“Well, the point was for me to learn,” Richard says. “I’ll try not to call anyone sir or ma’am until the bet is over, all right? And I’ll act like I’m doing a yoga pose every time the bill comes.”
“So let’s talk about this epic party you’re going to throw,” Matt says, flinging himself backwards onto the king-sized bed. His flopping pulls the duvet cover down a little, and I can see that it’s about three-quarters as thick as the mattress.
Richard gives another climbing-Everest sigh. “Fine. What do I have to do?”
“First of all, rich people don’t usually take that attitude about parties,” I say. “Even if they’re not into partying, they don’t feel that miserable about the money.”
Richard readjusts his face into a parody of a parody of someone trying to smile. After suffering a stroke. “Great. Where do I start?”
“First, you call down to the front desk and ask them to run a tab for room service,” Morgan says, picking up the heavy-handled, mother-of-pearl, old-fashioned land line phone and handing it to him.
“Then you ask for a case of Diamond Champagne to be sent up,” Matt continues.
“Make it two cases. Then you get on Twitter and Instagram and invite a whole bunch of people,” she continues, her fingers flickering across her phone. “Tell you what, I’ll help you out with that. There’s no rule that rich people can’t get help from their friends. I'm grateful for the opportunity to help.”
“Don’t forget to tell the front desk you’ll need catering for an event you’re having in your room tonight,” I add. “They probably provide it here or can contact a local restaurant on your behalf.”
“This is ridiculous.” Richard shoves the phone away as if he’s shoving all of us out the door. “Do you know how many starving people we could feed with the money-“
“And most rich people don’t whine about feeding the poor!” Morgan snaps. “Of course we care about feeding the poor, that’s why we throw fundraisers! And because we throw fundraisers and help the needy all the time, we don’t have to be a drag at parties, a boring stick-in-the-mud that no one wants to listen to babbling about all the poor, starving people in the world.”
“For once, Morgan is right.” I shove the phone back toward Richard. “Be sure to add ‘plus one’ to your e-vite. I want to bring Hoolio to this shindig.”
“So I guess all you have to attend my party with expensive food and drinks so you can check up on me,” Richard says.
“Dude, we invited half the people we met at the beach today,” Matt says. “It's pretty much open to everyone. And even if it wasn't, poor people crash parties all the time. Back at the frat house, we usually have ten or twenty people that no one knows who the hell they are at every party. I think most of them come for the free beer.”
“And the point is to see how poor people treat the rich, right?” I add. “That's why we invited other poor people to attend your party, and we'll be here too.”
“Attending one nice party doesn't change your overall lifestyle,” Morgan adds.
“Okay, okay,” Richard says. “But all I'm buying are food and drinks. You want to hire a band or something, you're doing that on your dime.”
“I feel like such a welcome guest,” Charlie says from the couch.
Chapter Fifteen
"$500 for champagne? That's insane! Can't you guys get drunk on whatever beer Wal-Mart has on sale like normal people?" Richard yells.
"We can, 'cuz we're 'poor'." Matt makes quote marks in the air as he flops down on the ass-fondling sofa. "But you can't, because you're living the high life this month, buddy."
"People are going to start showing up soon, so you might wanna cool it on this whole wet-blanket routine," Charlie adds.
"I'm grateful that we have the opportunity to enjoy this wonderful champagne," Tiffany says, lifting the first bottle from its ice bucket and popping the cork. Morgan and I were so busy dealing with the party that I haven't had the chance to ask what the fuck is going on with her, and I make a mental note to do that tonight. This happy-crappy, “I'm so grateful” nonsense really isn't her.
"That bottle cost $500!" Richard rakes one hand through his already-tousled hair, while the other clutches the room service bill like Chris Christie hangs onto a donut. "Don't open any more if you don't have to, okay? If we don't open them I think we can still get our money back."
Matt clears his throat like there's a 747 lodged in it. "I don't think that's how a rich person would act, Richie Rich," he says quietly, covering the camera button on his shirt.
"Yeah, the whole point of a party is that you're supposed to forget about everything and have a good time." Morgan grabs a glass and sloshes champagne into it, letting the bubbles overflow onto the carpet. Richard's eyes go wide and his mouth opens, but a sharp look from Matt forces him to slam it shut again.
"Now start being a gracious host who cares only about his guests' entertainment and not about money, or you lose the bet," Charlie tells him.
I look around to make sure Hoolio didn't hear. So far, he's the only person at the party who doesn't know about the bet, and no one else can know before it ends or both sides lose.
Fortunately, I see him over by the window, enjoying the view. I join him, and realize that the view really is pretty awesome from up here - especially since it's nighttime, and you can't see any of the trash or pollution on the beach. Come to think of it, I didn't see any earlier today, either, when we were helping Richie Rich plan his party. Of course! The hotel probably pays someone to pick up litter on their stretch of the beach, instead of just waiting for the drunk drivers to get to them once a year.
"I know it's pretty out there," I say to Hoolio. "And I'd love to take a stroll on the beach with you later. But right now I'd like you to meet my friends. Come on." I take his hand and lead him back to the cluster of guests near the door.
Hoolio hangs back a little. "I don't know if this is really my scene," he says, fingering the top of the couch.
"Why not?" I look over at my friends and realize none of them has a nose ring or a tattoo. "I know they seem kind of vanilla, but you haven't seen them once they get started on a party. They're a lot more fun then."
"Okay." Hoolio shrugs. "As long as we get to spend some alone time together later."
Fortunately, that's just what I had in mind. I have to admit, I didn't think my attraction to Hoolio would last more than a few days. I tend to like bad boys at first. But then I get bored when I realize that underneath the nose ring or tat or goth clothes is just another person like me, desperately vying for attention. But Hoolio's not like that. I rarely say this about anyone because it's rarely true about anyone, but I honestly don't think he cares what other people think, and I have to admit that makes me a little jealous.
Oh, I try not to care. I don't want to care. And sometimes I don't. But here's the thing: I enjoy being the center of attention. And sometimes when the novelty of being different wears off, you have to go the other way for a while to keep that spotlight on you.
We find Richard sloshing champagne into every glass, wincing every time a drop spills while simultaneously forcing his mouth into a smile that doesn't come within light-years of reaching his eyes. The result is that he looks like the last idiot I saw mix energy drinks and booze to excess - in other words, he looks completley insane in a really bizarro way.
Hoolio is apparently getting the same impression, except that he doesn't know why. "Is he on something?" he whispers in my ear.
"Oh...no," I whisper back. "He's um...well, he just made the mistake of mixing champagne with an energy drink. And he's not in the habit of getting that drunk."
Hoolio sighs. "This is why I don't want to hang around too long. This whole getting outrageously trashed thing really isn't me."
"You...don't drink?" I rarely meet anyone my age who has as little interest in alcohol as I do, and I suspect that's just because it works better on most people than it does on me.
He shrugs. "A little. I jus
t don't see the point in drinking until you're dancing naked on a tabletop while crying and drunk-texting your ex."
There's a story there, but I decide not to pursue it right now.
"Where did you, uh, find all these guests you invited to...our party?" Richard asks Matt, as people start trickling in. It actually looks like Matt invited a good cross-section of people our age, from rich to lower-middle class. I know because the difference between a genuine Coach bag and a fake one is so stark you can tell the two bags apart from fifty feet. Well, maybe you can't, but I can.
"Oh, a lot of them are people we partied with down by the beach the last coupla nights," Matt explains. "Then a few of them are people we met in the lobby or the bar downstairs."
"I told them it was an open bar up here," Charlie says helpfully, popping the cork on another champagne bottle.
Richard can't suppress the wince that follows that one. "Great," he says. "I mean, I wanted a full house, but aren't there fire codes or something?"
Hoolio leans over and whispers in my ear, "Is this guy for real? Where did you find him?"
"The nerd department at our university," I mumble back. "We just have to put up with him because he's throwing a way better party than any of us could afford."
"I'm grateful so many people came," Tiffany says, pouring herself a second glass of champagne. "It gives me an opportunity to meet new and interesting people."
Charlie rolls his eyes, grabs two flutes of champagne, and wanders off to a corner where a group of girls is clustered around their phones.
Tiffany seems not to notice. "What do we have to eat?" she asks.
"The catering trays are over here." Matt yanks a lace tablecloth off three large room-service carts and starts removing the silver lids with a lot of clattering. He looks around the room, sees only the three inches of neutral, floral-patterned pile carpet and the modern black couch, and dumps the lids on the floor. Good choice. "We have three kinds of steak appetizers, lobtser rolls, some cream puff things...oh, look, we even got rabbit food for Shade." He points at a fruit-and-veggie tray.
"It all looks delicious," Tiffany says, grabbing one of the lobster rolls.
All of a sudden, Richard gets this gleam in his eye and I realize he's had some sort of idea. He turns to the service carts and starts pulling trays off one of them.
"Um...what are you doing?" Tiffany asks. "I mean, I'm sure whatever you're thinking is a good idea and all, but..."
I finally have an opportunity to ask the question I've been meaning to ask for a while."Tiffany, what the fuck is wrong with you? Did you skip breakfast and forget to eat after your hot yoga class again?" For some reason, Tiffany thinks she'll lose more weight if she fasts before a workout, and when she does hot yoga on an empty stomach, I think she gets dehydrated or something and ends up babbling like a crazy person about love and peace and balance and all kinds of crazy crap.
Tiffany blinks at me. "What are you talking about?"
"This...positive attitude kick you're on where you think everything is great whether it is or not," I say. "Why are you doing it and when do you plan to stop?"
Here's the thing about me: There's nothing I hate more than those positive-attitude nutjobs. I truly believe that noboby's life actually gets better because of a positive attitude; people who try that nonsense are just learning to delude themselves. Not only that, but what if the whole world went on a positive attitude kick? If nobody complained about anything, how would problems get fixed in the world? Do you think penicillin was invented because people were super happy about dying of a cold at the age of twenty?
Because I am an anti-positive-attitude activist, I tend to avoid fake-happy (and that's all a positive attitude is) people like the plague. Tiffany might not be the stark realist I am, but if she has a problem, she'll bitch about it until she gets her way, and I always respected that. But if she's going to stay on this happy kick, we may have a problem.
Tiffany knocks back the last of her champagne, pops a lobster roll in her mouth and grabs another glass. "I've started reading one of those books that helps poor people be happy with having nothing," she says around a mouthful of lobster.
"You mean the bible?" I ask. This leads to a lot of horrified faces. Another thing I've learned about Texas is that these people take religion fucking seriously, and have no tolerance for healthy skepticism or logical intellectual debates about it.
"Oh no, nothing religious," Tiffany says, waving her hand dismissively. Tiffany says "bless your heart" as much as every other girl at school and carries around a rhinestone-studded leather Bible, but I've never seen her drag her ass out of bed on a Sunday morning and go to church. "It's just about the secrets of true happiness."
"Oh, I've heard of that book," Matt says. "It tells you to change your attitude and your whole life will get better. I always kind of thought it was full of crap." He wipes his hand across his nose, an irritating nervous habit of his. "You know, I just remembered that Charlie and I have to make an appearance at a beach party tonight..."
"No, it's not full of crap," Tiffany says as Matt waves to Charlie and the two of them head for the door, two leggy brunettes in tow. A crowd is starting to gather, and next to me, Tiffany is one of the biggest hams in our group. "By changing your attitude about things, you can actually change the world!"
"I don't understand," Hoolio says, scratching at one of his dreadlocks. "Did you just figure out you're poor?"
There are a few seconds of silence, at least in our corner of the room. I quickly wrack my brain for a good lie. "She's been in denial for a while," I say, quietly, as if I don't really want Tif to hear. "At our school, she had all these hot guys vying for her attention, and some of them spoiled her with gifts, so it was easy for her to pretend she was rich. But here there are so many hot girls, the guys aren't as desperate for her attention. Plus the prices for everything are really high here because it's a vacation spot."
Tiffany glares at me, but she doesn't say I'm wrong, either. Hey, I didn't hear her offering up a better lie.
“Also, we're sticking to a strict budget on our trip,” I add, a lot louder. “We're entering a contest for a Green Day internship, and we thought we'd show people how they could save money by reusing, reducing and recycling, so our budget is a lot more limited than normal.”
“And I hear all these poor people talking about this book that made them happy with having no money, so I decided to read it,” Tiff says. “I got a free copy from the local library.”
"I thought about reading one of those self-help books once, but it seemed a little too out-there," Hoolio says, pulling up the hood of his alien autopsy sweatshirt.
"I've never read any of those books, but I've been forced to listen to a bunch of people who have," I tell him. "Basically, they all say the same thing: You should bottle up all your negative feelings and pretend everything's great and you're super happy whether it's true or not."
"That is not what it says," Tiffany snaps.
"It tells you to say positive things when negative shit happens to you, doesn't it?" I ask.
She crosses her arms over her low-cut Miss Me t-shirt. "That improves the attitude of others around you, which improves their mood and thoughts. And that makes them act better, so your experience improves too."
"Really? I've been listening to your happy-crappy bullshit for two days and it hasn't changed how much my experience has sucked," I say. "No amount of positive attitude is going to change the fact that my motel room has cigarette burns in the bedspread and rust stains on the bedside lamps and a big, old-fashioned TV with a big butt that Sir Mixalot would pay good money to date."
"Well, some people you just can't change because of their negative attitudes," Tiffany says. "You just have to ignore them and move on. Anyway, I've decided to devote myself to what really matters in life," she adds.
We all stare at her expectantly. This I gotta hear.
"I'm going to find true love this summer," she announces.
"So, you ne
ver had true love with any of your boyfriends back at school?" Morgan asks.
Tiffany shrugs. "I thought I did with a few of them, but I was wrong. True love isn't about expensive gifts and material possessions. It's about making a real connection."
"So you came to a party in a fancy hotel filled with a decent percentage of well-heeled, available men," Richard points out.
"You invited me to this lovely party, Richard, and I thank you for being such a generous host," Tiffany says, making me want to gag for the twentieth time today. "And if I meet someone here, rich or poor, I'll be grateful to the universe for that, too. But if I don't, I might meet someone tomorrow at the beach, or the cheap coffeehouse, or the two-for-one-Tuesday diner, or-"
"We get the idea," I say, finding the fruit tray and snagging some pineapple-on-a-toothpick. "Good luck with that."
Richard sighs. "I don't necessarily think Tiffany is going to fall in love with the maitre'd here, but at least she's trying to find meaning in something other than money. You could give her a chance."
"What's that supposed to mean?" Hoolio asks, a hummus-dipped carrot stick halfway to his mouth. "You think it's ridiculous that a woman would fall for a guy who waits tables? Is that what you're saying, here in your penthouse suite with $500 bottles of champagne flowing like Niagara Falls?"
"Of course not!" Richard yells, his own fake-happy persona forgotten. See, that's the thing with positive-attitude "transformations": They're like low-carb diets - impossible to maintain long-term.
Around the room, conversations don't die entirely, but most of them go down a few decibels as people turn to stare at us. "Uh, enjoy the food and drinks!" Richard yells, hoisting his untouched glass in the air. Then he turns to Hoolio and says, in a lower voice, "I didn't mean that at all, man, I swear. I'm just not convinced that Tiffany would really fall for any guy who made less than $70K a year. Positive attitude or not, I think she'll just happen to fall in love with someone who makes a lot of money. That doesn't mean I think she'll be making the right choice," he adds. "I just know her well enough to know what she'll do. She might be letting Mr. Right slip right through her fingers."
Sorority Girls With Guns Page 9
