Bittersweet Sixteen

by Carrie Karasyov

  “Nice to meet you, Sophie,” said Whit’s mom, extending her bony arm, her gold bracelets jingling. “I’m Mrs. Blake.”

  “Nice to meet you, Mrs. Blake.” Sophie smiled her best child-actress grin.

  I could see Mrs. Blake’s eyes dance down Sophie’s body, taking in the explosion of designer logos all over her clothes (today it was Dolce & Gabbana) as well as her too-tight V-necked black sweater. She finally looked away and her gaze returned to the candy and cookie dough.

  “What is this garbage you’re eating?” asked Mrs. Blake.

  “Oh, it’s not mine,” said Whitney quickly. “It’s Laura’s and Sophie’s.”

  Thanks, Whit.

  “I don’t like this junk in my house,” said Mrs. Blake sternly. She turned and looked at me, and I thought for a second she was going to bawl me out. “Hello, Laura, how was your summer?” she asked instead.

  “Oh, great, thanks, Mrs. Blake. I was a camp counselor in Maine.”

  “That’s lovely,” she said distractedly. “Send my best to your parents.”

  “I will—” But before I could finish she turned to Whitney.

  “Whitney, the preliminary sketches for your gown arrived. I’d like to go over them with you.”

  “Sure, Mom.”

  “Daddy and I are going to visit Peyton at Middlebury next weekend. I assume you don’t want to come, so I’d like to discuss your plans.”

  “Oh, you can stay at my house!” interrupted Sophie. “We’re doing a screening of my dad’s new movie, The Redcoats Are Coming. It’ll be an Oscar contender for sure.”

  “Cool, thanks, Sophie,” said Whitney.

  Mrs. Blake squinted at Sophie for a split second, and I could tell she was trying to figure what to make of this new buxom friend of her daughter’s.

  “That’s very nice of you,” she said, her manners finally taking over. “I’d love to meet your parents sometime.”

  “They’d be thrilled to have you for dinner. Their new chef is so good, he’ll whip up anything you want. My mom is really into orange food these days, so it’s, like, all on the menu. My mom’s assistant, Taniqua, will call in advance to get your special dietary needs,” said Sophie assuredly.

  Mrs. Blake paused. “How wonderful. Well, I’m off to bridge,” she said, and left the room.

  Both Whitney and I sighed in relief when her mom left. I wasn’t scared of her, but she was certainly chilly compared to my mellow parental units.

  “Who’s Peyton?” asked Sophie, sliding the candy bowl back in front of her.

  “My NOTL brother, as in Nerd on the Loose,” said Whitney.

  “Is he at least hot?” asked Sophie.

  “Barf!” said Whitney.

  “Soph, do you have any sibs?” I asked. She had only mentioned her parents and her staff.

  “Yeah! I have a half brother. He’s forty-seven. My ’rents are like thirty years apart. So what’s your gown for?”

  “Oh, it’s my Sweet Sixteen dress,” said Whitney.

  “Whitney’s going to have the most amazing blowout. I can’t wait,” I said. “It’s going to be at the Pierre. Gloria Vanderbilt is coming out of seclusion for it.”

  “You know, Sophie, you should think about having one. It’s the most important birthday,” advised Whitney.

  “You have to sign up with Ms. Hoffer, though,” I said solemnly. “She’s like a greasy hermaphrodite who was elevated from the gym department to keeper of the Book.” Okay, so maybe we exaggerate a little, but she is pretty creepy.

  “Her face is chipped Bryan Adams style from all the zits she picked. She gives me the cringe tingles.” Whitney shuddered.

  “Anyway, her sole job at Tate is making sure everyone’s parties don’t overlap, which is why she has The Book, which keeps track of everyone’s party schedule,” I explained.

  “She couldn’t be more bitter or diabolical,” said Whitney.

  “Gamy,” I added.

  “Malodorous.” Whitney sniffed.

  Sophie listened attentively as we continued our rant, making Ms. Hoffer sound like someone out of a Stephen King novel. Finally we paused.

  “Oh, I already signed up with her for my rager,” said Sophie proudly. “I found my way down to her dungeon—just followed the McDonald’s waft. Gnarly, but worth it.”

  Both Whitney and I were surprised. Sophie certainly didn’t waste any time figuring everything out. She only just got to Tate and she already knew about the Book?

  “You’re on the ball,” said Whitney with a tight smile.

  “Oh, I can’t wait for my party. Donatella’s doing my dress.” Sophie beamed.

  “When’s your birthday?” I asked.

  “January twenty-eighth,” said Sophie.

  Pin. Drop. Silence. I mean, crickets. This was major. My heart started racing. I could not believe this was happening.

  After a pause so pregnant that septuplets could have been birthed, Whitney cleared her throat.

  “That’s my birthday,” said Whitney finally.

  “It is?” asked Sophie innocently. She scooped out a piece of cookie dough and put it in her mouth.

  “Yes,” grimaced Whitney.

  “But the date was free in the book. Why didn’t you sign up?” asked Sophie.

  “I’ve been at Tate since kindergarten,” said Whitney, tension mounting in her voice. “Everyone knows it’s my date. It’s like a known fact: The sun rises and sets, and Whitney Blake’s birthday is January twenty-eighth.”

  “Well, the sun rises and sets in California, too, but nobody there knows it’s your birthday,” retorted Sophie.

  “Are you mocking me?” asked Whitney angrily.

  “No, but I don’t think you have any right to be territorial about the twenty-eighth of January. You don’t own that day. It’s my birthday, too,” said Sophie matter-of-factly.

  I could tell Whitney was boiling, and it pissed her off even more that Sophie seemed so unfazed. But Sophie was right; it was her birthday also.

  “Okay, you guys, no need for a thermonuclear meltdown,” I said nervously. “We can find a solution without the U.N. peace-keeping envoy.”

  “Like what?” asked Sophie.

  “Like…” I was trying desperately to buy time as Whitney and Sophie looked at me with eye daggers. “You could…have the party together!” I blurted out.

  Whitney was about to say something, but I stopped her with a wave of my hand. “Before you respond, think about it for one minute. I’ll time you.”

  I looked at my watch and held up my finger. I could see them both contemplating my idea, the way the contestants on Jeopardy! try to ponder their final answers. When the time was up, I motioned to Whitney.

  “I don’t know what my mom would think about that,” said Whitney.

  “Well, it’s your party, not hers,” I said.

  “I don’t know,” said Sophie. “We’ve already ordered the favors—gold-leaf playing cards with my monogram and birthday engraved on them.”

  “Think about it, though,” I said. “I mean, with your New York connections, Whit, and your Hollywood connections, Soph, it would be a legendary joining of forces. It’d go down in history like Truman Capote’s Black and White Ball.”

  “Hmmm…you do have a point,” said Sophie. “God, Laura, you should be like a studio head or something. You’re so good at handling people.”

  “I know, Laura’s like Kofi Annan. Scary. I don’t know. I mean, it could be great,” said Whitney. “But…”

  “Look, why don’t you guys take a week and think about it. You don’t have to decide now,” I offered. “Ava and Kaitlin are coming over. Let’s just hang out and have fun.”

  “Deal,” said Whitney.

  “Okay,” said Sophie.

  And so they started to think about it. I was proud of myself for arranging the temporary truce. But the more I thought about it, the more I kind of panicked. Was it actually a good idea? I was thinking on my feet suggesting that they have the party together. I just
didn’t want a fight. But maybe it wasn’t such a great idea. I mean, one of them could have her party the weekend before; why did I need to suggest having it together? But if I knew Whitney, it didn’t really matter anyway, because they would never have the party together. There was just no way.

  Chapter Seven

  I was totally astonished on Sunday when Whitney and Sophie conference-called me and said they had decided to join parties. I just never thought it would actually happen. I felt a twinge of jealousy and skepticism. Were they going to be best friends and totally ditch me? Just as I was doing an internal freak-out, they totally assuaged my fears. Whitney said directly that as her best friend I was going to be in full best-friend party-planner mode. I think she wanted to make it clear to Sophie and me that I was still number one in her eyes. And then Sophie praised me to no end for being such a great peacekeeper and encouraging them to work together. My ego was semi-stroked, so I decided to be positive: I would be kept in the loop as unofficial party planner, and both girls knew that they needed me as an unbiased supporter who would keep them in check. I pushed away my doubts and remembered that it was only a one-night thing. After January twenty-eighth everything else would be normal. Hey, if they were game, all the more power to them. With two enormous bank accounts and two determined fifteen-year-olds organizing it, it was bound to be a pretty sweet sixteen. Right?

  Whitney and Sophie had each enlisted me to come along and help convince their moms that a joint bash could be great. A diplomat’s work is never done. So the next day was a begfest.

  Late Monday afternoon Sophie and I walked into the private room at David Barton Gym on 85th Street to see her mom mid-workout; Mrs. Mitchum’s endorphins would be rushing, so Sophie figured she’d be happy and say yes. I almost fainted when I saw Mrs. Mitchum: She looked like a blond bombshell you’d see strolling BevHills, every muscle toned, tanned skin, jewels galore (even with her gym clothes), and slightly surgerized. Okay, more than slightly.

  After brief introductions and downloading all of the reasons why a joint party was crucial to Sophie’s social status, we awaited an answer.

  “So what do you think, Mom?” asked Sophie. “It could be pretty cool merging Rolodexes!”

  Mrs. Mitchum had been harnessed by her Russian body-builder personal trainer into her gyrotonics apparatus.

  “I don’t know, honey,” her mom said, hanging from her ankles.

  “Mom! It’s my birthday!” Sophie protested. “I want to do it with Whitney. She’s awesome, and it’ll be such a major event if we join parties!”

  “Excuse me,” Mrs. Mitchum replied sternly from a flying lotus position, spotted by Sergei. “We don’t have to join with anyone to be major. Your father’s last three movies grossed a billion dollars total. They might just want us to foot the bill.”

  “Mother,” Sophie said calmly, “that is so not the case. They are loaded, too. They have a Sargent.”

  “We have five Monets!” Mrs. Mitchum said. “Everyone knows ‘old money’ means ‘no money.’ The higher the Roman numeral at the end of the father’s name, the less dough.”

  I stood silently by. This woman was a real character; I saw where Sophie got her piss and vinegar.

  “Then I’m going to ask Daddy.” Sophie smiled as she dropped the D-bomb. Both of them knew that Marty Mitchum would give his baby girl anything her heart desired.

  Mrs. Mitchum rolled her eyes. We knew it was a done deal.

  An hour later I was over at the Blakes’ as Whitney waged her campaign. “Pleeeease?” asked Whitney for the eighteenth time.

  “Who are these people, anyway?” asked Mrs. Blake, looking at me. But before I could answer, she went on. “We know nothing about them. They could be ill-bred. Classless. Heathens. It could be a disaster!” Mrs. Blake continued, her tone horrified. “Those nouveau riche plebeians are generally nothing but Winnebago white trash,” she pronounced. Sheesh.

  “Mom, no!” Whitney protested. “They’re really nice and they, they—” She looked at me, desperate for more alluring aspects to this family she hadn’t actually met yet. Lightbulb. “They have this patisserie chef who will make whatever we want and do a ninetier cake and everything!”

  “Lovely,” replied Mrs. Blake sarcastically. “Just what you need, more sweets. With those cookies you keep gobbling, we’ll have to use the tent from your fifteenth birthday to fashion your gown.”

  Poor Whitney. She looked down, stricken. Her mom is such a bi-atch sometimes. But Whitney held strong. “Mom, we both have the same birthday. We’re new friends. We want to do it together. My debutante ball is in just two years, and that will be all mine…”

  Mrs. Blake looked off into the distance as if considering her daughter’s sincere plea. And it was true, the planning of Whit’s cotillion was only a year off. “If it’s what you want, then I suppose—”

  “Thanks, Mom!” Whitney exploded, overjoyed.

  Victory! A successful allegiance had been formed, thanks to moi. Granted, I barely spoke at the plea meetings, but both Whit and Soph said I lent moral support. I was thrilled to have engineered a happy ending.

  The next week brought passed notes with brainstorm lists of potential favors, color schemes, tablecloth materials, and music, all with my input, which was fun to give. Since they were eager to have another opinion on everything, I figured since I wasn’t having a bash I could help with the fun parts of theirs—all the creative stuff and none of the stress! Or the bills.

  After school we hit the newsstand and hoarded every mag, clipped pages of party looks from Vogue, and bought binders from Blacker and Kooby to start files on each aspect of the party. By Friday we were almost too wiped out for the movie premiere with the Mitchums. But Sophie nicely had her chef make us massive cappuccinos to go, which were sitting in the limo (still hot) when she picked us up at Whit’s lobby.

  “Hi, guys!” she exclaimed, decked out in a full-length Prada cranberry chiffon number. I was borrowing one of Whit’s little black Chanel dresses while Whit was in head-to-toe Ralph Lauren. “Whitney, Laura, this is my mom and dad!”

  “Hello, Mrs. Mitchum!” Whitney said.

  “Nice to see you again, Mrs. Mitchum,” I said.

  “Ugh! Girls, puh-lease, call me Adriana. Mrs. Mitchum sounds like my dinosaur monster-in-law!”

  Okay, weird slash refreshing. Mr. Mitchum looked quite a bit older but still very dashing. He was on his cell blasting some poor assistant pretty much the whole way to the theater, and he barely acknowledged us.

  On the red carpet, I was almost knocked out by the crunch of camera peeps, but Whitney and I were in awe. Hundreds of cheering fans were held back by security and we were all waved through by the walkie-talkie people. Inside the grand, gilded cinema, Sophie seemed to know everyone. From the actors to the press people to the suits, she embraced them all, and with each hug or kiss she received, from Jack Nicholson (“Uncle Jack!”) to Sofia Coppola (“So-Co!”), she always turned to us and introduced us formally, which was really nice and cool of her. Whitney and I kept exchanging thrilled glances; we were on a surreal high.

  The whole thing put me in a daze. The movie rocked, but even more so because everyone involved in making it was hooting and cheering the whole way through, making it a mega–thrill ride. It was weird to be a part of that experience, but I was psyched that Sophie had included us. She had turned out to be truly cool, and I was so happy she’d become our friend. Life was getting interesting.

  After a fabulous evening on Friday, Whitney and I went to lunch at Serendipity on Saturday. We always tried to go to lunch there every few months or so; it had been a ritual for us since we were little and our parents first let us go out to lunch alone. And because the first time we did it we had followed our frozen hot chocolates with a carriage ride in Central Park, we included that in our ritual also, rain or shine. We both knew it was terribly dorky, but we still had a blast. I didn’t mention asking Sophie to join, and neither did Whitney. It’s not that I wanted to exclude her, it�
�s just that I didn’t feel that I needed to include her in everything that I did, and I was glad Whitney felt the same way.

  The day was truly fun, and mostly because we were goofy and silly and didn’t talk about Sweet Sixteen parties at all. We made faces at the tourists that we passed in our horse and buggy and we blew kisses to the joggers. I was glad I had a little bit of Whitney back to myself, and it made all the birthday party weirdness temporarily fade to black.

  That night, we reconned at the Mitchums’ for our first fall Bradley Boy rendezvous, organized by Whit. It was pretty safe to say the Mitchums had just about the sickest pad I’d ever seen, including the ones on MTV Cribs.

  “Whoa, Nelly,” I said, wide-eyed, drinking in the lavish marble foyer with a double-height ceiling. It was very minimalist and modern, the antithesis of the Blakes’ lavish chintz-filled abode.

  “Come on up to my room,” invited Sophie. “We’ve gotta change before the boys come over. Plus you guys have got to fill me in on the crew.”

  We walked up not one but two flights of stairs to Sophie’s bedroom suite, which had its own private terrace. She had a giant pink princess canopy bed, and a framed signed picture from Leonardo DiCaprio hung on the wall.

  “Okay, you guys, what do I wear?” Sophie said, sounding stressed as she opened the massive double doors to what I thought was the largest walk-in closet in New York. It was literally bigger than my parents’ bedroom. “Laura, I am sooo jealous of your dress. I swear, your stuff is way better than Miuccia’s!”

  I looked down at my chocolate brown shift dress and smiled bashfully. “Thanks!”

  “I have dibs on your next outfit, Laura,” added Whitney.

  Their compliments sounded crazy, considering they both had upward of a thou on their bods at that very moment, but it was still nice to hear.

  The downstairs buzzer rang and Sophie grabbed the phone. “Oh, great, thank you,” she said. “Kaitlin and Ava are here.”

  Our pals came up, marveling at the digs. “Worship this spread,” said Ava, immediately checking out Sophie’s handbag collection.