The Moon and More(93)
Author: Sarah Dessen

“Hi,” she said. “I’m early, sorry.”

“You’re perfect,” I told her. “Come over here out of the chaos. Ivy left some stuff for me to go over with you.”

We started over to the small bench I’d turned into my mobile office, passing Benji, who was now helping Morris rip open packs of napkins. Watching them, I had a flash of that other party, all the way back at the beginning of the summer, when I’d been forced to nag Morris to do a job he was actually getting paid for. Apparently I wasn’t the only one who’d changed a bit since then.

“Hey,” I said to Benji, “your dad says to be ready to go at four, okay?”

He looked at me. “Four? But the party starts at five.”

I shrugged. “Just delivering the message.”

“I want to be here, though,” he persisted, looking at Morris, then back at me. “Can’t I stay?”

“Sounds like he already has plans for you, bud,” I told him.

This, clearly, was not good enough. “This sucks. I’ll be the only one missing everything.”

“Who’s missing everything?” Luke asked, walking up. He nodded at Esther, who nodded back. Small towns.

“Me,” Benji grumbled. “My dad’s making me leave early.”

“Bummer. I hear you,” Luke told him. “I can’t make it either.”

I looked at him. “No?”

“Already had plans. Thanks for the invite, though,” he said, ruffling Benji’s hair. “Me and little man here will have to just get the recap later.”

“I don’t want the recap. I want to stay.”

“Hey,” Luke said. Benji looked at him, sullen. “Don’t hassle your sister. She’s got enough on her plate. Right?”

Benji bit his lip, scuffing his foot on the floor. “Okay.”

“Okay.” Luke caught my eye, smiled. “Good luck with everything.”

“Thanks for your help,” I replied.

“Anytime.”

Across the room, there was another thump as a painting hit the ceiling. “Whoa,” Esther said, as Benji walked away. “This place is nuts.”

I looked at my watch again: almost four. “Yeah,” I said to Esther, gesturing for her to follow me. “Come on. I’ll catch you up.”

Twenty minutes later, with Esther briefed and acquainting herself with Ivy’s equipment, I rejoined Daisy, who was putting the finishing touches on the flowers. “So,” she said, adjusting a rosebud that was sagging slightly. “What are you wearing for this gala?”

“Wearing?” I looked down. “Oh, right. I do need to change at some point.”

“Emaline.” She sighed. “Please tell me you have something cute and stylish already picked out.”

“I’m a little busy,” I said, gesturing around me. “I’m just going to run home and grab something. If I don’t have to just wear this.”

She gasped. “No. No way. Give me your keys, right now.”

“Why?”

Instead of replying she held out her hand. Then she wiggled her fingers, insistent. I handed them over. “Back in fifteen,” she called out over her shoulder. “Be ready to be fabulous.”

“Nothing too crazy!” I hollered after her, but she ignored me. Of course.

Ivy, now dressed in a simple navy sleeveless shift, appeared next to me, already jumpy. “What’s too crazy? What happened?”

“Nothing,” I told her. “You look nice.”

“I didn’t smoke,” she said. “If that’s what you’re asking.”

“It was not,” I replied. “But I’m glad. Esther’s here. Let me introduce you.”

“Who’s Esther?”

“The film student,” I reminded her. “She’s been briefed and says she’s worked with equipment like this before.”

“Oh my God,” she groaned, but she did follow me. “Tell me this is not going to be a total disaster.”

“It’s going to be great,” I said. “Trust me.”

At that moment, honestly, I was not entirely convinced. At four thirty, when there was still a painting not hung and the puddle in the kitchen was encroaching on the bar area, I was sure of it. By the time Daisy dragged me into the restroom to change at four fifty, I was saying some Hail Marys of my own.

“I know you’re fashion-forward,” I told her, as she hung up the garment bag she was carrying, “but I really don’t want to look like a robot tonight.”

“I would not dress you like a robot for an art opening,” she replied, offended. “At least, not this kind of art. Hurry up, you’ve got, like, four minutes.”

I squirmed out of my clothes, kicking off my flip-flops as she unzipped the bag. “I totally planned to go home and shower and do my hair, I swear. But the time got away from me, and then there was traffic—”

“Which is why,” she said, “you need a dress that stops it. Luckily, I had one.”

As I turned I was apprehensive, half convinced that I would turn to see the pink candy number for the Beach Bash. Instead, I was surprised to see her holding a short and sleeveless ocean-blue dress, clearly vintage, with a full skirt. The color was bright but not loud; instead it looked cool, almost iridescent, like water itself. You sort of wanted to dive right into it.

“Daisy,” I said, stepping closer and touching the bodice. “This is gorgeous. But do you think it might be too, you know . . . attention getting?”

“You’re the one who always says you’re tired of being a background player,” she reminded me, turning it around and gesturing for me to step into it. I did, and she zipped up the back. “You want to be a star, you have to dress like one.”

She turned me around again, stepping aside so I could see myself in the long mirror opposite the open stall. I wouldn’t say I looked like a star, but I wasn’t blending in with the scenery either. Plus, that color: I couldn’t take my eyes off of it. She gathered my hair in her hands and twisted it up, securing it with a couple of bobby pins she pulled from her pocket. “So? What do you think?”

“It’s perfect,” I told her.

“I know,” she replied, confidently. “Although I really wanted to do this metallic A-line thing I’ve been working on. But I resisted. When it comes to shoes, though, I will take no argument. You’re wearing these.”