I’m getting a little nervous. “Where are we going?” I ask.
“Home,” he says. “We’ve got a ton of work to do. I scheduled three parties for tomorrow and we have a million things to do to get ready.”
“What?” I squint at him, trying to figure out if he’s joking, but unfortunately he doesn’t seem to be, which leads to my next question. “Why would you schedule three parties in one day? Mom would never allow that. She doesn’t even like doing two parties at once. And that’s when both of you are home and working.”
“Yeah, I know that. It was a big mistake.”
“Don’t you have a calendar?” I ask.
My dad nods his head yes. “Of course I do, but I got some of the dates confused.”
“Well, what are they?” I ask. “And are they at the store or on location?”
“All on location,” my dad says. “The schedule is in the glove compartment.”
I open it up and pull it out. Usually Mom types up a whole spreadsheet with dates and times and details we need for the entire month, but this is just a piece of paper that was torn out of a notebook. There are some words scrawled on it in my dad’s messy handwriting and I need to squint to make them out:
10–12: Theo turning 5. Art party. 24 cupcakes, half vanilla, half chocolate.
1–3: Jake turning 3. Build and race your own race cars. Car-shaped chocolate cake for 15.
4–6: Alice turning 4. Unicorns and rainbow-themed arts and crafts and fairies. Gluten- and nut-free unicorn cake with a rainbow horn for 18.
I stare at the list, amazed. The parties are all large. Usually we’ll only do one of these on a weekend. And even that’s a lot of work. We can spend the entire night getting ready for one single party, with not a lot of time to spare.
“I don’t get how this happened,” I say.
“Look on the bright side: at least the times don’t overlap,” my dad tells me.
“Okay, in theory it is physically possible to organize and get to each of these parties, but that doesn’t mean this isn’t a huge disaster,” I tell him.
“Disaster is a bit of an exaggeration, Pixie.”
“Well, we’ll see. There’s busy and there’s crazy. That’s what Mom always says.”
“Well, your mother isn’t here,” my dad replies regretfully as we pull into our garage.
I frown down at the list again and ask, “How come you agreed to half chocolate and half vanilla cupcakes for a five-year-old?” My dad is the one who taught me that for kids under ten, each cupcake needs to be identical so there’s no fighting.
“I don’t know,” says my dad. “I tried to warn them but they really wanted both kinds and they were too persuasive.”
I don’t know why I’m giving him a hard time. It’s not like I have anything better to do this weekend. And more important, party prep is my favorite part of the job. I love to bake treats, stuff goodie bags, get costumes ready, and make sure we have the supplies we need.
“Did you go to the grocery store yet?” I ask.
“Of course!” my dad replies. “What do you think I am, some kind of amateur? The cake ingredients are in the back.”
After he cuts the engine he pops the trunk and we bring everything into the kitchen. It takes us three trips!
As I unload stuff from bags, my dad flips through the cookbook in search of the gluten- and nut-free cake recipe. “Here it is!” he says. “Now we need to find the unicorn-shaped cake mold.”
“It’s in the cabinet over the sink,” I say, pointing above his head. “You’ll find the race car one there, as well. And the muffin tins.”
My dad says, “Great. Thanks, Pixie,” as if I am a genius. Meanwhile, I am amazed that he doesn’t know this basic stuff.
He gets them down and then pulls out the rest of the supplies—measuring cups and spoons, mixing bowls, butter, eggs, coconut flour, and baking powder—and starts measuring ingredients. “So how’d everything go at school today?” he asks, once he’s settled down and working.
I suppress a groan and simply say, “Fine.”
“Oh, did the big election happen?”
“Yup. Sophie lost. Jenna Johnson won.”
I feel a lump in my throat and I hope my dad doesn’t have any more questions because I don’t want to talk about the election, or school, or Sophie. I don’t know why I’m even upset by the fact that the thing I knew was going to happen actually did happen. And we didn’t even get humiliated.
Sure, Olivia called Sophie a nerd, and that was super-annoying for me, but I don’t think anyone else heard her. Plus, Sophie doesn’t know about it and it’s not like I’d ever tell her.
“That’s too bad. Sorry, Pix.”
I shrug, and then hand him the stainless-steel spoon so he can stir the dry ingredients. “This is clean, yes?” my dad says. “I don’t want anyone getting sick on us.”
“It is,” I say. “I just pulled it out of the drawer.”
We have to be very careful with cross-contamination when people order gluten- and nut-free cakes. That’s why we make those cakes first and don’t even take out the flour and other non-gluten-free stuff until they are ready and boxed up.
Once the cake is in the oven, I grab the butter, powdered sugar, and vanilla and make the frosting in our mixer. When it’s nice and smooth and fluffy I dole it out into seven different bowls. Next I get the food coloring so I can dye everything for the rainbow. The food coloring we use only comes in primary colors—red, blue, and yellow—so making those three colors is easy. For the rest of them, I mix blue and yellow to make green, the red and yellow to make orange, the red and blue in equal parts to make purple, and the red and blue with a dash of yellow to make indigo.
By the time I finish, the timer goes off on the oven. The cake is ready, so I take it out and wait for it to cool. If I add the frosting too soon, it’ll melt into the cake. So I need to find something else to do. Namely, check on my dad. He’s pulled out the supply boxes for the three party themes and has them lined up on the coffee table.
“How many kids did I say would be at Theo’s art party?” he asks.
I check the list. “It says twenty-four cupcakes, but does that include adults, too?”
My dad nods. “Yes, I think so. It must be twelve kids. I hope we have enough easels.” He reaches into the “art” box and pulls out a container labeled PAINTS. Then he empties it onto the kitchen counter and starts counting.
“Make sure they’re all the same,” I say.
“Oh, good point,” my dad says, and goes back to double-check.
Meanwhile, I check that we have enough paper and brushes for the art party. And after that, I go back into the kitchen to check on the unicorn cake. It’s cool enough, so I carefully slide the knife along the inside edge of the pan and gently flip it over onto a tray. Then I hold my breath and hope for the best when I lift up the pan. It comes off easily and cleanly. Even the ridges of the unicorn mane and eyeball came out nicely—sometimes those spots get messed up, which is not the hugest problem because you can always cover mistakes up with extra frosting, but we’re not going to need to tonight. And that makes me happy. This cake is gorgeous.
I paint the whole thing with white frosting and toss some silver sprinkles onto it. Next I do the tail and the horn and the mane in every color of the rainbow. I write “Happy Birthday, Alice,” in alternating purple- and indigo-colored letters. And then I add more sprinkles for good measure.
When I’m done, it’s so beautiful I have to take a picture of it. Then I put it in the box and move on to the cupcakes, which are easier, since we don’t need to worry about allergies or anything. Chocolate and vanilla cakes and cupcakes are simple. Plus, I still have enough frosting left over so I don’t need to mix a new batch to paint the race car.
At midnight we are finally done with the baking and all the other preparations. I’m exhausted and my dad is, too. I’m so tired I can hardly believe it when the alarm rings at 9:00 a.m. I never sleep this late. When I open m
y eyes, my dad is standing in my doorway.
“Hey, Pixie. You ready for the marathon day?” he asks.
“Um, what if I say no?” I ask, pulling the covers up over my head.
“Not an option,” he replies.
24
Theo’s house is the largest I’ve ever seen. It takes up almost half of his street and it looks more like three giant houses strung together.
“Ready?” my dad asks as he turns off the engine and opens the van door.
“Sure,” I say, curious about what’s on the inside, what’s to come.
My dad carries the cupcakes and I have a bunch of kid-size easels tucked under my arm. It’s all we can manage between the two of us as we walk up the brick path to the front door, so we’ll have to make another trip to the van later. Maybe a couple more trips.
Moments after we knock with the heavy brass knocker, someone in a maid’s uniform answers. At first I think she must be dressed up, like for a costume party. But then I realize, no, Theo’s family actually has a maid who wears a uniform. I’ve never seen that in real life before, only in movies.
“Can I help you?” she asks. Her accent is French, I think.
My dad nods and grins and says, “I’m Dan and this is Pixie. We’re here from We Are Party People for Theo Gray’s birthday party.”
“Yes, please come in,” she says, leading us into the living room. “I’ll get Mr. and Mrs. Gray.”
As soon as we’re inside I notice that everything in the room is white—from the walls to the couches to the fluffy rug. There are a few glass sculptures in the corner, and one giant metal piece with pointy edges on the coffee table in the center of the room. The decor is super-formal. It’s hard to imagine that children live here, or are even allowed in this house. Everything seems so breakable. “Are you sure this is a kids’ party?” I whisper.
“That’s what I was told,” my dad replies.
We both stand there awkwardly, because we’re afraid that if we sit down we might get something dirty. Or at least I think my dad is thinking that because I certainly am.
Maybe there’s a whole different wing of the house that’s dedicated to kids, a place that looks normal. That’s what I’m hoping, anyway.
When Theo’s parents finally come to greet us, they are full of smiles. They introduce themselves as Linda and Rob. Linda is in a blue dress that flares at the bottom, and matching high, pointy heels. Rob is wearing a dark suit with a blue paisley scarf around his neck. I’m thinking we’re at the wrong house, or here on the wrong day, because they look as if they are dressed to go to the opera or something even fancier—the ballet, perhaps. But they bring us out into the backyard and explain that it’s where the party is going to be held.
Luckily, the space seems a little more kid-friendly. There are a few rows of kid-size tables already set up, at least. Each is covered in a pristine white linen tablecloth. Also, there are lots of balloons. Phew—balloons are always a good sign. There’s still one thing missing, though.
“Where’s the birthday boy?” I ask.
“He’s upstairs getting ready. The guests won’t be here for another half hour,” says Linda, checking her watch.
I see an open green space and start setting up our miniature easels.
“What’s this?” asks Rob.
“Oh, we usually start out with some painting,” my dad explains. “But don’t worry. We have smocks for everyone and we can even throw a tarp down on the lawn in case you’re worried about the grass. Although our paints are nontoxic tempera and they won’t stain.”
“Wait, paints? Why did you bring paints?” asks Rob.
My dad looks to me, confused. I shrug. So he turns back to Theo’s parents and says, “You did order an art party, correct? Or did you want the race cars? Sorry, it’s been a crazy week and perhaps I got my notes mixed up…” He pats his back pockets, as if that’s where his notes are.
“No, we definitely want an art party,” Rob says. “That’s what we ordered, but at the time we were thinking it would be more along the lines of an art-appreciation class.”
Linda nods in agreement. “Yes, we figured you’d teach the kids about famous painters, like Van Gogh, Picasso, and Renoir. Maybe bring in a few paintings to show them.”
“Prints, of course. We’re not expecting originals,” Rob says. “But if you have slides of actual artwork we can set up our projector in the den.”
“And if you have time I’d love for you to give them a lesson on Dadaism,” says Linda.
“Dadaism,” my dad repeats.
“It was an art movement of the European avant-garde from the early twentieth century,” Rob explains.
“And so whimsical and fun. I think it’s perfect for a kids’ art-appreciation party,” says Linda.
“A kids’ art-appreciation party,” my dad repeats quietly.
“Um, how old is Theo?” I ask, wondering if they are joking. I hope they are joking. But no one is laughing. Instead, we stand there in awkward silence.
“He turned five last week,” says Rob. “And we would’ve thrown his party on his birthday except we were in Paris then.”
“We really wanted Theo to see the Louvre on his fifth birthday. I feel bad that it’s taken so long,” Linda explains.
“I see,” my dad says, pinching the bridge of his nose with two fingers, looking down at the ground and thinking. When he looks back up, he takes a deep breath and smiles at them. “Now, this is only my opinion, of course, but I think most five-year-olds are more interested in making art than in learning about famous artists.”
Rob and Linda don’t say anything at first. They seem unaccustomed to being challenged, is what I am guessing. But eventually Linda jumps in.
“Oh, I think people underestimate children and what they are capable of,” she says. “That’s why we treat Theo like an adult.”
“We’re reading him his fourth Shakespeare play and he’s loving it,” says Rob proudly.
“Although he did have nightmares after Hamlet,” Linda adds with a frown.
I am in shock and my dad is, too.
Part of me is waiting for Linda and Rob to say, “Only kidding! Of course we want our kid to have a really great party where he gets to make fun stuff and get messy.” Except a larger part of me knows they are completely serious, which is sad and weird.
“How did Theo like Paris?” I have to ask.
Linda and Rob look at each other silently. My dad and I wait, and eventually Rob coughs. “It wasn’t great,” he says.
“I think he was homesick,” says Linda. “And maybe a little under the weather. It makes no sense. We went to three museums a day and what kid wouldn’t love that?”
My dad grins and says, “Usually, when we throw a party for five-year-olds, we’re more hands-on. I think they’d get bored listening to me talk. I mean, I’m entertaining but I’m not that entertaining. Usually, no, not simply usually, but every other time we’ve thrown an art-themed party, we have the kids make their own art. And not only five-year-olds—we sometimes get hired by grownups to do art parties. After all, um, it’s not school. It’s a party. And it’s supposed to be, well, fun.”
“Oh my,” Linda says, giving her husband a nervous glance. “This is a surprise.”
My dad jumps in again. “Plus, I think there’s something educational about the hands-on experience of creating something tangible. It’s important to study the masters, but it’s also important to gain skills that can only be taught through the process of play. There was a wonderful article about experiential learning in last week’s New Yorker magazine. Are you familiar with it?”
“Yes,” says Rob, nodding. “I remember reading that.”
I press my lips together to keep from laughing, because I can tell my dad is making up the part about the New Yorker article. Doesn’t matter, though, since it seems to be working.
Just then a young boy runs out of the house. He’s got floppy dark curls and red rosy cheeks and he’s dressed in a navy blu
e suit with a blue paisley scarf, just like his dad.
“Is this Theo?” my dad asks.
“Yes. Theo, where are your loafers?” asks Rob.
“I don’t like them,” Theo yells.
“You can’t wear sneakers with the suit,” says Linda. “Don’t you want to look nice for your birthday party?”
“I look nice,” Theo declares, looking down at himself.
“Yes, of course you do. But you’ll look so much nicer if your shoes match the rest of your outfit,” Linda reasons.
“Why can’t I wear a T-shirt and sweatpants like everyone else? Then my pants will match my shoes.”
Theo’s got a good point. Not that his parents are willing to admit it.
“Excuse me,” Rob says to me and my dad. “We have a situation.”
Both of Theo’s parents usher him into the house.
Once we’re alone my dad turns to me. “Your mom wouldn’t have made this mistake. She would’ve asked more questions.”
“What are you going to do?” I ask.
Suddenly he gets a wicked grin on his face. “Hold on. I think I have something in the van that’ll help. I’ll be right back.”
My dad leaves me alone, so I decide to finish setting up the easels. It’s not like we have a backup plan. And what five-year-old wants to be lectured about artists? None that I’ve ever met!
I’m feeling a little bad for Theo, actually, and am not looking forward to the birthday. I wonder if his friends’ parents are normal. I hope they are. Of course, from what little I know about Theo’s parents, I’m not entirely convinced they actually invited other five-year-olds to Theo’s party.
When my dad comes back outside five minutes later, I hardly recognize him.
He’s slicked down his hair and has changed his clothes. Rather than the paint-spattered jeans and button-down shirt he was wearing before, he’s in black pants and a red-and-white-striped shirt. He has on a beret and a fake mustache and he’s holding an artist’s palette and a paintbrush.
“I am Pierre, a French impressionist painter, and I am here to teach zee children about art,” he informs me.
Suddenly Theo comes racing back outside. He’s still in the suit except now he’s in shiny black loafers. He doesn’t look very happy until he notices my father. Then he stops short and grins.
We Are Party People Page 13