We Are Party People Read online

  “And lots of glitter,” says Lola.

  “Only the silver and gold, though. If we introduce another color it’ll be too random,” says Sophie. “And let’s use red lettering for the blue poster and blue lettering for the red poster. Those will be my trademarks—red and blue, silver and gold glitter, and trophies.”

  “That’s a lot of trademarks,” I point out.

  “Too many?” Sophie asks, worried.

  “I think it’s perfect,” Lola says as we divvy up the posters. “Let’s outline everything in pencil, though, before we go to permanent markers.”

  “Good idea,” I say, grabbing a sharpened pencil and getting to work.

  “Oh, and we need music,” Lola says, jumping up and heading to her laptop. She puts on her favorite Taylor Swift song.

  “I love this song,” says Sophie.

  “Everybody loves this song,” says Lola.

  “You didn’t put it on repeat, did you?” I ask, even though I already know the answer.

  Lola flashes me a guilty look. She can listen to the same song twenty times in a row without getting sick of it. My ears don’t have that kind of tolerance for anything. Of course, we’ve been over this a gazillion times already, so there’s no point in arguing with her.

  “How about we listen to it two times and then move on?” I ask.

  “Okay, fine,” says Lola. “You can choose next.”

  When it’s my turn I put on Beyoncé. Then Sophie chooses Adele, and Lola plays Taylor Swift again, but a different song, luckily. I’m about to put on some old Beatles music when Lola’s mom calls to us from downstairs.

  “I’ve got gluten-free chocolate chip cookies, straight out of the oven. Anyone want some?” she asks.

  Sophie gasps. “I’ve been wondering what that delicious smell was.”

  “Maria is an awesome baker,” I say.

  The three of us drop our markers and race downstairs.

  By the time we get to the kitchen, the cookies are already stacked on a square blue ceramic tray in the middle of the table. Maria is at the counter pouring apple juice into delicate pink and blue teacups. She’s the kind of mom who puts out her fanciest dishes for her daughter’s friends—always has been. Even when we were little and were more inclined to accidentally break stuff, she never seemed to mind—simply swept up the pieces of porcelain like it was nothing.

  Lola’s baby brother, Max, is in his high chair mashing up banana. His face and his hair are covered and I can’t tell if he’s gotten any into his mouth. Actually, I’m not sure if he’s even trying to eat it. Maybe he doesn’t know it’s a food.

  “Hey, Max,” I say.

  He smiles and grunts back at me. Then he reaches for my hair, but I quickly jump aside and say, “No offense, little dude, but a banana shampoo is the last thing I need right now.”

  My friends laugh.

  “You girls are working so hard,” Maria says, smiling at us. “When is the election?”

  “This Friday,” Sophie tells her.

  “Wow, that’s so soon,” Maria says.

  “I know, we hardly have any time to get the word out,” Lola says.

  “Or to write my speech,” says Sophie.

  “You have to make a speech?” I ask. “In front of the whole school?”

  “Not the whole school. Only the seventh grade,” says Sophie.

  “Still,” I say. “I could never do that.”

  “Sure you could,” says Sophie.

  “Well, I’m glad I don’t have to,” I reply as I bite into a cookie. It almost melts in my mouth and is still warm. “These are so good. They almost taste as delicious as a regular cookie,” I tell Lola’s mom.

  “Thanks, Pixie,” Maria says, grabbing one for herself.

  As soon as I finish my first, I take a second cookie. My friends do the same. And moments later we polish off the rest of them.

  “Oh, sorry we ran out so soon, girls. I should’ve made more,” Maria says, staring at the empty plate.

  Lola presses her finger into a pile of crumbs and licks it. “That’s okay,” she says once she finishes. “We should get back to work anyway.”

  “True. Thanks again,” I say, standing up.

  “Yeah, thank you,” Sophie adds. “Everything was really good.”

  We are about to head back upstairs when Maria puts her arm around my shoulders. “You girls go ahead,” she says to Sophie and Lola. “I need to talk to Pixie for a minute.”

  Once my friends are out of earshot, Maria whispers, “How’s everything going up in Fresno?”

  This is code for “How is your mother? And also, how is your grandma?”

  “Great.” I answer automatically like always. I figure that’s what people want to hear. And I don’t even know why Maria is asking me, since she and my mom are friends. She could call her up and ask her. Actually, I’m sure she already has, although maybe my mom is too busy for Maria these days, as well. That’s not my problem, though. I’m itching to go upstairs with my friends, but I don’t want to be rude and Maria is waiting like she expects me to say more. “They’re both doing great,” I repeat. This is not only untrue, it’s the furthest thing from the truth, but I’ll say anything to get me out of here faster.

  “Good,” Lola’s mom says, staring at me for a few moments. “And how are you doing with your mom away?”

  “Fine,” I say, maybe too loudly. “It’s no big deal.”

  Maria nods. “Well, I’m happy to hear that. I know it’s been a long while and I know she’s going through a hard time. You all are.”

  “We’re okay,” I say, but my voice cracks. I wonder how much Maria knows, what my mom has told her.

  It occurs to me that she may know more than me, even, but it’s not like I can ask.

  “Well, send her our love, okay?” Maria says.

  “Okay.” I nod and try to leave but can’t because Maria is pulling me in closer.

  She gives me a giant hug that is meant to be comforting, I guess, but is actually crushing my ribs. Kind of like this talk. When I’m with my friends doing fun stuff, I can forget that my mom is away, that so many things are up in the air, that my heart hurts when I think about the empty house. And then my dad springs this crazy mermaid thing on me this morning … It’s too much to bear.

  “We love you, Pixie. You’re always welcome here, and anything you need, just ask.”

  My body goes stiff and I blink a few times, hard.

  It’s awkward and I want to go.

  Really, I want this conversation never to have happened.

  Because her being so sweet makes me want to cry.

  6

  It’s almost dark by the time I walk home from Lola’s. I find my dad in the kitchen, unpacking cartons from Emperor Noodle, our favorite Chinese place. His left ear and shoulder are scrunched together because he’s cradling his phone.

  “Hey, Pixie,” he says brightly. “Perfect timing. Your mom wants to talk to you.”

  “But I’m starving,” I say.

  My dad holds out the phone and gives me a stern sort of look, like this is not a good enough excuse.

  I open my mouth to argue but change my mind. There’s no avoiding it, so I might as well get the call over with as fast as I can. “Hi, Mom,” I say.

  “Hi, Pixie,” she replies.

  She sounds so far away, is my first thought. And then I feel silly because there’s an obvious reason for that—she is far away and has been for a really long time. I should be used to it by now.

  “It’s so nice to hear your voice,” my mom says.

  “We talk every day, practically,” I remind her.

  “I know, but it’s never enough,” she says. “I miss you so much. I can’t believe I’m not back yet. Tell me everything.”

  “There’s nothing to tell.”

  “Well, how was school today?”

  “Fine,” I reply.

  My dad is watching me, so I turn my back to him. I wish he weren’t listening to every word I say. I�
��d take the phone into the living room, but there’s no point because this conversation is going to be short.

  Dinner smells delicious and my stomach is growling. Plus, the faster I eat, the faster I can go upstairs and be by myself.

  “Dad tells me you were at Lola’s. What did you girls do?”

  “Nothing. We just hung out,” I say, not wanting to get into the whole election thing because if I do she might ask, “Why don’t you run for class president, Pixie?”

  My mom either refuses to accept that I’d rather fly under the radar, or it’s something that genuinely boggles her mind. I’m pretty sure I’m this huge disappointment to both of my parents, and it’s not something I feel like dealing with tonight.

  “That sounds fun…”

  She’s trying too hard, fishing for more information, but I don’t give her a thing.

  We’re both silent for a few moments and I’m about to tell her I need to go when she says, “Look, as you know, things with Grandma Joan keep getting more complicated. And I’m trying to sort everything out, but I simply don’t know if I’m going to make it back in time for the mermaid party.”

  I sigh, annoyed. “Yeah, I know. You’ve been gone for months, so what else is new? Plus, Dad already told me.”

  “It hasn’t been months,” she says.

  “You left on August 1. It’s now the middle of September. That’s six and a half weeks, which is a month and a half. Round that up and it’s two months.”

  “I’m sorry, sweetie. I wish things were different. And your dad says that you’re, um, not excited about wearing the Luella costume…”

  I sigh. “It’s not that I’m not excited. It’s more like I can’t do it.”

  “Of course you can, Pixie. It’ll fit you almost perfectly. Dad can make the necessary adjustments. It’s only a matter of taking in the waist a bit. He’s so good with a needle and thread, and you’ll be amazing.”

  I scowl. She’s got no idea what she’s talking about. I’m not worried about the costume fitting me. It’s more like I’m worried that I won’t fit the costume—that I can’t pull it off. But I don’t want to get into that right now.

  “You can’t make me,” I say. “There are child labor laws, you know. You can’t force me to do whatever—”

  “Okay, okay,” my mom interrupts. “Why don’t we talk about this later?”

  “Fine,” I say, but what I’m really thinking is, How about never? “Bye.”

  I hand the phone back to my dad before she can say anything else.

  When I sit down at the kitchen table, I notice that he forgot to put out place mats. I don’t feel like getting them and I guess I could say something, but he’s too busy talking to my mom. And anyway, why should it be my job? And who cares? They are only place mats. No one really needs place mats.

  “It’s fine. Don’t worry. You know P. I’m sure she’s simply tired and hungry. I’ll call you later,” he says before hanging up.

  “Didn’t we talk about the whole P thing?” I ask, glaring. I also resent that he’s called me tired and hungry, even though at the moment I’m both of those things. But there’s only so much I can complain about at once.

  “It’s P as a capital P. Not pee, as in I have to take a leak,” my dad points out, not for the first time. “Or pea, as in ‘my little sweetpea.’ I know you’re too old for pet names like that.”

  My dad reaches out to ruffle my hair but I pull away.

  “Pet names? Am I a dog? And are you actually trying to pet me right now?”

  “Sorry, Pixie.” My dad lets out a laugh. “Of course you aren’t a dog, but you sure are touchy today.”

  “My point is, when you call me P, there are certain associations. It doesn’t matter what you mean because it all sounds the same. And two out of those three meanings are super-annoying.”

  “All right, I’ll work on it,” he says.

  I give him the evil eye, and then I feel bad about it. He’s trying, I know. Plus, he’s got to miss my mom like crazy, too.

  He finishes dishing out the food and sits down, and we start to eat.

  We used to get Emperor Noodle on special occasions. Now we eat takeout from there a few times a week, which should make me happy but for some reason doesn’t. He’s gotten most of my favorite dishes, but they don’t taste as good as they used to. Nothing is as good as it used to be.

  “Want to check out some of the decorations I’m working on for Molly’s mermaid party?” my dad asks. “I could actually use some help. There’s this tissue-paper fan I’m trying to make and it keeps ripping. We’re going to need a lot of them, and you are so good at making stuff like that.”

  Mermaid accessories are the last things I want to think about right now. He should know.

  Also, if my dad is using tissue paper, of course it’s going to break. He should be using construction paper or, better yet, sheets of origami paper. They are super-colorful with fun patterns, and they fold easily, and they are the right size for the hands of little kids. Plus, we have a huge supply of origami paper in the garage. But I don’t share any of this. Instead, I stand up and say, “I need to do my homework.”

  “You’re already finished eating?” he asks, looking up at me, surprised and maybe even disappointed I’m not in the mood to keep him company.

  “Yeah, I’m not that hungry.” I bring my plate to the sink and rinse it and head out of the kitchen.

  “Well, maybe after,” my dad calls.

  “Maybe,” I reply.

  Back in my room, I read a chapter for history and do ten math problems and then I’m done. If this were last year or even a few months ago, I’d hurry downstairs and hang out with my mom and dad. After working on party favors and decorations, we’d probably play some new mermaid-themed game they invented, or maybe even practice the song they wrote about silly, secret sea creatures. Mom and I would sing and my dad would accompany us on the banjo or the electric keyboard. And before we knew it, it would be ten o’clock and time for me to go to bed. But nothing is the same anymore.

  Not since the summer, when we got the call about Grandma Joan. She’s my mom’s mom and she’s got Alzheimer’s, which means she can’t remember anything, including the fact that she and my mom aren’t even on speaking terms. They haven’t been for years—since before I was born.

  Or that’s how things were until my grandma got sick. Now they talk every day. There’s no choice, really, because my mom is an only child. Her father, Grandma Joan’s husband, also known as my grandfather, died a few years ago. That means there’s literally no one else to deal with the situation.

  Plus, Grandma Joan, although mean, is still family. At least that’s what my mom says. That’s why she has been spending all of her time these days with Grandma Joan, who lives all the way in Fresno, which is five hours away.

  When she first left, back in August, she said it was temporary, but it sure doesn’t feel that way.

  7

  That night I dream I’m a mermaid. I’m not Luella, though, and I’m not Ariel from The Little Mermaid, either. I’m a mermaid I don’t recognize, and a gorgeous one, at that. My hair is curly and blond and my eyes are large and blue. My scales sparkle in every color of the rainbow. Except there’s one ginormous problem: I’m drowning.

  My legs are bound together in my giant mermaid tail. I am supposed to kick them together, dolphin style, so my whole body wriggles to propel me forward. I know this is how it’s meant to work but it doesn’t, and in fact, I cannot feel my bottom half.

  I cannot feel my bottom half at all.

  My brain is telling me to kick to the surface but my legs won’t do anything. And even if I could move, I wouldn’t know where to go.

  I am spinning.

  I am reeling.

  I am out of control and in danger.

  When you are in the water and everything is dark and you are not sure which way is up, you are supposed to follow the bubbles as they rise to the surface. It’s a basic survival skill and I know it in
real life. I know it in my dream as well, except the wisdom is useless in this moment. There are bubbles all around me, moving in every direction. I feel like I’m trapped in a gigantic snow globe with no safety hatch, no air, no room.

  Everything is dark and murky. I can hardly see in front of me. It doesn’t matter how much I blink; my eyes refuse to adjust. There’s no light anywhere. Being blind is bad enough, but then things get worse. I hear a harsh whooshing sound in my ears.

  This is intense.

  No, this is scary.

  Actually, this is terrifying.

  My throat feels tight.

  My chest is constricted.

  I cannot breathe. I cannot breathe. I cannot breathe.

  Until suddenly I’m awake, heart racing, gasping for air like my life depends on it.

  I rub my eyes and force myself to take deep breaths until I feel normal. Mostly normal. I almost never have nightmares, and this one throws me. I’m not sure why until very quickly—in a rush—I’m wide-awake and the truth hits me.

  The mermaid in my dream? Underneath the costume it wasn’t me or Luella or Ariel who was drowning.

  The one drowning was my mom.

  8

  When my mom first went to Fresno to deal with the Grandma Joan situation, we all figured it would take a few days. It didn’t seem like a big deal. My mom kissed me goodbye and told me not to stay up too late. Then she hopped in the car and drove away. She took my dad’s Prius because the mileage would be better. Plus, she figured we’d need the minivan to haul stuff to the party over the weekend.

  It made sense.

  The craziest thing about it is, not only did I not mind, I was actually excited to have some alone time with my dad. I thought it would be fun, and it was fun. It felt like an adventure. We went out to dinner that first night and got ice cream afterward—two scoops and as many toppings as I wanted. The good kind: gummy worms, Sour Patch Kids, chocolate chips, and balls of cookie dough, topped off with caramel, Marshmallow Fluff, and hot fudge. My mom always makes me get fruit.

  Then we stayed up late watching E.T. because we had an E.T.-themed party the next day. Retro, I know.