We Are Party People Read online

  Rob and Linda stare, too. They look confused. And a tad worried.

  My dad saunters over and introduces himself with his French accent. “I am Pierre, an expert in European art. I have traveled in my time machine, from Arles, in zee South of France. I recently visited Vincent van Gogh in his little yellow house in 1889. It would be my pleasure to give zee children a lesson in fine arts, if you don’t mind.”

  Rob looks like he’s about to protest, but Theo suddenly gives my dad a hug. Then a few other kids arrive and they all gravitate toward my dad. He’s magnetic.

  I watch as Linda whispers something into her husband’s ear. Then both of them take a few steps back to let my dad do his thing.

  He performs a couple of magic tricks in his fake-French accent and makes everyone laugh. Then he tells the wide-eyed crowd about Van Gogh. How he captured light and movement, the texture of the oil paints, and how he laid it on so thick that one of his paintings took an entire month to dry.

  “Now we are going to move on to an American artist,” my dad says. “Since we are, in fact, in America. Yes?”

  Most of the kids nod. One girl with dark curls shakes her head no, emphatically.

  “We are not in the United States?” he asks her.

  “No, we are in Beachwood,” she says.

  “Of course! Beachwood.” My dad snaps his fingers and laughs. “My mistake.”

  Next he says he’s going to teach them how to make art like Jackson Pollock did.

  I spread blank white paper out on the grass, get the paint and brushes ready, and hand out smocks.

  My dad demonstrates and eventually the kids get to dip paintbrushes in trays of paint and spatter them on the paper.

  After a while, my dad tells them about Picasso and his blue period.

  “Now, let’s make our way over to the Picasso station,” he says.

  Linda and Rob are thrilled, even though the Picasso station is simply more blank white paper and a few trays of blue paint.

  Everybody loves it.

  The kids get messy. They maybe learn a little bit about art. Theo strips down to his undershirt and takes off his shoes and socks, and his parents don’t complain.

  My dad makes up a song, on the fly, about color and tone and Kandinsky and light. “Frida Kahlo wears a halo. Diego Rivera likes marinara. Michelangelo plays the harp and a little cello…” He strums his banjo as he sings.

  It doesn’t make sense and most of the rhymes are a stretch, but the tune is catchy enough to get the kids to dance.

  Next we sing “Happy Birthday” to Theo. We serve cupcakes. Some of the kids do fight because there aren’t enough chocolate ones to go around, but my dad lets Rob and Linda deal with that.

  “We need to get to the next party,” I whisper to my dad.

  He checks his watch. “Yikes, you’re right. Thanks, Pixie.”

  We go to find Theo’s parents and say goodbye.

  “Well, that wasn’t what we were expecting but you sure made the children happy,” Linda says.

  “Glad we could help,” my father replies with a bow. He’s still speaking with the French accent.

  My dad pulls a fancy old pocket watch from his pocket and looks at the time.

  “We’d better run before we turn into pumpkins,” he jokes.

  “Oh, of course,” Rob says. “Hold on a moment. Let me get your check.”

  We wait in the entryway as Rob writes a check, tears it out of the book, and hands it to my dad.

  “I gave you a little extra because of the French accent,” he says.

  My dad bows again, even more deeply this time. Then he kisses Linda’s hand.

  She giggles. “You must come back again to teach us more about art.”

  “It would be my pleasure,” my dad replies.

  “Don’t leave!” says Theo. His face is covered in blue paint. And so, for that matter, is his undershirt.

  “You did say that the paint is washable, correct?” Rob asks.

  “Correct,” says my dad, with a wave. “Happy birthday, Theo. Au revoir!”

  25

  “Forget about the yacht. We should rename this thing the Silver Bullet,” my dad says as we race across town in the minivan.

  “What’s next, unicorns or race cars?” I ask.

  “Race cars!” my dad says. “For Jake, and it’s a small party and I’ve learned my lesson. While you were cleaning up, I called ahead and confirmed everything. We have ten kids, max. And Jake’s parents want the kids to actually build and play with race cars, not learn about their history and manufacturing.”

  I crack up. “Good to know!” I say. “Although if they change their minds, I’m sure you can invent a New Yorker article that praises the benefits of hands-on, experiential learning.”

  My dad smiles without saying a word.

  We make it to Jake’s house with three minutes to spare. As soon as my dad parks we rush around to the side of the van so we’re hidden from view and don our Nascar shirts and caps.

  “It kind of feels like we’re in a real Nascar pit stop,” my dad says.

  I have to agree.

  When we’re ready, my dad slings his guitar over his shoulder and grabs the race car box.

  “Can you handle the cake?” he asks me.

  “Sure, no problem,” I say.

  Once I have it we make our way to the front door.

  Jake’s parents are lovely, and they even help us carry our supplies inside.

  Jake is a cute kid with shoulder-length blond curls and dimples and sparkly brown eyes.

  “I’m Pixie,” I tell him and his eyes light up.

  “Are you one of those magical pixies?” he asks.

  I get this sometimes from little kids. “That depends on what kind of magic you are expecting,” I tell him. “I can make sure you have an awesome birthday party. How’s that?”

  “Okay.” He takes my hand and leads me into the living room. “My dads say we have to have the party in here.”

  I look to Jake’s dads for confirmation. Joe is blond with blue eyes and his green-striped shirt is tucked into khakis. Chris is tall and chubby and black, with glasses. He’s wearing dark blue jeans and a pink T-shirt.

  “True?” I say.

  “Yes, we just seeded the lawn in the backyard, so no one’s allowed to walk on it,” says Joe.

  “You don’t mind covering the furniture, do you?” asks Chris.

  “Oh, we’re not using paint, only stickers,” I explain. “And the car pieces snap into place, so there’s nothing to worry about.”

  “Perfecto,” says Chris.

  As soon as we finish setting everything up, the kids arrive. There are only ten of them—six little boys: Viggo, Ethan, Julien, Atticus, Jack, and Frisco, and four little girls: Ellie, Chiara, Violet, and Sienna. My dad memorizes all of their names right away. He’s good at stuff like that. Then he explains what’s going on. “You guys get to build your own cars, and then decorate them, and then race them. I’m here to help and so is my assistant, Pixie. Does anyone have any questions?”

  No one does. The kids inch toward the building kits, where we’ve stored all of the separate car parts, as well as stickers in lots of bright colors. The kids get way into it. Some of them need some help snapping the wheels onto the body and smoothing the wrinkles out of their decals, but most of them work alone.

  It’s fun and easy, my favorite kind of party because no one is in an elaborate costume and we’re not really expected to perform. We’re not in the spotlight and there’s no pressure or stress. We’re simply there to make sure that Jake and his friends have an excellent time. The dads don’t have crazy expectations—they are super-mellow and chill and nice and friendly.

  I wish it could always be like this.

  As the kids work on their cars, my dad and I set the ramp and track up in the living room.

  Once it’s ready my dad asks me to go fetch the kids. He’s never asked me to do anything like this before, probably because he knows I’d refuse.
Except today something is different. Everything is going so smoothly today, I’m up for it.

  “Hey, everyone,” I announce. “The track is ready. How are you doing with the cars?”

  “My wheel keeps falling off!” Atticus says.

  “Oh no. Let me see that.” I take a look at his car. “Oh, you need a larger size. See? Take one from the two-inch bin. That should work.”

  “Thanks, Pixie,” Atticus says, holding up his new car.

  “You are so welcome,” I say. “Now let’s go race that. Everyone else, too. Follow me.”

  My dad is waiting for us in the living room. He’s put on some old hip-hop music.

  “Okay, I can take three cars at a time. Who wants to go first?” he asks.

  Everyone raises his or her hand, of course. It’s my job to make sure each kid gets a turn, which they do.

  Frisco wins the first round and then we have another and Sienna comes in first.

  The kids are enthralled, cheering at the beginning of every race. And so am I. This is fun.

  Eventually, we are out of time. Everyone is declared a winner. We hand out little gold trophies, and then it’s time for pizza.

  Chris and Joe offer us lunch. “We have so much food,” says Chris. “Please help yourselves.”

  We do—and the pizza is extra-cheesy and delicious. When every last kid is done, my dad grabs his guitar and leads everyone in singing “Happy Birthday.”

  Chris carries in the cake. Joe snaps pictures with his phone.

  When Jake sees the race car design he smiles. “That’s the most beautiful cake I’ve ever seen,” he declares.

  When he blows out the candles, he only gets a little spit on the cake. This is not as common as you’d think, and everyone seems grateful and happy. At least until I start cutting the cake. Suddenly the kids are yelling.

  “I want a wheel.”

  “Can I have the corner?”

  “I only want the green frosting.”

  “I want the yellow car.”

  “Can I have the number?”

  “No, I want the number.”

  My dad stands up and says, “I have an announcement to make. Pixie and I made this cake and every single slice is delicious. I promise you. Okay? I have been to hundreds of parties and I have to tell you—there is no such thing as a bad piece of cake.”

  “Hear, hear,” Joe says, clapping.

  “That man is wise,” Chris adds.

  The kids may or may not buy this, but they have gotten the message and calmed down. And somehow, magically, there are enough wheels and doors and numbers to go around. Everyone is satisfied.

  All in all, the afternoon is a huge success!

  “You two are amazing,” Joe tells us.

  “No, you are,” my dad replies. “Thanks for making things so easy for us.”

  “Happy birthday, Jake,” I say, one last time. He really is a cute kid. I feel like I’m going to miss him, even though we’ve only hung out for a total of two hours.

  “Ready for the unicorns and rainbows?” my dad asks as we head back to the van.

  “What if I say no?” I ask.

  My dad puts his arm around me and kisses the top of my head. “Then I’d have to say tough, because I can’t do this without you!”

  26

  “The unicorn party was the best. Truly magical,” I tell Sophie and Lola on Sunday. We’re about to play Ping-Pong, if we can only find the spare paddles. Sophie’s neighbor’s new puppy chewed up her regular set. The three of us are squished into the dark storage closet in the back corner of Sophie’s garage. It’s dark and dusty and I’m trying not to think about spiders or mice or anything creepy and crawly.

  “That’s awesome. I love unicorns,” Lola says, right before sneezing three times.

  “Bless you,” I tell her.

  And instead of saying thank you, she sneezes two more times.

  “Yikes!” I say.

  “I’m okay,” she tells us. “I think. Tell us more about the party. What did you guys do?”

  “So much,” I reply. “First we set up the bubble machine by the front door, so bubbles filled the entire room. Then we made an enchanted forest with fairies and unicorns and rainbows, all carved out of clay. And we hid these little crystal treasures all over the yard and the kids went hunting for them. Oh, and we showed the kids how to make rainbows.”

  Lola’s eyes light up. “I so wish I could have gone.”

  “I know, but it was a party for four-year-olds,” I say with a laugh.

  “Little kids get to have all the fun,” says Lola.

  She has a point.

  “Wait, did you say you made rainbows?” asks Sophie. “How’d you do it?”

  “There are a few ways. But the easiest is to put a mirror inside a full glass of water, and then turn out the lights and shine a flashlight on it and move it around until rainbows appear.”

  “Wow, how do you even know this stuff?” she asks.

  I shrug, not that anyone can see me since we are in the dark. “I don’t know. My parents have a gazillion cool party tricks.”

  “You’re so lucky,” says Sophie as she heaves a box off a shelf and puts it at our feet. “I think the paddles must be in here.”

  “That box says CAMPING SUPPLIES,” Lola says.

  “I can’t believe you can read when it’s so dark in here,” I say.

  “Yes, we actually don’t go camping anymore, so the box is always filled with random stuff. I’m sure that’s where we’ll find them,” Sophie says as she opens the box. “And here they are!”

  “Yes!” I say. I take a few steps back and turn around and head out of the closet and the garage. The late-afternoon sun is still bright and warm. I blink as my eyes adjust to the light. It’s so much nicer out here.

  Sophie and Lola join me a second later.

  “Tell us more about the party,” says Lola. “My brother is turning two in a few weeks and I need some ideas.”

  “I’ll get you the recipe for the unicorn cake,” I promise. “Alice—she was the birthday girl—when she saw it, she was so happy she almost cried.”

  “That’s amazing!” says Sophie. “And it sounds much better than my Saturday. You guys were both busy, so all I did was mope around.”

  “I’m sorry about the election. It was horrible! And I’m so sorry I didn’t get to come over sooner so we could talk about it. It’s all ridiculously annoying,” I say.

  “And I don’t get it. Your posters were so much better and your speech was amazing,” says Lola.

  “It’s fine,” Sophie says with a wave of her hand. “I’m sure Jenna will do an awesome job as class president.”

  “You think?” Lola asks, tilting her head to one side.

  Sophie shrugs. “I hope so, but I have no idea.”

  “She’s not going to do anything,” I say. “You were the best candidate, not to mention the only one who talked about making the school a better place.”

  “Well, I can still do that,” says Sophie. “I talked to Principal Schwartz about it, and it turns out that she really liked my speech. She thinks I have great ideas and would be an excellent leader.”

  “Really?” I ask.

  “Yes, she had separate talks with each candidate so she could tell us the results ahead of time and we wouldn’t be too upset when the announcement came in. Anyway, she wants me to start a community service club.”

  “That’s cool,” I say. “But it would still be so much better if you did that as president.”

  “Well, that’s not happening this year,” Sophie says.

  “I’m really sorry about that,” says Lola.

  “Let’s play some Ping-Pong,” says Sophie. “Who wants to go first?”

  “You can, Lola,” I say.

  “No, you two go ahead,” she tells me.

  I get into position, facing Sophie at the other end of the table.

  Sophie adjusts her headband before serving, pulling it lower on her forehead.

  “H
ey, how come you always wear that?” I ask.

  “I like the way it hugs my head,” says Sophie. “Like it’s holding in my thoughts and all my brain activity. No one ever really hugs your head. Have you noticed that? It’s weird, when you think about it, because most of who you are is in your head.”

  “What do you mean?” I ask.

  “You know—your brain,” Sophie says like it’s obvious. “The thing that determines what you think and who you decide to be.”

  “Who you decide to be? I don’t think it’s like that,” I say with a frown. “I think you’re born a certain way. This is who you are. Also, this is who other people think you are. The world decides.”

  “That’s giving too much power to other people,” says Sophie. “It’s not up to them.”

  “Except some things are,” I say. “You’re not totally in control. Like with the class president. You would’ve been the best. But you’re not. I mean, you haven’t been given the chance to be. All those kids think…” I pause. I don’t want to tell Sophie that Olivia called her “some nerd.” I know she’s not some nerd. She’s so much more. Telling her would be cruel and unnecessary. And I’m not a cruel person. I really wish I could forget about Olivia’s words, but every once in a while they come sneaking back into my brain, which makes me sad and annoyed.

  “What kids?” asks Lola. “Who are you talking about?”

  She stares at me pointedly. Lola sat right next to me during Sophie’s speech. Did she hear Olivia’s mean comment as well? Is she warning me not to say anything? Or does she really not know? I can’t tell.

  “No one. Nothing. Never mind.” I take a deep breath. “You could’ve decided in your mind that you were the class president, but other kids have to vote you in to make it actually happen. Other kids may not control who you are, but they do control certain things, like what you can be.”

  “Well, like I said before, they got to control who would be class president, but I can still do everything I wanted to do for the school,” says Sophie.

  “But not as president,” I say. “That’s something you’ll never be—no offense. This year, anyway. And it’s like, if I feel like wearing a dragon suit to school one day that doesn’t make me a dragon.”