You're Invited

by Jen Malone

  Speaking of busy with her own stuff, as much fun as RSVP was, despite what I told Lauren earlier about RSVP meaning something different to me now—and it does!—it still didn’t ever manage to do the one thing it was supposed to. It didn’t show my mom how great I am at party planning. She never even made it to a single party.

  I don’t really know if I would even want her to offer me my job back, because why should I have to throw myself at her just to get her to spend some time with me? Shouldn’t she want to all on her own?

  So, yeah, I guess RSVP didn’t solve anything with my mom the way it was supposed to. But I’m still glad we did it. So, so glad. And I’m completely bummed to dissolve it even if it does make the most sense.

  “We could always do it again next summer,” Lauren says. “We do have one job offer on the table already, from Jilly’s mom.”

  “Next summer is, like, forever away.” Becca sounds glum and I have to say, it really does sound far away. We all take tiny sips of our drinks, but the atmosphere is anything but celebration-like.

  “Look, maybe if everyone feels this sad about it, we could find a way to—”

  “If I didn’t have you to bump through life with . . .”

  Becca’s eyes get all wide. “You made my song your RINGTONE?!” she accuses me.

  I grab for my purse. “Well, yeah. I told you I loved it.”

  “I know, but . . .” Becca’s eyes look like she might be getting teary. Awww. I reach over and squeeze her leg.

  “La la la la la . . .”

  “Is someone gonna answer that?” Vi asks, pointing at the phone in my hand.

  Oh. Whoops.

  “Hello?”

  The person on the other end clears her throat. “Is this RSVP?”

  “Um . . . yes. Yes, this is RSVP. Sadie speaking.”

  I raise my eyebrows at the other girls and quickly hit the speakerphone button on my cell because I know Vi was just about to hassle me to do it anyway.

  I put the phone in the center of our circle and say, “How may we help you?”

  “My name is Alexandra Worthington. I’ve been hearing your company’s name all over town. First from a woman in my yoga class, raving about her daughter’s birthday party. Then from a man at my country club, talking about a shindig he attended with his dad at the senior center. It got me thinking. The last straw came when a woman I’ve been working with couldn’t stop raving about the work you do. The thing is, I think she might have talked herself out of a job. Because the more she raved about you, the more I started thinking, ‘Well, if they’re so good, maybe I should be using them instead of you, lady.’ So my question is this: Can you women handle big events?”

  Women? That’s kind of a stretch, but this lady sounds pretty fancypants. Maybe that’s just how she talks to everyone.

  “Um . . .” I look around at the girls. Becca catches my eye and starts nodding her head like crazy. I look at Vi, who shrugs. Lauren next. She looks hesitant, but curious. Maybe? she mouths. We all grin. Could be RSVP isn’t as dead as we thought.

  “Of course. No event is too big or too small. What type of event did you have in mind?”

  “A wedding. My wedding, to be specific.”

  My spine gets this little prickle right in the base and it works its way up my back. “Where did you say you heard about us?”

  “From my wedding coordinator. She couldn’t stop going on about how she’d been keeping tabs on RSVP’s parties all summer and how excited she was about the work you were doing. She said if she wasn’t careful you’d put her out of business someday. Like I said, it made me curious. I insist on the very best for my wedding, and if Lorelei Pleffer thinks you’re it, I want you.”

  Lorelei Pleffer? Lorelei Pleffer, my mom?

  Our grins turn to wide-eyed stares and my stomach churns right alongside my thoughts. My mom’s been keeping tabs on my parties? Why wouldn’t she have told me that? She thinks we’re good enough to put her out of business someday? Which, obviously, is silly because this was (is still?) just a summer company, but the fact that she would even say something like that . . .

  And now her bride wants to jump ship from her and hire us instead?

  We’d be basically stealing a client from my own mother. Could I do that? I know I’m super mad and hurt about the way everything’s gone down this summer and all, but that seems pretty extreme. Besides, now that I know she’s been saying all this nice stuff about RSVP, am I even that mad? More important, how mad would she be? Would she ever forgive me?

  Then again, I wanted Mom’s attention, and oh boy, would this get it. But do I dare?

  “Hello? Are you still there? I expect an answer to my question. This isn’t the best way to impress me right out of the gate. Did our connection drop? Hello?”

  Becca leans over and speaks directly into the phone. “We’re still here, and nothing would thrill us more than to coordinate your wedding. We’re your girls, Miss Worthington!”

  Oh. No. She. Didn’t. Just. Do. That.

  My jaw drops as Becca looks at me and shrugs.

  Oh my gosh, she did.

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  All the parties ever should be held in honor of:

  Amy Cloud, for being a big-city girl who’s kept all her small-town sweetness, for sometimes using “totes” in conversation without a hint of irony (because what’s more lovable than that?), and for once braving a screaming 5 Seconds of Summer crowd in the name of research. Also for being a whip-smart editor who knew just how and where to tease more emotion out of this story (and for turning Becca from a Samantha into a Charlotte.)

  The entire Aladdin team, who works tirelessly behind the scenes.

  Holly Root, agent extraordinaire, whose last name is oh-so-appropriate, because I always feel she’s doing just that for both me and my stories (and who will totally roll her eyes and smile at the cheesiness of that statement!).

  Gail Nall, for making me snort coffee as I read her chapters and for forcing me to up my game to be sure she did the same when reading mine. We may not be so great at hailing taxis in Manhattan, but we sure do work seamlessly together on this book-writing stuff, and I couldn’t be more grateful for that! (Google Docs probably gets a share of credit here too!)

  Marieke Nijkamp, for careful reads and “just because” love letters—she is the stuff critique-partner dreams are made of.

  I order confetti cannons fired in honor of:

  Dee Romito, for general awesomeness. There’s a reason the coolest house in this book bears her name.

  Jean Lyon, for keeping me sane and reminding me: “poster shop!”

  Jenny Lundquist, for early input and cheerleading.

  Grace Mann, for composing the music for and singing Becca’s song far better than could ever be imagined. (You can hear it for yourselves at jenmalonewrites.com and gailnall.com.) No doubt someday people will be asking, “Wow, how on earth did you score Grace Mann to sing for you?”

  Darren Macke, Lauren Magaziner, and Nathalie Alexander for weighing in on guitar lingo. I’m incredibly jealous of you all, and please invite me to your next beach bonfires.

  Geraldine Leahy, for double-checking Ryan’s “Irish-isms.”

  And extra-special balloon bouquets for:

  My family. Jack and Ben for reading and championing Mom’s books, even when they get more “girly,” not less so. Caroline, for constant inspiration and break-taking cuddles. And for my sweet husband, John, who pretends not to be a big reader but always knows exactly how to read me.

  Ocean Park, Maine. Most would never believe that Sandpiper Beach, with its kazoo-banded Fourth of July parade and old-fashioned soda fountain, is a real place, but that’s just because they’ve never been to Ocean Park, whose own Illumination Night is a sight to behold. I’m proud five generations of my family have shared in its summer magic and I hope my own “penny to the mermaid statue” wishes continue to come true.

  Last, for all the girls and women from childhood to now whose friendship allo
wed me to write about these besties from the heart, and for all the girls reading who see themselves in Becca or Sadie or Vi or Lauren. Girls rock!

  —J. M.

  • • •

  First of all, to you, the reader of this book—thank you! I’m so happy you picked this book to read, and Jen and I hope you find a little of yourself in the RSVP girls. Feel free to drop me a note at gailnall.com—I’d love to hear from you!

  To Amy Cloud, who totes mcgoats gets Bubby, and who loves Sadie, Vi, Becca, and Lauren as much as we do. You helped make the girls into the fun, well-rounded characters they are now, and we’d be lost without you! We owe you your very own Wanda and bucketloads of cupcakes. To everyone at Aladdin who showed such enthusiasm for You’re Invited, and who touched this book in any way—thank you!

  To Julia A. Weber, the best agent a girl could ask for. And who is probably the only person I know who could rock the Dread Pirate costume for Halloween and looked insanely good doing so.

  To Dee Romito, Stefanie Wass, Jenny Lundquist, and Marieke Nijkamp, who read various pieces and parts of You’re Invited. Thank you for your suggestions, love notes, and encouragement! A million thanks to Grace Mann for RSVP’s theme song! Thanks also to the MG Beta Readers and the LL&N critique group, for coming along on this crazy writing ride with me. And more thanks to Gretchen Kelley, Sara O’Bryan Thompson, my agency sisters, my writer friends in SCBWI Midsouth, and everyone at St. John Center, simply for being there.

  To Jen Malone—writing with you is a hundred times more fun than writing alone! Thanks for letting me text you lyrics to early nineties classics and for pushing me to be a better writer. I can’t think of anyone else with whom I’d rather share a $250/night, sardine-can, book-stuffed NYC hotel room.

  To my family—Mom and Joel, who have salt water running through their veins; Dad, who braved the freezing Plum Island waters with me when I was a kid; Cheryl, who can still boogie-board with the best; and Linda, Mike and Joann, and Lisa and David. And to Eva, who is just discovering the joy of the beach.

  Finally, to the towns of Oak Island and Southport, North Carolina, upon which much of Sandpiper Beach is very loosely based. It doesn’t come much better than a Cape Fear sunset, a fascinating pirate-y history, some perfectly shaped scallop shells, and an uncrowded beach.

  —G. N.

  TURN THE PAGE FOR A PEEK AT WHAT’S IN STORE FOR SADIE, BECCA, LAUREN, AND VI IN YOU’RE INVITED TOO.

  Sadie

  TODAY’S TO-DO LIST

  ■ meet with bride

  ■ back-to-school shopping with Bubby and the girls

  ■ break Mom’s heart

  So this thing just happened.

  Well, not “just” just, but “just” as in yesterday. And ever since then I’ve been walking around with an iron anchor in my belly that jumps every so often, because this thing that happened is either going to be the best thing ever . . . or the worst thing ever.

  Or maybe even both.

  It’s also the reason I’m out of bed at six a.m. on the third-to-last day of summer. All the girls in our family—me, Mom, and my little sister, Izzy—are rise-and-shine, early-bird-gets-the-worm people, but six o’clock in the summer is kind of a stretch. If Dad were still alive, he’d have seventeen pillows piled on top of his head right now and nothing short of waving a can of coffee beans under his nose would wake him up.

  Mom doesn’t hear me coming down the stairs, so I have a minute to study her. Her hands circle a mug of tea and a few strands fall out of a messy ponytail. She doesn’t look like she’s been up too long either. She also doesn’t look like she slept that well.

  My stomach takes another dive, like the pelicans circling the cove outside our window for fishy breakfasts. Am I the reason she was up all night? Not that she would know I was involved yet, but . . .

  I tiptoe over to my purse on the wooden bench by the back door and rifle through it for my phone. Mom still doesn’t notice me.

  Okay, so here’s the thing. All last year I helped my mom with her wedding-planning business and it was Awesome-with-a-capital-A because Mom’s crazy busy, and working with her meant we got to hang out together. I thought she needed me because I was her best helper. But then I made a teeny-tiny bridesmaid-overboard/seagull-pooping/photographer-puking mistake at this Little Mermaid–themed wedding she coordinated and—poof—I got fired.

  FIRED!

  By my own mother.

  But then my three best friends and I cooked up this plan where we would organize a party ourselves to get my mom to realize how totally fantastic I am at party throwing and hire me back. Except that didn’t happen. The party happened—lots of parties, actually, because after the first one went so well we just kept going with more and more—but Mom never made it to any of them and she never got to see me in action at all.

  Mostly it wasn’t her fault, but still.

  I flip through my texts, looking to see if there are any changes to our morning meeting spot. Despite my mood, I can’t help smiling at a selfie my best friend Becca sent late last night. She’s wearing a tiara. If I know Becca, she probably slept in the thing.

  Because of Becca—and my other best friends, Lauren and Vi—it didn’t even matter that much that Mom hadn’t changed her mind about hiring me back, because our little party-planning company, RSVP, got so busy and I was having so much fun with my friends that I ended up having the Best Summer Ever and everything felt really okay. Better than okay.

  And then yesterday happened.

  I drop my phone back in my bag and turn, accidentally making the floorboard creak. Mom’s head snaps up.

  “Geez, Sades, you scared me half to death. What are you doing creeping around? More importantly, what are you doing up?”

  I cross the room and duck my head into the refrigerator so she can’t see my face. I don’t usually—scratch that, I don’t ever—lie to my mom.

  “Oh, um, well . . . I’m just really excited for shopping today.” Not technically a lie. Going into the city is exciting (okay, so it’s just Wilmington, North Carolina, and not, like, New York City, but when you live somewhere as small as Sandpiper Beach, anywhere that has dividing lines painted on the roads and four-way traffic lights passes for big time.)

  “Oh, right,” Mom says. “Back-to-school shopping. Hang on, let me grab my credit card. You remember the limit we talked about, right? Things are tight this month, okay? And Lauren’s mom and Bubby will be there if the store gives you any hassle over using this.”

  She rummages in her purse and hands me the piece of plastic. I swallow down my guilt as I take it. I feel extra bad going on a shopping spree(ish) just before she finds out I’m a total backstabber. I really need to get out of here.

  I gulp down some orange juice and grab a banana for the road. “I’m going over to Becca’s to help her sort her closet by color so she can spot any underrepresented shades before we hit the shops.”

  This is actually true. It’s just that it’s happening later this morning, not right this second.

  “Okay, sweets. Have fun!”

  I’m halfway out the door when Mom calls me back. Uh-oh. Is she onto me?

  “Hey, I just wanted to remind you, whatever you do, do not take Lauren’s Bubby’s advice on skirt length. If it’s not hitting mid-thigh when you sit, it doesn’t come home with you! Got it?”

  I nod and spin, making a run for the door and my bike.

  • • •

  The girls and I are meeting Alexandra Worthington at Salty Stewart’s Café in the main square. Most of the businesses in Sandpiper Beach are clustered around the center, by the big statue of Merlin the Marlin.

  Merlin’s this giant brass fish that’s supposed to be a life-size representation of the biggest Atlantic marlin ever recorded, caught in 1942 by a descendent of our town’s founder, Jebediah Bodington. If you live here, it’s practically the law to know this stuff, but I get constant reminders every time I sneak in on the walking tours Becca has to give all the time because her mom and
dad run the Visitor’s Center. Becca gets most of her information from Lauren, our resident smarty-pants.

  I’m the first one to Stewie’s (as us locals call it), so I grab the long table and wave to Lance. He’s going into seventh grade with us and I have a sneaky feeling he’s crushing on Vi, but she’s way too blind to see it. His grandfather (Stewie himself) owns the place, his mom and dad run it, and sometimes (like today) Lance buses tables.

  “Water?” he calls over as he wipes down a seat.

  “Five, please,” I answer.

  Becca is next through the door, which makes sense since she lives closest.

  “This humidity is inhumane. It took me for-ev-er to straighten this. I swear, I think the stars were still out when I started.” Becca runs a hand through her shoulder-length red hair and grimaces.

  Lauren and Vi push through the door one right after the other and grab chairs. “Who knew there was life on the island at o-dark-thirty?” Vi asks.

  Lauren looks at her funny. “Vi, this island had its start as a fishing village. In 1769, when Jebediah Bodington incorporated the town, it’s likely that everyone was up at five a.m. trawling the Intercoastal for shrimp.”

  “Thanks for the history lesson, Lo,” Vi says, sticking out her tongue and then ducking her head when she catches sight of Lance. “Who’s ordering the liver?”

  It’s kind of a long-running joke among us because Stewie’s has liver and chicken steak on the breakfast menu, right next to pancakes and omelets.

  “French toast for me,” I say. “But don’t you think it would be more polite to wait for Alexandra Worthington?”

  “Alexaaaaaandra Worthingtooooooon,” Becca says, drawing out the name and using a slight British accent. “It sounds so fancy. What do you think she looks like? My bet is she’s a total glamourpuss.”