You're Invited

by Jen Malone

  “What are you doing?” I ask.

  “I’m calling for Becca.” She sounds so matter-of-fact.

  “But she’s not there. Why don’t you go inside and find her?”

  Lauren’s eyes go wide. “I told you. I am not setting foot in there.”

  “Oh for the love of peccadilloes, Lo.” I squeeze past her and into the sunny hallway. Honestly, there is nothing at all scary about—

  BANG!

  I scream and jump through the doorway, landing on top of Lauren on the floor of the porch. Around the corner, the entire party erupts in gasps and screams.

  Before I can react, Vi goes tearing past me, her flip-flops snapping against the wooden floor and her hand to her forehead. “Heavens, y’all! Miss Rebecca has been shot! Murdered!”

  The guests look from one to another, and then their open mouths turn up at the corners as they catch on that this is part of the entertainment. Which, I mean, obviously, I knew too. It was just that I didn’t expect the shot from the cap gun I brought to be so loud. Or to happen just then. My heart thuds back to normal speed and I roll off Lauren as Vi keeps on with her role.

  “Okay, ladies. It’s up to us to solve this murder! If you reach under your seats, you’ll find an envelope taped to it. Inside will be a description of your role and any information your character has about the suspects,” Vi says.

  Lauren is back on her feet now too and she starts handing out tiny notepads and pens so our detectives can write down clues if they need to. My heart swells a little bit as I realize we really did think of everything.

  The girls are giggling and introducing themselves to their friends with their new names, which all begin with “Miss.” Lauren wrote them each specific roles as debutantes attending a cotillion ball at the plantation. As one, they move into the foyer of the house, where the “body” of Becca—er, Miss Rebecca—lies sprawled. Wow, she’s really good at keeping perfectly still. I don’t think I’ve ever seen Becca not in motion—the girl’s like a hummingbird. I catch Vi’s eye and we grin at each other.

  Ryan jumps right into his role too, like he’s had a month to memorize his lines off the script Lauren wrote. “Oh no, not Miss Rebecca! My betrothed. And I was so looking forward to our wedding next month.”

  “You were not, big brother!” Molly, aka the birthday girl, accuses. “You told me this morning that you think she’s too bossy for you!”

  Ha! I bet Becca’s twitching inside at that one. The other girls all giggle. YES! Molly’s totally nailing her lines and she didn’t have anything more than her note card to go off of. Vi and I high-five—well, more like low-five—behind our skirts.

  Mrs. Campbell says, “Well, I have to say, now that Miss Rebecca is gone, perhaps this will clear the way for my Miss Samantha to have a chance with the groom-to-be,” and I feel like things are going well enough that I can sneak out of the foyer and into the kitchen to check on the cake. Vi’s right behind me.

  Or she was.

  “Vi?” I peek back into the hallway from the kitchen.

  She’s standing in front of the enormous grandfather clock, her head tilted just a bit and this teeny-tiny smile on her face. If this wasn’t Vi, I’d say she was checking out her reflection in the glass.

  “Vi!” I say a little louder.

  “Sorry! I was just . . . checking the time.” Her face turns red as she flip-flops down the hallway to the kitchen. “So, um, did you notice where Lauren got to? You’d think she’d want to see her play in action.”

  I poke my head out the back door and, sure enough, Lauren is bustling around the porch, cleaning off the tables and resetting them for the dessert course. “For someone soooo mature for her age, she is seriously the biggest baby ever when it comes to not-haunted houses.” I say it extra loud so my voice carries over the porch. Lauren glances up and sticks her tongue out at me. I duck back into the kitchen, only to find Vi standing completely frozen, gazing at the cake.

  “What’s up?” I look back and forth between her and the cake.

  She points at the cake. “That bratty, stuck-up, princess-wannabe, good-for-nothing—”

  “Vi, what?” I ask.

  “That is not Rhett and Scarlett.”

  I follow her finger to the tiny couple on the frosting “lawn” of the plantation replica cake. Uh-oh.

  It’s a tiny hobo with a handkerchief parcel slung over his shoulder standing next to a miniature Little Orphan Annie. Um . . .

  “I’m going to KILL Linney,” Vi says.

  “Uh, Vi, so I know Linney’s a total snob and all, and y’all have history, but what exactly did you ask for when you placed the order?”

  “I asked for Rhett and Scarlett.” Vi’s voice is a little squeaky and she starts pacing the kitchen, which would be funny since it makes her skirt get all tangled up every time she pivots but obviously isn’t funny because she’s seriously mad.

  “And she said they had them?” I had actually been a little surprised they happened to have figurines of Rhett and Scarlett in stock.

  Vi stops pacing and starts twisting a napkin she grabs off the counter. She avoids looking at me. “Well, I, um, I’m pretty sure Linney said she had them. I guess I was in such a hurry to get away from that monster that I might not have been paying attention to her answer. But I thought she said she had them. I’m calling the bakery.”

  Vi fumbles around in her skirt, trying to find the opening to her pocket, while I calmly remove the Annie and hobo figures from the top layer of the cake. As she dials, I duck back outside and snag a flower vase Lauren is lifting up as she brushes crumbs from the tablecloth.

  “I need to borrow this for a sec,” I tell her.

  I can hear Vi on the phone in the kitchen talking to Linney. “Seriously? You had to know Orphan Annie would not be an okay replacement for Scarlett. What do you mean, she’s supposed to be me? I don’t even have red hair! And for your information, both my parents are alive. My mom’s just not . . . here. And what, is the hobo supposed to be my dad? Because that’s just . . .”

  I brush past Vi and grab the phone out of her hand, hitting end on the call. I pass it back to her and calmly arrange flowers in a delicate pattern to cover up the divots in the frosting lawn.

  “It’s totally fine, Vi. Look!”

  I step back and admire my work while Vi continues to jam her thumb on the end-call button about fifty times. She gives me a tight smile and spares one little look at the cake. “It looks beautiful. Nice save. But this is not fine. When I see that girl—”

  From the foyer, someone shouts, “You did it, Miss Molly! You killed Miss Rebecca!” I rush back to the guests to find Molly taking a ginormous bow. She’s grinning ear to ear as she leans over and helps the formerly dead Miss Rebecca to her feet. Everyone applauds (Mrs. Campbell hardest of all).

  “Forgive me for shooting you?” Molly asks, and Becca hugs her. Then Becca reaches back and tries to pull Ryan into the circle. He joins them and takes a bow too, but I notice he drops Becca’s hand the second he straightens back up. She looks as if she’d like to play dead again, but she shakes it off pretty well.

  We all file back out onto the porch where Vi and Lauren are rolling the cart with the cake into place beside the guest of honor’s chair.

  “Best party EVER,” Molly says to her mom, who turns to me with a giant smile on her face.

  It totally is. Except for the fact that my guest of honor, and the one person I was most trying to impress today, was a complete and total no-show.

  What now?

  Lauren

  scheme noun

  an official plan of action

  Use in a sentence:

  I have a scheme to get into a really good college (unlike certain brothers): study hard, save lots of money, ace the SAT, and do lots of extracurriculars.

  I squint at the tiny numbers on the phone screen that show my savings account total. Seriously, $1,252.16? That’s it? That would pay for, what, three days at college? Saving money is so much harder than
I thought it would be. Even after I deposit my share of last night’s party earnings, my total will still look kind of pathetic.

  Of course, it would help if I actually had some money to save, besides the pittance Dad gives me to work at the marina. Pittance: a small portion, wage, or allowance. Memorized that one after the party last night. I read somewhere that the only way to really remember new words is to use them in sentences. Even if it drives your friends crazy.

  My stomach growls, and I log out of my bank account to go in search of food. It’s super quiet in my house today. Mom got called into the hospital to do an emergency surgery, Dad dragged Zach to work at the marina, and Josh is at college, taking summer classes to try to fix the GPA he messed up last semester. It’s the perfect day to dig into some of the math practice questions for my SAT study class.

  I trip over one of Zach’s size 95ish Nikes on the way to the kitchen. But it’s so worth it, because I have leftover PB&J from yesterday’s party just waiting for me in the fridge. I’d scrawled LAUREN’S—TOUCH IT AND DIE on the foil wrapping covering the plate, and shoved the whole thing in the back.

  I set my phone on the sailboat-patterned countertop and open the fridge. Who knows where anyone even buys a boat-patterned countertop, but trust my dad to have found the one place that does. There in the back—right where I left it—is the plate of PB&J.

  Under the wrapping is one quarter of a delicate crustless sandwich.

  One quarter.

  “Zach!” I yell, even though there’s no way he can hear me from the marina. I even gave him a couple of the sandwiches last night, out of the kindness of my sisterly heart.

  I’m deciding whether I want to eat the little PB&J or shove it into one of his shoes when my phone sounds the Batman theme, immediately followed by a line from a rap song.

  Sadie. And my grandmother, Bubby.

  I take a bite and read Bubby’s message first, since I’m pretty sure I know what Sadie’s says.

  Know where I can borrow a dog? I don’t even want to know what that’s about.

  No . . . why? I type back, against my better judgment.

  New McDreamy @ Sr Living. Has a pug. Want to impress him with my love of dogs. Sometimes I wonder if Bubby is really my grandma, or actually Becca’s. Although I guess I know exactly how Dad got so weird.

  Will let you know if I find a spare dog, I reply.

  I click over to Sadie’s message as I stuff the last of the sandwich into my mouth. It’s the Bat Signal. She probably wants to debrief us on what happened with her mom last night. I can’t believe Mrs. Pleffer never showed. At least one of my parents shows up to every last thing I do, even if it’s just holding down a chair as our school’s It’s All Academic team alternate. Or maybe they’re just happy that one of their kids actually cares about school.

  Finding a spot for the sandwich plate in the dishwasher is not exactly easy, but I shove it in there before scrawling a note to Mom. I dash upstairs, pull my latest shell finds from my backpack, and replace them with my SAT math workbook just in case everyone’s running late. Then I sprint to the door.

  Envelopes are piled up in the little boat-shaped basket under the mail slot. I flip through them, even though I hardly ever get any for myself. The only interesting thing today is a letter from Raleigh State University, addressed to Mom and Dad. I hold it up to the light coming from the brass ship’s lantern on an end table. I can’t see through the envelope, but I’m pretty sure it’s another note threatening to kick Josh out of school.

  I kind of want to hide it because Mom cries every time she gets one of these letters. My brothers are absolutely useless. I mean, how do you get almost kicked out of the biggest party school in the state? And it’s not like Zach is going to do any better. When I’m in some big-name school in Massachusetts or New York (because all those big-name schools seem to be in Massachusetts or New York), studying to be a general surgeon just like Mom, they’ll never get letters like this.

  Which is why I need to save up tons of money and get scholarships. Mom makes enough to pay bills and afford state college tuition, but definitely not enough for the kind of college I want to go to. And Dad just barely keeps the marina afloat (pun definitely intended). As Bubby likes to say, the boat business is a sinking business.

  I toss the envelope back into the basket. Taped to the door is a note from Mom.

  Lauren Phoebe Simmons—Do NOT forget to water the plants. Outside and inside. Love, Mom

  I pull the note off and stuff it into my pocket. I’ll water them the second I get back. You’d think Mom would realize by now that I don’t need notes with my full name on them to remember to do things. But I guess it’s hard to get out of the habit when your oldest kids are Josh and Zach. I think she and Dad expect me to wake up one day as a girl version of my brothers.

  I read Question 1 in my math workbook as I start the golf cart parked in the garage. Just because I’m driving a golf cart doesn’t mean I can’t solve for x in my head. Dad bought a couple of these things to get around the marina, and I’d been dying to drive one for years. The town ordinances say you have to be twelve in order to operate a golf cart on the streets. Which makes no sense, because I wasn’t magically more responsible on my January 8 birthday than I was on January 7. Anyway, Mom went on and on about golf-cart crashes and concussions and spiral fractures, but Dad finally convinced her that if anyone would drive a golf cart safely, it’d be me. I’m just not allowed to drive with any of my friends in the cart. Or go on Coastline Drive, because Mom says everyone drives like a maniac on that road.

  By the time I roll into the marina, I have the math problem solved. I stop next to the office, knock on the window to wave to Dad and Zach, and then drive on toward the Purple People Eater.

  Vi’s lounging in a small patch of shade on the deck of the yacht. Her nose is bright red.

  “What happened?” I ask as I park the cart.

  “To what?”

  “Your nose, Rudolph.” I unlock the door to the PPE and we move down the dark steps to the Bat Cave.

  “I was out all morning swimming, and then I fell asleep on the beach. Forgot to put on more sunblock. Hey, where’d all that warm water go?” Vi opens cabinet doors as I crack the windows and round up the basket of flashlights.

  I point with a flashlight to the little bar in the far corner of the cabin. Vi snags a bottle just as Sadie and Becca arrive. We all sit around the flashlight basket—all of us except Becca, who’s just standing there in her bright white sundress.

  “What are you doing?” Sadie asks her.

  “I don’t want to get old yacht dirt on my dress,” she says. “Sorry, Lo.”

  Like I’m going to be offended about the state of the Purple People Eater. I empty out my backpack and pass it to Becca. “Here, sit on this.”

  She sits super gently on the backpack, as if the very act of sitting will make dirt seep into her dress.

  “So did you find out why your mom didn’t come to the party?” Vi asks Sadie.

  Sadie makes a face. “She said she felt really bad about it, but she had a bridezilla freaking out and she had to drop everything and meet with her and I wasn’t answering my cell. I had it on vibrate so it wouldn’t interrupt the party. Whatever.”

  Sadie gives a little shake of her head. “I mean, not whatever, but what can I do? I guess it’s partly my fault because I was trying to surprise her, so I didn’t tell her what it was she was coming to and she didn’t realize it was a one-time-only thing she was missing out on. Anyway, my mom’s not why I sent the Bat Signal. Not totally, anyway.”

  “Wait, did you change your mind and now you’re going to help me get Ryan’s attention?” Becca looks like someone’s given her an all-expenses-paid trip to Hawaii. “Because I have the perfect idea—”

  “No, not that.” Sadie’s biting her lip, probably to avoid telling Becca how hard Ryan worked to steer clear of her at the party.

  We all look at her, waiting for an explanation.

  “W
ell . . . ,” Sadie finally says. “I have this idea. It sort of has to do with the ‘one-time-only thing’ I mentioned. Hear me out before you say no. So, you know how none of us have any real summer plans?”

  Speak for yourself. My brain is already sorting out my summer schedule.

  “I have plans,” Becca says. “Ryan plans. You want to hear them?”

  “No,” we all say together.

  “What’s your idea, Sades?” Vi asks, chin on her knees. Vi’d been hoping to go to this amazing soccer camp in Charlotte for a couple weeks this summer, but the price was pretty amazing too.

  “Well . . . I think we should start a business,” Sadie says.

  “Doing what?” I ask.

  “What do you mean, doing what? Party planning!” Sadie’s grinning now. “We totally rocked it at Molly’s party. Mrs. Campbell was so happy, she even asked if we had business cards, because she wanted to recommend us to her friends!”

  “I’m not sure,” I say. “With all of my stuff, and Vi’s sports, and Becca’s . . . boyfriend search.” Becca elbows me.

  “It’s summer! We all have plenty of time,” Sadie says. “Besides, just think about how much fun it would be.” Sadie’s phone rings in her hand. She glances down at the screen and hits ignore.

  “Your mom?” I ask.

  “Nah, just my sister. Okay, so where was I? Becca, you could drum up business, since you know everyone in town. And you could convince that Ryan guy to help us out sometimes, right?”

  Becca sits up straighter and suddenly looks a thousand percent more interested in this business idea.

  “Vi could cook some—” Sadie starts to say.

  “No way,” Vi says as she twists the ends of her ponytail. “What if I mess it up?”

  “Impossible,” I tell her.

  “And, Lauren, you’d be a whiz at making sure we stay on budget for each party.”

  I shake my head. “I wish I could, but I really don’t have the time.”

  “And the money!” Sadie goes on like she hasn’t even heard me. “Just think of how much money we could make. If we book one party per week, and maybe even book two parties once in a while, and we have how many weeks till school starts again?”