by Jen Malone
And the crowning effect? Spanish moss that she plucked from the live oak near the dock and glued to the short sleeves and neckline of the dress. It’s possibly the ugliest thing I’ve ever seen.
“So, do you like?” Linney’s looking right at me.
“Um . . . sure.” Sadie’s standing nearby, and no way am I going to insult Linney in front of her. She’s already had enough happen during this party.
Linney’s lips turn up into an ugly smile as she eyes me. “Good, because I made it for you. To model on the runway.”
Did I mention I was going to murder Becca?
Sadie
TODAY’S TO-DO LIST:
■ return runway to Chamber of Commerce
■ drop microphone back at Darling’s DJs
■ arrange for Linney to meet with a horrible accident
Vi’s face is turning as orange as the dress on the table next to her, and it’s only a matter of time before this gets really ugly (uglier even than that dress, if possible), so I guess it’s up to me to save the day.
Again.
I know I’m the one who wanted this business, plus I’m the president so the ultimate responsibility is mine, and I really am having fun with it (most of the time), but this party is threatening to be the death of me. For one thing, it seems like everything that could go wrong is going wrong. Mom has a name for these events. She calls them “Throw Up Your Hands.” Like, at a certain point that’s all there is left to do.
Of course, it’s just an expression, because Mom would never, EVER give up on a wedding, and I’ve seen her practically kill herself to make a bad day turn around for a bride. (Funny how she doesn’t have the same sense of dedication toward her daughter, since wherever she is right now, it’s not here.)
During one of the last “Throw Up Your Hands” we did together, Mom and I had to politely convince the bride’s second cousin that she couldn’t bring her husband as her guest. Why was it a problem? Oh, only because he was in an urn in her arms. Or at least his ashes were.
I know if I want to make this company work, I have to be just as dedicated. But there are regular problems . . . and then there’s Linney. And whatever she’s scheming with this whole Vi-has-to-wear-the-dress thing is totally beyond me. I could really use some of Lauren’s logical thinking right now, but she’s got better things to do, I guess.
I put a hand on Vi’s arm and smile at Linney. “What’s this all about now?” I ask as sweetly as I can manage.
“I’m simply making a birthday-girl request.”
“She made it hideous on purpose,” Vi sputters. “It looks like one of those traffic cones. And now she’s acting like it’s not some kind of jab at my dad. I’m NOT wearing it.”
“I don’t get it,” I say to Linney.
“Well, I’m not feeling good,” Linney says with a shrug. “It’s messing with my balance, so I don’t want to take any chances up there on the runway. The last thing I need on my Sweet Thirteen is a broken ankle, right?”
I squeeze Vi’s arm to keep her quiet. I’m pretty sure if I let go, Vi would try to break that ankle herself. After all, Linney had no problem hopping up on the runway and posing away at the start of the party.
“Linney, if you really don’t want to model the dress, I’ll do it.” It’s just about the last thing I want to do, especially since that orange looks like one of Lauren’s highlighters threw up, but my job—my only job—is to keep the guest happy at all costs.
Linney looks me up and down. “You’re not the right size for this dress.”
I flick my ponytail over my shoulder, annoyed. “Fine. Becca, can you come over here?”
Linney doesn’t blink. “Becca’s too petite. This dress needs someone tall and athletic to make it work. After all, I do want to win.”
Vi’s twisting her hair so hard, it’s going to curl up into a bun. She opens her mouth, and I squeeze her arm again.
There is zero chance Linney thinks she’s going to win with the monstrosity that is lying on the table oozing moss, and every one of us knows it. Becca jogs over and I watch her try hard not to make a face when she looks at the blob of orange in front of us.
“What’s going on?” she asks.
“Linney is feeling . . . unbalanced. She’d like Vi to take her place on the runway. In the dress she designed.” It’s super hard to keep my voice neutral.
Becca looks at the table, then at Linney, then at Vi, her eyes growing wider. But she takes a cue from me and answers, all nonchalant-like, “Oh. Well, the thing is, Vi was just telling me a few secs ago that she was feeling really icky in the heat today, so it would totally not be the best idea for her to—”
“Ooooh, Lin-bin, let’s see what yours looks like!” Mrs. Marks picks exactly that minute to step up to our little group. I mean, props to her for being somewhere her daughter wants her to be, unlike some of our moms, but really, could she have worse timing? I suddenly glimpse exactly how this scene is going to play out and I have to swallow down an acid taste in my mouth.
Sure enough, Linney turns her poor-me-I-can’t-walk-the-runway act on her mom, and I mean, really, what can we do but nod along when Linney fills her mom in (with big, innocent blinks of her eyes) on her plan to have Vi sub for her so the dress can still compete? The more Linney talks, the redder Vi gets. The whole thing is obviously ridiculous, since Linney has come up with all the rules for this competition anyway and there’s no reason she can’t enter her dress without a model. It’s just a silly party game.
Buuuuuut Mrs. Marks is the one who’s paying us. And hopefully referring us to all her friends. So what choice do we have?
I can hardly look at Vi, who I just know is steaming mad. At least I hope she’s mad. Mad is way better than sad, which is the other very real possibility.
“I’m not . . .” Vi trails off.
Becca smooths Vi’s hair down and says softly, “Why don’t I take you inside to change. Maybe you’ll let me do something with your hair? And, like, some makeup, possibly? Y’know, just to get in the spirit. Trust me, you’re going to rock this ugly dress.”
As bad as I feel for Vi, I have to stifle a tiny smile. Becca has been trying to get her mascara wand near Vi’s lashes since forever. Or at least since our parents agreed we could wear a little, tiny bit of makeup this year. Becca, of course, owns way more mascara and blush and eyeliner than her mom and dad would ever let her walk out the door wearing.
Becca leads a stunned-looking Vi inside, and I barely have time to watch them disappear before I have to spring back into party-planner mode. I rush over to the waiting girls and tell them about the delay, then ask them to fill out note cards Ryan can use to describe their designs as they come down the runway. After that I have to check the sound system. And make sure Mrs. Marks doesn’t examine her grass too closely. And check on the punch we put out to see if it needs more ice. And put out more food, since the guys ate every single crumb on the table. And find seats for the boys who are acting as judges. Oh, and make sure they have scorecards and pens.
Right in the midst of all the chaos, my little sister shows up at the back gate, pacing back and forth like she can’t decide whether to come in or not.
I race over. “Iz, what are you doing here? You know this is a private event!”
Izzy pulls a flower off the bush at the garden gate and fiddles with it. “I know. But Mom sent me over to tell you she can’t make it. She got stuck on the mainland when they raised the drawbridge.”
I groan. On a summer weekend, who knows how many boats will be lined up to pass under the bridge? She could be trapped on the other side for an hour. I instantly go from frazzled to full-out cranky.
“Fine. You told me. Now go,” I snap.
Izzy’s eyes get all big and I instantly feel terrible for the way I talked to her. I totally get what people mean when they say “Don’t shoot the messenger” now. But Mom’s not here to yell at, and this party is a disaster, and . . . did I mention Mom’s not here?
“Um, s
o I guess you don’t need any extra help? I dressed nice just in case,” Izzy says. She backs up so I can see her skirt and shiny shoes.
I sigh and try to be nicer when I say, “Thanks, Iz, but this is work. We can’t have a little kid around—it wouldn’t look professional. Plus Linney’s got it in for us already, so . . .”
Izzy just nods and backs away from the gate, picking her bike up off the ground and throwing a leg over. She shakes her head a little and pastes a smile on. “Yeah, I get it. Have fun, good luck, break a leg, all that. Guess I’ll see you at home.”
I watch her pedal away for a second before a squeak from behind me jolts my attention back to the party. Katie Asselin’s high heel is stuck in the wet sand. Great. Just great.
I’m on my knees trying to force it out when the party goes completely quiet. It’s like that scene from the movies when the music screeches off and everyone turns to stare at something. Except this time it’s only a coincidence that one song just ended and the next one hasn’t started yet. The everyone-turning-to-stare part, though? That totally happens.
Vi is standing in the doorway to the Markses’ house, looking around like she’s Dorothy waking up in Oz. She peers around in confusion.
Um, whoa!
I mean, obviously I know Vi is a girl. It’s just that she’s really never been all that interested in highlighting that fact. Not because she doesn’t care, I don’t think, but more because she doesn’t have room in her schedule for things she considers unimportant (like mani-pedis, for instance). But Becca is a GENIUS. They were only gone for, like, twenty minutes and somehow it’s a whole new Vi.
Vi’s always been really pretty, except it’s not the first thing you notice about her because she doesn’t want it to be. But want it or not, it’s the first thing everyone’s noticing right now. Including the boys. Especially the boys. I’m pretty sure a dozen no-see-ums have flown into Lance’s mouth in the time he’s stood there with it hanging open.
Vi’s hair is blown straight and worn down, instead of in its usual ponytail. Becca has clearly talked her into lip gloss and she’s in a DRESS. I just need to repeat that. Vi. Is in a dress. And not one of the ginormous Southern belle poufy things from the plantation party that covered every inch of skin, either. I’m guessing no one even notices it isn’t exactly the most stylish of dresses, because all they can notice is that Vi’s the one wearing it. Truthfully, the orange isn’t even such a bad color against her deep tan.
Lauren is gonna be so super bummed she missed this. Oh well. Every girl here has a cell phone. This will be all over our class by later today.
Vi turns behind her, where a beaming Becca offers her arm to our very wobbly high-heeled friend. For someone who is the queen of balance on a surfboard, it sure doesn’t take more than a few inches of stiletto to throw Vi off her game.
She lets a lock of hair fall forward to cover her face as she walks and kind of hides behind it, which is equally weird to see. Usually Vi’s completely comfortable in her body. She never seems self-conscious in front of the guys when she’s on the beach volleyball court or in her wetsuit in the surf, but she doesn’t even lift her head as she walks to line up behind the other girls waiting for the show to start. Instead, she starts picking at her nails.
Wow, I mouth to Becca, who is definitely holding her head high.
I know, she mouths back, grinning.
Vi might not be comfortable, but she’s totally gorgeous. And—oh boy—someone is not happy with all the whispering being about somebody other than the birthday princess herself.
Linney is standing off to the side of the party with her arms crossed.
That probably means I should be doing something to fix the situation, but, hey, she can’t complain. Technically, Vi’s in a dress walking the runway because Linney insisted. So really, she got exactly what she asked for. Karma, baby.
I know it’s a little mean of me, but seeing Linney miserable makes me not-so-cranky anymore. And I didn’t even have to knock a bottle of paint on her to get that reaction this time. Although I’m betting Vi was probably expecting me to stand up for her again like that. But this time it’s our business on the line. And besides, look at how well it’s working out.
I flag down Ryan and move my hand in a circle like I’m winding something up. Hopefully he’ll catch on that this is my signal for Let’s get this thing moving.
He does. Hopping onstage, he grabs the mic and says, “Okay, it looks like the show can go on! Judges, do you have your scorecards? Girls, we ready?”
He gets nods and cheers from everyone, so I rush over to the sound system and switch my playlist to the show music. I picked some really upbeat songs perfect for strutting.
Ryan is an awesome emcee. He reads the note cards describing each dress like he’s narrating a commercial. And his accent makes words like “glamorous” sound super adorable. I totally get why Becca has such a crush.
Because she got in line last, Vi is the final girl to walk the runway. She also doesn’t have a note card because I totally didn’t think to write her one while everyone else was filling out theirs. Event-planning fail. Luckily, Ryan’s acting training must have covered improv, because he totally rolls with it.
“And last up, we have the lovely Vi looking, well, extra lovely.” He smiles at her and Vi grimaces, but at least she starts slowly up the runway. A few of the girls who already walked do catcalls. I steal a glimpse at Linney and she is practically purple.
Vi isn’t exactly working it like some of the others did—no hip shimmies and pauses midway for twirls for her—but at least she makes it to the end of the runway without tripping in her heels.
“Vi is modeling a creation by designer extraordinaire Linney Marks,” Ryan says. I steal a glimpse at Linney, but even the compliment doesn’t wipe the scowl off her face. It’s all puckered up like she’s chewing on a Sour Patch Kid. “I’d call it a masterpiece in texture, and just look at the way the drab green of Spanish moss contrasts with the, uh, vividness of the orange. Linney has gone for an unconventional hemline and really embraced the risk-taking the design world celebrates.”
I have to give him credit, I would NOT have been able to come up with anything half as nice to say about a weed-covered Day-Glo dress. Also, I’m thinking the kid really researched his part. He must have binge-watched Project Runway all week.
Vi turns, sends a quick glare to Linney, and makes her way back up the runway. Her shoulders sag in relief the second she reaches the picnic blanket we hung to act as a curtain, and she slips behind it.
Ryan is still going. “Okay, we’re going to break for a bit of candle-blowing, wish-making, and cupcake-eating, while our esteemed judges tabulate their scores.”
Linney manages to recover a little bit once the spotlight turns back to her, but when everyone gathers again on the runway for the judges’ pronouncement, she looks ready to spit bullets as Lance breathlessly (and kind of shyly) places a crown on Vi’s head and proclaims her the winner. It gets even worse when all the other girls crowd around, telling Vi how awesome her makeover is. Vi’s face is maroon under her tan.
Technically, Linney should be happy because her design won, after all. But you can tell just by looking at her that her big plan was one giant B-A-C-K-F-I-R-E.
Like I said: karma, baby.
Too bad Vi looks just as bewildered as Linney about how this all went down. As soon as her admirers break away, Vi beelines for the Markses’ back door, and I have to speed-walk to meet her there.
“Vi, you look incredible,” I say.
“This dress smells like pond water and the moss itches worse than mosquito bites and this crown is so not me,” she answers, pushing past me to get inside the house.
I look helplessly at Becca, right behind me on the patio, but she just shrugs. “She’ll be okay. She might just need a little while to process.” She pulls out her phone and starts texting. “I’m sending Lo a picture of Vi. That’ll make her wish she was here.”
I hope. Even th
ough we managed to save this party—barely—an extra person would’ve been really nice. Plus it’s just not the same without Lauren. It’s like a cake with a slice missing. RSVP was supposed to bring us all closer, not drive a wedge between us. Instead, Lauren isn’t part of it at all, I’m more annoyed than ever at my mom, and now Vi is mad at me. Remind me which part of this is fun?
Becca tugs on my sleeve. “Hey, check it out!”
She grins and points to Linney, who is making her Sour Patch Kids face again, surrounded by girls holding fistfuls of Spanish moss.
We creep closer, in time to hear Anna Wright ask, “Can you just show me how you did that draping with it? I want to look exactly as good as you made Vi look.”
Becca and I stuff our hands in our mouths to keep from laughing.
Okay, so maybe there are one or two things about this that are fun.
WOOF! WOOF! JOE’S TURNING THREE! (That’s twenty-one in dog years!)
Bring your own canine pal and join Joe and his owner, Mr. Charles Vernon, for barks and bites on
Saturday, July 18, at one o’clock
Sandpiper Active Senior Living’s Party Room
1101 Rosalinde Street
No gifts, please
Leashes will be provided for doggy strolls outside
Party hosted by Mrs. Geraldine “Bubby” Simmons
RSVP to Sadie Pleffer, (910) 555-0110 or [email protected]
Lauren
entrepreneur noun
one who manages or organizes a business
Use in a sentence:
RSVP is a great opportunity to become an entrepreneur—for people who don’t already have ten other things to do in one day.
