I smiled to see flickers of the old warmth starting to come back. I knew it would take a little while for the thaw. But at least the match was lit. The bell rang for class and our newly cobbled-together triumvirate had to part ways.
“Hey, Laura,” Whitney said as I gathered my bag. “Ava told me about Jake. I am really happy for you. I think you’re a great couple, and I mean that honestly.”
“Thanks, Whit.” I smiled.
“Yeah, I had a feeling my Jake crush was a lost cause,” Sophie confessed. “I think he was smitten with you from the get-go.”
I guess everyone knew it but me. Better to be last to know, though, I thought. It made it that much sweeter.
Chapter Thirty
Little by little the darkness subsided, and the gap was bridged. Whitney and Sophie were totally enthusiastic about my new designs and flipped out when I told them that Jade had agreed to sell them at Incubator. Sophie had us all laughing about what a fool she made of herself in front of Don Johnson’s son in Aspen, and Whitney told us about another lifeguard she’d met. As the icicles cracked off our frozen friendship, the freeze that had overtaken our lives melted away and was replaced by hilarious fun. It seemed almost like old times.
On the birthday party front, Whitney and Sophie had decided to still proceed as planned with separate parties. But luckily, they were totally supportive of each other, and all our friends and classmates agreed to stop by both. Thank God the Plaza and the Pierre are so close to each other!
I flipped a coin to see whose party I would go to first and came up with Whitney’s. Sophie was totally cool with that, and I planned on being at her bash at nine. The only bummer of the whole sitch was that Jake categorically refused to attend either party on principle. At first I tried to persuade him, but then I decided to respect his wishes. Ultimately I decided it was kind of hot that he was not into the whole party thing. I always think it’s a little nerdy when a guy is way into some girly soiree, and I liked that my man could take it or leave it. He did agree to pick me up at eleven and we were going to get pizza. So I was left to make my way to the parties solo, which was fine, because I planned to be very zen about the whole thing.
There was so much pressure on these parties to be the best ever that even the tabloids got involved. The New York Post started running headlines over how much they cost and who was attending which. Teen Vogue had asked for an exclusive on Whitney’s, and In Style would cover Sophie’s if the promised celebrities attended. That sent all the girls into a frenzy. Madison Avenue had never seen so much business from fifteen-and sixteen-year-olds. Tailors worked overtime. The best hair and makeup people in the city were booked. I even heard that Tom Ford came out of retirement to help one girl with her dress. It was major.
Finally, January 28 rolled around—the big day had arrived. The parties were about to be launched in full force. There was a flurry of phone calls all day reporting Mary Hart spottings. It was all craziness. And I heard from one witness who happened to walk past 59th Street that there were so many burly men seen hauling lights and sets into the hotels that it looked like they were setting up for a Broadway musical in the Pierre and a Vegas show in the Plaza. As girls all over New York prepped—laying out gowns, waxing their legs, crimping their hair, spritzing perfumes, polishing their nails, and making last-minute panty hose purchases, I took a deep breath and had a preparty snack with my parents.
I had made my own gown for the evening, inspired by Phoebe Philo of Chloé, which was a light blue chiffon column dress with a black velvet bow-belt. It had taken a long, long time, but I was proud of it, and when I had shown it to Jake the weekend before he had pronounced it “smokin’,” which made me super psyched.
“Honey, have a great, great time,” said my mom and dad as they put me into a cab.
They had thrown on coats over their pajamas and come down to see me off. (It was only seven o’clock, but they liked to be cozy.)
My parents stood there beaming as if I were off to my first prom. (In fact, they had taken my picture several times. And sweet Jake had even sent me a corsage—kind of a joke, but a flower nonetheless.)
“Okay, guys, gotta go,” I said, rolling up the window. “Love you!”
The cab pulled away, crunching over the packed snow. I looked at my parents out the back window as they smiled and waved. I bet that Sophie’s and Whitney’s parents never walked them outside or saw them off for anything. And that made me a little sad. I waved again as we turned the corner. I may have been going to my best friends’ parties, which were going to be the most expensive Sweet Sixteen bashes that New York had ever seen, but I truly felt like the lucky one.
Chapter Thirty-one
The gilded, carved double doors of the Pierre ballroom burst open to the mixing sounds of Peter Duchin’s famed orchestra, gales of laughter, and clinking crystal champagne flutes. I scanned the scene, and boy was it ever a scene. Palm trees lined the entire ballroom and dance floor like I had been beamed to Florida, Star Trek style. It was insanity. After months and months of planning, it was so amazing to see all of the ideas come to life. And everything was more glamorous and elaborate than I could have imagined.
Waiters in seersucker suits passed out tropical drinks with freshly cut orchids, and custom daiquiri stands were placed strategically as the bartenders poured their concoctions into giant conch shells. David Copperfield performed his tricks on a stage covered with pink sand imported from Bermuda, and a giant glass pool filled with mermaids drew attention on another custom-built platform. The bold-faced names, the ones you read about in every society column in New York, were all in attendance. Oscar de la Renta toasted Brooke Astor, who waved a white-gloved hand to Blaine Trump, who nodded her head to Tinsley Mortimer, all as the New York Times’ Bill Cunningham snapped away with his camera for the Sunday Styles section. Every second it seemed like another stylish fashionista fluttered by to air-kiss another jet-setter.
I waited in the seemingly endless receiving line, which snaked through the entrance like a long, silver, sequin-covered serpent of ladies in flowing frocks and gents in perfect black tie. It was so weird that this was all for Whitney. I mean, we had sat for hours in Jackson Hole Restaurant, planning and imagining what this would all be like, and now it had come to life.
When I finally got a glimpse of Whitney at the end of the line, I was stunned. She looked so beautiful. Her dress was a gorgeous strapless petal pink design, which was tight on the top but then flowed into a tulle confection. She was wearing delicate diamond chandelier earrings and a two-tiered diamond necklace that I knew were from her mother’s safe-deposit box. It was all very subtle yet elegant; the whole look was reminiscent of Gwyneth’s Oscar outfit. When Whitney noticed me waiting in the back of the endless receiving line, she ran past everyone and gave me a huge hug, whispering in my ear that I was the only person that she really cared to see on her birthday. She was quickly whisked away by her mother, but I was so glad she had said that.
An hour later, after shimmying under a limbo stick held by two Vilebrequin bathing-suit–wearing male models, dancing, gabbing, and checking my watch, my cue to exit rolled out on the dance floor in the form of an eleven-foot, seven-tiered cake with a replica of Whitney on top.
The agreed-upon plan was that as soon as Whit’s cake came out at 9:00, I would head over to Sophie’s, so I snuck to the coat check, put on my jacket, lifted my long skirt, and ran across the street from the Pierre to the Plaza.
I entered Sophie’s raging shindig to find I’d left Palm Beach for the African outback. In full safari theme, every table had a different animal print, and huge, I mean, massive, taxidermy filled the room—stuffed elephants, giraffes, rhinos, everything. It was, like, dresses by Roberto Cavalli, flowers by Preston Bailey, decor by Discovery Channel. Male models dressed as Tarzans swung from leafy vines overhead, and zebra rugs lined the floors. Thong-clad “tribal” waiters passed shish kebabs from flaming serving trays and little rawhide tents were scattered around the room (Sophi
e’s parents didn’t know that most teens were using them for heavy-petting sessions, and I’m not talking about petting animals.) Quite literally: It was wild.
I arrived in time to see Sophie blow out the candles on her own towering cake, but just as she was about to cut into it with a shiny new Elsa Peretti sterling cake knife, an African dancer jumped out of the cake’s center, startling the crowd, while a hundred African drummers entered the ballroom, dancers filed in, and Paul Simon took the stage.
There were so many people there it was hard to even get close to Sophie. After trying in vain—and getting trounced on by camera crews and sycophants—I decided to just hang out on the dance floor with Ava and Kaitlin. (They were also party-hopping.) Luckily, toward eleven o’clock, just as I was getting ready to leave and meet Jake, I was able to catch Sophie’s eye across the room. She was up on the balcony, surveying the crowd with her mom, and I waved to her. She waved back and mouthed the words “I love you! Thanks for coming!” and, surprisingly, even her mom waved (giddy from the champagne, probably). But I was psyched—both Whitney and Sophie had made me feel happy for coming, and now I was off to my own private party.
I was ready. I felt like Cinderella ditching the ball to make curfew, only I wasn’t running from my prince, I was running to him.
I was practically skipping down the famed Plaza steps when I saw him. Lit by the glow of the fountain in the square’s center, Jake leaned casually on the stone edge, waiting for me.
As I walked toward him, my smile growing, I thought about my net take from the evening’s—and the year’s—events. How weird that so much drama, anger, and anguish (not to mention millions of dollars) were spent on something that was over in a blink—like Copperfield’s magic poof! The night had disappeared. Holding my two gift bags, one Tiffany blue, the other Cartier red, I realized I may never attend another insane over-the-top party like these in my life. And as I saw Jake get up to walk over to me, I knew that would be just fine with me.
I had changed over the last few months. I had grown stronger and become my own person. Now that Jake and I were together, I couldn’t believe that I didn’t see that he was into me earlier. I just didn’t have the confidence to believe someone as awesome as he is could love me. But now I did, and it was a great lesson to have learned.
And now, as I was leaving these black-tie extravaganzas for humble pie—pizza pie, to be exact—I realized, after the past few unbelievably gut-wrenching months, that all the cheesy soft-rock ballads, fortune cookies, and cliché-packed self-help books are right: Be true to yourself and you’ll be rewarded. Happiness is the best prize of all. And as Jake took me in his arms and kissed me passionately, I knew I had won the blue ribbon. The fact is, the best parties don’t have a guest list of two thousand or two hundred. They have a guest list of two.
Acknowledgments
Carrie & Jill thank…
* * *
… the awesome HarperCollins posse of Tara Weikum for all the great guidance, and also Alix Reid for the chance to write this book. The ICM ladies: Amanda Urban, Jennifer Joel, and the left coasters Stacey Rosenfelt and Josie Freedman, plus our lawyers Steven Beer and Mary Miles.
Carrie thanks…my family, friends, and minor acquaintances, with a particular shout-out to Vas, James, Peter, and the Huitzes (Lesbia, Emilio, Bryan, Jairo, Emily, and Juana).
Jill thanks…my amazing fam: Major bow-down worshipful thanks to Mom, Dad, and Will, who kept me grounded through all the bumpy teen-angsty dramas, Ruth Kopelman, Herzl Franco, the Kargs, espesh Bess & Soph, who keep me up on the Lolita lingo (“ridonculous is the new ridiculous”). And to the chère posse I’ve known over half my life: Dana Jones, Trip Cullman, Lisa Turvey & Lauren Duff, who saved high school from heinosity, and to Jeannie Stern and Vanessa Eastman, my sistas who I feel I’ve known and loved just as long. And to Harry and Sadie for being the light at the end of the growing-up tunnel.
* * *
About the Author
Carrie Karasyov & Jill Kargman are best buds who met at their all-girls private high school in New York City. They have cowritten two novels for adults, THE RIGHT ADDRESS and WOLVES IN CHIC CLOTHING, as well as two novels for teens, BITTERSWEET SIXTEEN and SUMMER INTERN.
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Credits
Cover art © 2006 by Chuck Gonzales
Cover design by Sasha Illingworth
Copyright
BITTERSWEET SIXTEEN. Copyright © 2006 by Carrie Karasyov and Jill Kargman. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books.
EPub © Edition DECEMBER 2008 ISBN: 9780061973970
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