by Meg Cabot
“I told you, I’m not arguing with you about this today,” I say. “It’s my graduation party, Shar. Can’t you let me enjoy it?”
“No,” Shari says. “Because you’re being an ass, and you know it.”
Shari’s boyfriend, Chaz, comes over to us and scoops up some onion dip with a barbecue-flavored potato chip.
Mmm. Barbecue-flavored potato chips. Maybe if I just had one…
“What’s Lizzie being an ass about now?” he asks, chewing.
But you can never have just one barbecue-flavored potato chip. Never.
Chaz is tall and lanky. I bet he’s never had to lose five more pounds before in his entire life. He even has to wear a belt to hold up his Levi’s. It’s a mesh leather weave. But on him, mesh leather works.
What doesn’t work, of course, is the University of Michigan baseball cap. But I have never successfully managed to convince him that baseball caps, as an accessory, are wrong on everyone. Except children and actual baseball players.
“She still plans to stay here after she gets back from England,” Shari explains, plunging a chip of her own into the dip, “instead of moving to New York with us to start her real life.”
Shari doesn’t have to watch what she eats, either. She’s always had a naturally fast metabolism. When we were kids, her school sack lunches consisted of three peanut butter and jelly sandwiches and a pack of Oreo cookies, and she never gained an ounce. My lunches? A hard-boiled egg, a single orange, and a chicken leg. And I was the blimp. Oh yes.
“Shari,” I say, “I have a real life here. I’ve got a place to stay—”
“With your parents!”
“—and a job I love—”
“As an assistant manager of a vintage clothing store. That’s not a career!”
“I told you,” I say for what has to be the nine hundredth time, “I’m going to live here and save my money. Then Andrew and I are moving to New York after he gets his master’s. It’s just one more semester.”
“Who’s Andrew again?” Chaz wants to know. And Shari hits him in the shoulder.
“Ow,” Chaz says.
“You remember,” Shari says. “The R.A. at McCracken Hall. The grad student. The one Lizzie hasn’t stopped talking about all summer.”
“Oh, right, Andy. The British guy. The one who was running the illegal poker ring on the seventh floor.”
I burst out laughing. “That’s not Andrew! He doesn’t gamble. He’s studying to be an educator of youth so that he can preserve our most precious resource…the next generation.”
“The guy who sent you the photo of his naked ass?”
I gasp. “Shari, you told him about that?”
“I wanted a guy’s perspective,” Shari says with a shrug. “You know, to see if he had any insights into what kind of individual would do something like that.”
Coming from Shari, who’d been a psych major, this is actually a fairly reasonable explanation. I look at Chaz questioningly. He has lots of insights into lots of things—how many times around Palmer Field make a mile (four—which I needed to know back when I was walking it every day to lose weight); what the number 33 on the inside of the Rolling Rock bottle means; why so many guys seem to think man-pris are actually flattering…
But Chaz shrugs, too. “I was unable to be of any aid,” he says, “not ever having taken a photo of my bare ass before.”
“Andrew didn’t take a photo of his own ass,” I say. “His friends took it.”
“How homoerotic,” Chaz comments. “Why do you call him Andrew when everybody else calls him Andy?”
“Because Andy is a jock name,” I say, “and Andrew isn’t a jock. He’s getting a master’s in education. Someday he’ll be teaching children to read. Could there be a more important job in the whole entire world than that? And he’s not gay. I checked this time.”
Chaz’s eyebrows go up. “You checked? How? Wait…I don’t want to know.”
“She just likes pretending he’s Prince Andrew,” Shari says. “Um, so where was I?”
“Lizzie’s being an ass,” Chaz helpfully supplies. “So wait. How long’s it been since you saw this guy? Three months?”
“About that,” I say.
“Man,” Chaz says, shaking his head, “there is going to be some major bone-jumping when you step off that plane.”
“Andrew isn’t like that,” I say warmly. “He’s a romantic. He’ll probably want to let me get acclimated and recover from my jet lag in his king-size bed and thousand-thread-count sheets. He’ll bring me breakfast in bed—a cute English breakfast with…Englishy stuff on it.”
“Like stewed tomatoes?” Chaz asks with feigned innocence.
“Nice try,” I say, “but Andrew knows I don’t like tomatoes. He asked in his last e-mail if there are any foods I dislike, and I filled him in on the tomato thing.”
“You better hope breakfast isn’t all he brings you in bed,” Shari says darkly. “Otherwise what is the point of traveling halfway around the world to see him?”
That’s the problem with Shari. She’s so unromantic. I’m really surprised she and Chaz have gone out as long as they have. I mean, two years is really a record for her.
Then again, as she likes to assure me, their attraction is almost purely physical, Chaz having just gotten his master’s in philosophy and thus, in Shari’s opinion, being virtually unemployable.
“So what would even be the point of hoping for a future with him?” she often asks me. “I mean, eventually he’ll start to feel inadequate—even though he’s got his trust fund, of course—and consequently suffer from performance anxiety in the bedroom. So I’ll just keep him around as a boy toy for now, while he can still get it up.”
Shari is very practical in this way.
“I still don’t get why you’re going all the way to England to see him,” Chaz says. “I mean, a guy you haven’t even slept with yet, who obviously doesn’t know you very well if he isn’t aware of your aversion to tomatoes and thinks you’d enjoy seeing a photograph of anyone’s naked ass.”
“You know perfectly well why,” Shari says. “It’s his accent.”
“Shari!” I cry.
“Oh, right,” Shari says, rolling her eyes. “He saved her life.”
“Who saved whose life?” Angelo, my brother-in-law, moseys over, having discovered the dip.
“Lizzie’s new boyfriend,” Shari says.
“Lizzie’s got a new boyfriend?” Angelo, I can tell, is trying to cut back on his carbs. He’s only dipping celery sticks. Maybe he’s on South Beach to control his belly fat, which is not enhanced by the white polyester shirt he is wearing. Why won’t he listen to me and stick to natural fibers? “How did I not hear about this? The LBS must be on the fritz.”
“LBS?” Chaz echoes, his dark eyebrows raised.
“Lizzie Broadcasting System,” Shari explains to him. “Where have you been?”
“Oh, right,” Chaz says, and swigs his beer.
“I told Rose all about it,” I say, glaring at all three of them. Someday I’m going to get my sister Rose back for that Lizzie Broadcasting System thing. It was funny when we were kids, but I’m twenty-two now! “Didn’t she tell you, Ange?”
Angelo looks confused. “Tell me what?”
I sigh. “This freshman on the second floor let her potpourri boil over on her illegal hot plate and the hall filled with smoke and they had to evacuate,” I explain. I am always eager to relate the story of how Andrew and I met. Because it’s superromantic. Someday, when Andrew and I are married and live in a ramshackle and tomato-free Victorian in Westport, Connecticut, with our golden retriever, Rolly, and our four kids, Andrew Jr., Henry, Stella, and Beatrice, and I’m a famous—well, whatever I’m going to be—and Andrew’s the headmaster at a nearby boys’ school, teaching children to read, and I get interviewed in Vogue, I’ll be able to tell this story—looking funky yet fabulous in vintage Chanel from head to toe—while laughingly serving a perfect cup of French roast to the re
porter on my back porch, which will be decorated entirely in tasteful white wicker and chintz.
“Well, I was taking a shower,” I go on, “so I didn’t smell the smoke or hear the alarm going off or anything. Until Andrew came into the girls’ bathroom and yelled ‘Fire!’ and—”
“Is it true the girls’ bathrooms in McCracken Hall have gang showers?” Angelo wants to know.
“It’s true,” Chaz informs him conversationally. “They all have to shower together. Sometimes they soap each other’s backs while gossiping about their girlish hijinks from the night before.”
Angelo stares at Chaz, bug-eyed. “Are you shitting me?”
“Don’t pay any attention to him, Angelo,” Shari says, going for another chip. “He’s making it up.”
“That kind of thing happens all the time on Beverly Hills Bordello,” Angelo says.
“We didn’t shower all together,” I say. “I mean, Shari and I did sometimes—”
“Tell us more about that, please,” Chaz says, opening a new beer with the church key my mom had provided near the cooler.
“Don’t,” Shari says. “You’ll just encourage him.”
“Which bits were you washing when he came in?” Chaz wants to know. “And was there another girl with you at the time? Which bits was she washing? Or was she helping to wash your bits?”
“No,” I say, “it was just me. And naturally, when I saw a guy in the girls’ shower, I screamed.”
“Oh, naturally,” Chaz said.
“So I grabbed a towel and this guy—I couldn’t really see him all that well through the steam and the smoke and all—goes, in the cutest British accent you ever heard, ‘Miss, the building’s on fire. I’m afraid you’ll have to evacuate.’”
“So wait,” Angelo says. “This dude saw you in the raw?”
“In her nudie-pants,” Chaz confirms.
“So by then the halls were all smoky and I couldn’t see, so he took my hand and guided me down the stairs and outside to safety, where we struck up a conversation—me in my towel and everything. And that’s when I realized he was the love of my life.”
“Based on one conversation,” Chaz says, sounding skeptical. But then, having a philosophy master’s degree, he is skeptical about everything. They train them to be that way.
“Well,” I say, “we made out the rest of the night, too. That’s how I know he’s not gay. I mean, he got a full stiffy.”
Chaz choked a little on his beer.
“So, anyway,” I say, trying to steer the conversation back on track, “we made out all night. But then he had to leave the next day for England, because the semester was over—”
“—and now, since Lizzie’s finally done with school, she’s flying to London to spend the rest of the summer with him,” Shari finishes for me. “Then coming back here to rot, just like her—”
“Come on, Shar,” I interrupt quickly. “You promised.”
She just grimaces at me.
“Listen, Liz,” Chaz says, and reaches for another beer, “I know this guy’s the love of your life and all. But you have all next semester to be with him. Are you sure you don’t want to come to France with us for the rest of the summer?”
“Don’t bother, Chaz,” Shari says. “I already asked her eighty million times.”
“Did you mention we’re staying in a seventeenth-century French château with its own vineyard, perched on a hilltop overlooking a lush green valley through which snakes a long and lazy river?” Chaz wants to know.
“Shari told me,” I say, “and it’s sweet of you to ask. Even if you’re not exactly in a position to be inviting people, because doesn’t the château belong to one of your friends from that prep school you went to, and not you?”
“A trifling detail,” Chaz says. “Luke would love to have you.”
“Ha,” Shari says, “I’ll say. More slave labor for his amateur wedding franchise.”
“What’re they talking about?” Angelo asks me, looking confused.
“Chaz’s childhood friend from prep school, Luke,” I explain to him, “has an ancestral home in France that his father rents out during the summer sometimes as a destination wedding spot. Shari and Chaz are leaving tomorrow to spend a month at the château for free, in exchange for helping out at the weddings.”
“Destination wedding spot,” Angelo echoes. “You mean like Vegas?”
“Right,” Shari says. “Only tasteful. And it costs more than one ninety-nine to get there. And there’s no free breakfast buffet.”
Angelo looks shocked. “Then what’s the point?”
Someone tugs on the skirt of my dress and I look down. My sister Rose’s firstborn, Maggie, holds up a necklace made of macaroni.
“Aunt Lizzie,” she says. “For you. I made it. For your gradutation.”
“Why, thank you, Maggie,” I say, kneeling down so that Maggie can drop the necklace over my head.
“The paint’s not dry,” Maggie says, pointing to the red and blue splotches of paint that have now been transferred from the macaroni to the front of my 1954 Suzy Perette rose silk party dress (which wasn’t cheap, even with my employee discount).
“That’s okay, Mags,” I say. Because, after all, she’s only four. “It’s beautiful.”
“There you are!” Grandma Nichols teeters toward us. “I’ve been looking for you everywhere, Anne-Marie. It’s time for Dr. Quinn.”
“Grandma,” I say, straightening up to grasp her spool-thin arm before she can topple over. I see that she has already managed to spill something all down the green crepe de chine 1960s tunic top I got her at the shop. Fortunately the paint stains from the macaroni necklace Maggie made for her are somewhat hiding the stain. “It’s Lizzie. Not Anne-Marie. Mom’s over by the dessert table. And what have you been drinking?”
I seize the Heineken bottle in Grandma’s hand and smell its contents. It should, by prior agreement with the rest of my family, have been filled with nonalcoholic beer, then resealed, due to Grandma Nichols’s inability to hold her liquor, which has resulted in what my mom likes to call “incidents.” Mom was hoping to head off any “incidents” at my graduation party by letting Grandma have only nonalcoholic beer—but not telling her it was nonalcoholic, of course. Because then she would have raised a fuss, telling us we were trying to ruin an old lady’s good time and all.
But I can’t tell if the beer in the bottle is of the nonalcoholic variety. We had stashed the faux Heinekens in a special section of the cooler for Grandma. But she may have managed to find the real thing somewhere. She’s crafty that way.
Or she could just THINK she’s had the real thing, and consequently thinks she’s drunk.
“Lizzie?” Grandma looks suspicious. “What are you doing here? Shouldn’t you be away at college?”
“I graduated from college in May, Grandma,” I say. Well, sort of, anyway. Not counting the two months I just spent in summer school getting my language requirement out of the way. “This is my graduation party. Well, my graduation-slash-bon voyage party.”
“Bon voyage?” Grandma’s suspicion turns to indignation. “Where do you think you’re going?”
“To England, Grandma, the day after tomorrow,” I say. “To visit my boyfriend. Remember? We talked about this.”
“Boyfriend?” Grandma glares at Chaz. “Isn’t that him right there?”
“No, Grandma,” I say. “That’s Chaz, Shari’s boyfriend. You remember Shari Dennis, right, Grandma? She grew up down the street?”
“Oh, the Dennis girl,” Grandma says, narrowing her eyes in Shari’s direction. “I remember you now. I thought I saw your parents over by the barbecue. You and Lizzie going to do that song you always do when you get together?”
Shari and I exchange horror-filled glances. Angelo hoots.
“Hey, yeah!” he cries. “Rosie told me about this. What song was it you two used to do? Like at the school talent show and shit?”
I give Angelo a warning look, since Maggie is still hanging
around, and say, “Little pitchers.” It’s clear from his expression that he has no idea what I’m talking about. I sigh and begin steering Grandma toward the house.
“Better come on, Grandma,” I say, “or you’ll miss your show.”
“What about the song?” Grandma wants to know.
“We’ll do the song later, Mrs. Nichols,” Shari assures her.
“I’m going to hold you to that,” Chaz says with a wink. Shari mouths In your dreams at him. Chaz blows a kiss at her over the top of his beer bottle.
They’re so cute together. I can’t wait until I’m in London and Andrew and I can be that cute together, too.
“Come on, Grandma,” I say. “Dr. Quinn’s starting now.”
“Oh, good,” Grandma says. To Shari, she confides, “I don’t care about that dumb Dr. Quinn. It’s that hunk who hangs out with her—him I can’t get enough of!”
“Okay, Grandma,” I say quickly as Shari spurts out the mouthful of Amstel Light she’s just taken. “Let’s get you inside before you miss your show—”
We hardly get a few yards down the deck, however, before we’re waylaid by Dr. Rajghatta, my dad’s boss at the cyclotron, and his pretty wife, Nishi, beaming in a pink sari at his side.
“Many congratulations on your graduation,” Dr. Rajghatta says.
“Yes,” his wife agrees. “And may we say, you are also looking so slim and lovely?”
“Oh, thank you,” I say. “Thank you so much!”
“And what will you be doing now that you have your bachelor’s degree in…what is it again?” Dr. R wants to know. It’s unfortunate about the pocket protector he’s wearing, but then I haven’t been able to wean my own father from the habit, so it’s unlikely I’ll ever make any headway with his boss.
“History of fashion,” I reply.
“History of fashion? I was not aware this school offered a major in that field of study,” Dr. R says.
“Oh, it doesn’t. I’m in the individualized major program. You know, where you make your own major?”
“But fashion history?” Dr. Rajghatta looks concerned. “There are many opportunities available in this field?”
