We Are Party People Read online

  “We had no idea where he’d gone,” my mom said. “It was so sad—we never did make it to that concert.”

  “And from then on, we were much more careful. One of us was always sure to stay within arm’s reach of the money, just in case.”

  “And yet you still want to do this again,” I said. “Now that you have a house and a business and we’re about to eat dinner at this very nice restaurant.”

  “It’s fun,” my dad said, a twinkle in his eye. “Why are you embarrassed, Pixie?”

  “There’s nothing to be ashamed of,” my mom said. “More people should sing publicly. If they did, the world would be a better place.”

  I remember how I felt at that moment, like there was no point in arguing with them because my parents were clearly embarrassing lunatics and there was nothing I could say, nothing I could do to stop them.

  So I gave up, sat down in the corner, and wrapped my arms around my knees, hoping we didn’t see anyone we knew.

  My dad started singing an old John Lennon song, the same one he uses in his music classes. “Say you want a revolution…”

  People stared. At first no one realized what was going on. It’s not normal to see someone playing guitar on the street in our hometown. But there were lots of people outside the restaurant, everyone waiting for a table, and I guess they figured why not listen? My dad’s voice is pretty good. I’m not bragging or anything—it’s a fact.

  Someone walked by and tossed a dollar into the coffee can.

  “Thanks, dude,” my dad said, in the middle of the song.

  He kept singing and playing. Then when he switched to a new song, one I didn’t even recognize, my mom joined in, too. A lady came over and smiled at me and tossed a few coins into the can and then another dude came over and contributed a dollar. Suddenly people were giving them money as if they were seriously in need. It was mortifying. And then Blake walked up to the restaurant. I tried to step away but he saw me, and it was obvious I was with my parents. We look alike. Blake seemed confused. His mom whispered something to his dad, who watched the scene like he didn’t approve.

  My mom and dad had moved on to a Rolling Stones song now. They were having the best time and meanwhile I was dying. Dying. And they didn’t even notice.

  Then a minute later the restaurant manager came outside with a worried expression on his face. “Excuse me,” he said. “Do you mind stepping away from the restaurant? We can’t have people begging near here.”

  My mom cracked up laughing, which seemed to confuse the manager. She was so hysterical she couldn’t even speak.

  “We’re not begging,” my dad said. “We’re waiting for a table. And while we wait, we thought we’d do a little singing.”

  “Oh, I see,” said the manager. He pointed to the coffee can. “If you’re not begging, then how can you explain that?”

  My parents both looked at the tips they’d collected. “Oh, that’s kind of a joke,” my mom said.

  She started explaining about how they used to busk in Europe, but the manager shook his head, not interested. “Well, I’m sorry, ma’am. I think it’s great but it’s not up to me.”

  “Well, who is it up to and what’s the big deal?” my dad asked. He wasn’t being a jerk about it; he seemed genuinely curious.

  The manager seemed perplexed for a few moments but eventually he said, “It’s a fire hazard.”

  “Are you sure about that?” my mom asked.

  Before he could respond, the maître d’ came out and announced, “Table for Jones. Jones, your table is ready.”

  “Oh, that’s us,” my mom said to the manager. “Told you we weren’t begging.”

  My dad picked up the can of money and handed it to the manager. “Here, please add this to the tip pool tonight.”

  I wished I could’ve disappeared. And at the same time, I was so relieved that the public humiliation was over.

  It was mortifying. And yet, it was still a typical Saturday night.

  And now I’m afraid that things like that will never happen again.

  I complained so much when things were good. I didn’t even realize it, but those were the best times.

  29

  “Do you really want Sophie to be the mermaid?” my dad asks me the next day over breakfast.

  “Yes, I do,” I say. “She’s so good at stuff like that. You should’ve seen her give her whole big speech to the seventh grade. She wasn’t even nervous.”

  “There’s a big difference between delivering a speech and being a character at a birthday party,” my dad says.

  I shake my head. “I don’t think so. I think Sophie can do anything.”

  “Do you now?” my dad asks. He seems to be looking at me carefully, but obviously he’s not actually seeing me.

  “Yeah,” I say with a shrug. “She’s much more like you and Mom.”

  My dad raises his eyebrows. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  I shrug again and look down at my cereal. It’s cornflakes with milk, no berries. I kind of gave up on trying to match the box because my dad isn’t good at remembering to buy fresh fruit. It was annoying at first, but I stopped caring. I stopped expecting it. Funny what people can get used to. “She’s super-outgoing, and she’s not afraid of embarrassing herself. She’s, like, gutsy. Like a ‘party person’ should be.”

  “Pixie, you are plenty gutsy,” my dad argues. “And you are an amazing ‘party person.’”

  I don’t want to say it out loud, but what I’m thinking is, You’ve got to be kidding yourself. You know who I am. You have known all along. And if not, how can you be so delusional? But why should I even have to explain myself? He’s my dad. He should know better. He should know who I am and what I can and can’t do. It’s all so frustrating.

  “I’m not,” I tell him. “I’m not like you and Mom.”

  My dad frowns but doesn’t say anything else right away.

  “So it’s okay if she does it, right? She really wants to, and I’ll be there at the party, helping out in the background.”

  My dad huffs out a big breath before speaking, as if resigned. “I don’t like it but I’ll accept it. Your mom and I talked about this last night. We know this whole thing with her being gone has been tricky. And hopefully she’ll be able to come home soon, but in the meantime, well, if you really want Sophie to take over, if you’ve thought about it carefully, then I can’t object.”

  “Yes!” I pump my fist. “She’s going to be amazing. Thanks, Dad.”

  I get up from the table and clear my plate. Then I run upstairs to call Sophie. I can’t wait to tell her the good news.

  30

  With the election long gone and zero stress about the weekend, Saturday comes quickly. We pick up Sophie bright and early and drive across town. Molly’s house is a white Colonial with black windowpanes and a garden filled with pink roses. There are pink and white balloons tied to the mailbox, as well as a giant silver balloon with the number five on it. It’s a cheerful scene, but as we make our way up the path to the front door we hear screaming and crying.

  My dad goes to knock but Sophie puts her hand on his arm to stop him. “Are you sure we should go in?” she whispers.

  “Yes, we have to,” says my dad. “Don’t worry about the crying—it happens all the time. Just follow my lead. The trick is to act like everything is perfectly normal. Better than normal, even. It’s a birthday party, right? So act cheerful and eventually everyone else will catch on. Trust me.”

  Still unsure, Sophie glances at me.

  I nod and whisper, “Tantrums are no biggie. This happened last week, too. It’s actually really common. Something about the stress of the party can really get to kids. Grownups, too. I’ve seen parents cry—both moms and dads. Sometimes together.”

  She doesn’t seem convinced but there’s no time to explain further. My dad rings the bell and immediately the door swings open.

  There, in front of us, is a tall man with dark hair, a beard, and chunky black-frame
d glasses. Molly’s dad, I’m pretty sure. He seems too stressed out to be anyone but.

  A young girl is in the background having a full-fledged tantrum. Face on the ground, arms flailing, legs kicking, screaming. A woman with short blond hair is trying to comfort her, but it’s not working.

  “Hi, we’re the party people,” my dad says cheerfully, sauntering inside like this is the most natural scene in the world. He holds out his hand. “Great to meet you. I’m Dan. And I brought some helpers. This is my daughter, Pixie. And this is her friend Sophie.”

  The two of us wave at Molly’s dad, who seems too stunned to talk.

  My dad leans closer to him and stage-whispers, “We’re the mermaid.”

  “Oh, of course.” The dad exhales. “So happy you made it. I’m Greg. And that’s Grace, my wife, also known as Molly’s mom. And there’s Molly. On the floor. She’s a little, um, upset. But please come on in.”

  He says this even though we already are inside. I’m starting to feel kind of bad for the guy, who is obviously in way over his head.

  Meanwhile, Molly is screaming, “I don’t want to! You can’t make me!”

  Greg smiles at us sheepishly. He keeps running his hands through his hair, leaving it standing straight on end.

  Sophie takes a few steps back, kind of hiding behind me. She seems shy, suddenly, which is weird. I’ve never seen this side of her.

  But it’s not a huge problem because my dad takes charge. He claps his hands together and says, “Why don’t we go out back and get everything set up. If you could just direct us there so we can survey the scene…”

  “Of course.” Greg seems thrilled to have something to do—something that involves stepping away from his crying kid. “And sorry about this.”

  “Happens all the time,” my dad assures him as we step around Molly and her mom.

  Out in the backyard, the sun is shining down on a wide green lawn and a large, shimmering blue swimming pool. It’s toasty out and the water looks so inviting, I can imagine diving right in. Except that’s not my role. I’m here for the background stuff. “Let’s get the supplies,” I say to Sophie.

  She follows me around the house to the side gate, which I prop open with a big rock. Then we head out front to the minivan and unload a bunch of boxes. As we carry them back to the pool area, Sophie doesn’t see the curb and trips and falls. A box goes flying and opens up and a bunch of rainbow-colored pompoms spill out.

  “Sorry, sorry,” Sophie says. She gets up quickly and brushes the dirt off her knees.

  “You okay?” I ask.

  “Yeah, but I made a mess.” She seems flustered and a little nervous, which makes me feel bad.

  “Oh, don’t worry about that. It’s not like you dropped the costume. That would’ve been bad. I mean if the kids had seen, which they probably wouldn’t have anyway, since no one is here yet.” I set my box down to help her repack everything.

  Then I look up and notice Sophie is still frozen in place. “You okay?” I ask her again.

  “Fine,” she says. “Sorry.”

  “It’s no biggie.”

  I hand her the box and we continue on our way.

  By the time we get to the backyard, my dad has set up the giant folding table. “This is where we’ll do crafts,” I say as I put everything down. I start unpacking the supplies and lining them up while she stands there watching.

  “It’s important to be organized at the start,” I tell her, “with yarn in one place and markers in another. Oh, and the popsicle sticks. We can’t forget those. Let’s see, we have rhinestones and sequins and little scraps of fabric the kids can make into mermaid tails … I think that’s everything.”

  “You’re so good at this,” Sophie says.

  I look up at her, surprised. “There’s nothing to it.”

  The table does look great, and moments later Molly and her mom come outside. Molly is looking miserable in a pink, frilly sundress. Her long dark hair is in tight pigtails tied with pink ribbons. Her eyes are glassy and her cheeks are still red from her tantrum.

  She is trying to pull her mom back inside the house, but her mom won’t budge. Soon she’s on her knees, holding on to Molly’s shoulders and looking into her eyes. “Don’t worry about it,” she says. “Your grandmother bought you the dress and she’s going to be here any minute and her feelings are going to be hurt if you don’t wear it.”

  “What’s wrong with the birthday girl?” Sophie asks me in a whisper.

  My dad puts his hand to his lips to shush her, and then goes to talk to Molly’s parents.

  Sophie looks like she wants to ask me another question, but I cut her off. “Let’s get started, okay? People are starting to arrive.”

  I point to the sliding glass door, through which a bunch of kids are wandering out. Most are attached to grownups. And eventually, slowly, a few of them come over to us.

  Meanwhile, I hang back and busy myself with straightening the art-supply table. “Young kids at a party are kind of like nervous little bunnies,” I whisper to Sophie. “It’s better to let them approach you, because if you make too much of an effort, you could scare them away.”

  Sophie nods thoughtfully.

  Soon a young blond kid in jean shorts and a pink top wanders over and picks up a popsicle stick. “What’s this for?” she asks.

  “We are making miniature mermaids,” I tell her. I show her the sample, which I made myself last night. It’s got blue rhinestone eyes and a small black nose, and lips drawn into a pucker with red puffy paint. The hair is made from long strands of chocolate-colored yarn, and her red plaid mermaid tail is fashioned out of spare pieces of fabric.

  “You made that?” she asks me.

  “I did. Want to do one?” I ask. “You can start with the hair and face and go from there. What color hair do you want her to have? Or him. You can make a merman, as well. Or a merboy.”

  “I want to make a mermaid with red hair,” the girl tells me.

  “Okay, perfect. Here you go.” I hand her some pieces of red yarn and a glue stick.

  She puts the hair on quickly and then immediately starts sorting through the bucket filled with rhinestones.

  A few other kids come over and I help them pick out hair and fabric. I’m thinking Sophie will help out, too, but so far she simply hangs back and watches. And then finally, Molly shows up, sniffing and staring at the table suspiciously.

  “You must be Molly,” I tell her.

  She glares at me unhappily. “How did you know that?”

  I shrug. “I don’t know—you seem like a birthday girl to me. I’m Pixie,” I say. “And I’m here to make sure your party is awesome. Do you want an awesome party, Molly?”

  “I do,” she says, rubbing her eyes with tiny fists.

  “Cool,” I say. I hand her a mermaid on a popsicle stick. “We’re going to make these. Want me to teach you how?”

  Molly shakes her head. “No.”

  “Why not?” I ask.

  Molly stomps her foot. “Because I hate mermaids.”

  “But your party is mermaid themed,” Sophie tells her.

  “I wanted a puppy-themed party,” Molly says. Then she lowers her voice to a whisper and adds, “Mermaids are too scary.”

  “Oh,” I reply. I step away from the crafts table and come around and sit in the grass so Molly and I are face-to-face. “Guess what? I used to be afraid of mermaids, too, but that’s before I met Luella. She’s the one coming to your party and she’s the friendliest sea creature of all.”

  “How do you know?” Molly asks, looking at me suspiciously.

  “Oh, I know her very well. In fact, we’re best friends. And guess what? Luella loves puppies, too. She even has one. His name is, um, Meegat.”

  “Is Meegat coming to the party, too?” asks Molly.

  I shake my head. “I’m sorry, but no. Maybe he could come next year. For now, is it okay with you if it’s Luella by herself?”

  “I don’t know,” Molly says warily, crinklin
g her nose.

  “Mermaids are peaceful,” I tell her. “Did you know that? They’re everyone’s best friend in the ocean. Also, they like to sing and their voices are gorgeous. This mermaid is from England and she has a great accent.”

  “My friend Wilkey is from England,” says Molly.

  “I wonder if he knows Luella,” I say. “She’s got pink-and-blue hair. She’s very punk rock.”

  “What does that mean?” asks Molly.

  “She’s nice and cool. You’ll like her.”

  “Are you sure?” asks Molly.

  “Positive! And if you don’t want to make a mermaid, you can always make a puppy out of popsicle sticks,” I say.

  “Yeah, I want to make a puppy,” Molly says.

  “I don’t blame you. Puppies are awesome. Let’s get some supplies, okay?” I stand up and hold out my hand. Molly takes it and we head back over to the table.

  “This stick can be the body if you hold it sideways,” I say, handing her one. “And here’s a bunch of fabric—you can cut out feet and ears and use the yarn for a tail and for the eyes you can—”

  “I can do it by myself,” Molly tells me, interrupting.

  “Perfect,” I say. “Enjoy.”

  Suddenly a bunch of kids show up to the crafts table. We meet girls named Ariela, Sadie, Camille, and Rosie. And a whole slew of boys named Avi, Isaac, Sam, and Eli. Kids are making two or three mermaids each, and they look awesome.

  Then my dad starts playing the guitar and leading the kids in Bunny, Bunny, Birdie. Most of the kids leave us to play the game but a few stick around to finish their projects, including Molly, who is still working on her puppy.

  The party is getting more crowded by the minute. It’s a good thing Sophie is here, actually. Even without the whole live mermaid issue, we definitely need her help.

  Except suddenly she grabs my arm and says, “No. This can’t be happening. What is she doing at the party?”

  I look up. “Who?” I ask.

  But Sophie doesn’t need to answer me because I see what the problem is: Jenna Johnson. She’s standing right there by the back door, in a pale pink-and-white-striped sundress. Her blue-and-yellow hair is pulled up into a ponytail and she is sipping pink lemonade.