You’re Invited Too (6 page)

“No, silly. Ask him to dance with you,” Becca says.

“Oh. Um. No.” No way. I'm not even a good dancer.

“You should,” Lauren adds. “Because there's no reason girls can't ask guys to dance. And he's probably too scared to ask you.”

“How in the world do you know that?” I ask her.

She shrugs as she hip-bumps Sadie. “It's something my mom told me about when she and my dad met. Which”—her eyes get this little sparkle—“was here, at the Founder's Day dance. It's like a sign, Vi. If those even exist, which they don't. But still, you should ask him now.”

“I don't know . . .” My hair comes loose from its side ponytail and hangs in my face.

“Here.” Becca reaches toward me to fix it. Of course, she's like barely five feet tall, and I'm closer to giraffe height, so I have to bend down. “Perfect. Now shoo.” She waves a hand at me.

“Come on, let's dance some more. I only have three hours and fifteen minutes left before I have to go home and study,” I can hear Lauren say as they dance off, leaving me stranded. I know they mean well, but this is just . . . awkward. I pat my hair and pull on my dress and pretend to adjust one of my contact lenses, and then I walk slower than a month of Sundays toward Lance.

He's still standing in the same place, drinking another cup of Coke and moving just a little to the Five Alive song. I kind of have to smile a bit, as I remember him dressed in that enormous basketball jersey with his hair all slicked back, dancing to “I'm a Hot Potato” at that birthday party.

I'm almost there when “I'm a Hot Potato” ends and one of those slow Harry Hart songs starts. And I slow right down with the music. Now if I ask him to dance, it'll have to be to
this
.

I turn around—and the girls are right behind me.

“Go!” Becca says.

“Destiny!” Lauren adds.

Sadie just grins and points at Lance.

He does look kind of cute in his suit, with his short hair all spiked up. And I can't believe I'm even noticing that, much less admitting it.

I can do this. It's just like asking if he wants to run soccer drills, or go surfing. It's no big deal, really.

I take one step forward, and Lance looks up and smiles at me.

I've totally got this.

And then a blur of white swoops in. Linney, all highlighted hair and enough meanness to scare off a pit bull, strolls right up to Lance, says something to him, and then pulls him toward the dance floor.

“Mr. Clean's daughter can excuse us for a minute, right?” she says as she brushes past.

Lance tries to catch my eye, but I turn away. My heart is sinking, sinking, sinking into my shiny shoes. I can't believe he'd want to dance with Linney.

I can't believe I let myself like him.

TODAY'S TO-DO LIST:

■
 return Alexandra Worthington's call. Again.

■
 fold place cards

■
 practice calligraphy, especially
J
and
S

Y
ou smudged the
W
,” Izzy announces.

Little sisters are such a pain. Even if she's right. I don't care that three of the last four presidents have been left-handed or that left-handed people are supposed to be more creative because we think with our right brains—sometimes it's just plain annoying being a lefty. Especially when trying to master the fine art of calligraphy in order to write out 122 place cards for the Wedding of the Century (so termed by Alexandra Worthington at our last meeting).

“It would help if you weren't hovering behind me and breathing in my ear!” I snap at Izzy, and then immediately feel bad. I turn sideways in my chair and manage a small smile of apology. She flounces into a seat across from me at the big wooden table in our kitchen/living room. And doesn't smile back.

Sigh.

I've been trying to be better ever since Izzy told me how much she hated that RSVP was getting in the way of my big-sistering. Even if Mom did happen to pick us up after school a record four times last week, which basically hasn't happened in years, she's
usually
too busy to do stuff with us. Meaning we have to stick together, right? Except that's easier said than done with little sisters who don't even realize they're being bratty half the time.

Gah. Everyone's annoying me lately. Wedding planning is
hard
. This must be why Mom is stressed out all the time. Either that or it's my guilt eating away at me from the inside because I still haven't spilled the beans to her about stealing her client. Every time Alexandra Worthington calls to give me some new instruction (which is pretty much all the time lately) I have to hide my caller ID and run for another room.

She's totally suspicious, too. At Founder's Day, I overheard her asking Becca's mom if Becca had mentioned me talking about a boy. If only she knew!

My phone pings. “Oh for the love of peccadilloes! If this is—”

I snap my mouth shut before the words “Alexandra Worthington” can escape my lips. If I let things slip to Izzy, I might as well tape a flyer to Mom's forehead spewing every detail. Same difference.

“Who?” asks Izzy. She slides forward in her chair and props her elbows on the table as I glance at the screen on my phone.

“No one,” I say, sweetly this time. “It's actually Vi.”

And it is. Her text reads:
rehash dance 1 more X w/me? Lo says she can't till 5:15, when her karaoke-singing time is over.

Poor Vi. She's still all worked up about how things went down on Founder's Day with Lance, no matter how many times me and Lauren and Becca pinkie swear with her that he was only dancing with Linney to be polite. What's way weirder is how unlike Vi it is to obsess over a boy like this.

I'm halfway through typing my
Hey crazypants, Lance clearly digs you and only you
response when the phone actually rings. Not good. My friends all subscribe to the “text is best” motto, so the ring can only mean one thing.

I groan at the image of a screech monkey on my screen and slide to answer as I speed-walk upstairs, to get as far away from Izzy as I possibly can.

“Hello, Miss Worthington!” I muster all the fake enthusiasm I can. I may not make it past November's wedding date.

“Sadie-babe, I was thinking.”

A large percentage of Alexandra Worthington's phone calls start out exactly like this. It never leads to anything good.

“Mmm-hmm,” I murmur politely.

“You know how we were talking about a dessert bar with all different options, in addition to the wedding cake?”

“Sure. Yes.”

“Well,” says Alexandra Worthington, in her excited voice. Uh-oh. That's never a good voice. “I remembered these absolutely divine éclairs Ike and I had on our trip to Paris last year. He must have eaten six!”

I'm not that shocked. I've seen a picture of Ike, and he definitely looks like he could pack away an éclair or six.

“I thought it would be a lovely surprise for him if we included those on the buffet. I already tracked down the particular patisserie in the fifth arrondissement, and they've agreed. Now, the only slight hiccup here is that they don't deliver, so I'd need one of you to pop over and grab them the day before the wedding. What do you think? Wouldn't they be divine?”

Slight hiccup? Pop over? “Um, I'm sorry. When you say ‘pop over,' do you mean . . . um, to
Paris, France
?”

“Of course. And really, if whichever of you goes could take the red-eye back, that would be even better, because that way the éclairs could stay as fresh as possible, don't you think?”

“Oh, uh. I'm . . . I'm pretty sure none of us has a passport, but also, um, I don't think our parents would let us fly to Paris alone. But, uh, we have a new French kid in our class this year, and maybe I could ask him if he knows anything about éclairs that he could teach Vi. She can make
anything
. She's amazing.”

I can't ever tell Becca I passed up an opportunity for her to get to Paris. It's practically her life's mission.

Alexandra Worthington is quiet for a second, and then she says brightly, “
C'est la vie!
Let's do that. Okay, now. Have I ever talked to you about peacocks? I love them. I was thinking maybe we could rent a few to wander the grounds during the reception. Peacocks are the ones with all the feathers, right?”

It takes me another five minutes to talk Alexandra Worthington into framing peacock feathers to display on the gift table instead, but I finally hit end on the call. Vi must think I've fallen into the cove outside my front door. I switch back to my text, but before I can type a thing, I hear a car door slam outside.

YIPES!

I tear down the stairs, forgetting I'm wearing fuzzy socks and throwing my arm over the banister to slow myself as I slip down the last three steps. I shout to Izzy, who's lounging on the couch with an American Girl catalog.

“Iz, can you help me put all this away before Mom gets up here?”

“Why do you have to put your art homework away? Wouldn't Mom be happy to see you doing school stuff?”

I puff my bangs out of my eyes and take a deep breath. “Can you just help me, please?”

A chime from the alarm on the door means someone just opened it. Noooooooooo. I take my arm and swipe it across the table, forcing all the place cards into a pocket I form out of the edge of the tablecloth. Izzy lowers her eyebrows and looks at me like I just grew a second head.

I make a
zip it
motion with my finger across my lips and place my most innocent expression on my face just as Mom thumps up the last of the steps from the garage and comes into the kitchen with two grocery bags. It's beyond great to see those, because that means I don't have to grocery shop this week, like I usually do whenever Mom is work-crazed. But it would have been way better to see Mom with grocery bags in, say, fifteen minutes. After I'd had a chance to clean up the place cards.

“Sades, grab these, would you? I think the milk is leaking and I'm afraid the bottom's about to fall out of this one!” She jerks her chin at the paper bag in her right arm and I stare helplessly for one heartbeat.

Then two.

Do I let go of the tablecloth and send all the place cards to the floor for Mom to see, or do I risk spilled milk and Mom wrath? What to do, what to do? Izzy is every bit as frozen as I am, looking back and forth between us.

Mom makes it easy by shrieking, “Girls! Don't just stand there!”

We both jump into action, but it's too late. The gallon of milk comes crashing through the soggy bag and explodes all over the wood floor and Mom's espadrilles. I jump back as it splatters my legs. Mom reaches across Izzy to dump the other bag on the counter, then yanks the whole roll of paper towels off the wall. She starts unspooling it and tearing big chunks of towels off to throw at us.

“Get up as much as you can, as fast as you can. Try not to let it get between the gaps in the floorboards. Moisture is really bad for wood floors!” Mom is practically frantic.

Izzy and I drop to our knees and start soaking up the milk with wads of paper towels. Mom joins in, and we work in silence for a minute or two until the worst of it is up. Izzy races down to the garage for the rags we use for washing the car, and together we get the last little bits up and polish the floor.

While Mom and Izzy are distracted, I stuff all the slightly soggy place cards under the refrigerator. To borrow Alexandra's expression:
C'est la vie
. I'll make more. Those were probably ruined anyway, and it'll be worth the extra work later if I can avoid detection now.

No one speaks until Izzy breaks the silence. “Well, you know what Dad used to say . . .”

“What's that, Izzy-fizz?” Mom asks. I smile. The worst of it is over if Mom's using nicknames.

“There's no use crying over spilled milk.”

Mom rocks back from a crouching position onto her butt, and I wonder if bringing up Dad at a time like this was a good idea. You can never tell if it will make Mom laugh or cry. The edges of her eyes crinkle up, and I see a tiny tear escape. Uh-oh.

But then her shoulders shake, and I realize she's laughing. She clutches the leg of the table and starts whooping. Izzy and I exchange a glance and join in. The three of us grasp at our sides, we're laughing so hard.

This is
awesome
.

All the stress of the day whooshes away. Eventually, Mom takes a few deep breaths to collect herself and brings her hand down to the floor, where it brushes . . . a folded place card.

Uh-oh. I missed one.

She curls her fingers around it and brings it to her face. Then to arm's distance as she squints at it. Mom just started wearing reading glasses, and I'm betting she wishes she had them right now. As for me, what I wish for is an escape hatch in the floor.