’m supposed to wear on my shoulder has the sharpest fake claws I’ve ever encountered. Okay, well, not like I’ve encountered a bazillion fake claws or anything, but one set is more than enough, thankyouverymuch.
I zoom my bike through the open double doors of the Visitor’s Center and right behind the counter, even though I know this will make Daddy especially crazy. But he’s forcing me to give this tour—again—so I kind of can’t help getting back at him just a little bit.
“I’m here,” I announce.
“Yes, I can see that,” Daddy says, not even commenting on the super-clunky handlebars that will probably hit him in the butt every time he needs to get someone change for the souvenir penny machine. He barely even gives them a passing glance when he says, “Oh, and by the way, I changed my mind about the pirate costume.”
Um, say what now?
“Daaaaddy! That’s so not fair. You can’t do that!”
“Well, Rebecca, if you can feel free to take liberties with agreements we’ve made
in the past”—he pauses and points his eyes directly at my beach cruiser behind the counter—“then I think it’s perfectly fair for me to back down on my word as well.”
Then he shrugs and smiles as if he doesn’t have a care in the whole wide world. Can you imagine? My hands go to my hips and I open my mouth to argue back, but he slides out from behind the counter and approaches a woman studying a brochure for the fudge shop up the street.
“They offer free samples and a live fudge-making demonstration on the half hour,” Daddy tells her, motioning behind his back for me to go to the storeroom where the Dread Pirate Roberts costume lives. Sadie named it that when she was in her Princess Bride obsession stage. Ha! The dread part is definitely spot-on. As in, I dread the thought of putting this costume on.
I consider mutiny, but who even knows what punishment Daddy would cook up for me then. He might actually make me walk the plank on the sunset cruise or something. And I don’t want to think about what salt water would do to my hair.
Sighing as loudly as I possibly can, I trudge off to the storage closet and grab the musty costume and stuffed Polly Want a Cracker. Five minutes later, I step out of the bathroom behind the Visitor’s Center, fully costumed. I tug at the pleather pants. Even though they’re, like, approximately one hundred and twenty-two sizes too big for me, they’re already glued by sweat to my thighs. The fact that they’re tucked into even stickier pleather boots does not help. It should be against the law to wear fake leather in North Carolina in June. (Or anywhere ever, actually.)
Ugh.
It’s not even a semicool pirate costume with a hook or a peg leg or anything. Instead of Captain Hook, I look more like Smee with my red-and-white-striped shirt and the bandanna around my head. I’m so getting back at my dad for this. Just wait until he wants me to play a guitar duet with him at our next beach bonfire.
“You look darling, my darling,” Mama calls, balancing two iced coffees in a carryout tray on her hip and heading toward me from across the square. “It’s not like you to be early. If I’d known, I would have grabbed you a sweet tea on my drink run. Let me drop this coffee with your dad and I’ll be right back.”
