Lucky Break (2 page)

“A hundred dollars says everything falls apart before your flight even takes off,” Willa hissed, rolling her eyes once more before she and Kennedy stormed out of the cafeteria.

“So, who wants the last bite of my croissant?” Camille asked once they were gone, because we were
so
over wasting our time acknowledging those two.

“Me!” the rest of us all shouted together, fighting for the crusty end piece.

“You know,” Harper said, looking at her platinum Movado watch. “In a little less than, oh, seventy-two hours, we won't have to fight over the last bite of croissant.” She grinned around the table.

“Because we'll be …” Amory sang, reviving her cabbage patch dance.

“
In Paris!
” we all shouted together, collapsing on the table in a fit of excited laughter.

After school, I swung by my trusty tailor, Mrs. Woo, to pick up the yellow Miu Miu cocktail dress I'd had altered.

When I walked into her tiny underground shop on Jane Street, Mrs. Woo dropped the pair of AG jeans she was hemming and started waving her arms in the air. She dashed to the back room, emerging a minute later with my ray-of-sunshine dress hanging in a plastic bag. My mom had sworn by Mrs. Woo since Feb was wearing Ralph Lauren Baby. She pretty much knew our family's inseams inside and out.

“You'll wear this to fancy Flood family dinner tonight?” she asked.

“No,” I said, holding the strapless knee-length dress up against me in the mirror. I couldn't wait to get it on. “I'm going to a party with my boyfriend. It's
a benefit for a charity resort opening in Maui, so I thought, you know, yellow … sunlight …”

“Perfect.” Mrs. Woo nodded, closing her eyes. “But your mother will miss you tonight. She came by this morning to pick up the St. John suit for the dinner party.”

“No,” I said, confused. “My parents are in Minsk—”

Just then, my phone rang. I looked at the screen and saw my mother's photo pop up. It was one I'd snapped of her lying on our living room couch with two cucumber slices over her eyes. She'd kill me if she knew I'd taken it—usually Mom insisted on striking a pose—but this image was my favorite way to imagine her: close to home.

I flashed the phone at Mrs. Woo, smiled, and said, “Guess I should take this. Thanks for the dress!” Stepping back out on the street with the dress draped over my arm, I picked up the phone.

“How quickly can you be at Morimoto?” my mom said.

“Huh? I'm supposed to meet Alex at 60 Thompson in an hour. I didn't even know you were—”

“In town?” my mom finished. “Don't remind me. Long story short—the plane ran out of fuel halfway to Minsk. We're here for one night before we jet to the
Amalfi Coast. But it's not all bad, darling. Patch and Feb are here too. We've all got scads to go over before we take off again.” My head was spinning, but Mom was still going a mile a minute. “Your father and I figured the most painless way to iron out logistics would be over family dinner. It'll be half organizational, half show-and-tell, entirely delicious. So you'll meet us? Mori's working tonight so he'll do a special menu.”

I didn't need Morimoto's touch to seal the deal—though I was obsessed with his scallop sashimi salad. Usually, when someone in my family told me to jump, I did: right into a cab to meet them. But what was I going to tell Alex?

“Do you want to invite the Prince?” Mom sang.

Among my friends, Alex had earned his nickname—the Prince of New York—back in my huge-crush days, when I was still intimidated by his cool demeanor at parties. Ever since she overheard me call him that on the phone with Camille one day, my young-at-heart mom hadn't been able to let go of the nickname.

I knew that Alex had been looking forward to this party for weeks. Some of his lacrosse friends from D.C. were taking the train up, and he hardly ever got to see them.

“You know what?” I said to my mom. “Alex will understand. We're spending ten days with each other
in Paris anyway. I'll meet you guys at the restaurant in twenty.”

Hailing another cab and wondering whether the yellow dress would be too much for a family dinner—who was I kidding? I was a Flood!—I texted Alex.

HEY, BABE. MOM SURPRISED ME WITH A FAMILY DINNER THAT WOULD BE HARD TO MISS. FORGIVE ME FOR SKIPPING THE PARTY TONIGHT?

He wrote back:

ONLY IF YOU PROMISE TO SIT NEXT TO ME ON THE PLANE. GIVE MY REGARDS TO LES FLOODS.

Awesome. I hopped out of the cab feeling lucky that Alex and I never had to deal with drama. We were both just naturally understanding and trusting and laid back. I ducked into the bathroom in the Chelsea Market across the street to change into my dress. Zipping it up, I looked in the mirror and was blown away once again by Mrs. Woo's needlework. The crisp puff of the skirt hugged my hips, and she'd taken in the once-gaping bust so that it lay across my skin just perfectly. I ran my fingers through my long blond hair and dotted on my sheer peony Stila lip gloss.

I looked at my watch—good, I was still in the realm of fashionably late. I crossed the street and pulled open the heavy glass door of Morimoto.

The Japanese restaurant was immaculately clean
and spare, with sleek draped white ceilings, bamboo banquettes, and transparent paneled walls with about a million shimmering blue lightbulbs behind them. When you breathed in, you couldn't smell anything—which was unusual for a restaurant, but the best indicator of superfresh sushi. The dining room was so quiet that the waiters were actually whispering.

It was all so Zen—and so
not
Flood. I guessed my family wasn't here yet. If they had been, I'd have heard them.

Someone tapped my shoulder. I turned around to face a hostess in a sleek white silk kimono. “Are you Flan Flood?” she whispered.

“Yes,” I whispered back, feeling funny.

“Your family reserved the private den in the back.” She pointed toward a beaded curtain and I followed her down a dimly lit hallway. When she opened the door to the private den I never knew existed, I suddenly felt right at home.

The room was bustling, loud, full of color—and more than a few people who I was pretty sure weren't in my family.

“There she is!” My dad beamed, stepping forward to give me a hug. Dad's face was glowing, probably from the golf tournament he'd played last week in Caracas, and his eyes were twinkling—probably from
having his entire family in the same room for a change.

“Hi, Dad.” I gave him a kiss. “So Minsk was a no-go?” I couldn't remember what my professionally globe-trotting parents were up to in Minsk, but if my dad had anything to say about it, the trip was probably related to his crazy real estate adventures.

“Between you and me,” Dad whispered, “I'd much rather go straight to Amalfi. You can't beat the burrata down there. Melts in your mouth. But don't bring it up to your mother. She's all touchy because she was supposed to lunch with Putin's wife in Minsk. Grab a seat—they're filling up fast.”

“Okay, but uh, who are all these people?” I asked. I was used to seeing my parents' assistants dashing in and out of our house on the rare occasion when Mom and Dad graced our brownstone with their presence … but this much help seemed excessive even for my parents.

“What, you didn't bring your personal assistant?” My older brother, Patch, appeared out of nowhere to pull my hair, which he did every single time he saw me—whether or not I was sporting an expensively blown-out updo. Luckily, today, it didn't mess up my no-fuss look.

“Seriously?” I asked, looking around. In the mayhem
of the private dining room, I recognized my mom's personal assistant, Leora. She never left the house without something leopard print, and today was no exception. A big head scarf
and
suede high heels—a bold move.

But I didn't recognize the guy next to her in the tweed three-piece suit and the retro bowl cut—or the redheaded twins sitting across the table from my sister, Feb, who'd dyed her hair a similar shade of red. Feb was wearing a simple brown slip dress that looked like it could have been made of burlap, and all three of them were looking down at a very big calculator.

“Well, you know Leora, of course,” Patch gestured. “Tweed Man is Dad's assistant on the Amalfi deal, forget his name. And the Double Trouble tête-à-tête with Feb, they're some sort of animal rights activist cohorts or something. If I were you, I would not get them talking about the earth-friendly henna dye they used to get that hair.”

Leave it to Patch to explain my family's craziness with so much nonchalance that we almost seemed normal.

“And where's your PA?” I asked him, jokingly. Hiring an assistant was so not my brother's style.

Patch rolled his eyes and pointed behind him to where his girlfriend, Agnes, was barking orders at a cowering blond girl with a notebook.

“I try to stay out of it.” Patch shrugged. “What about you, little sis? You didn't bring your own trip planner? Word is you're off to gay Paree … with Alex?”

“Yeah.” I grinned. “But all my friends are coming too, and actually, I planned it by myself. We're renting a couple little flats on the Seine that I found online. I have our whole itinerary right here.” I started to pull out the GPA binder, but it was so heavy, I opted for just pointing at it.

Patch blinked at me a few times. “You did all that yourself?” he asked. “Impressive.”

“This meeting will now come to order,” Leora boomed. Someone had wheeled in a podium and a microphone. A projector screen lowered behind her.

“Wait,” I heard my mother shriek. “No one told me Flan arrived—or that she looked so spectacular in her dress!” Mom darted over to me and planted a big kiss on my cheek. “Hi, darling. So glad you're here.” She looked up. “Leora, carry on!”

On command, Leora recommenced, and the dinner party ran in a remarkably organized manner. There was a PowerPoint show detailing my parents' vacation—it was a
vacation
, Mom kept interrupting to insist, pointing at my father, meaning
no BlackBerries
!

Then there was a short video that Feb's PAs had
come up with to go over her upcoming trip to Bangkok. The plan was for Feb and her boyfriend, Kelly, to spend three months helping the locals sow organic rice fields. It looked more like a Peace Corps advertisement than anything else, but it also looked really cool and unique. Feb's face lit up as she watched it. Clearly she was totally psyched to get over there and get her hands … uh … ricey.

In between presentations, Morimoto stopped in to say hello and to offer us a palate cleanser. The look on his face when he saw our dinner party, board meeting style, was priceless. He was so stunned, he nearly dropped his tray of lychee-cucumber sorbet.

After we'd palate-cleansed, Agnes shoved her terrified PA to the podium to present the slide show of Patch and Agnes's Superchill Aussie Bonfire Experience. Patch's face lit up at the pictures of all the partying on the beach, but I had to laugh at Agnes's very detail-oriented schedule: wake up, 7:05; breakfast on the terrace, 7:15; and so on.

And just before dessert, my mom got up on the podium and said, “Flan, would you like to tell us anything about your trip?” She squeezed Leora's hand and bragged, “Flan's going to Paris with the Prince of New York!”

Leora, who must have been used to my mom
gushing about things no one else understood, just nodded her approval.

I looked around at the full house, suddenly aware that I was going up there solo—no presentation, no PA to fall back on. I heaved my binder out of my bag. But once I got up there, I realized I didn't even need it. I knew all the details by heart.

By the time I gave my five-minute spiel about all the amazing sights we were going to see, food we were going to eat, and clothes we were going to buy, I was really revved up about the trip.

“Who'd you use, Flan?” Agnes called from her seat. “I mean, to help you plan?”

“No one,” I stammered. “I planned it myself. I read a couple guidebooks and Googled some stuff.”

For a second, I wondered if maybe I'd been careless about this. Should I have outsourced some help? But then, led by Patch, my entire family rose and gave me a standing ovation.

“Marvelous, darling,” my mom gushed, tears in her eyes. “Just promise me one thing?”

I nodded, waiting for her to go on.

“That you'll wear that gorgeous dress at the top of the Eiffel Tower with the Prince of New York—and e-mail it to me in Sorrento!”

“Done and done.” I laughed.

After French class the next day, I skipped out on the faux French onion soup in the Thoney cafeteria and met my French-manicured sister at the Upper East Side's premier French brasserie, Orsay.

It's sort of an unspoken rite of passage for a girl to be taken to Orsay by her mother when she reaches a “certain age” in New York. With its old-style brass Parisian bar, supertraditional French menu, and classy dark green leather booths, Orsay is definitely not a place for children (though I'm sure more than a few stroller-wielding, salade niçoise–munching Upper East Side mothers would disagree).

The food is always sophisticated and precise, though often an acquired taste. I'll never forget when my mother took me to Orsay for frog legs the day I first got my period, because “I was a woman now and needed to be able to handle things that might initially
not be to my taste.” Plus, she told me—
and
, to my utter horror, the waiter—nothing combated a bad case of menstrual cramps like a nice crispy order of
cuisses de grenouille.

Once I got over the mortification of having the whole restaurant overhear her, I actually kind of got into the frog legs. They really do taste like chicken! Plus, as Camille later told me, it could have been worse: when she got her period, her half-Jewish grandmother slapped her across the face, because that was what they did in the old country to welcome a girl to the harsh realities of womanhood. Yikes.