We Are Party People

by Leslie Margolis

  “But it would. People would see a dragon,” says Sophie.

  “Yeah,” Lola agrees. “Like with your parties. All the unicorns and fairies and treasures.”

  “That’s kid stuff,” I say. “Everything is fake—bright fabric and sequins and plastic and junk. I could never actually be a real dragon.”

  “Dragons aren’t real, anyway,” Sophie says. She has a determined look on her face. She swings her paddle and the ball flies into my side of the court, fast. I lunge for it but miss. It goes flying into the hedges that line her driveway.

  I walk over to the bushes and plunge my hands into the leaves, searching.

  “Usually it falls to the ground,” Sophie says. She puts down her paddle and walks over. Getting on her knees, she reaches her hand in blindly and pulls the ball out.

  “That was fast,” I say, surprised and impressed. “You didn’t even look.”

  “Something about the gravitational pull and the way the leaves have grown in usually leads it down to the same spot,” she says.

  “Oh.” I’m not sure of what else to say.

  “If I want to be class president, maybe it’ll happen next year. I’ll keep trying. They don’t get to decide who I’m going to be.”

  We are back at the table and it’s my turn to serve. Sophie readjusts her headband. Then she bends her knees and sways back and forth in front of the table. Her mouth is set in a line, determined. She means business. But there’s a twinkle in her eye.

  I serve. She slams the ball back to me. I slam it back to her. We rally for a few seconds but it seems like longer. Then she lobs me an easy one and I pound it back into the right corner of the table. It looks like it’s going to go too far but it actually hits the edge and bounces off out of reach.

  “Yes!” I shout, throwing up both of my hands.

  “You win,” says Sophie. She walks to my side of the table and offers me her hand. Sophie insists that every Ping-Pong match start with a fist bump and end with a handshake.

  “Good game,” she says.

  “Good game,” I agree.

  “Okay, you’re up,” Sophie says to Lola, offering her fist and then handing over the paddle. “Should we play to fifteen or twenty-one?”

  “Fifteen,” says Lola.

  They warm up in silence and have a quick game that Sophie wins.

  “Hey, can we get something to eat?” asks Lola. “I’m hungry.”

  “Sure thing,” Sophie says.

  We go inside and Sophie puts out some grapes and cheese and the good, buttery kind of crackers with little salt crystals on top. I take two and make a sandwich with one slice of cheese in the middle. Lola sticks to the grapes.

  “Mmm, so good,” I say, after I’ve chewed and swallowed.

  “Hey, my dad promised to take me back to the animal shelter next weekend. Can you two come with me?” asks Sophie.

  Lola shakes her head no. “We’re going to Palm Springs to see my grandparents.”

  “Maybe on Sunday,” I tell her. “But on Saturday I have to work at another birthday party.”

  “Lucky you,” says Sophie.

  I cringe. “I would call myself the opposite of lucky.”

  “How come?” Sophie asks. “It sounds like you had so much fun yesterday.”

  “Next Saturday is different. I have to dress up as a mermaid. You should see the costume. It’s a giant shiny tail and a bikini top. I’ll have to wear this crazy wig and all this makeup and glitter.”

  “That’s supercool. I love mermaids. I mean I used to, when I was younger. Ariel was the greatest. Can I come watch?” Sophie asks, not getting it at all.

  I swallow another cracker sandwich and then shake my head. “No way! It’s way too embarrassing.”

  “What’s embarrassing about entertaining kids at a birthday party?” Sophie asks, totally serious. “I think it’s an amazing skill.”

  “I agree—it is an amazing skill, and it’s one that I don’t have,” I tell her.

  “Anyone can dress up like a mermaid,” says Lola.

  I shake my head, frustrated that my friends aren’t getting it. It’s almost like they don’t even know me. “There’s more to it. I’ll have to put the costume on inside and then my dad will carry me out and set me into the pool and I’ll have to swim around and act all mermaid-like.”

  “While lots of little kids think that you’re some magical creature from their favorite movie?” Sophie asks.

  “No, not exactly,” I say, and explain the problem with Ariel and Disney. “My parents invented their own mermaid. Her name’s Luella and her best friend is a shark, except we stopped telling this to kids. It’s amazing how many kids are afraid of sharks. Have you ever noticed that? Even in swimming pools, it’s like they’re worried that somehow there’s a connection and real ocean creatures will swim in.”

  “Why don’t you want to do it?” Sophie asks.

  Such a simple question—so complicated to answer.

  I think about the last time my mom wore the costume and the way she looked: radiant. How she fully inhabits the role and magically transforms herself into a genuine mermaid, as if that’s a real thing. And not just any old mermaid—the most gorgeous mermaid in the world, more spectacular than Ariel ever was.

  Me, I’ll always be Pixie—quiet and slouchy and uncomfortable in my own skin, not to mention the skin of a mermaid. I’m not like my parents and I’m not like Sophie. But that makes me realize something …

  “Hey, if you think it sounds fun, do you want to try?” I ask.

  Sophie looks at me. “For real? You’d let me?”

  “Of course, you’d be doing me this huge favor. I mean, I should check with my dad, but he probably won’t care. He needs a good mermaid. And you’d be much better than me, anyway.”

  Sophie grins. “I can’t think of anything that would be more fun. Thanks for cheering me up.”

  “Were you even upset? Because I couldn’t tell.”

  Sophie pauses and bites her bottom lip before answering me. “A little, but not so much.”

  I believe her. And this, it turns out, is my first big mistake.

  27

  When I get home from school on Monday, my dad seems tired. He’s curled up in a ball on the couch, not his usual happy self.

  “What’s wrong?” I ask.

  “Tough day at the office,” he says. “There was a bathroom incident.”

  I cringe. “Yikes, was it a bad one?” I don’t know why I even asked. Bathroom incidents are always bad.

  “Oh, it was worse than I ever could’ve imagined,” my dad says with a groan. “The worst one yet.”

  “What was it?” I ask. “Wait, do I even want to know?”

  He doesn’t answer me at first. Instead, he crinkles his nose. But eventually he whispers, “Poop in the sink.”

  “Wow.” This one is new. This one I’ve never heard before. I am almost afraid to ask, but I guess I’m more curious than grossed out. Confused, too. “Wait, what do you mean by that, exactly?”

  “Just what I said. There was poop in the sink.” He seems to almost gag simply saying the words.

  “But how did it get there?” I ask.

  My dad covers his face with his hands. “I’ve been wondering the same thing myself since it happened. And I think I figured it out. It looks like someone pooped in the little kiddie potty and then instead of leaving it, or dumping it into the regular toilet and flushing it, they put it in the sink.”

  I gasp and cover my mouth. “Ew. That’s disgusting.”

  “Imagine having to be the one who cleaned it up.”

  Before I have a chance to answer him, my dad’s cell phone rings. He puts up a finger and says, “Excuse me.” Then he takes the call.

  “We Are Party People. Dan the Man speaking.”

  He pauses and listens and as he does I notice him cringe, ever so slightly.

  “No, Crazy Chicken has retired,” he replies. “What’s that? The chicken may come out of retirement at some point
, but it won’t be this year. I’m sorry, did you want something else? We have a lot of amazing characters at We Are Party People.”

  I want to tell my dad about Sophie, but I also don’t want to ask when he’s in a bad mood, which he seems to be now.

  So I wait until we’re eating dinner.

  He makes macaroni and cheese, except it’s not the delicious homemade kind with a thick crust of buttery bread crumbs. My mom does that and she adds tiny pieces of broccoli. When I was little she told me they were trees from outer space, specially harvested and sent to her to feed me to make me grow big and strong and creative and smart. I half believed her and didn’t protest the invasion of vegetables because I couldn’t taste them since they were surrounded by so much other deliciousness. Then I grew up and realized the truth, but by that point I was already used to the broccoli, so it was no big deal.

  My dad doesn’t know how to cook, but I guess he finally realized that subsisting on takeout every single night is not the best. So he tries and makes the kind of macaroni that comes from the box. It’s a shade of orange that doesn’t exist in nature or anywhere else except for packaged macaroni and cheese. I used to have it at Lola’s house when we were younger, before she was diagnosed with celiac, and I begged my mom to make the same. But that was a long time ago. Now I’d rather have the real thing.

  “Everything okay?” my dad asks gently.

  I blink a few times and look at him. “Yeah, sure. How come?”

  “You seemed to leave the planet for a while there.”

  “No, I’m here,” I say, pushing the food around on my plate with my fork.

  “Is it Mom?” he asks. “I know you’re missing her. I am, too. Let’s give her a call after dinner. Okay?”

  I take a deep breath. There’s no easy way to ask, so I simply blurt it out. “Hey, what do you think of Sophie being the Luella this weekend? Because I told her all about the mermaid party and she really wants to help out.”

  My dad seems alarmed. “Why would we need Sophie when we have you?”

  “Because she’d be much better at it,” I say.

  “But she’s never even been to one of our parties.”

  “It’s a birthday party, not a mission to some new colony on Mars. I’m sure she’ll be able to figure everything out.”

  My dad thinks about this for a moment. He doesn’t seem happy. “Are you sure she could handle it? It’s hard enough simply getting through the party without your mom, but introducing a brand-new person to the whole act? I don’t like the sound of it…” He acts like it’s the craziest thing I’ve ever suggested, which is frustrating because this doesn’t have to be a big deal.

  “I know, but I’ve been to a million parties. I’ll teach her what to do. Plus, how hard could it be?”

  “There’s an art to what we do, Pixie. And experience counts for a lot, too. You’ve lived this and you’re ready. The work you did this weekend? It was magical. I keep meaning to tell you how happy I am about it, how proud your mom would be.”

  I roll my eyes.

  “I’m serious. Jake’s dad Joe emailed me to thank us and he said you are a natural with children.”

  “He really said that?” I ask.

  My dad nods. “Yup. He even asked if you could babysit sometime.”

  “I’d love that,” I say. “I’m allowed to, right?”

  “Sure,” my dad says. “As long as it doesn’t interfere with your schoolwork or the parties. But my point is, you can do this. Plus, the mermaid costume fits you.”

  “It’ll fit Sophie, too. We’re the same size, practically.”

  “Pixie, this is our family business.”

  “And we need extra help,” I say. “Look at last weekend.”

  “Last weekend was a blast and we handled everything great.”

  “Just barely,” I say. “Imagine how much easier it would’ve been if we’d had a third person. We’re supposed to have three people, right? We always have.”

  “I don’t know,” my dad says.

  “Will you at least think about it?” I ask. “Please? And know that I have been dreading the mermaid thing for ages, and Sophie actually wants to do it. You don’t want a miserable mermaid, now do you?”

  My dad opens his mouth to argue but then seems to change his mind, and he doesn’t say a word.

  28

  Later that night, when I’m in bed and reading, my dad knocks on the door. “Your mom is on the phone,” he says, handing me the cordless.

  “Hi, honey,” she says. “How’s everything in Beachwood?”

  I’ve been giving her one-word answers every night this week, but I’m tired of that and anyway, tonight I have a question. “Hey, how come you gave up Crazy Chicken?”

  My mom laughs. “Now there’s a character I haven’t thought about in ages. Why do you ask?”

  “I don’t know. Someone called today to ask for her, so I was wondering. You quit the character so suddenly, and that never happens.”

  “I suppose I got tired of Crazy Chicken. I didn’t want to be defined by one thing.”

  “But you just dumped her. And she made everyone so happy. I don’t understand how you can be this awesome Crazy Chicken, the character that put your business on the map, and then suddenly ditch the whole thing, pretend like she never even existed.”

  “Is everything okay down there?” she asks, sounding kind of worried.

  I can hardly believe the question. Of course things aren’t okay. “Hey, can I come visit you in Fresno, like maybe next weekend?”

  “Is this about the mermaid party?” my mom asks.

  “No,” I say. “It’s because I want to come up to see you.”

  “I want to see you, too, and I will, soon. Only, not this weekend, I don’t think.”

  “Why not?”

  “Honey, I miss you, but it’s not what you think up here. It’ll be boring. It’s a lot of time driving around and looking at different nursing homes, trying to find the right place for your grandma to live. And then there’s the paperwork, and clearing all this junk out of the house so I can put it on the market. It’s been a horrible nightmare, and one that never seems to end.”

  “I don’t care about any of that. I mean, I wouldn’t mind…”

  My mom doesn’t answer me.

  “So, why’d you give up Crazy Chicken?”

  “Oh, I don’t know,” says my mom. “I guess it simply got old and I got sick of the act. Bored. Sometimes you have to move on.”

  “That’s it?” I ask.

  “That’s it,” she replies. “Now, have a good night. Okay? I love and miss you and I’ll see you soon.”

  My mom hangs up before I can say, “I love you, too.” Or, “When is it going to be ‘soon,’ exactly?” Even though the words are on the tip of my tongue.

  Lying in my bed, I am suddenly remembering this one Sunday a few years back.

  We’d finished with our last party of the weekend a little early and we headed to Sergio’s, this great Italian restaurant downtown.

  When we got there they told us that the wait was going to be forty-five minutes. Normally we’d say forget it—I certainly wanted to—but my mom was really craving their ravioli, so we stayed, all of us sitting down on the sidewalk in front of the restaurant. My dad still had his guitar with him from the party—sometimes he doesn’t like leaving it in the car unattended—and he started strumming. People were watching and he suddenly got this funny grin on his face. He leaned over and whispered something to my mom and then she began to smile.

  “What?” I asked.

  “You’ll see,” my mom said. “I’ll be right back.” She took the car keys with her and headed over to where we’d parked.

  I had a sinking feeling in the pit of my stomach. I was not sure about what was going to happen but I was fairly confident that I wasn’t going to like it.

  And sure enough, my mom came back a minute later with a cardboard sign that read, DAN THE MAN ON GUITAR, TAKING REQUESTS. Also, an old coffee c
an, to collect money.

  I turned beet red and my whole body filled with fear.

  “What are you guys doing?” I asked.

  “Busking,” my mom told me, as if it were the most normal thing in the world. Like I’d even heard of the term busking. “We used to do this all the time when we were younger. It’s how we supported ourselves when we backpacked through Europe.”

  “What is busking?” I ask.

  “You know, playing music for tips.”

  “You mean, like, begging for money on the streets?” I asked.

  “It’s not begging. It’s entertaining people. And if they feel the urge to show their gratitude with some change or, even better, dollars, we are not going to stop them.”

  “Hey, remember that time in London?” my dad asked my mom.

  She smiled. “Are you kidding? How could I forget?”

  Then she turned to me and explained. “We were really broke back then and wanted to make enough money so we could see the Clash in concert at Union Chapel. So we spent three whole days busking at the bottom of Charing Cross station.”

  “And we were so close to earning enough money. That’s the best stop because there are lots of tourists and lots of bankers,” my dad explained. “And we kept the jar full so people would be more encouraged.”

  “You’ve got to spend money to make money,” my mom said.

  “It’s funny, it doesn’t matter how well you sing, if there’s an empty box no one will put money in, but if the box has lots of coins in it, people will contribute,” my dad said. “It’s like they need to be told what to do.”

  “So we kept our money in it and all of a sudden the train pulled into the station and, out of nowhere, this guy in a green hat popped off and was listening to us and smiling and nodding, and I really felt like he was going to pull out his wallet and give us a twenty-pound note,” my mom said, eyes wide and smiling. “But instead he grabbed our jar and just took off, running like there was no tomorrow.”

  My dad laughed and shook his head. “We were too stunned to go after him at first, so he got a good lead. Eventually we scrambled up and grabbed our stuff and tried to chase him, but we were too late.”