We Are Party People

by Leslie Margolis

  “What’s up?” Sophie asks, wondering why I’m not moving.

  “Nothing,” I tell her. “Let’s go.”

  Except it’s too late. “Oh, is this your mom and dad’s place?” she asks, staring at the entrance. The We Are Party People sign is in all caps in rainbow colors in an archway across the door. When you look closely you can see that each letter is made out of rhinestones and interspersed with tiny white flashing fairy lights.

  “This is amazing,” says Sophie.

  “Yeah, I remember when my parents first got the place. I was seven and so proud and excited. I wanted to live there.”

  “I totally get that,” Sophie says.

  “No, I mean I really thought it would be possible. I actually asked my parents if we could move in.”

  Sophie laughs and asks, “Seriously?”

  I nod. “Of course. It seemed so much better than our actual house and I had everything worked out. We’d never have to cook again because we could always eat at the food court, and we could go to the movies whenever we wanted. If I needed new clothes, we wouldn’t even have to leave to go shopping. The Gap is right next door.”

  Sophie grins at me. “You’re totally right—living at the mall makes so much sense. Everything would be so convenient. I don’t know why more people don’t do it.”

  “That’s exactly the point I made to my parents, and they were impressed with my plans. Except they told me that no one was allowed to live in a mall. It’s a health department thing, I guess, or maybe it has to do with zoning laws. Something boring like that—I can’t even remember. But after they explained it to me, I said, ‘Can we at least have a sleepover?’ and they actually called the owner of the mall and asked if that was possible.”

  “No way!” says Sophie.

  I nod, grinning. “Yeah, and it wasn’t, but they did let me have something called a sleep-under, which was almost as good.”

  “I’ve never heard of a sleep-under,” says Sophie.

  “That’s because my parents invented it, I think. Basically, it’s just like a sleepover except you don’t actually spend the night. They surprised me with it. One day they told me we were going out for dinner and instead they took me to their shop at the mall. It was closing time but the security guard, Terrance, had special permission to let us in. And inside they’d transformed one of the rooms into a campground. There was a starry sky on the ceiling, made from navy blue velvet and LED lights they told me they’d chipped off from actual stars. And I believed them.”

  “That sounds dreamy,” says Sophie.

  “Yeah, it was,” I reply. “But that was a long time ago.”

  I’m almost embarrassed to admit that, once upon a time, I thought my parents could fly up to the stars and chisel off pieces. But with Sophie, I’m not.

  I don’t tell Sophie the rest of it, though. How after the sleep-under we spent a month renovating the space, ripping out the smelly old carpet and replacing it with slick and shiny black-and-white tile. Or how my mom painted a gigantic mural on one wall, and I got to help design it. It’s an underwater scene with a great whale, a shark, all sorts of colorful fish, and yes, even the mermaid, Luella, peeking out from the rock. She’s winking at everyone and just the tip of her hot-pink and green tail is visible behind a gigantic craterlike rock formation. There’s a train on the other side, and my parents’ best characters are in their own car: the prince and princess, the race car driver, the magician and the kitten, the puppy, and the bunny. And driving the train is Crazy Chicken.

  It’s still there, although the colors have faded over time. Also, some kid took a Sharpie to the princess a few years ago, so now she sports a mustache. When they first discovered it, my parents thought it was so funny, they didn’t bother fixing it.

  “I hear music playing in there,” Sophie says.

  “Yeah, that’s my dad,” I say.

  “Can we go inside and watch?” Sophie asks.

  “Um, there’s a class going on right now and we probably shouldn’t interrupt,” I say, taking a few steps back.

  “Oh, too bad,” she says.

  I’m about to turn away but then suddenly it’s too late. My dad has spotted us and he’s waving like a maniac for us to come in. It’s the last thing I want to do, but unless I want to be a total jerk-face about it and ignore him, I have to go.

  15

  “Pixie Jones, is it really you?” my dad practically shouts as he gives me the biggest bear hug imaginable. Next he grabs my shoulders and pulls back so he can look at me. Then he yelps and picks me up and spins me around.

  He’s acting like we haven’t seen each other in several years when really it’s only been several hours.

  “Dad, chill out,” I say, because this is embarrassing. I am twelve and am not supposed to be flung around like a rag doll.

  And to make matters even worse, my dad is dressed like John Lennon, in a shaggy dark wig, tiny round glasses, bell-bottoms, and love beads. His voice is loud and booming. He won’t stop going on and on about what an amazing surprise this is, seeing me at the mall, and how he’s so ecstatic about it. I feel myself shrinking into my body and wishing I were anywhere else. Of course, at the same time, I’m feeling really bad about having this reaction.

  Part of my dad’s over-the-top display is that he’s happy to see me—I know this is true. Except a bigger part of it is that he craves the attention, likes making a spectacle of himself, is putting on an act and pretending to be an exaggerated version of some way-embarrassing father, as a joke, and that’s what gets to me. That’s what leaves me feeling mortified for myself and for him.

  Because why can’t he just act like a normal human being?

  Why must he always make himself the center of everything?

  And if he has that need, why can’t he see that I don’t, and in fact, I crave the opposite?

  Except it’s no use. I am quiet and unenthusiastic, but it does nothing to dampen his enthusiasm. He doesn’t even seem to notice.

  “Pixie, so great to see you. I’m thrilled you’ve changed your mind. And you’ve brought a friend!” The way he says this, you’d think I had something amazing, like a unicorn, or a magical singing elf, or a really rare flower that only exists on the top of Mount Everest.

  “Dad, this is Sophie,” I say. “Sophie, my dad. You can call him Dan.”

  My voice is low and calm and I’m hoping my dad gets the message, but he doesn’t seem to. Instead, he gives Sophie a deep bow, like she’s the queen of England and he’s been waiting in line to meet her for a week. “Sophie, it’s a pleasure to finally meet you. I’ve heard so much about you. Welcome to Party People. I’d give you a tour, but my musicians are waiting.”

  “Musicians?” asks Sophie.

  “Yes, come in and see for yourself,” says my dad, waving his hand at us to follow him. “And grab a wig.”

  I’m not in the mood, but Sophie seems to be, so I have no choice. We follow my dad into the music room, where ten preschoolers are waiting, sitting in a circle with their legs crossed.

  Parents and nannies are off to the side behind a giant partition with a big window. Some are talking in whispers, but most are on their phones, texting away—hunched over, their bodies in giant C-shapes, eyes glazed and fingers flying.

  Opposite the caregivers is a large wall of shelves. On the top one there’s a big red box labeled ROCK-STAR COSTUMES. I grab some beaded necklaces, small round glasses, and the thick, long brown wig that my mom uses when she’s Janis Joplin. Then I fish around until I find a shaggy black mop, one of the Beatles wigs. I hand it to Sophie. She puts it on right away, giggling as she tucks her hair inside.

  “Friends, we have some special guests today,” my dad announces. “Paul McCartney and Janis Joplin.”

  Most of the little ones look up at us. A few of them smile and wave. Three others are too busy picking their noses to even notice us.

  Sophie and I grin as we join them on the floor, careful to avoid the nose-pickers because—ew!


  My dad grabs his guitar and launches into the old Beatles song “Ob-La-Di, Ob-La-Da.”

  Some kids start swaying in time to the music. It’s a jumpy familiar tune, and one of my favorites.

  Sophie leans in close to me, asking, “What are we supposed to do?”

  “Sing along and dance if you can,” I tell her as I tuck my hair into the Janis Joplin wig.

  “What if I don’t know the song?” she asks.

  “Smile and fake it,” I whisper back. “If you’re into it, I mean. We totally don’t have to stay here for this.”

  “Are you kidding? This is amazing,” she replies. “I just wanted to make sure it was okay, that I wouldn’t be messing things up.”

  “There’s no messing up at Party People,” I tell her. “Trust me. Anything goes.”

  Sophie moves to the front of the room without another word. Even though she said she didn’t know the song, her lips are moving and her hips are swaying and she is way into the moment. She’s a natural performer, I can tell. She looks as if she’s been doing this for years, like she’s some sort of expert.

  I wonder what it’s like to have that … whatever it is. Confidence, charisma, or magic? I don’t know how to describe it, exactly. I only know that I’m missing it.

  “Everyone up!” my dad says, and the kids climb to their feet like he’s the pied piper of Beachwood, hypnotizing them with his melodies.

  After the song is over he launches into a new one. “Circle to the left. Circle to the left. Everybody everywhere, circle to the left…”

  The kids circle to their left, like my dad asks—once he demonstrates which direction is left, I mean. Sophie and I follow along.

  Next we circle to the right.

  Then we march in place.

  We skip.

  We hop on one foot.

  We hop on the other foot.

  We spin in circles and collapse when we’re too dizzy. And after we recover we somersault across the room. Everyone is giggly and silly, even my dad and Sophie. Even me. I can’t help but get caught up in it sometimes, regardless of how annoyed I am, of how nervous performing makes me.

  Next my dad asks, “Who wants to make their own music?”

  The children clap, and as he dumps a box of instruments onto the ground they scramble for them.

  Some kids grab maracas. Some get bongos. One of them gets the orange banjo. There are jingle bells and triangles. Sophie grabs a tambourine and I take a drum.

  “Now play,” my dad commands. “Everybody make a lot of noise.”

  And we do. The sound is crazy, chaotic, loud, and jumbled. It does not exactly fit the music but no one cares.

  Kids stomp their feet. They wave their arms. They are having the best time.

  And honestly, something about their energy—all that joy—is infectious. I don’t forget about the awkward run-in with India and June, but it doesn’t bother me as much.

  “Okay, great job,” my dad announces. “Now, let’s try and follow along to the song.” He launches into John Lennon’s “Revolution.”

  Soon I can’t help but sway a little bit, back and forth. Then my shoulders are moving and I wave my arms. Sophie starts clapping in time to the music and soon I’m doing it, too, clapping louder than I’ve ever clapped before. Enjoying it, too. It’s the craziest thing: something comes over me—this warm, energetic, hard-to-describe vibe, like the music is infused in my body and lifting my mood.

  It’s awesome.

  This is Party People and I am here. Suddenly I’m not shy-and-quiet Pixie, the girl who will do anything to blend in. I don’t need to be anonymous here. This is not Beachwood Middle School. I can be free to dance with three- and four-year-olds all day long. It doesn’t count. They are young and sweet and not judgmental. They don’t care if I can’t carry a tune, if my jeans are out of style, if my hair is a little messy, if I don’t have that invisible cool gene, or whatever it is that separates the Jennas and Junes and Indias of the world from the awkward rest of us.

  “Say you want a revolution…” Sophie and my dad are singing together. And I can’t stand it. I can’t stand not being a part of it.

  I don’t know what possesses me but suddenly I’m at his side, up at the front singing along with them.

  I know every word to the song. I have since before I could even talk, I think. This is a part of me. It has to be.

  Sophie doesn’t know all the words. She’s only singing every other one. As soon as I get to the front of the room, she moves off to the side to make room for me.

  So it’s me and my dad, and at first we’re sharing the mic, singing together, but then he pulls me in front of the mic. My instinct is to say “No,” and move to the side, but he doesn’t let me. He’s shaking his head and motioning for me to stand there on my own.

  The kids are way into this moment. Their little faces light up with joy. Giggling and smiling and, yes, still nose-picking, but even that somehow seems endearing. Adorable. Charming. They move with the music, some in time and some way out of time, but it doesn’t matter because they are motion and energy, heat and light, fun and laughter. Some with white diapers sticking up out of their jeans. One kid doesn’t have diapers but clearly needs them because his pants are darker in front. But he doesn’t mind. No one else does, either, or maybe no one notices. It sure doesn’t stop anyone from dancing.

  Until finally, the song is over, and everyone turns to my dad, waiting for what comes next. I try to move away from the mic but he won’t let me.

  “And now we’ll finish with some Janis Joplin,” he announces.

  “What?” I ask, laughing. He’s nodding, strumming his guitar, and I can’t resist. It’s a familiar tune. “Piece of My Heart”—the song my mom would belt out.

  Can I do this? I don’t stop to think. I simply close my eyes and sing.

  It’s the two of us and I belt it out. I want to be louder than him. I want my voice to be heard. And next thing I know my dad stops and takes the mic off the stand and hands it to me. My instinct is to shake my head, refuse, hand it back, except he’s given me no choice. Dan the Man has chosen me and how can I say no? I can’t. I take the mic and I sing—all alone, and it’s awesome.

  Incredible.

  I can hear myself and I sound like someone else, possessed. I sound like a rock star. I feel like a rock star. And with the wig and the beads, I probably look like a rock star, too.

  Then the song ends and the kids clap and smile and jump around. I do a deep bow. And I see Sophie and she’s whistling and applauding, too. And then I happen to look out the window.

  And I see someone staring at me.

  And that someone is Blake Snyder.

  16

  I freeze and time stops and the entire universe comes crashing down over my head.

  At least it feels that way.

  As soon as I gain control of my limbs, I duck into the bathroom at the back of the studio. My face is ripe-tomato red and I am burning up with embarrassment. I want to crawl under a rug. Actually, I want to be a rug. Anything so I can disappear.

  And speaking of disappearing … I suddenly remember this book I read last year about a girl named Nikka who was ignored so much she actually became invisible, like magically, somehow. And it was some horrible tragedy for her and she was so upset about it that she spent the rest of the story trying to become visible again.

  Meanwhile, I sort of loved the idea. If I were invisible, life would be so much better. I could go anywhere and do anything and not have to worry.

  There’s only one thing the story didn’t address, though. Something I’ve been wondering about for a while, and worrying about, too. Seriously, these questions have actually kept me up at night: If I were able to turn invisible, what would happen to my clothes? Would they disappear, as well? If not, would I have to get naked to slip through life undetected? I know that no one would be able to see me, but it would still be pretty embarrassing. Like, what if someone bumped into me? Eek. And maybe worse: I don’t k
now if I’d be able to get over the worry of suddenly not being invisible, of standing around in math class or sneaking into the boys’ locker room just to see what really goes on there, and suddenly appearing again, for everyone to see, completely naked. I blush simply thinking about it.

  Anyway, even with the risk, even with my questions about my clothes, I so wish I could turn invisible at this very moment. And if not that, I wish I could go back in time to twenty minutes before and not put on the wig and beads and glasses in the first place. Or maybe I should go back a couple of hours to when Sophie asked me to hang at the mall with her. I should’ve said no way.

  Why’d my dad have to play that song? Why did Sophie and I have to wander in this direction? What is Blake doing in front of Party People? I should’ve stayed at the other end of the mall, where it was safe. I should’ve kept my mouth shut. I shouldn’t have put on the costume.

  Except, wait a second … I was wearing a wig. So maybe Blake didn’t recognize me. I didn’t look like myself. There’s always a chance he was simply staring to stare. Watching the spectacle of a crazy late-afternoon concert at the mall.

  That’s what I try to talk myself into, except I know it’s not true. I can’t lie to myself.

  Blake and I locked eyes and the corners of his mouth turned up into a smile. I know he recognized me. Plus, Blake is fully aware of what my parents do for a living. Of course he knows it’s me.

  Even with the wig, I couldn’t be anyone else but Pixie Jones.

  The only thing I’m worried about now is what he’s going to do. Is he going to tell his friends? Will they all laugh about it?

  What if they start doing “Pixie singing like an old dead rock star” impressions at school?

  Blake isn’t the type of guy to make fun of people. He’s way too sweet for that, but his friends are pretty rowdy.

  Connor, especially. I remember last week he burped this really loud and disgusting burp in the lunchroom, and Becca was nearby and cringed and made a face—not even directed at him to be rude or anything. It was simply her natural reaction that she totally couldn’t help. But Connor saw her and got this mean look on his face and stood up and walked right up to her, leaned over, and belched again—this time in her ear.