We Are Party People Page 11

  “Blech, what a mess,” I say, coughing.

  “Oh, just wait until we get to the party,” my dad says.

  Fifteen minutes later we’re in the car and on our way. I’ve got a basket full of silk scarves in my lap, in every color of the rainbow, some noisemakers left over from a New Year’s party, and egg shakers from the toddler music class. Also, three packs of long balloons that my dad will fashion into animals and swords and cars and rocket ships, if all goes well.

  The cupcakes are in the backseat. Normally we bake our own, but of course there’s no time tonight. Lucky for everyone, at the last minute we’re able to find a dozen cream-filled vanilla-flavored ones at the grocery store. Dad and I decorate them in the parking lot, adding a clown face to the top of each one—red nose, wide grin, and orange curly wig, plus rainbow sprinkles all around.

  I think it’s pretty impressive, given our time constraints. And I’m excited about the party. “So, how long did they book us for?” I ask.

  “Ninety minutes,” my dad says. “And I have a feeling it’s going to be a long ninety minutes. You can handle the quick setup, yes?”

  “Of course.”

  “You’re the best, Pixie. Thank you. Um, how’s your homework coming?”

  “It’s fine,” I say with a shrug. “I only have twenty minutes left. Don’t worry.”

  “I won’t,” he says. “But your mom would not be happy about this.”

  I don’t say anything. What am I supposed to say? My mom isn’t happy about anything lately, but we don’t talk about that. We can’t.

  “Tell me more about the party.”

  My dad nods. “Okay, Tanner is turning two. His parents were going to skip his second birthday party, do something mellow with family. But his grandmother surprised them and came to town and insisted on throwing him a big party. So here we are. We’re the big party.”

  He takes one hand off the steering wheel and waves it around. Jazz hands, but only half. Jazz hand, I suppose, is more accurate. If that’s even a thing.

  “Woohoo,” I say, twirling one finger in the air.

  “His grandmother has asked for games along with the balloon animals. I think we’ll do the classics—Musical Chairs, Bunny, Bunny, Birdie.”

  Bunny, Bunny, Birdie is my parents’ version of Duck, Duck, Goose. As soon as someone says birdie, you run.

  “How many kids?” I ask.

  “Aargh, excellent question,” my dad says, slapping his forehead with one hand. “That’s definitely something I should’ve asked. It can’t be that many, though, considering the fact that they’ve only been planning this party for two hours.”

  “Okay, great,” I say, except as soon as we pull up to the house, I’m suspicious. The problem is, there’s nowhere to park thanks to the slew of minivans lined up on the street, leading from Tanner’s driveway all the way to the corner.

  “Um, this looks like a lot of people,” I say.

  My dad shakes his head. “They must be here for something else. Or maybe this street doubles as a used car lot.”

  “Wishful thinking,” I say with a laugh. I’m getting a little nervous about tonight, but there’s nothing I can do about it.

  Once we finally park and start to unload our supplies, we see more kids going into the house. I have a feeling the party is going to be bigger than expected, but I don’t say so. There’s no need, and there’s no point. Pretty soon we’re going to see for ourselves. And it’s not like there’s anything we can do to prepare now.

  We walk to the front door. I haul the basket with the tray of cupcakes balanced on top. My dad has his costume in the duffel bag.

  As soon as I knock, the door swings open and a small, frazzled-looking woman with a messy blond ponytail says, “Can I help you?”

  “I’m Dan,” says my dad, offering his hand. “From We Are Party People. This is my associate, Pixie. She’s going to help out behind the scenes.”

  “I’m sorry. We Are Party People?” the woman asks.

  “Sarah called me a little while ago and booked us for the party,” my dad says.

  “You are kidding,” says the woman. She does not look happy. She turns around and yells, “Brett!”

  Just then a tired-looking guy in khakis and a red collared shirt comes to the door. “What’s up?” he asks.

  “Your mother hired party planners,” the woman tells him, gesturing toward us.

  “Oh boy.” He turns to us, sheepish. “I’m Brett. This is my wife, Beth. It’s our son’s birthday.”

  “Tanner is turning two! We’ve heard all about him,” my dad says.

  “Yes, of course,” Brett says, seemingly embarrassed. “And who are you?”

  “I’m Dan and this is Pixie,” my dad says. “I guess Sarah didn’t tell you.”

  “No, she did not,” says Beth, her hands on her hips.

  It’s getting awkward, standing on their front step. Plus, the stuff I’m carrying is getting heavy. Brett must sense this.

  “Please come in. I’m so happy you’re here. What a great surprise. Um, what exactly did my mother hire you to do?”

  “I’m a clown,” my dad whispers.

  Beth groans and slaps her forehead. Brett cringes and puts his hand on his wife’s arm, as if to steady her. “Please keep your voice down, honey, and let’s just go with this. My mother is only here for the weekend.”

  “Which is seeming longer and longer by the second,” Beth says between gritted teeth.

  Beth and Brett keep bickering, but at least we’re finally in the house.

  A HAPPY BIRTHDAY TANNER sign is written on pieces of white paper taped to the staircase. Each page is a different letter, written in Magic Marker. They are hung sloppily, unevenly spaced, so the message is hard to read. Looks like “HA PPYBIRTH DAYTANN ER.”

  Just then a silver-haired lady walks into the room and starts talking to Beth. “You know, you really shouldn’t use artificial sweetener in your coffee. There are studies that link it to the most dreadful types of diseases.”

  “This is Tanner’s grandmother, Sarah,” Beth tells us. “Sarah, please meet the party people, Dan and Pixie. Well, I’m sure you already know who they are, since you hired them. What a great surprise. Also, that sweetener is all natural. It says so right on the box.”

  Sarah grins at Beth. “Well, that’s part of the problem, because all natural is simply a phrase anyone is allowed to use with no regulation. It’s not like organic, which has specific guidelines.”

  “Okay, you’re right. I’m wrong. Let’s throw it away,” Beth says quickly, like she really doesn’t think her mother-in-law is right but doesn’t want to argue about it.

  “Okay, if you want to waste the money,” Sarah says, frowning at the box. “Or perhaps we can give it to a homeless shelter.”

  “Are you saying it’s okay for the homeless to eat poison?” asks Beth.

  “There’s no reason to get hostile,” says Sarah.

  Then she turns to us. “It’s been so hectic trying to get things under control around here. We’re thrilled you could accommodate us last minute, like this. Tanner is going to be so happy.”

  Beth seems mad and is about to say something when my dad steps in. “We are so excited about making Tanner’s party extra-special.”

  “This young girl works for you?” asks Sarah, pointing at me with raised eyebrows.

  “Oh yes, she’s a dynamo,” my dad says, putting his arm around me. “Has been working at parties since before she could speak.”

  “It’s true,” I say, grinning my brightest grin. “It’s my parents’ business. We’re all party people.”

  “Well, we are really looking forward to seeing what you’ve got. Apologies for the messiness of the house,” Sarah says.

  “The house is not a mess!” Beth says.

  “No need to yell. Everyone can hear you, dear,” Sarah says.

  Beth looks just about ready to explode. My dad puts his arm around her. “Know what? I think your house is gorgeous and this i
s going to be an amazing party. Now, where can I get changed?”

  “The bathroom is down that hall and to the left,” she says, pointing the way.

  “Be right back,” my dad says.

  “Where can I put the cupcakes and supplies?” I ask, holding up the basket of stuff.

  “Follow me,” says Beth, leading me into the kitchen.

  A few minutes later my dad emerges from the bathroom with a wide smile painted on his face—literally, with bright red paint. It takes up about half his face, which is painted white. He’s wearing an orange curly wig and wide-legged polka-dot balloon pants. His shirt is red and yellow striped. His suspenders have black-and-white polka dots. His bow tie is comically oversized and floppy. There are bells on the cuffs of his shirt and pants and woven into the laces of his gigantic clown shoes. The entire outfit is ridiculous-looking and I can’t help but smile.

  “Good?” he asks.

  “Great,” I tell him.

  My dad comes into the kitchen, where Sarah is explaining to Beth that she doesn’t have enough plastic cups. And actually, she should’ve bought little Dixie cups, which would be so much more appropriate for the young crowd.

  Except as soon as she sees my father she breaks out into applause. “Oh, you look marvelous, Dan.”

  “Thanks.” My dad puts his arm around her and gives her a half hug.

  “Can I call you Bozo?”

  She laughs at her joke, and I am using the term joke generously. My father and I smile politely.

  Then a kid who I assume is Tanner toddles in, takes one look at my father, screams in terror, and clutches his mom’s legs.

  “Make it go away. Make the scary monster go away!” he yells, burying his face in her knees.

  “It’s okay, it’s not real, sweetie,” Beth says as she picks him up. “It’s only a clown—from your grandmother.”

  Tanner bawls and my dad looks to me, worried but not surprised.

  Yup, that’s what happens at a clown party.

  Tanner is crying hysterically. “Make it go away. Make it go away,” he keeps saying. Poor kid!

  My dad does as Tanner asks, ducking out of the kitchen and heading to the backyard.

  Without knowing what else to do, I follow him.

  The yard is large and filled with people—children of all ages and lots of grownups, too. I cross my fingers and hope for no more tears. So far no one notices us. There are kids playing on a gigantic wooden swing set. Others are at the snack table, munching on popcorn and chips.

  Meanwhile, my dad strolls around with his chest puffed out and his thumbs hooked into his suspenders. Every once in a while he’ll trip and wave his arms around as if he’s about to tip over. From the fearful expression on his face, it looks as if he’s about to fall off a cliff. It’s hilarious.

  A few people notice and stop what they are doing to watch the performance.

  Next my dad trips over his own giant shoes on purpose, falling to the ground and into a somersault. After he gets up, he pretends to fall again and does ten somersaults in a row, making his way clear across the lawn.

  The kids on the swings stop swinging and move a little closer.

  I hear another cry and see a three-year-old girl run and hide behind her mom. But the rest of the crowd is captivated.

  Once my dad has everyone’s attention, he stands up and beams and waves his arms, motioning for everyone to form a semicircle around him. The kids sit in the front row, cross-legged in the grass. Adults stand behind, watching.

  My dad reaches into his pants pocket and acts totally shocked by what he finds. He pulls out a red scarf, and attached to it is a purple scarf. With a bemused expression, he keeps pulling it, and more scarves appear. Blue, pink, yellow, orange, green, turquoise, magenta, violet, black, white, and then red again—each linked together, the scarves keep coming.

  My dad’s face transmits a bunch of emotions—shock, horror, fear, excitement, confusion, and frustration. Everything big and perfectly executed for laughs. People are cracking up.

  Finally, the chain of seemingly never-ending scarves comes to an end and attached to the last scarf is a rubber chicken, which my dad throws over his shoulder.

  Next he puts his hand in his shirt pocket and acts completely shocked to pull out a long balloon.

  By now he has a large audience. More kids have wandered over and he gestures at them, welcoming them to take a seat on the ground, and they do.

  My dad blows up the first balloon, a long blue one, waving one leg in the air and spinning it around like it’s a crank. He begins twisting the balloon into the shape of a poodle. Once it’s done he holds it up and everybody claps. He hands it to a girl with black pigtails and then he makes more balloon sculptures: bunnies and swords and an octopus and more dogs.

  I sit in the background, handing my dad extra balloons and cleaning up the mess of confetti he’d made after he pretended to blow his nose and it all went flying.

  After every kid at the party has a balloon, and the kids who have popped their first balloons get their second balloons, we serve the cupcakes. Beth and Brett have managed to scrounge up a bunch of cookies to go along with them, so everyone gets some sort of sugary treat.

  The kids don’t take their eyes off my dad. Everyone wants to be near him. It’s magic, what he does, who he is. He’s like a wizard.

  Next we play Musical Chairs, and then Bunny, Bunny, Birdie. And finally, our time is up.

  Once my dad changes out of the clown costume, he makes a special balloon animal for Tanner.

  His makeup is off. His hair is a little tamped down from the curly wig, but the entire costume, every trace of the clown character, is tucked away in the duffel bag he’s got slung over his shoulder.

  “Happy birthday, Tanner,” my dad says, handing Tanner the balloon, which looks like a lion but could also be a dog. Now is not the right time to ask and anyway it doesn’t matter. Tanner is thrilled, and claps happily.

  “Thank you so much. That was amazing,” says Beth.

  “I’m sorry Tanner had to miss the performance,” my dad says. “And the cupcakes.”

  “Well, I hear that you did warn my mother-in-law about that,” says Beth.

  “Yes, c-l-o-w-n-s can be traumatizing for lots of kids. Some adults, too,” my dad adds.

  Brett chuckles and says, “Good thing Tanner is two, and probably won’t remember any of it.”

  “And there’s always next year,” my dad says, handing them his business card. “We’ve got lots of other characters.”

  “Oh, you are the Crazy Chicken people. I’ve heard about you!” says Beth.

  “Crazy Chicken retired a while ago,” my dad says.

  “That’s too bad,” says Beth. “Anyway, thank you.”

  She gives my dad a hug and then we are gone.

  On the drive home we’re both smiling. The success you feel after an amazing party, the rush, it’s like getting an A on a test, and having a cute boy smile at you, and going to the beach with your friends after school, and then eating at your favorite restaurant for dinner and going out for sundaes for dessert, all rolled into one.

  I’m feeling like this, and meanwhile I only helped behind the scenes.

  I wonder what it’s like to be the star.

  21

  The next day after school I come home to an empty house and I go into my parents’ closet where they keep their supply of costumes. The ones that get used in regular rotation, I mean.

  Solely out of curiosity, I pull out the Luella box. I’m not going to wear the costume at the party, but I still feel compelled to try it on, merely to see if it fits. So I take it back into my room. Then I turn on the radio, blasting Eminem. And I slowly uncover the outfit.

  The top has sequins and fringe. It’s turquoise and pink. My mom hand-sewed it all onto an old bikini top herself. I remember watching her do it. The tail is made out of something rubbery and flexible. It’s got scales on it in various shades of green and blue, and the waistband is covered i
n rhinestones and gems.

  There’s also a wig. It’s blue and hot-pink striped. After I put it on I smile into the mirror and wink at myself. I try to pose like my mom would, hand on jutted-out hip. It looks weird but not bad, necessarily. Still, I’m embarrassed even though I’m all alone. But the more I look, the more I like what I see. In the wig I seem sort of punk rock, like the kind of kid who could pull this off.

  I take off my shirt and try on the bikini top. I expect it to be too big, but it actually fits if I tie the strings tight enough in back. The mermaid tail is too hard to put on by myself, and I don’t want to not be able to walk, but I hold it up in front of my legs and then shuffle back to the mirror.

  I am surprised by my reflection. I look a little like my mom, except there’s something missing. We have the same big eyes, the same high cheekbones, but when my mom smiles, you can’t help but smile.

  When I smile, okay, it’s nice, but it’s not magical. I’m missing whatever it is she has and suddenly I’m missing her, badly.

  I put the tail away and then grab the phone and dial her number.

  She doesn’t pick up and I don’t leave a message. I do notice that she’s changed her voicemail, though. She says she’s on a brief hiatus and anyone getting in touch about a party should call Dan the Man. On the message she sounds tired and defeated.

  A few seconds after I hang up, the door slams, which means my dad is home.

  “Pixie?” he yells.

  I quickly take off the wig and the bikini top and stash them both in the box and shove the whole thing under my bed. Then I put my T-shirt back on.

  “Yeah, I’m here,” I yell back. “I’ll be down in a minute.”

  It’s too risky to put the box back in my parents’ closet now, so I leave it where it is. I hope he doesn’t notice it’s missing.

  22

  Before I know it, it’s Friday: Election Day. Instead of going to our regular third-period classes, every seventh grader must report to the gym. As I walk into the room with the rest of my class I see that all the candidates are sitting in folding chairs onstage.