Bittersweet Sixteen

by Carrie Karasyov

  “No way, you were thinking that too?” asked Whitney, laughing.

  “Literally, Whit, I woke up last night and thought to myself: toile!”

  A sea of businessmen entered while ladies sipped tea at a nearby table. I watched eurotrashy jet-setters blow by as the Mrs. John L. Strong, Dempsey & Carroll, Wren Press, and Cartier sample books filled our tabletop. When our three-tiered sandwich-and-scone platter arrived, the uniformed waiter wasn’t quite sure where to place it but finally found a spot of glass among the heaps of sample cocktail napkins, napkin rings, place cards, even gold stirrers with different letters at the top. I dug in, popping bite-size sandwich triangles and buttery scones into my mouth.

  “Call me crazy,” said Sophie, nibbling the corner of a water-cress triangle. “I know this is kind of out there.” She took a deep breath. “Zebra print somewhere. Just to mix it up.” I raised my eyebrows but remained silent.

  “Ooooh, I’m loving that,” gushed Whitney. “A walk on the wild side.”

  “What’s next on the agenda?” asked Sophie, perusing the pile of stuff that rivaled those on the desks of corporate lawyers on ten-year litigation cases.

  “Okay,” said Whitney, pulling out one of the massive files. “Here are the seven calligraphers auditioning for the job. We have to pick, like, today because the best ones get booked up.”

  “Total.”

  Sophie rifled through the different kits of sample fonts, ink colors, and ornate flourishes, the delicate strokes of the pens lovingly writing every letter of the alphabet for their approval. As I looked on curiously (I must admit, it was all over the top but fun nonetheless), Sophie must have felt bad for my third-wheelin’ self (whose party stationer was the not-so-stylish Kinko’s), so she asked how my birthday plans were going.

  “Uh, just fine, I guess. I mean, there aren’t really, you know, plans. My dad called and made a reservation. It’s January fourth, FYI.”

  “Oh my God!” said Sophie suddenly. “I have the best idea!”

  “What?” I asked. Maybe Sophie had thought of something cool to do after my birthday dinner.

  Sophie cleared her throat dramatically and turned to Whitney. “Let’s do individual birthday cakes for every guest!”

  “Brilliant,” said Whitney, nodding slowly as she pictured a thousand tiny perfect cakes in her mind’s eye.

  “And we can have them monogrammed in frosting with an interlocking S and W!” Sophie brainstormed aloud.

  “Flawless,” exclaimed Whitney. “This is literally gonna be the best party ever.”

  I was sure it would be. Then why was I so not revved up? The formerly delicious scones and sandwiches suddenly tasted sour; they felt like a lead weight in my stomach.

  Over my mom’s pasta surprise that night, I twirled my spaghetti into oblivion. I stared off into space with my forkful evolving into a gi-normous bite even a horse couldn’t fit into its mouth.

  “Laura?” my mom said. “Honey? Are you okay, sweetie?”

  “Huh?” I said, broken out of my reverie. “Oh, sorry. I guess I was just—”

  “Lost in thought?” my dad asked, grinning. He ate a big sauce-dunked bite of pasta he’d twirled in his spoon.

  “Yeah.” I didn’t even want to get into what I was thinking about, but I felt terrible. Even though my parents so didn’t get it in terms of what Tate was like for me, I also knew I’d rather have my parents—weirdo quirks ’n’ all—over anyone else’s at Tate.

  “What’s on your mind, honeypie?” Mom probed with a knowing look.

  I exhaled.

  “I just…,” I began. “I’m feeling a little strange about this whole Whitney and Sophie joint rager for some reason. I almost feel like I shouldn’t have opened my big mouth suggesting they join forces. I mean, now they’ve merged, and I feel so dumb saying this but…” I could barely admit it. “I feel like the third Brontë sister.”

  “Charlotte and Emily’s successes were mostly posthumous, but that’s beside the point,” my dad said, propping his glasses up on the bridge of his nose. “I think, my dear, that you did the right thing. You prevented conflict with a clever solution.”

  “I guess…” I shrugged.

  “It seems to me,” observed Mom, “that Whitney and Sophie have very different sensibilities. How do you think that will manifest?”

  “I smell a Trotsky and Lenin debacle,” mused my dad.

  Finished with my food, I got up from the table and walked exactly three feet to my bedroom and perched at my corner sewing station, which looked out at the dining table. Buster followed me and curled into a ball on my bed. I pulled a bolt of black chiffon out from under the small desk and began to work on my newest dress. I was going to add velvet ribbon piping at the end, but I started with the sleeves. My parents watched me curiously, waiting for my answer. That was my parents: They never asked rhetorical questions; they always truly wanted to know what you thought, and they knew that sewing helped me sort out those thoughts.

  “The thing is, they are both hard-core money-honeys,” I responded, watching my perfect row of stitches. “I’m sure they will totally bond ringing up the cash register together.”

  I knotted off my thread. It gave me such satisfaction to make something. Some people jog ten miles to let out the day’s aggression, some box a punching bag—I sew.

  “This all seems like quite a production for a party,” my mom said.

  “Well, it is Sweet Sixteen,” I said, cutting more fabric for the bodice of the dress. “It’s a really important birthday. At least at my school. In fact, this dress I’m making is for yet another million-dollar Sweet Sixteen blowout.” I turned the sleeve inside out to admire my craftwork. Perfection.

  “Think of how much good you could do with a million dollars,” fantasized my dad.

  “Laura,” my mom said while clearing the rest of the plates. “I wonder how sixteen got to be such a big-deal year. Do you know why it’s such a pinnacle?”

  “I don’t know, Mom.” I sighed with irritation. “I just know every girl wants to feel special on her sixteenth birthday.”

  Yes, I love that they analyze everything, but come on, do they really not get it? Sweet Sixteen is major. I hated that on my SS I was going to feel like Miss Mediocrity. And while it was great making clothes that I knew were cool, I was also annoyed that I had to make my clothes. Sometimes keeping up with the Joneses was overwhelming. Just once it would be nice to slip into my own Prada or Marc Jacobs frock. Just once it would be nice not to think twice about money. And although I could dissect and probe everything with my parents, and I knew on an intellectual level why things were the way they were, sometimes I just wanted to buy into all that superficial stuff. I mean, I’m in high school, for chrissakes. Isn’t that what it’s all about?

  Chapter Ten

  When Whitney and Sophie got wind that Cynthia Tedesky had rented out the entire Cooper-Hewitt, National Design Museum for her Sweet Sixteen, the kid gloves came off and the party planning spun into full gear. No one, I mean no one, was going to outdo their birthday bash. When they heard that Leslie Porter from St. Agatha’s was giving everyone small silver Tiffany jewelry boxes (cuff link boxes for boys), they ordered gold jewelry boxes from Cartier. When Marjorie Landcaster sent out her invitation engraved in gold-flecked icing on giant Godiva chocolate bars, Soph and Whit ordered Save the Date cards from Vosges Haut Chocolat, encased in Swarovsky edible crystals. They seemed to have a whole team of rapid-response hacks working for them; it was like a political campaign—when they heard of someone else doing something original or interesting, they immediately organized a better, more expensive version. It was starting to border on insanity.

  Besides the sheer wasted extravagance of it all was the gnawing unfortunate fact that—and I know this is so lame and immature—I was feeling very left out. Whitney, who’d been my B.F. since we were practically fetuses, was now glued at the hip to Sophie. I couldn’t help but think, Who is this girl who just waltzes into our school and becomes
Miss Popularity and steals my best friend? But Sophie wasn’t really to blame. She was fun and exciting; who wouldn’t gravitate toward her? And it had been my idea, much as I hated to admit it. Plus, Sophie always seemed to bend over backward to make me feel included by asking my opinion; in fact, she brought me into the creative fold even more than Whitney did! Whitney was the one who should have been a little more sensitive to my feelings. We had, I had thought, a unique friendship.

  One day in science lab, Whitney, Sophie, and I were all sitting in a row while our teacher Mr. Rosenberg droned on and on about the Lumbricus terrestris (i.e., the earthworm). Mr. Rosenberg is one of those really intense, scary teachers. His class is way advanced, to the point where we would be dissecting a human cadaver at the end of the year, so he doesn’t mess around. We’d have scientific-term spelling bees where you were literally disgraced if you couldn’t spell deoxyribonucleic acid on cue. You had to listen to everything he said or else he’d humiliate you by “canceling your experiment” (i.e., dumping your pig carcass into the trash and giving you an F on the dissection). Practically every day he had someone in tears, and when he was really pissed he’d make you stay for hours in his creepy lab, which reeked of formaldehyde, until he was ready to reprimand you. Then he would lead you into his overgrown greenhouse, where scratchy plants gnawed at your clothes, and bawl you out.

  In the midst of our class, Sophie slid a note to Whitney. I glanced at it out of the corner of my eye. It read: I’m worried: Are 2,000 mini–Polaroid cameras enough? Whitney paused and rested her chin on the eraser of her pencil, which she does when she is really thinking. She then scribbled back: Let’s make it 2,500 to be safe. The second she slid it across the table, Mr. Rosenberg sprung into action.

  “Sophie? Whitney? Is there something you’d like to share with the class?”

  “No, Mr. Rosenberg,” said Sophie innocently.

  Mr. Rosenberg walked over to Sophie and Whitney and confiscated the notes. He held them up and read them aloud.

  “What’s this about?” he said angrily.

  Whitney shrunk in her chair. She knew what she was up against. But Sophie was still new, so she had no idea.

  “It’s about our Sweet Sixteen party. Sorry, Mr. R., it’s just something that was on my mind and I didn’t want to forget it. But don’t worry, I was totally listening,” said Sophie, smiling her child-star smile.

  Oh my, that girl has guts.

  “If you’re more concerned with the minutiae of your Sweet Sixteen party than the upcoming dissection, I foresee a cold and shallow life for you both,” Mr. Rosenberg said.

  Even Sophie seemed to be stunned into silence with that. Mr. Rosenberg continued. “Maybe it’s time for you to climb on the reality wagon bound for earth.” With that, he opened the three rings of their binders and shook out all of their papers into the garbage. Sophie and Whitney stared, their mouths hanging open in shock.

  After that I totally thought that Sophie and Whitney might now take pause and really prioritize their life. I mean, getting on Mr. R.’s bad side was major.

  But when I returned to the science lab after my last period to pick them up (they had been forced to sit there for the rest of the day), I found them unfazed.

  “Hey, guys,” I said, entering the room nervously. They were both on their knees, digging their notes out of the gore. After cleaning all of the animals’ cages and watering every little fern in the place, they had finally been released. But Sophie and Whitney barely acknowledged me.

  “Re: party favors,” said Sophie, “do you think the Tiffany initial necklaces for the gift bags, or those gold bangles for the girls?”

  “The necklaces are sweet. But I also saw some awesome Bulgari gold bangles with semiprecious stones that are even better,” said Whitney.

  “Um, so, are you guys done yet?” I interrupted. I mean, hello, what am I, Casper?

  “Oh, you go ahead, Laura. We have to discuss flatware and stuff,” said Whitney.

  I was pissed. How could they be so nonchalant? “You guys, is your reaction meter broken? Don’t you care at all that you just got railed on by Mr. R.?”

  “I’m fourth-generation Tate. My dad’s on the board and he can get Mr. R. canned faster than you can say deoxyribonucleic acid,” said Whitney smugly.

  “But he could totally decimate your GPA,” I insisted.

  “Grade shmade. Laura, you’re the brainiac who gets straight A’s and will have the Ivys rolling out the red carpet. Even if I worked my ass off, I still won’t do as well, so who cares?” said Whitney.

  “And my dad just donated the Film Center to USC, and I’m in on a silver platter even if I’m hopeless in school,” said Sophie confidently.

  “You guys totally underestimate yourselves, but whatever,” I said, turning to leave. They obviously didn’t need me around to talk about flatware.

  “Laura!” said Sophie.

  I turned back. “Yeah?”

  “We’ll see you tonight? Operation San Gennaro?” asked Sophie.

  “Yeah, sure.”

  “Did you get a chance to call Jake? Is he in?” asked Whitney.

  “I left a message and then I missed his call,” I replied.

  “Could you call him again?” asked Whitney in her sweetest voice, cocking her head to the side. “Please?”

  “Why can’t you call him?” I asked, an annoyed tone creeping into my voice. Why couldn’t she do her own dirty work?

  Whitney looked surprised. “I don’t know…I guess, you’re just so much better on the phone than I am. I get all awky around him since we’re, like, in the throes of early romance. I know, I’m lame, but just this once?”

  “Fine,” I agreed. I mean, it’s weird that Whitney wants to, like, hook up with Jake and she only communicates with him through me, but fine. I don’t mind calling Jake. Actually, the few times we have chatted recently, when I called on Whitney’s behalf or he called me, we had really nice talks. I really felt comfortable with him, and our conversations flowed with no awkward pauses or anything.

  “Thanks,” said Whitney.

  “What shall I wear to a carnival? I’ve never been to San Gennaro,” said Sophie. “Is Prada too fancy?”

  “Yeah, the festival is pretty grimy,” said Whitney.

  “Oh, too bad, ’cause I was going to suggest, Laura, that you wear that new lace dress you made. You look so awesome in it,” said Sophie.

  “Thanks,” I said.

  “Really, Laura, remind me to call Calvin Klein. He’s a dear friend of my mom’s. I totally want to link you two up. You could design for him one day,” said Sophie.

  “Laura’s going to be a major designer,” added Whitney.

  “Thanks. Gotta go. See you later,” I said, leaving. For some reason, suddenly their gushing compliments felt kind of condescending. Like they were trying to make me feel better about not having Prada in my closet or Calvin on speed dial.

  I knew Sophie and Whitney genuinely believed I was a good designer, but I kind of felt like they were just being nice so I wouldn’t feel left out. And quite frankly, I didn’t want to succeed in the design world through their connections and introductions.

  When I left school that day I had a really bad taste in my mouth. I had become a tagalong, and I didn’t like it. I wouldn’t even go to San Gennaro if it was just going to be the three of us, because I had had enough of Sophie and Whitney today. But I was psyched to hang with Jake. Just as a friend, I mean. After the pit in my stomach from the afternoon, a friend is what I really needed.

  Chapter Eleven

  When I got to the San Gennaro festival, I drank in all the flickering red, green, and white twinkling lights. Whitney, Sophie, Kaitlin, and I gathered at the appointed spot in front of the Ferris wheel and waited for the guys. Ava had been too scared to sneak out; her parents are so strict, she would have needed a whole Tom Cruise Mission: Impossible harness to pull it off, Quantico style. Lucky for me, I didn’t even have to tiptoe or lie, I just told my parents I was headi
ng out. But I knew everyone else didn’t have it that easy. I just hoped the guys wouldn’t get pinched making their respective exits. I still hadn’t been able to get ahold of Jake that afternoon, but I’d left a message telling him where to meet us.

  After a few minutes, we could see Jake, Bobby, and Max making their way through the crowd in our direction. For some reason I felt my heart skip a beat when I saw them. I tried to tell myself it must have just been the pure adrenaline of being out late at night in such an exciting environment. But when I saw Jake, who looked so handsome in his dark blue peacoat and too-long chinos, I felt myself flush. He had such good style—preppy but with a tiny bit of edge—and probably because I was so interested in fashion, I always took note of how well he dressed. Instead of buying into that lame “I wanna be a rapper” look that every other guy thought was so cool, he went for a casual, almost retro vibe, where everything he wore looked just thrown on and not thought out, like layered long-and short-sleeve tees, Polo pants, cute sweaters. What I liked about it was that it wasn’t cookie cutter. He always had his own take on things. I realized I was looking too closely at Jake, who had given me a wide smile as he approached (with those cute crooked teeth!), so I turned away when the guys got closer.

  Everyone in our posse enjoyed a group high-five with the boys for getting down unscathed, but before we could fully breathe easy, Jake’s cell buzzed that he had a text message.

  “Damn,” he said, snapping it shut. “Josh was nabbed on the way out.”

  “Uh-oh. With his parents, he’s headed on a Greyhound straight to Groundedville.” Bobby laughed.

  Sophie turned to me and touched my arm comfortingly. “Oh, Laura! Don’t worry,” she said. “Are you so bummed?”

  “What?” I asked, weirded out. “No, not at all.”

  “Don’t worry, we’ll make sure you have fun without him,” Whitney added.

  I saw Jake looking at me and I suddenly felt ridiculous—clearly he now thought I liked Josh just because Whitney had decided I should. I had made it clear to both Sophie and Whitney that I was so not into Josh. Were they trying to embarrass me in front of Jake? That really made me mad. I mean, I get it, I get it, they wanted to make sure I had no designs on their man. But they didn’t have to pawn me off on Josh to make their point.