Inside Girl (17 page)

“Yeah,” I agreed. “You're totally right. Even if I did take forever to figure that out.”

Philippa shrugged. “We're all learning. It's hard to get close to someone, you know? Unless their backyard connects to yours and they come over to bother you every five minutes.”

“Hey!” Mickey protested. We all laughed.

I hung out for a few more minutes and had a soda, then walked back to my house. It was so great how Philippa and Mickey were completely comfortable together—like they'd found everything they always wanted wrapped up in the other person and now they didn't have to keep looking anymore. I wondered if I'd feel that way about Bennett as I got to know him better—or if he'd start to feel that way about me.

Philippa or no Philippa, I really was going to have a party on Friday. Now the only thing left was to make sure it was okay with my parents. To make sure there were no snags, I just did what Patch and February taught me to a long time ago: I asked my mom when my dad was out of the house. He stepped out for a bagel about five minutes before I left for school, so the timing was perfect. I found my mom arranging flowers in the living room, and I don't think she was really listening when I asked her, because she just sang out, “That sounds great, Flan! Charge it,” like she always does when I'm asking for new jeans or whatever. But this time I didn't just want money.

“Listen, Mom. I want you and Dad to be around for it too. And Patch. And Feb, if anyone ever hears from her again.”

“Honey, that's so sweet.” She smiled. “It'll be so nice to meet all your friends.”

I grinned and went to call Liesel. We had things to do.

Planning a party sounds like it would be easy, especially when the party's only for thirteen people—or, in this case, eleven, since Philippa and Mickey had already flaked out on me by the time I started buying stuff and making arrangements. But actually, party planning takes a lot of thought. You can't just blow up some balloons and order a clown, not when you're fourteen years old and trying to get all the crazy pieces of your too-complicated life together in one place. So over the next couple of days, I pretty much focused on getting everything exactly the way I wanted it.

First there was the question, Where's the party going to be, exactly? In our house, the answer's pretty simple: It has to be in the living room/kitchen area. I guess I could have had it in the attic, but then I'd have to move all of Feb's dusty purses and old Barneys boxes out of the way; plus, I'd have the additional problem of carrying all the food and drinks up two flights of stairs every single time. Then there was the basement, but that was pretty much out, in my opinion anyway. It's mostly unfinished concrete down
there, except for one part of the space that's carpeted with Astroturf from some brief period right after we moved in, when Patch thought he wanted to be a baseball player. Fake grass, uncovered swinging light-bulbs, and windowless subterranean concrete walls were definitely not the look I was going for.

So it had to be the living room. Which meant that, in order for the party to feel like it really was my party, and not just some sort of less-wild rehash of one of my brother's, I had some redecorating to do.

Liesel helped a lot. She and I agreed that the lighting for my party should be less bright than daytime and less tacky than the flashing disco lamps left over from my sister's after-prom. So we went to this insane lamp store on the Lower East Side, where they have every kind of lamp known to man, and wandered around looking at lamps for like two hours. It was hard, because we had to find something that was awesome but that didn't look like I was so spoiled that I could afford to buy whatever I want, because we both agreed that'd look gross. I finally decided on these sort of Japanese lantern-looking things. They were like yellow paper tubes that lit up from the inside, and once we had them plugged in, I could see they were just perfect—not too bright, but not too dark either. It was kind of like candlelight during an evening thunderstorm.

So then there was the food, and drinks. My brother and sister let me have beers sometimes, and I think my parents know that, but it's sort of an unspoken rule in our family that none of us drink around my parents. Besides, I didn't really want to have alcohol at my party anyway—I don't like the way it tastes much, and I was pretty sure that Judith, Meredith, and Bennett hadn't really had any experience drinking, which meant that it would probably have a weird effect on them. And weirdness, especially drunken weirdness, was definitely not something I wanted to have at my party.

So I decided that we'd just have Shirley Temples and Roy Rogers, plus hummus and pita bread and red velvet cupcakes from my favorite bakery. On the day of the party, I also planned to cut up a bunch of fruit and put it in one of those bowls made from half a scooped-out watermelon, which was kind of ambitious since I'd never done anything like that before, but I was determined. Plus we'd have a cheese plate, with crackers, and some little tiny sandwiches like you can get at Tea for Two. Of course, we'd also have to have mineral water and sesame crunch candies in a special dish for SBB.

Because I still hoped she was coming, even though I still hadn't been able to get her on the phone. The
first few times I called, I think she just didn't want to talk to me, because I went straight through to her voice mail, but after that it was like her cell phone had gotten disconnected or something, which made me worry. And I had no idea where she was living, so I couldn't hand-deliver the invitation.

I felt a little sick every time I thought about how things had ended between us. But I'd told both Liesel and Philippa to invite SBB to the party on my behalf, so I hoped she'd get the news through them and start to understand how sorry I was.

But at least my other friends seemed to have forgiven me. That week, I hung out with Meredith, Judith, and Bennett every lunchtime and a couple of days after school. And whenever I wasn't hanging out with friends or planning for the party, I had a ton of homework to keep me distracted from thinking too much about SBB. I know this sounds kind of weird, but I even found myself getting interested in my classes. In English class, for example, we read this Fitzgerald story called “Bernice Bobs Her Hair,” and even though it was set way back in the twenties, there was something about it that I felt like I really got. That girl Bernice seemed like a real person to me—I wouldn't want to cut off all my hair either. And the way the parties were described I could totally picture
them, even though at our parties now you're lucky if you can get just one guy to dance with you, let alone a whole bunch, one after the other.

I doubted there would be any dancing at my party, but I still wanted to have music. So in the evenings I started making a mix CD of a bunch of my favorite songs, which I planned to have on in the background while we sat around talking and stuff. I'd never made a mix CD for myself before, and it surprised me how fun it was. With each song I chose, I got a new chance to show my friends who I was and what I was like. It was great. I've never been at a party where I really liked all the music before, but this was my night and I was going to do things my way.

Friday, the day of the party, I rushed home from school to get everything in place, even though people weren't supposed to start coming over till seven-thirty. On the way home I picked up the red velvet cupcakes from the bakery, and the whole time I was waiting in line I kept looking at the clock every two seconds. As soon as I had the cupcakes, I practically ran the rest of the way home. The minute I walked in the door, I set up the lamps and put a tablecloth on the coffee table. I put hummus and pita bread on a glass dish, arranged the cupcakes on a tray, and made a pitcher of Shirley Temples and a pitcher of Roy
Rogers. Then I was basically done, and it was only four-thirty. I felt nervous and excited and like anything might happen, so I decided to work on decorating a little more just to keep myself busy. My mom walked in the door just as I was getting up on a chair to hang some red crepe paper from the ceiling.

“Flanny, sweetie, what are you doing?” she asked, setting down her tennis racket and her yellow gym bag.

“Get down from that chair—you'll hurt yourself.”

I ripped down the crepe paper and climbed down off the chair. It looked stupid anyway. “I'm setting up for my party, remember?”

“Is that today? But your father and I wanted to be here for it.”

“I thought you were going to be.”

“No, tonight's the benefit dinner for—oh, some sort of medical association. You should ask your father; I never remember these things.”

“What?” This was the first I'd ever heard about it. I tried to stop myself from feeling annoyed, but it was hard. After all, how hard is it to remember your youngest kid's first high school party? It doesn't happen every day. “But Mom, how's this going to work? I have people coming over. Don't you and Dad need to be around here? To supervise or whatever?”

“Aren't you a little too old for that?”

I knew that most kids would kill for their parents to act like this—but as I'd been finding out over the last several weeks, I wasn't like most kids. I was Flan Flood, and for once in my life I just wanted a sane, normal party. “No.”

“Hmm.” She scrunched up her forehead and touched one finger to her lips; whenever she does that she reminds me so much of Marian the Librarian from
The Music Man
that I have to smile. “I know. We'll call your brother. He can keep an eye on things and make sure they don't get out of hand.”

Patch Flood
supervising
a party? I tried not to laugh. “Where is he anyway? I haven't seen him since …day before yesterday, I think.”

“Apparently he's been staying with some friends. Your father called his cell this morning and someone answered and said everything was fine.”

“Who was it?”

“Could her name have been Veronique? I'm not sure—I'll call now, and if she answers, I'll demand to speak to my son.” Then she started laughing, as if acting like a real mom were the funniest thing in the world.

I shook my head and flopped down on the couch while my mom went to the kitchen. From where I was sitting I could hear her dialing, then talking to Patch.

“Patch? Yes, actually, we do need you here…. Oh no, nothing like that. Your sister is having some friends over—yes, I know…. No, the man from the surfboard shop left a message—he said it wouldn't be ready for another week. Now, sweetie, Flan is having some friends over—I told you about it the other day. I was just wondering if you could come home and keep an eye on things…. I certainly hope it's over by two o'clock! All right … Yes. Your father and I might see you when we get in tonight…. Well, tell her we say hello too.” She hung up. “He should be here around eight.”

“But my party starts at seven-thirty!”

“You'll just have to behave yourselves for half an hour, then,” she said, shaking her head like she does when she finds something funny. I sighed, but even I had to admit this conversation
was
kind of silly. It wasn't like I'd never been home alone before.

All of a sudden, I heard a ferocious sound—like a wolf chowing down on an entire pasture of sheep. I sat straight up, and there was Noodles, tearing into the pita bread like he was starving.

“Bad dog! Bad! Bad!”

Noodles cowered, pressing his ears flat back on his head like he was incredibly sorry, but he didn't have me fooled. He was still chewing.

“This dog is new,” my mom said. She stared down at him. His eyes went wide as he looked back up at her. And then he ran out of the room and up the stairs. “Do you walk him?”

“Yes! Every morning before school and then … other times too. Is it okay if I keep him?”

“Darling, of course. Don't ask such silly questions.”

So while my mom went upstairs to shower and get dressed for the benefit dinner—she was meeting my dad somewhere downtown in about an hour—I put my shoes back on and, with Noodles in tow, walked to the grocery store to buy some more pita bread. Last-minute disasters—what would my life be without them?

I was trying to stop Noodles from peeing on a blue motor scooter that someone had parked on the sidewalk, when my cell phone rang. Still pulling on the leash with one hand, I reached into my pocket with the other, pulled out the phone, and flipped it open. The number was Liesel's.

“Hey,” I said, practically dragging Noodles down the street. He found a half-eaten falafel on the sidewalk and, even though it was covered with tread marks, pounced on it hungrily. I loved the little guy, but sometimes his eating habits were just gross. Then again, maybe it's my fault for feeding him human food so often. “Drop that, Noodles! Drop it! Sorry, Liesel. What's up?”

“Flan, darling, I have the most horrendous news. I'm not going to be able to come to your party.”

“What?” I was so surprised, I almost dropped the
leash. “But we've been planning it together, like, all week!”

“I know, I know, and I feel absolutely miserable about the whole thing.” She sighed deeply. “I just don't see how it can be helped. You see, they need me at Cube tonight. The reviewer from
Time Out
is coming, and if he finds anyone tacky or uncouth, the write-up will be terrible.”

“But what am I supposed to do? How can I make my party cool without you there?”

“I don't know, snookums. It's a catastrophe.”

“This sucks so much. First Philippa can't come—then my parents forget about the whole thing—and now you're not going to be there either.”

“Your parents won't be there?”

“No! They forgot all about it and made other plans. They're sending Patch in to supervise. Isn't that insane?”