by Josie Brown
Coward. Thanks for nothing.
I slam the door on my way out.
As I’m driving home, I get a text from Hilldale Middle School’s principal, Mr. Belding:
Can you join me at my office today, around 1 pm?
Finally, someone is thanking me for all my hard work!
I text back: Look forward to seeing you then.
I go home and change before driving to the school. I choose a yellow and white polka-dot blouse over a slim white pencil skirt; and I wear my best pearl necklace and matching earrings, and put my hair up in a demure French twist. The shoes that are perfect for this ensemble–five-inch yellow stilettos–are taller than I like for daywear, but Belding is tall, so I’ll make an exception. I’m willing to bet he wants a photograph taken with me, for the school newspaper. I can see the headline now:
Jeff Stone’s Mother Throws Party of the Century
Or something like that.
Yes, I know–I’m grasping at straws.
When I get to Principal Belding’s office, Miss Bliss, his secretary, hustles me through his door immediately.
Seeing me, he rises from the chair behind his desk. I smile as I step forward–
Until I see the woman sitting on the couch in the far corner of the room:
Penelope.
Jeff is beside her. He’s trying hard not to cry.
My double-take puts a smug smile on her lips.
I look from her to Principal Belding and ask coldly, “Why exactly was this meeting called?”
Before he has a chance to answer, Penelope declares, “Because your son is a terrorist!”
“Now, now, Mrs. Bing! ‘Terrorist’ is such a harsh word.” Principal Belding clicks his tongue. “However, ruffian would fit the bill.”
I ask him, “And why do you feel this is the case?”
“Because my son is currently at Hilldale Emergency Clinic getting his nose bandaged,” Penelope sniffs.
I fold my arms across my chest. “What did he do to provoke Jeff into hitting him?”
“He called my father a terrorist, and then he called me ‘Mohammed Stone!’” Jeff shouts.
I look at Belding. “I’d say my son had a right to be angry.”
“I disagree. A misunderstanding is no reason for fisticuffs,” Belding admonishes me. “As you know, in some cultures Mohammed is a very noble name.”
“By calling my son’s father a terrorist, we all know that Cheever’s intentions weren’t by any means noble.”
“Nonetheless, Hilldale Middle School has a very strict ‘first punch’ rule–immediate suspension, for one week. No exceptions for any school activities.”
Jeff looks up, shocked. “But–but that means I can’t go to the dance tomorrow night!”
Ah, so, that’s what this is all about: Penelope wants Jeff out of the picture so that Gabrielle will accept Cheever’s invitation to the dance.
She’s willing to break my son’s heart.
Ain’t gonna happen.
“Did Jeff apologize?” I ask.
“Yes!” Jeff is adamant about this. Penelope smiles supremely at the memory.
“Then I think we can all agree that enough punishment has been administered,” I say sweetly.
“Excuse me?” Belding growls.
Frankly, there is no reason to excuse me. Goodness, it’s not as if I’ve pistol-whipped either of them–but that’s because I would never carry a gun into a school.
Secondly, they’d both enjoy it too much.
I know this because during carpool one afternoon last year, Cheever let it slip that he’d never be suspended from school because of his mother’s quote-unquote special relationship with Principal Belding.
He then had the audacity to ask if Mr. Stone and I had a quote-unquote safe word, too.
“Like what?” I asked.
“Like, say, ‘poppin’ fresh dough,’” he explained. “That’s theirs.”
At that point, Morton asked, “What’s a safe word?”
I zigged and zagged on the road, as if I had to avoid a dog or something, but really it was because I didn’t want to explain S&M protocol to a sixth-grader.
No chance like the present to see if what Cheever said was true, or if it was his imagination working overtime after breaking into his father’s porn stash.
I walk up to Belding and lean in so that only he can hear what I have to say: “Poppin’ fresh dough.”
He blanches. His lower lip quivers. His eyes ask, How do you know?
I don’t say another word. I just wink.
“What’s going on?” Penelope growls suspiciously.
Belding busies himself straightening the only file on his already clean desk. “The boy apologized. He’s free to go to the dance–with a warning.”
Jeff practically runs out the door.
I walk slowly, and make sure to close the door behind me.
Miss Bliss and I exchange winces when we hear Penelope’s unintelligible roar. A moment later, there’s a loud smack and a groan.
“I guess somebody’s been a very, very bad boy,” Miss Bliss murmurs.
Something tells me this isn’t the first time she’s heard such goings-on, and it won’t be the last.
Chapter 17
Last Minute Prep
As with everything else in life, success is achieved in the tiniest of details! With that in mind, here are a few things to remember before opening your door to your eager guests:
First, at least eight hours before your event, call together everyone who plays an integral part in its success–the event planner, the valet, the caterer, the florist, and the entertainers–to go over the floor plan, the timetable, and their specific roles. Answer their questions, and ask any you have as well.
In fact, tying them to chairs and shining a spotlight directly into their eyes will have them answering you in a fine, forthright fashion. However, should you feel someone is fudging an answer, don’t hesitate to whip out your Taser. (Hint: It can also be used in such party games as Truth or Dare. However, expect more dares than truths.)
Next, distribute cell phones to your party team! Having them at your beck and call with the push of a button goes far toward easing your stress. In fact, don’t stop there! GPS tracking should also be considered. And, for the ultimate control, keep them on leashes.
Finally, have an ambulance service on speed dial. If your guests aren’t scared of you, your party team certainly is, and someone is sure to have a heart attack.
“You’re lying,” Mary declares to Jeff.
“Mom!” he yells down the stairwell. “Tell her that I’m telling the truth!”
“Inside voices!” I yell back. Tomorrow night is the prom, and with everything going on, I’ve got the start of a vicious headache.
Three glasses of wine will do that to you.
So will three chaperone cancellations. I’ve been hitting the phones all day, trying to drum up replacements, but no luck. Seems that when the kids are away, the parents will play.
Evan has convinced me that watching a replay of John Oliver’s Last Week Tonight will make it better. Not that I’m paying attention, but Evan finds him a hoot. Anything that makes Evan laugh these days is okay by me.
I’m not so happy, either. I haven’t heard from Jack.
And yes, I’m somewhat miffed that his declaration that my opinion counted in Mara’s hiring was bogus.
Great. Good luck to them all.
I hadn’t planned to be widowed once, let alone three times.
If you were divorced, are you still widowed? I’m not sure I can figure that out without a team of attorneys. If you were never married, but still living together, what does that make you?
An idiot, I guess.
And certainly unlucky in love.
Mary storms down the stairs and into the great room, followed closely by Jeff and Trisha. “Mom, Jeff says that Taylor Swift is singing at his dance! Is that true?”
“Yes.” My affirmation echoes within the jum
bo-sized goblet raised to my lips.
“Told you,” Jeff jeers.
“Shut up, I’m talking to Mom.” Her eyes grow big. “Mom, why didn’t you tell me?”
“I’m sorry…I guess I thought you’d heard.” No, my eldest mostly tunes me out. From now on, if I want her attention, I’m adding the name Taylor Swift to every other sentence.
Mary looks up at me, pleading. “Can you score a ticket for me?”
“Aren’t you a little old for her?” Evan teases.
“I…yes, I guess,” Mary stammers.
He shakes his head. “Well, I’m not. I think she’s hot.”
“I’ll let you both see the concert, under one condition–that you act as chaperones at the dance.”
They slap high-fives.
Jeff turns white. “No! Mom, no way!”
Has he lost his mind? “Excuse me? May I ask your line of reasoning?”
“Because…because…” His face goes from white to bright red. “I have a date.”
Mary makes a kissy face.
I pinch her arm to make her stop. Biting my lip so that I don’t laugh, I turn to Jeff. “Did you ask Gabrielle?”
He nods nonchalantly. “Yeah. But now I have to learn how to slow dance.”
“It’s easy, dude,” Evan assures him. “They’ve even taught chimpanzees how to do it.”
“That’s about Jeff’s speed,” Mary mutters. “Maybe we can take one from the zoo, and he can practice with it.”
Jeff throws one of my nice couch pillows at her.
I grab the rest of them before Mary can retaliate.
“Taylor Swift,” Aunt Phyllis’s brow furrows in the hope it prods her memory. “Is she the one that did the duet album with Tony Bennett?”
“Lady Gaga,” Mary and Evan say in unison.
“Too bad. Still, it beats bingo, so count me in too,” Aunt Phyllis declares.
I toast her with my glass. “Sure, why not? The more the merrier.”
Trisha’s lower lip quivers. “Does this mean I have to stay home alone?”
I bundle my youngest onto my lap. “No, of course not! You can share Aunt Phyllis’s room with her”–I look over at Mary–“and you, too. Evan, you luck out with a room for yourself.”
He raises a brow. “Only if I’m not lucky enough for Taylor to want to serenade me all night.”
Mary’s eyes narrow. “Like that will ever happen.” She pauses and then adds, “Although, you do resemble Justin Bieber–around the time she dumped him.”
“Not Jake Gyllenhaal?”
She snickers. “You wish!”
“No, you do,” Jeff guffaws.
Mary doesn’t need my pillows. Her sandal does just as well. It clips her brother on his forehead.
“That’s it!” I holler. “Teach your brother to dance.”
I take my bottle and head upstairs. Something tells me Jack will be having another late night.
Prom day morning is typical of so many days in SoCal: warm, with clear blue skies.
Jack never came home. Did the mission go down last night?
I’ll know by one of two ways. The first is if he shows up in time to escort the rest of the family to the prom.
Or, Ryan will show up at my doorstep, to give me the news in person that Jack didn’t survive the mission.
I’d much prefer the former, having already gone through the latter.
By the time I get to the Savoy, for a rundown on any outstanding details, Margot, the party planner, is already there–with Édouard and Henry. Margot is frowning, which is not a good sign.
My first inclination is to wince, but until this party is over and I’m safely ensconced in my palatial suite, I have to plaster a smile on my face and play nice, so I declare, “A beautiful morning, everyone! And I’m sure tonight will be just as wonderful.”
“That depends,” Margot warns, “on whether you’re willing to accept some last-minute changes Mrs. Bing called into Édouard late yesterday.”
“Madam was so insistent that our chef prepped the kitchen all night in order to accommodate her,” Henry sniffs.
I brace myself. “Okay then, what items did she choose?”
“To start, there is the smoked white sturgeon caviar layered with Dungeness crab on yams–”
I purse my lips to keep from groaning. Penelope was fit to be tied when I deleted the caviar before. It makes me wonder if she ordered it to resell on the black market.
“–followed by turnip, radish, dried fish, and seaweed bouillon,” Édouard says proudly. “The next course is live scallops on the half shell, followed by roasted pigeon wrapped in cherry leaves and aged for thirty-two days, which is served with a beet soufflé and bone marrow fritters. And for dessert, Cherries Jubilee!”
On this last item, he whips his hand out with a flurry, practically knocking Henry off his feet.
I can’t believe it! Penelope is so upset about Cheever being tossed over for Jeff that she’s willing to sabotage the dance.
I look at it this way: if I insist on the more kid-friendly menu, the chef will no doubt commit hari-kari with the full set of Henckles knives hanging on the wall in the kitchen, so I must defer.
That’s okay. The success of the event doesn’t hang on the students’ opinion of the food, anyway. They aren’t going to remember anything about it–only what they wore, and who danced with whom, and who kissed whom.
Oh yes, and that Taylor Swift sang at their prom.
I wink at Margot, but not to Édouard. “It sounds wonderful! I appreciate your hard work–all of you.” I squeeze Margot’s hand.
She gets it: let’s just get through this in one piece.
Jeff and I may have won Round One, but Round Two goes to Penelope.
She keeps it up, she’ll feel my knockout punch, and I’m not speaking metaphorically.
Henry notices that I’ve got a roll-case with me, and guesses rightly that I’m dropping my stuff in my suite.
My security card is already in my hand when I reach the doors hiding the penthouse elevator banks. I slide it open, then rush to the elevator for Suite A, and insert my card.
Just as the elevator opens, Henry grabs me around the waist and shoves me against the wall.
Bad move. I knee him in the groin.
He yelps.
When he’s able to pull himself upright again, he mutters, “I–was saving you from breaking your neck,” I look to where he’s pointing–into the elevator shaft.
He’s right. It’s empty. Had I stepped into it, I would have broken my neck. I didn’t see the sign beside the door, which announces OUT OF ORDER.
“What…how…”
“As you know, the hotel did its soft opening last week,” he reminds me. “To be honest, we’re still working out a few bugs.” He looks down the shaft–at least a twenty-foot drop and shakes his head. “Your next stop would have been the private garage for the penthouse and concierge suites.”
I look up into the dark abyss, which rises another twenty stories above us. A shiver goes up my spine. “Henry, please forgive me! I’m so sorry!”
He nods stoically, then points to the elevator marked C.
“Shall we?”
I follow him in. He pushes a button, and up we go.
When the elevator door opens again, we are on the concierge level.
“Now, put your card into the slot, here.” He points to a card slot at eye level.
I do as he asks, and the elevator rises again. This time when it opens, we’re inside the Academy Awards suite.
I look around, confused. “How did this happen?”
“This is also an express elevator,” he explains. “Its first stop is the concierge level, which is right below the penthouse suites. However, it is the only elevator in the center core between all three floors, which also allows it to open into the three penthouses.”
“I don’t get it. How is that possible?”
“Take a look around this elevator. Do you notice something different about
it?”
I look closely at its three walls. Suddenly it hits me. “There are no walls to this elevator!”
“Exactly. The elevator’s four-sided metal frame holds just floor and ceiling platforms. That way, when a security card is inserted, the right doors swing open into the desired suite. Otherwise, in case of an emergency, the hotel staff would have no other access into the penthouse suites.”
“Couldn’t you have just moved me to another penthouse suite?”
He shakes his head. “I’m happy to say we’ve booked all of them tonight, as well as the whole concierge level–very last-minute, for a small gathering. In fact, I was offered money for this one as well, but it would have been wrong to renege on my promise to you, especially since you’ve followed through on yours.” He leans in, much too close–
I slam my fist into his nose.
“Ouch!” he screams.
Too bad. I’m taking the offensive. “How dare you!”
Hesitantly, he reaches over slowly–
To brush lint off the shoulder of my dress.
“Oh! I’m…so sorry! I thought you were being…you know, inappropriate.”
He raises a brow. “My husband wouldn’t like it. For that matter, neither would I.”
“Oh!” As it dawns on me what he’s implying, I blush. “When you said you’d be turning down my sheets personally, I presumed–”
“I meant it, as a courtesy of the hotel. As manager, I want to make sure everything is done right, especially during opening week. Our maid staff is still too new to be trusted with our VIP guests.”
I wince. “I guess I got the wrong impression…from…”
“Let me guess–Mrs. Bing.” He sighs. “The woman has an active imagination, not to mention roaming hands.”
“I’m so sorry you’ve had to put up with her.”
“You’ve been a wonderful buffer, not to mention a joy to work with.”
“Well, thank you, Henry.” His compliment brings a smile to my face.
Seeing it, he smiles too. “Mrs. Stone, rest assured, despite Mrs. Bing’s meddling, everything is under control. By the way, just to give you a heads-up, she had several bottles of your vodka order delivered to her room. Otherwise, as I promised, the rest of the wine and spirits has been boxed, and is in a closet next to the ballroom.”
