Bittersweet Sixteen

by Carrie Karasyov

  Max immediately approached us and put his arm around Kaitlin. I glanced around the hall to see who else had arrived. Just then I saw Sophie, who was in a floor-length pale pink sexy plunging Versace dress. She ran over giddily, as if her five-inch Manolos were Keds, and embraced Kaitlin and Max as I looked on from the sidelines. It was so immature; I was standing right there, but she acted like I was invisible. I walked away from the group and left them all chatting about Sophie’s amazing time at Calvin’s. They just seemed so shallow and petty at that moment that I didn’t want to be near them. As I was moving toward the door Kaitlin shot me a look and started to come over, but I just waved her away. Let them hang out. I didn’t need them.

  Just before I entered one of the doors that led into the twinkling ballroom, I spied Whitney and Ava coming out of another door, whispering. I could immediately tell that Whit had something up her sleeve. Maybe coming tonight was a big mistake. I had a bad feeling that serious stuff was about to go down.

  I walked around the ballroom, pretending to look for friends but feeling very alone. It was such a glamorous party, with dozens of flowers and a full orchestra, and it would have been so much fun to be there with friends. I wondered now why I had even come. I felt like such a loser as I stood off to the side, taking it all in.

  “Hey, Laura, lookin’ foxy,” said Josh, who had slinked up alongside me.

  “Oh,” I said, startled. “Hi, Josh.”

  “Dude, I am fully hammered. We started getting sloshed at Bobby’s at, like, three o’clock.”

  Great. Like I cared.

  “So, Laura, want some?” Josh held up a thermos and teetered back and forth so much that I thought I would get motion sickness. I politely excused myself to the bathroom to get away from him.

  I stood in the stall for five minutes. I had never wanted to push the fast-forward button more on an evening. Before unlocking my stall to exit, I heard two girls enter, laughing.

  “So you know that girl Whitney from my club?” asked one.

  “Whitney Blake, right? From Tate?” said the other.

  “Yeah. So she said she’s fully about to pull this crazy historic prank on some bitch everyone hates at her school, so we have to hurry!”

  “Oh my God, totally, lemme just put some more Lip Venom on. I need to look extra pouty and Angelina-ish if I’m gonna mack with Coke Saunders. He’s back from Choate and he looks hot.”

  “Tell me about it. Okay, you look properly collagenized. Let’s sprint.”

  My heart fell. Holy moly, what was Whitney planning?

  I went out into the throngs of people and looked around for someone—anyone—who was a friend I could turn to. It was one thing to be frozen out in the Tate hallways; that was local warfare. But to amp it up in public, in front of all the schools, upper-classmen, and guys, that was overboard.

  The crowded massive ballroom was loud with the buzz of music, chatter, and laughter. No one looked familiar to me. I spotted a bunch of Chapin girls I’d seen at a field hockey game, but no one I really knew. Then, across the room, I saw Whitney whispering to Josh and two guys I didn’t know. All were passing around Josh’s thermos with God knows what concoction in it. I wondered where Jake was—I remembered him mentioning that his family wasn’t leaving for vacation ’til the next day.

  This was ridiculous. I decided now was as good a time as any to confront Whitney and stop all of this immature behavior, including whatever she had up her design sleeve for tonight. On my way over, I was practically knocked down by throngs of designer-clad, dewy-skinned beauties and their loosened-bowtie escorts. Just as I approached Whitney, I saw her eyes widen, and she looked to her right, where Sophie was standing at the bar.

  “Whitney,” I said, stopping right in front of her. “What’s going on? I just heard—”

  “Laura, get out of the way,” Whitney said, looking worried.

  “Why? Are you planning—”

  “No, not her!” Whitney screamed, seemingly to someone behind me.

  Bam. A guy with a giant brown paper bag on his head flew up right behind me, grabbed my butt and squeezed, and ran off. I whipped around and saw him running away through the gilded doors, laughing. And then I saw the wide-eyed party guests staring at me.

  I looked down at the back of my ivory dress, which was now glistening with red paint. My stunning gown that I had labored over now looked like I had a full period attack all over it, like the heavy-bleeding Godfather days, as Whitney called them, ’cause of all the gore in the movie. I felt dizzy. I turned to look at Whitney, who looked mortified. Between a spell of gasps, laughter, “Holy shit”s, and “Sweet Jesus”s from the chaperones, I fainted.

  When I slowly came back into consciousness a few seconds later, I was lying on the ground faceup. The conductor from the band was fanning me, and both Whitney and Sophie were looking down at me. And between them was Jake.

  Move over, Olympic sprinters. Move over, gazelles: Legs have never moved faster. Before I could even process what had just happened to me, I was running through the lobby, trying desperately to get outside.

  “Laura, wait!” I heard Jake yell. At the sound of his voice, the rocket within me spurred my feet into a literal sprint, and within seconds I was through the revolving door, into the winter air, slamming a cab door behind me, and as the car screeched away, my worn-out body bent over in shaking sobs.

  Chapter Twenty-five

  After being calmed down by my parents, who were distraught to find me home so quickly, not to mention with a butt coated in red paint, I boiled myself in the bathtub. I wanted to wash away not just the paint, which had seeped through my dress and onto my legs and glutes, but I also wanted to wash away all the recent events. Cleanse the hatred, cleanse the meanness, cleanse the immaturity out of my life. I wanted to beam myself to adulthood, where this BS was a thing of the past, where evil girls and competition and this rat race were finished. But would they ever be? I could be taking sad, foamy baths like this forever, moments where I would wish my troubles could pop away like the glistening bubbles and my stress would dissolve like a sliver of soap lost at the bottom of the tub.

  My depressing porcelain prayer ground was suddenly invaded, however, when I heard the buzzer ring. I heard my mom talking into the speaker and knew we had visitors. Ugh. I pulled the plug on the bath and on my hopes for a quiet recovery and put on my bathrobe. When I came out, hair still wet and face still damp from both bathwater and tears, I found Kaitlin and Ava, equally dewy in my living room.

  They were both crying. I hadn’t seen them together in the same room since the war broke out, but through my blurred vision and stuttered speech I managed to ask them what they were doing there. They gushed apologetic sobs.

  “Laura, I’m so, so sorry you ended up in the middle. You were the only sane one,” Ava said, convulsively crying.

  “I can’t believe all this crap,” said Kaitlin, wiping her eyes. “I’m sorry for being such a freak lately, I don’t know what I was thinking.” She wept. “I feel awful that I participated in Sophie’s retarded vendettas.”

  “Me, too, with Whit’s,” said Ava. “I never meant for this to happen. Whit and Sophie are mortified, too.”

  For some reason that didn’t make me feel better. I nodded and tried to force a grateful smile for their visit, but their apologies did little to ease the sick feeling in the pit of my stomach.

  Then, to make matters worse, the loud buzzer rang again. I groaned. Great, a free-for-all. Whitney came running in, totally red-faced and crying, in her full Marie Antoinette–style gown, followed by Sophie, with the same tortured look, but in a beaded slipdress.

  “Laura!” screamed Whitney, running up to hug me. I stood perfectly still.

  “Laura, we’re sorry!” cried Sophie.

  I was too traumatized to even speak. Just seeing them in my living room after the crushing heinosity they’d put me through was too much.

  “Laura! Please listen to us!” Whitney sobbed.

  “What?” I
shouted, the loudness of my voice surprising even me. “What do you want from me?!”

  “I’m so sorry!” Whitney cried. “I didn’t mean for it to get on you—”

  “Yeah, it was meant for me, you psycho—” Sophie screamed at Whitney.

  “You bitch, just leave me alone with my best friend,” Whitney yelled back. “This is just as much your fault as mine! Get out!”

  “I’m apologizing!” said Sophie, now crying harder than Whitney. “I never meant to hurt you, Laura!”

  I saw my parents peering in from the kitchen. They hadn’t seen drama like this since their opera subscription had lapsed. It was quite a scene and a half. There I was, looking like a drowned rat, with four sobbing girls, dressed in full gowns and streaming Maybelline, all gathered around me. It was the same gang as always, but rife with wars and rage and hurt feelings. Especially mine.

  I took a deep breath. “You two are disgusting. You have been so pathetic and I’ve really seen your true colors—and they are worse than teal, salmon, and puce. You sicken me.”

  “It was an accident—” Sophie sobbed, begging me to listen, but I ignored her.

  “Whitney,” I said, looking in her eyes. “I’ve been your best friend for ten years, and it only took you ten minutes to turn on me and say horrible things. And you, Sophie. I honestly don’t know what I saw in you. Please both leave.” They stood there, stunned and quietly whimpering. “Okay,” I continued. “If you won’t get out, I will.” I turned and walked into my room, closed the door, and bawled into my pillow.

  Chapter Twenty-six

  There wasn’t really a silver lining in sight for the monster storm cloud that had torrentially poured on my sophomore year so far, but hey, at least I was on Christmas break for three weeks. I had never needed it so badly. I stayed in bed and convalesced the first few days. I really truly fell ill from all the horror at school. My mom or dad would come in every now and then and report a phone call from Sophie or Whitney, but I wouldn’t take their calls. They each dispatched Kaitlin and Ava to come see me—they were scared of my inner wrath that had recently been released—but Ava and Kaitlin were really unable to make any sort of case for Sophie and Whitney and admitted they wanted the whole thing to be over also. It was a pretty gloomy time, especially with the white snow turning into dirty slush outside and an angry chill gripping the city.

  On the fourth day, I lay in bed halfheartedly sketching some new dress designs—I’d been unable to salvage my paint-saturated gown and hoped a new dress would take my mind off of it—when my mom knocked on my door and came in.

  “Whitney called again,” she said, sitting on the edge of my bed.

  “I’m not talking to her.”

  “She just wants you to know that she’s leaving tonight for Barbados or the Bahamas, hmm…I can’t remember which one, the Bahamas, I think? Anyway, she’ll call you when she’s back.”

  “Great. Whatever. She can call, but I won’t talk to her.”

  “I don’t blame you,” said my mom, pushing a strand of my hair behind my ear.

  “Mom, why is high school the melting pot of evil?” I asked.

  My mom clasped her hands and looked up at the ceiling, concentrating. My parents always took my questions seriously and never just whipped out a flippant answer.

  “You want to know my theory?” she asked finally. “I think it’s because teenagers don’t get enough cuddling. Children get lots of hugs and kisses, and adults in romantic relationships do as well. But teenagers…they’re a little tactophobic. They just don’t like to be touched. They’re not used to it. A hug can be a terrific emotional balm.”

  Hmm. “That’s a good point. I mean, we don’t go around hugging girls, and if we go around hugging boys we get a reputation, and if we hug our parents, we’re losers. I think you may be onto something, Mom.”

  “So can I give you a hug?” she asked, smiling.

  “Sure.”

  We hugged for a really long time. I’m sure my ex-friends would say it was dumb, but I didn’t care.

  “Don’t worry about me, Mom. I’ll be okay.”

  “Oh, I’m not worried about you,” she said, rising. “I’m never worried about you. You’re armed with all the good qualities necessary to take on the world, Laura. That’s something that privilege can’t buy.”

  God, I loved my parents. And that was something Sophie and Whitney definitely could not say.

  The next three weeks were a perfect example of all those weird New Agey experiences that Dr. Phil and Oprah extol. I had free time to “regroup” and “recover” and “reconnect with my inner self.” All that psychobabble can actually be somewhat truthful, because it is healing to just hang out alone and focus on yourself. Sophie had left a message that she was jetting off to Aspen but would check in when she got back. Like I cared. With Sophie and Whitney away skiing and sunning, I tried to forget about them, and fully immersed myself in Lower Manhattan. I didn’t go uptown once, which is probably why I was able to escape and not think at all about the birthday party drama.

  I actually spent almost the entire time concentrating on my designs. I thought a lot about what Whitney had said about me borrowing her stuff, and I realized I didn’t need or want to borrow her clothes or accessories anymore. Don’t get me wrong; they were beautiful, and I hoped one day I would be able to own my own Chloé gown, but I had faith in my designs and knew if I got back to work, I could make dresses that were just as good.

  I spent weeks wandering through NoLita, the Lower East Side, and Williamsburg, taking notes at my favorite stores and hanging out in Incubator, watching Jade in action. She was cool and showed me her sketchbooks and tear sheets and told me what she thought would be the big trends for spring. I also went to Chinatown and scanned the fabrics, looking for ideas, and visited button stores and ribbon warehouses. No petite nook in the Garment District was too little for me. I had never felt so creatively engaged, and it was such a nice feeling. I realized I had wasted too much time on those stupid parties and catfights, and my New Year’s resolution was to try not to give a damn and stay true to myself.

  My one source of anxiety was Jake. I mean, I had been a little nasty to him and I felt bad. I was just tired of the way he was taking his time choosing between Sophie and Whitney and really wished he would get on with it so he would put us all out of our misery. I mean, they call me Switzerland and tell me to choose or lose? If I was Switzerland, then he was Geneva. He’s the capital of Waffler Land. I guess he chose Sophie when he kissed her. But why did he still act like he wasn’t with her, and why did he seem confused when I mentioned her that day at the bus stop? The bottom line was that it was none of my business, so I really shouldn’t have been rude. I tried to ignore it and on Christmas even prayed a little in church that I didn’t hurt his feelings. (I am sooo dorky, I know.) I also felt a little weird that he’d witnessed the humiliating debacle that was the Gold and Silver Ball—and that he hadn’t called me. I guess after my harsh treatment of him that day at the bus stop, our friendship really was over. I also closet-repented for the one deadly sin that was creeping its way into my conscience, no matter how hard I tried to stuff it back down: Envy. I was Kermit-green with envy about that spin the bottle night. I had to admit it to myself finally: I liked Jake. A lot. All this time, I felt delusional—how could he ever be into me when two of the most gorge gals at Tate were fighting over him? Then I started thinking, But he calls me, we’re better friends, and isn’t that the most important thing? I screwed it all up by going psycho on him. So my holiday was tainted with regret, but then, on New Year’s Eve, I got my belated Christmas present.

  I was sitting at home, watching the ball drop with my parents, when the phone rang.

  “Hey, Finnegan…”

  It was Jake.

  “I hope I’m not calling too late—I assumed you’d be up ringing in the New Year,” he continued.

  “Hey, Jake! I’m just at home having a Dick Clark fest with my ’rents. How’s Antigua?” I aske
d, trying not to show I was excited.

  “Great. You know, sunny every day, nothing special. I just…wanted to say hey.”

  “I’m so glad you called.” I wasn’t sure what to say about my snappage at him the last time we spoke, and I didn’t even want to bring up the night of the ball. “Um…Jake, sorry I was such a stress case last time I talked to you. I was having a total coronary.”

  “No problem. I hope things are better.”

  “Yeah, things are better now. Hey, the ball’s dropping! So weird that we sit here every year and, like, half the world watches this little ball drop. What is the meaning behind that, would someone tell me?”

  Jake laughed. “I don’t know, but you are so observant.”

  “It’s just weird, right?”

  “Okay, Dad!” Jake said, his voice muffled. I guess he was being summoned. “Listen, I have to bolt; the fam’s waiting for me. But I just wanted to say Happy New Year, Laura. It’s going to be a great year.”

  “You think so?” I asked, hopeful.

  “Definitely. I feel it in my bones.”

  “I hope you’re right. Happy New Year, Jake.”

  “See you soon, Finnegan.”

  When I hung up, my parents looked at me curiously. I turned deep red. “What?”

  “Nothing,” they replied in unison, smiling. Then they gave each other a look. But I didn’t care. I was thrilled. I hoped he was right about it being a great year. That made my day.

  Chapter Twenty-seven

  After buying fabric, gathering grosgrain samples, and spending time sketching galore from the comfort of my cocoon—I mean, bedroom—I decided to turn the pages and pages of on-paper dresses into 3-D. I swear, I did not move my ass from my sewing station for fourteen hours. For three days, my parents poked their heads in, asking if they could bring me food or water, like I was going on some Mahatma Gandhi hunger strike. But it wasn’t a political statement; it was almost a statement to myself—that I could do it, that I had the goods, and that I didn’t need Whitney’s intro to Oscar or Sophie’s to Calvin. I was officially taking the plunge and going from designing my own duds to amping it up a notch and attempting what I never even had the guts to dream about: my own line. For some reason, hitting rock bottom thrust me into a little universe of my own, and my solitude turned into strength, which turned into a way out of the black hole. I started to think, as I looked in my closet, if D&G or LV can be hot, why not LF? By the end of my stitching rampage, I had sixteen kick-ass pieces—a cool A-line skirt with leather ribbon piping, a pintucked blouse, a swirl-skirted strapless dress, and a bunch of cami tops and cowl-neck knits. With my heart beating, I packed them into one of my dad’s old L.L. Bean navy duffels and left the house before I lost my nerve.