Sophie's Smile: A Novel (10 page)

Soph. Get pumped up for a fun-filled night!

Stepped out for some last minute
shop’n
.

Be back in a few.

Invitation and agenda is on the table.

e
the
Bday
girl (finally 21!!!)

I immediately spotted the black envelope on the table and decided to read it over breakfast, as if it were the morning paper. I didn’t read the newspaper; who did these days, when the Internet was easily available and didn’t leave black smudges on your fingers?

The invitation was printed on plain white cardstock:

The occasion: Tiff’s 21st Birthday

The date:
(today)
November 11, 2005

The time: 7:00 P.M – tomorrow morning
(I cringed.)

The attire: Black and White

The plan: Potluck and Drinks, Limo and Drinks, Clubs, Bars, Dancing, and many Drinks, etc., Pass out on floor.
(I cringed again.)

Although I just had a satisfying breakfast, there was a large pit starting to form in my stomach. This was going to be a long night and I wasn’t sure how much I would be enjoying it.
I just hope I don’t have to take care of anyone tonight
—being sober at a party when everyone is tossed and half unconscious was never a good idea. Well, I could always just pretend to be drunk and take a taxi home once everyone seemed hazy enough to not pay attention.
Yes, that’ll be the plan.

I washed the dishes and started cleaning up the rest of the apartment.
If we’re going to have a party here, it needs to be somewhat clean and presentable.
I was in the middle of vacuuming the entryway when Tiff came back with bags full of food and booze, and of course, a new outfit and perfectly manicured hands and feet.

“Hello, hello, hello-o,” Tiff sang happily as she brushed past me, quickly unloading the bags onto the floor and rushing out to grab more. After three trips, each time returning with armloads of adult beverages, she shut the door behind her and leaned against it, closing her eyes with a victorious grin. I shut the vacuum off.

“Happy Birthday, Tiff!”

“Finally, I’m twenty-one! Yay! I can finally go out with everyone to bars and clubs and experience the joys of getting carded!”

Her smile immediately turned downward into a hard-pressed line. “Humph. I didn’t even get carded when I bought all of these.”

Tiff pointed to all the booze as she lifted the glass bottles out of the many rumpled brown paper bags and began positioning each one carefully on the countertop. There was so much booze: Jack, Jose, Absolut, Grey Goose, Smirnoff, Captain; cases of beer (Blue Moon, Coors, and Heineken); and, of course, you couldn’t forget the mixers.

“Can you help me with the rest?”

“There’s more?”

“Just bags of ice for the ice chest.”

Relieved, “Sure.”

Outside, the bags of ice were cast aside onto the baking cement, ice melting prematurely. I shook my head in disbelief. This was so like Tiff. Common sense would have been to bring the ice bags in first, but no, Tiff went straight for the booze.

As we lugged in what remained of the ice, Tiff casually asked, “What are you
gonna
wear tonight?”

I shrugged. “Not sure.”

Tiff was eying me now. I could see the excitement building. She loved makeover shows and she loved making me over, especially.

Shuddering, I flashed back to last summer when she got the urge to make me over. I ended up looking like a mix between one of Gwen Stefani’s
Harajuku
girls and Jane in
Mr. and Mrs. Smith
. It took three shampoo and conditioner washings to get the kinks out of my damaged hair, and four towels doused with make-up remover to get
all the
gunk off my face.

Quickly, I added, “I’m sure I’ll find something to wear.”

“I could help.”

“No. I should be fine.” Tiff’s bubbly anticipation was crushed, so I added, “If I have any trouble, I’ll definitely ask you.”

She seemed satisfied with this.

Tiff helped me finish cleaning the kitchen and living room—she straightened the pillows, decorated, and arranged the utensils while I scrubbed, washed, and vacuumed. Music from her birthday playlist, graciously supplied by Ethan, was blasting from the entertainment center: songs from The Pussycat Dolls, The Black Eyed Peas, Gwen Stefani, Sean Paul, and Rihanna. After two grueling hours, the dishes were dried and put away, the carpet was devoid of lint and hair, the tile floor was scrubbed clean, and the counters and table tops were wiped down.

Washing off the sweat and grime I accumulated during the past few hours was a pleasant respite to what lay ahead. Wrapped in a towel, I trudged toward my closet, hair dripping onto the clean beige carpet. I had no idea what I was going to wear, and after reviewing my meager wardrobe, I found my choices to be limiting. After much debate, I decided to go with my spaghetti strap black camisole top and white linen pants.

Next was the hair and makeup. Opting for a simple up-do, I twisted my hair into a loose bun. I nodded to myself in the mirror,
That
should
tame
my frizzy hair and help with the impending heat of the suffocating clubs
.

Usually, my face is kept clean with a single layer of mineral makeup, a brush of mascara, and clear lip gloss, but today I dusted on a few more layers, played up my eyes with a few additional coats of black mascara and liner, added a rosy blush to the temples of my cheeks, and finished with a shiny layer of Siren red lip gloss.

After I applied the finishing touches, silver bangles and black strappy heels, I was ready. With a love for fashion I knew how to put a nice outfit together—a gift from my mom—and I felt pleased with my makeshift ensemble. The reason my wardrobe selection was at best satisfactory was my dislike for spending money—specifically, money I hadn’t earned—on nonessential items that I could easily do without.
More reason for me to graduate and get a job.
Glancing one more time into the mirror, I went upstairs to see how Tiff was doing.

Walking into her room, I was stunned. There were clothes and shoes strewn all over the carpet, on her bed, off the hangers, and even in the bathroom. Her bathroom countertop was hidden under a sea of makeup, jewelry, hair products, and hairpins. Tiff was standing in front of her bathroom mirror, setting her hair into soft curls that landed at the middle of her back. She was still wearing her baby-blue robe—that knowingly brought out the blue in her eyes—and her face was a blank slate.

“What have you been doing this entire time?” I asked quizzically, while looking around at what seemed to be a warzone rather than a bedroom.

“Oh, you know.
This and that.
I couldn’t find the right shoes for my new outfit so I tried looking for something else to wear.”

“Did you find what you were looking for?”

“No, not yet.
Will you help?”

At this rate, it would take her all night to get ready. “Sure. Where’s your new outfit?”

“Over there.
On the hanger.”

I turned to her closet, and sure enough there was one item left hanging on the bar. Letting out a silent breath of relief, I relaxed. At least I didn’t have to dig around her room painstakingly searching for a needle in a haystack.

The black dress was simple enough, with a plunging neckline and a very short hemline—a dangerous twist to the well-known expression of the little black dress.

After a few minutes of rummaging through her piles of clothes and accessories, I quickly found the perfect shoes to go with her outfit—white platforms with a stripper heel. Tiff squealed in delight.

4

The doorbell rang. I looked at the clock; it was a quarter past seven. Perfect timing, the first guests had arrived and the guest of honor was just starting on her makeup.

“
Soph
?”
Tiff, using the mirror to reflectively look at me, tilted her head toward the door, pursed her lips and sweetly said, “Be a doll?”

“Sure,” wagging my finger at her reflection, “
you
just continue getting ready, I’ll get the door.”

Eager to have something to do, I quickly obliged.

When I got downstairs, Ethan and a few of his friends startled me when they passed me by the stairs. I forgot he had a key. “Hey Ethan, Tiff is still getting ready.”

“Yup, I figured.”

Instead of heading upstairs to check on Tiff, he headed toward our makeshift bar and the guys each grabbed a cold Heineken from the ice chest to wet their beaks.

Ethan was a brawny fellow, built much like a football player—I’m sure Tiff mentioned that he played in high school—but other than his frame there wasn’t much else to look at. He definitely got the better end of the stick when he landed Tiff as his girlfriend, although he sure didn’t act like it. Tiff could do better. Ethan and his friends all had the same rugged look and dumb, mindless expression. They had on wrinkled black slacks, white collared shirts, untucked, and black blazers. I left them to fend for themselves and went back upstairs to check on Tiff.

“Ethan and his friends are here.”

“Oh, yay.
I’m glad he made it. Sigh…I just love that guy.” Tiff gushed, “He’s the best, isn’t he?”

Hoping it was a rhetorical question, I said nothing.

She was almost finished with her makeup, and I could already tell that my face would look plain beside hers.

The bell rang again. I figured, from my first examination, that Ethan would not do the honors; so I ran down to get it.

There he was, stopping me dead in my tracks, as I neared the bottom of the stairs; I would have run over him if I didn’t see the hand he extended. The handshake was quick but strong. I glanced up and my heart fluttered.

“Hi!” I let out, a little too elatedly. My face was flushed from the little exertion of running down the stairs, but hot from embarrassment.

“Hello.” He had a clear and soothing voice.

“I’m Sophie, Tiff’s roommate.”

“My name is Liam; I came with
Rach
and Justin.” He paused,
then
continued once he saw recognition on my face. “Tiffany told
Rach
that it was an open invitation and Justin asked if I would come along.”

“Oh yea.
Sure.
Of course.”
I pointed to the kitchen. “Drinks are over there and the food is on the table.”

“Thanks.” He stepped aside as Rachel and Justin came in. I gave them each a hug, and the three of them headed for the kitchen.

More people arrived, flooding the room with stifling smells of doused cologne and perfume, gel and hairspray, belches and beer. I was going to head back upstairs when Tiffany came down.
Sigh, she sure looked gorgeous.