“Yeah…,” I said, thinking that my Way Better just made out with her. “So how’d it go with Jake?” I asked, trying to be casual. Trying not to chunder.
“I have to say, amazing,” she said, smiling from ear to ear as my heart sank slowly. “He is so sweet, and such an awesome kisser. I’m still rushing from it!”
“That’s great,” I managed to muster.
Sophie looked at me and could see I was bummed, but she thought it was because of Josh, not Jake. “Don’t worry, Laura, your birthday is in a month and I’m determined to find you a real man by then. I’m going to scan my BlackBerry tonight and see who we can set you up with. Hey, I think Elijah Wood is single!”
“Yeah, as if,” I said, dejected. I grabbed an apple and took a bite.
“You never know,” said Sophie. “It will be my mission to hook you up.”
“Thanks,” I said. At this point, the only man I wanted was in her arms.
While Sophie was euphoric, floating through the next few days on cloud nine, I did my best to keep the news from Whitney. I felt a little dishonest, seeing as she was my BF, but if she didn’t ask me directly what I did on Saturday or if Sophie and Jake had happened to make out over the weekend, then there was no point in offering that information unsolicited. And seeing as Whitney was still in extreme party planning mode, it didn’t look like it would come up.
I was trying to study for my history final in the library when Whitney came bursting in, pushing aside my flashcards to show me the latest sketch of her dress.
“It’s beautiful, Whit,” I said.
“So, um, have you happened to see Sophie’s?” asked Whitney, trying to be casual.
“Yeah,” I said. Here we go. “And it’s nice too.”
“Whatever,” said Whitney, flipping her hair. “Her party will suck.”
“Whitney, can you finally just get over this and make up? This fight is so juvenile, and it’s taking over everything.”
“No thanks, it’s not happening.”
I sighed. After a while this just got so boring. “Okay, then do what you have to do.”
“I will. My party is full speed ahead, and no way will trailer trash ever darken the doorway of my ball. I don’t even want to think about her.”
“Okay, you’re talking like a crazy person. I’m just going to continue to stay out of it.” Which was getting harder and harder.
“Do what you want. I just know you’ll be at my party.”
I didn’t want to tell her I was planning on going to both. But both parties seemed so remote right now. I was more concerned with nursing a semi-broken heart that I wished I had been strong enough to control so I wouldn’t be in this position. I mean, damn, it’s just a little muscle; why did it ache so much?
Chapter Twenty
The little boat I had been diplomatically sailing between the two islands of Sophie and Whitney so far had definitely seen some shaky waters. But the sharks were circling and my boat was about to capsize. I would later learn why both Whitney and Sophie turned on me.
It turns out Whit and her mom had gone for dinner to La Grenouille to discuss party details. They had been having a totally normal time when Whitney looked up to see a horrified look on her mom’s face.
“That is an affront!” Mrs. Blake ranted. “They should not be allowed in here.”
Whitney turned to see an extremely obese family sitting down to dinner at the adjacent banquette.
“Mother—”
“Don’t Mother me. How can people let themselves go like that? Get some self-control!”
“Maybe it’s not their fault,” Whitney attempted. “Maybe it’s their genes or something?”
“Well, if my DNA fails me like that, you just take one of daddy’s Holland & Holland silver shotguns and kill me right there,” Mrs. Blake said, gulping a swig of Chardonnay.
“Mom, they can hear you!” Whitney protested.
“Ugh, I think I can see a hint of orange Cheeto dust on the man’s face! Appalling. Simply odious.” Mrs. Blake waved over the maître d’, who was walking by. “Philippe? Cheri, qui sont les gens ici?”
“La Famille Couchard. Zey invented zee Bacon Bits.”
Mrs. Blake dismissed Philippe and turned to her daughter with solemn eyes. “Whitney,” she started calmly. “I want you to look good and hard at those bacon people. I want you to examine them. Because if you keep eating the way you have been, that, my dear, will be you.”
Whitney felt shame and heat rise to her cheeks. She dropped her hot roll onto her plate and set down the butter knife as if it were a poison-dipped spear.
“Now, when are you picking up the Save the Date cards from the calligrapher?” Mrs. Blake asked, changing the subject. “Have Laura fetch them; she’s downtown—”
“Well, she’s in the West Village, Mom. It’s not that close to Wall Street…”
“Downtown is downtown. She can get them.”
“I think she’s helping Sophie with something tomorrow anyway.”
There was a long pause. “What?” Mrs. Blake said, venom dripping off her tongue.
“It’s okay, Mom. She’s trying to stay out of it all,” Whitney defended.
“No. It is not ‘okay.’ After everything we have done for her! All the trips, hand-me-downs, dresses, trinkets, and baubles, and she is aligning herself with that vulturous slag?”
“Mom, Laura doesn’t want to be in the middle. It’s not that she’s on Sophie’s side, she’s just neutral!”
“She is not Switzerland. A girl in her situation should be more prudent. One cannot have wishy-washy double agents like that in one’s life.”
“But, Mom…”
“Get rid of her.”
Similarly, Mrs. Mitchum and Sophie were dining together as their chef served a Chinese dinner—Cantonese, not Szechuan—when Sophie was forced to make a disturbing choice. I later was told the blow-by-blow.
“They lost everything—the Rolls, the twelve-carat diamond, their beloved El Greco—everything!” Adriana apparently gushed.
“But isn’t she your friend?” Sophie asked.
“Well, not anymore. Plus, we were never close, really.”
“You were in each other’s wedding.”
Adriana put her chopsticks down. “Sophie,” she said as though she were speaking to a small child, “there is a time and a place for friendship. If there’s one thing you have to learn in life, it’s that you always have to upgrade. Now, that may sound harsh to you, but it is how the world works. And friends embroiled in scandal are like a wart: They must be removed.”
“Anyway,” said Sophie, switching gears. “I need the driver tomorrow ’cause Laura and I are going to pick out the confetti from that confetti designer in Queens.”
“I like that Laura,” Mrs. Mitchum mused breezily, crunching into a steamed snowpea. “Good for her to have the smarts to stick with you.”
“Well, actually…,” Sophie started, “she’s still friends with Whitney. She kind of wanted to stay out of the whole fight thing.”
Sophie’s mom froze. “What? She should be on your side! Life is about loyalty!”
“But—”
“I get it, she’s a user!”
“She’s not, she’s—”
“Dispensable. That’s what she is. It’s time to erase her.”
Sophie sat quietly, thinking.
“I’m serious,” said Adriana stoically. “It’s time to flush her down the toilet. Like diarrhea.”
Who says parents are mature and always take the high road?
Chapter Twenty-one
It all went down at the Temple of Dendur, that looming structure that takes up a huge glassed-in chunk of the Metropolitan Museum of Art. We were on a class trip, and I was blissfully unaware that my fate would change that day as I stood, sketch pad in hand, intently listening to the docent explain how this thousands-of-years-old temple ended up in the middle of New York City. When the group dispersed to scribble down some notes, Whitney pulled me o
ff to the side.
“Laura, I have to talk to you,” she said. Uh-oh, I knew that face. It was all squished up and her mouth was twitching. Whit always got like that when someone said something offensive to her. I was in trouble.
“Okay…” Heart palpitations quickening.
“Is it true you were at Sophie’s house and Sophie and Jake made out?” she asked with fury in her voice.
“Yes…,” I said.
“Why did you neglect to tell me this?” she asked in a rage.
“Look, Whitney, I knew you’d get all upset, and I just didn’t want to be the messenger.”
“How could you not tell me? Aren’t you my best friend?”
“Yes, but come on, Whitney, do you even like Jake?” I was defensive but also angry. If only Jake knew he was being used as a pawn, he would just freak out and wash his hands of both Sophie and Whitney.
Before Whitney could respond, Sophie came storming up and grabbed my arm. “Laura, we have to talk,” she announced, not even acknowledging Whitney.
“Tell the little social-climbing upstart to back off, we’re in the middle of a convo,” said Whitney.
“This can’t wait,” snapped Sophie.
“Guys—,” I began before Whitney interrupted me.
“I can’t really deal with this,” she said, motioning to Sophie and drawing out the word this as if it were polluted.
“I’ve decided that it is time for you to make a choice,” said Sophie, her voice tight but stern.
“There is no choice, Hollywood Trash. Laura is my friend and always will be,” Whitney said, addressing Sophie. Then she turned to me. “Laura, I want you to renounce your friendship with Sophie right now. We go much further back, my family and I have done a lot for you, and you can no longer stay friends with her.”
I was speechless. What? Done a lot for me? Was I living in a communist country? What is up with the dictatorship in the friend category? Psycho. But before I could respond, Sophie jumped in.
“She’s right about one thing, and only one thing, Laura; it’s time to take a side, and I know you’ll take mine. I mean, look at what Whitney just said to you. She acts like she owns you. She obviously didn’t get the news flash that slavery ended fifty years ago,” said Sophie.
Um, more like 150 years ago, but okay.
“You guys, this is crazy,” I insisted. “I told you from the beginning, I am not taking sides. I’m friends with both of you.”
I saw Sophie momentarily waver, but then it looked like she remembered something and she got all serious again. “No, Laura, choose or lose, and I don’t mean the Senate race.”
“I won’t. I’m friends with both of you and that’s that.”
“No, Laura, you can’t be friends with both of us. That is unacceptable,” said Whitney, sounding more like her mother every second. “You’re not Switzerland. And quite frankly, I don’t have time for wafflers!”
“Whit…”
Whitney’s face started to contort. “The fact that it’s not an automatic decision for you proves that you were never really a true friend. You’re an opportunist, just like my mother said. You always borrow things, and you’re such a user.”
I felt like I was being stung by a trillion hornets. “Whoa, Whitney, you’re the one who always said what’s mine is yours,” I said, my voice breaking as I choked back hot tears.
“I didn’t mean it literally.”
“Decide now, Laura,” snapped Sophie. “It’s time for you to prove that you’re really my friend and don’t just want to go to premieres.”
“If you pick Sophie, I’ll know it’s just because you want to meet Matt Damon. User.” Whitney sneered.
“You’ll never meet him at this point,” seethed Sophie. “And I’m going to text-message him and tell him what an ugly lesbo you are.”
Suddenly I burst into tears. I couldn’t believe what I was hearing, that my two “best friends” were turning on me and accusing me of such horrible things. Here I thought I was so mature and had taken the high road, trying to mend their relationship, refusing to backstab them, just staying out of harm’s way, and it was all coming back to slap me in the face. Twice.
“You guys, this is so unfair,” I sputtered between sobs. “I just didn’t want to pick sides!”
“You are so spineless! I’m flushing you down the toilet,” Sophie said bitterly. “Like diarrhea.”
“Laura, your birthday is in three weeks. At the rate you’re going, it’s going to be Table for One at your crap restaurant ‘party,’” hissed Whitney.
Whitney turned to stomp away but then whipped around and spat out one more insult. “And by the way, I’ll see to it that Oscar de la Renta never sees your stupid dress sketches!” she said, and stomped off.
I looked at Sophie imploringly.
“And ditto for Calvin. And not only that, Miss Vanilla Ice Cream, I’ll make sure that Jake and all the other guys never talk to you again!” Sophie blurted in a venom-steeped voice before storming away.
I was stunned. I was heartbroken. I was nauseous. And I was angry.
After somehow making it through the rest of the day thinking I was going to have a coronary at any second, I stumbled my way down to the philosophy building at NYU in a haze of grief to find my father. I waited outside his classroom, watching him motion to the students and scribble on the chalkboard while he lectured. After waiting for everyone to file out, I opened the door and went in.
My cute dad was sitting at his desk in his tweed blazer with the usual lunch crumbs all over it, rubbing his glasses with his handkerchief. I couldn’t even say hi without bursting into choking sobs. I wept uncontrollably, the hot tears flooding down my cheeks. My dad just took me in his arms and hugged me until I was able to speak. Then, just as I opened my mouth, he put his finger up to tell me to wait, went to the hall, and came back with a paper cup filled with water. I drank it down and finally breathed.
“What happened, sweetie?”
The word sweetie set me off again, so after another breakdown, I finally calmed down again and was able to fill him in. “I never knew being called Switzerland was so bad,” I finished.
“I’m sure they didn’t mean it,” said my dad.
“Yes, they did!” I cried, still heaving with sobs. “They promised to ruin my life. All I wanted was to stay out of it, and now I’m totally out of it.”
I rambled on and on, the stress of the past few weeks spilling out of me. I told him how hard it was for me to be around such rich girls who got everything they ever wanted, how I hated that Whitney threw her generosity back in my face, and how my friends had just made me feel like total crap for trying to stay out of this. I was a total wreck. I felt like all my good intentions had been mocked and that these girls, whom I had only tried to reconcile and remain friends with, had been more evil to me than if they had been my worst enemies. I ended with the statement “And I don’t want a birthday party.”
That’s where my father finally interjected.
“Wait, honey. Your birthday is still a few weeks away. I’m sure things will have settled by then. You can’t ignore your Sweet Sixteen. It’s a cultural landmark.”
“No one will come. I’m a social leper.”
“Your mom and I still want to hang out with you.”
My dad smiled at me and the tears started again.
“Thanks, Dad. But just be prepared to be the only people singing ‘Happy Birthday.’”
“Then we’ll just sing it extra loud,” said my dad, kissing me on the forehead. “But I promise you, sweetheart, by Monday, at the latest, this will all be over.”
Chapter Twenty-two
It had been a quiet weekend. I mean, mute. Crickets. For some reason I expected Whitney and Sophie to call and apologize, telling me they were crazy and it was all a bad dream and let’s just forget about it. But nothing. Silence. The only person who called was Jake, but luckily I wasn’t there. I mean, I would love to download it all to Jake, but I was a) secretly worried
that Whitney or Sophie had already filled him in, spinning it to their advantage, in which case he’d be repulsed; or b) afraid that he knew nothing and I would have to fill him in on the humiliating fact that I was now friendless. A loser.
I hate that panicky feeling you get when you are in a big fight with your best friends. It’s like being solo on a desert island. I don’t need people bashing me behind my back. And the more I thought about it, the more it really pissed me off that they were unable to see my side of things.
Move over, Reese Witherspoon in Election. On Monday Whitney and Sophie were burning up the campaign trail to get everyone in our grade to come to their rival Sweet Sixteen bashes. I never knew free loot could buy friendship. When I walked in that morning, I saw I was an even bigger pariah than I’d suspected. Every single person—and I mean nerds whom I was always nice to but Whitney snubbed—was being courted. Every Whit-proclaimed “geek,” “loser,” and “total NOTL” was now being begged to attend her party, only because it was one less geek Sophie could claim as her guest. They were like chess pawns, only they had acne and clear braces.
“Ding!” Round one commenced. In one corner, Sophie was handing out T-shirts that said SOPHIE’S 16! SAVE THE DATE! On the other side of the lounge, Whitney started handing out little blue Tiffany boxes. Everyone ripped their gifts open to find sterling key chains with Whitney’s date of birth on the back and her monogram on the other, all hand-engraved. It was a turf war zone, like West Side Story minus the dancing.
“Hey, Belle!” Whitney smiled, newly BriteSmile-bleached tusks gleaming. “Here ya go, Susie!”
Nice. She had called both Belle and Susie “bison” the week before. After handing another ribbon-tied box to Lily Baxter (whom she used to call ’Limi Baxter because of her bout with bulimia), Whitney caught me looking her way. She shot me a glare from Hades and walked off. Ouch—her poisonous gaze was like a laser and killed what was left of my nerves to hell. My sweet parents swore this would “all wear off,” but I didn’t see any love coming my way anytime soon. As much as I wanted to confront her and Sophie, my anger was dwarfed by my fear of the evil dopplegängers they had become.
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