Party Games

by Whitney Lyles

  She was just about to turn around to see if her mother had witnessed this incredible story, when a voice came from her left. She’d been so engrossed in the story that she hadn’t even noticed Cute Guitar Guy.

  “That story was amazing. These people are…” He shook his head. “Pretty remarkable. These are the kind of people who make our world a better place.” Then he held out his arm. “Look, I have goose bumps.”

  Sara held up her arm. “I do too.”

  They compared their bumpy arms under the dim light. Hers looked small and pale next to his sinewy, suntanned forearms. Then he wrapped his fingers around her wrist. “You have the tiniest wrists I’ve ever seen in my life,” he said. Gently, he pulled her wrist into his long fingers. “I can wrap my hand around them and my fingers overlap.”

  She laughed. “Maybe you just have long fingers.”

  “Maybe.” He looked down at his fingers around her wrist, then gently let go of her arm. “Hey, I don’t even think we’ve officially met yet.”

  “I know. What’s your name?”

  “Ian. And you’re Sara.”

  “Yeah, how’d you know?”

  “I asked Kenny a while ago because I wanted you to plan my band’s CD-release party. I’m the guitarist for On the Verge.”

  She lifted her eyebrows. “So that’s how the band heard of my mom and me.”

  “The parties you guys plan always turn out really great, and I thought the band could use some help.” He glanced at the stage and she actually thought she saw his long eyelashes cast a shadow. “Looks like we’re heading back on.”

  “You better go,” she said.

  “Nice to…” He paused.

  “…meet you? Finally,” she said.

  “Yeah, finally.” Then he straightened his band-issued tie before he walked off.

  Sara and her mother practically had to peel the Strausses from the dance floor after the last song. The Strauss family would’ve stayed until the following weekend if they’d been allowed. The caterers had long since cleaned up, and the rest of the staff at the reception hall was eagerly waiting to clock out.

  At the end of the night, the Strausses and three quarters of their guests shouted “Encore!”

  The band had already given three encores.

  Sara’s feet were killing her. While cute, the wedges weren’t very comfortable. She left her mom alone to wrap up a few loose ends in the reception hall and headed back to the car by herself. Halfway through the parking lot, she decided to ditch the shoes, and carry them the rest of the way to the car. She was slipping them off when Ian approached. “Hey, Sara.”

  Without the shoes, she suddenly felt very short. “I had to bail on my shoes,” she said as she swung them in her hand.

  “I had to bail on my whole outfit.” He smiled. He’d changed out of his band-issued clothes and sported a look that suited him much better. He wore dark, destroyed jeans and black Converse All Stars—just as she would’ve imagined for him. His faded Bloc Party T-shirt was cool too. A guitar case covered in stickers was slung over one shoulder. A worn-looking backpack hung loosely over the other shoulder.

  “Great show,” she said.

  “Thanks. It puts gas in my car.” He nodded. “I have played a lot of shows and been to a lot of concerts. Those grandparents partied harder than any crowd I’ve ever seen at Bad Religion or P.O.D. They were awesome.”

  Sara laughed. “I know. They’ve just signed us up for their grandson’s Bar Mitzvah. I can’t wait for that one. Maybe I’ll see you there, too.”

  “That would be cool.”

  “Bossy” rang from the outside pocket of her backpack. She’d downloaded Kelis’s rap song specifically for Dakota. The lyrics from this female musician seemed very fitting for Sara’s nightmare client of the summer.

  There was no reason she couldn’t answer. She just didn’t want to. She let it ring. “So what do you have planned for the rest of the evening?” he asked.

  Was he just making conversation?

  “I’m…well…” She was about to tell him she had nothing planned, when her cell phone rang again. Dakota, round two.

  “Looks like someone really needs to talk to you.”

  “Give me a minute.” She flipped open her phone. “This is Sara.”

  “So what’s the status on my tiara?”

  Sara cleared her throat. “Well, I’ve talked to Mikahi Sutso in Los Angeles, and they said it’s not going to be possible to get the exact jewels that you’ve asked for, but they’d be happy to replicate them. They can make the jewels look identical to any that you’d like.” She didn’t mention that she’d had to call twice because the first time she asked, they hung up on her. They’d actually thought it was a prank call.

  Dakota’s sigh was so loud that Sara thought a gust of wind might come through the earpiece on her phone and blast her to sea. “Are you serious?” she said.

  “Um…yes.” Sara felt sweat soaking her armpits and wasn’t sure why she let Dakota made her nervous.

  “Fake ones? I’m supposed to wear knockoffs to my sweet sixteen?” She grunted. “Could I be any more cheesy?”

  Not any more than you already are, Sara felt like saying. Instead, she said, “The jewels won’t be fake. They’ll be real diamonds. They just won’t be Nicole Kidman’s and Jennifer Aniston’s. They’ll be yours instead. They’ll be special just for you.”

  “Hmmm. Well, I hadn’t thought of it like that.” She was quiet for a moment while she pondered what Sara had said. “I have to think about it.”

  She could see Ian shifting his weight beneath the glow of the streetlight. What must he think of this conversation? Diamonds from Jennifer Aniston and Nicole Kidman? It sounded nuts. From the corner of her eye, she noticed another shadow behind him. It was Blake. Deafened by Dakota’s rants, she couldn’t hear what they were talking about. She didn’t even know they knew each other, and she couldn’t imagine what they possibly had to say to each other. It would be like Paris Hilton chatting with the president. They were such opposites.

  She looked at them just as Ian waved good-bye. “See you at the CD-release party.” He mouthed the words to Sara. She waved, then watched him disappear into the darkness of the parking lot.

  Nine

  Sara arrived at On the Verge’s party with Blake before there was even a sign of a party. Since her mother had taken a vacation to La La Land, Blake had offered to help with some of the preparations. Because of her mother’s new love life, it seemed that Sara knew more about the event than Leah did. It was the first time her mother had come to her with questions. The whole arrangement made Sara a little uneasy. She liked how things were pre-Gene—when her mother used to have everything under control. However, life was PG now, and she was starting to think she should get used to living a PG life because it didn’t seem that Gene was going anywhere.

  Her mother and Gene would arrive in an hour. Blake couldn’t stay for the whole evening because he had to work at a wedding, and Sara wished it was him she’d be working with all night and not her wacky mom and her new boyfriend.

  Sara’s days of bumming rides off people were numbered. She was trying not to obsess over getting her license. It was July, and even though her birthday was only a few days away, she felt like it would never get here. The more she thought about turning sixteen, the slower time seemed to pass, so she’d kept busy by working on the CD-release party and Dakota’s party. She’d have to get through the Fourth of July celebrations before her birthday came two days later. It seemed everyone couldn’t wait to watch the fireworks, and all she wanted to do was fast forward right through them.

  Their footsteps sounded loud as they walked through the room. A waiter cleaned glasses behind the bar. The clock in the corner read two. Five more hours till showtime. Though it seemed that they’d arrived ridiculously early, they couldn’t afford to waste a second.

  Sara made sure the lighting technicians had arrived and supervised the process of creating a good glow over the stage. S
he made sure the parking lot was clear for the vintage car show. Blake set up band merchandise sales booths. The list of responsibilities was countless, and one by one each task was completed.

  Blake gave her a pat on the back after everything came together. “Nice work, shorty.” Then he elbowed her. “Hey, if I don’t see you by your birthday, happy birthday, and good luck on your test.”

  “Thanks.” She nodded. “I hope I pass.”

  “You will. And after you get your license, let’s go see a movie. You can pick me up, and I’ll buy.”

  Was he asking her out? She could never tell with Blake. He had to know by now that she just wanted to be friends, but sometimes she felt like he was testing her—like he wanted to see what kind of reaction he could get from her, or how far he could go without getting totally rejected by her.

  It didn’t help that she offered a vague and casual answer. “Sure, yeah. Whenever things die down with work too.”

  They hugged before he left. As she watched him go, she couldn’t help but notice that he looked pretty good. He’d toned down the hair gel a little, and he had a body that could compete with Matthew McConaughey’s. Then she thought of Ian and his goose bumps, and Blake paled in comparison. Ever since the Strausses’ party, she felt like her crush on Ian had grown even deeper. She found herself daydreaming about him all day, wondering what he would think of the top she wore, or if he liked the same things she liked on her pizza. She wondered what his future plans were and if he’d go see horror movies with her. She always liked a good escape.

  Sara never had time to be nervous before events, but this event was different. Most of the events they planned involved invitations. They had a head count of exactly how many people would show up. Tonight, she had no idea. It could be ten. It could be two hundred. If the turnout was low, she was going to feel responsible and embarrassed. Just thinking about letting the band down made her stomach twist into knots.

  She glanced at her watch. Two more minutes until party time. She was afraid to look out the window. What if no one showed up? She debated contacting her mother and asking how things were going outside, but stopped herself.

  She waited ten minutes. When she heard the sound of loud engines in the parking lot, she knew some vintage cars had arrived. She peeked out the club window. Before she knew it, the parking lot was filling up with old, classy cars. Gene helped Leah direct traffic in the parking lot. Sara watched as a turquoise Mustang rolled in. A red Thunderbird and a little black Corvette followed. It was cars galore, and they all looked like they belonged in an old Nancy Drew novel. The fliers that the band had passed out and hung on nearly every street corner in San Diego had paid off. The crowd was growing by the minute.

  She looked at her checklist.

  Band arrival. Seven o’clock. Already late, she thought.

  Sound check. Seven-fifteen.

  Prizes for best cars. Eight o’clock.

  Band plays. Eight thirty.

  Band ends. Nine fifteen.

  “Sara. The band is here.” Her mother’s voice crackled through her headset.

  Sara headed to the parking lot to greet them. She found a van almost as thrashed as the Zebra several feet from the club entrance. Rusty scratches and streaks ran horizontally over the blue paint. Faded, peeling bumper stickers covered the back windows, and the windshield was cracked.

  Tristan emerged from the back. The frazzled expression on his face was troubling. One look at him, and she knew something had gone terribly wrong.

  Already? she thought.

  James followed him, looking less troubled but unhappy nonetheless. He was talking on his cell phone, and Sara feared the worst. Another guy with a shaved head and a fuzzy soul patch on his chin followed. She waited for Ian and the other members to emerge. However, James slid the back door shut behind the bald guy.

  Had the other part of the band gotten into a car accident? Or maybe Tristan just had a horrible case of diarrhea from stage fright? Did one of his ten girlfriends run away with one of the missing band members?

  She turned to Tristan first. “What’s wrong?” She kept her voice cool.

  “I’ve lost my eyeliner.” He stormed into the club.

  Puzzled, she looked at James. He was slipping his cell phone into the pocket of his leather jacket. “I just rang the drummer, and apparently he and our guitarist are stranded on the side of the freeway.”

  Sara’s mind was in a whirlwind as James explained that they’d broken down on the side of the highway with a roadie who wanted to show off his father’s ’56 Thunderbird. None of the three guys had possession of a roadside assistance card.

  “James, what about you? Do you have a Triple A card?”

  “No. But I’ll go pick them up.”

  “You better hurry,” she said. “They were supposed to start sound check fifteen minutes ago.”

  James hurried to rescue the others while she followed Tristan into the club with the bald band member. “I’m Jeremy, by the way,” he said. “I play bass.”

  “I thought so,” she said as she glanced at the guitar case. “Nice to meet you. I’m Sara.” She looked at Tristan. “Is he always like this before a show?”

  “Usually he’s worse,” Jeremy said nonchalantly.

  Sara led the two band members backstage. Tristan threw his duffel bag on a table backstage and immediately began to sort through the contents. After Dakota and all her sweet-sixteen requests, Tristan and his missing eyeliner would be a breeze. She could handle this.

  She cleared her throat. “No worries, Tristan. I always carry a fully stocked makeup bag to every event, so I’m sure we’ll have no problem finding you the right match for your eyes.”

  It appeared he hadn’t heard her. He continued searching. A few seconds passed before he said, “I have to have this eyeliner. It’s my lucky one.”

  “Okay,” she said slowly. Was it possible that he was worse than Dakota? “Well, let’s retrace your steps. Where did you use it last?”

  “When we played in Los Angeles, but I know I didn’t leave it there. I never leave it sitting out. It has to be somewhere in this bag.” He threw a tube of hair pomade on the floor, then a white loafer that looked like it had belonged to Elvis. An empty beer bottle followed and a wallet-size picture of a girl in low-rider jeans and a bikini top floated to the carpet. “I can’t go onstage without it! You have to find it!”

  You? First of all, she wasn’t St. Anthony. Her grandmother was always telling her to pray to St. Anthony whenever she lost something. Second, he wasn’t Madonna, so he needed to cut the demanding act while he still had a chance to be humble.

  “Can’t you just borrow the eyeliner I have?” she asked. “It’s lucky too. Just last week I was applying it and I scratched a winning lotto ticket.” It was a total lie. She wasn’t even old enough to buy lotto tickets.

  “No.” He dumped the contents of his duffel bag all over the floor. “It has to be in here somewhere.”

  She helped him sort through a mountain of junk while silently praying to St. Anthony. She wished she’d brought gloves with her. She never imagined she’d be sorting through a small landfill. She made a mental note to include gloves in her party-planning emergency kit. Every good party planner carried a kit filled with supplies—aspirin, antacids, Band-Aids, stain remover, makeup, hairspray, a needle and thread, safety pins…the list went on and on.

  Everything in Tristan’s duffel bag seemed crusty, and she didn’t even want to imagine where it had been. A piece of limp dental floss, a petrified string cheese with teeth marks, and a ripped issue of Maxim were just a few things she avoided. After what seemed like an eternity, she asked Tristan to provide a detailed description of his lucky eyeliner. Maybe she could just go buy the same brand and then tell him she’d found it.

  “It’s about this long.” He pinched his thumb and forefinger so close that an opening large enough for a jelly bean to pass through remained.

  “Hey, Biva, here’s your eyeliner.” Ian’s voice came
from above. She didn’t know if she was happier to see Ian or to hear that Tristan’s eyeliner had been found. A guitar strap clung to Ian’s shoulder, and he held up the most minute stick of eyeliner Sara had ever seen in her life. The pencil wouldn’t even fit in a sharpener if he tried. “You left it at the studio.” Then he turned to Sara. “Hey, Sara. Sorry you had to deal with this biva. I swear it’s just him. The rest of our band’s normal.”

  “Whatever.” Tristan rolled his eyes as he snatched the eyeliner.

  Ian shrugged, then looked at Sara. “I don’t understand why he needs to wear eyeliner anyway. I have to grab my amp from the van, but I thought I better bring this in before all hell broke loose.”

  “Let me help you,” Sara said.

  They walked to the parking lot together.

  “I’m really sorry you had to deal with that idiot,” he said.

  Sara laughed. “I think it’s funny. And I hate to say this, but I don’t see a happy ending on Behind the Music if you think your bandmate is an idiot.”

  “He’s my brother. So I’m sort of stuck with him either way.”

  “Oh.” Brothers? “You guys are nothing alike.”

  “Thanks.”

  “So why do you call him Biva?”

  “Cause he’s a boy diva. Which makes him a biva.”

  Sara laughed. “Makes sense.”

  He smiled at her. “Hey, thanks for doing all this. If this gig turns out even half as good as the other parties you throw, it will be awesome. And I’ve heard through the grapevine that you’re the best. Some guy from a cover band told me that.” He smiled mischievously.