The Birthday Girl

by Melissa de la Cruz

  Sanjay crossed his arms. “Money. Who cares about money?”

  “Easy for you to say, Mr. Billionaire.” She’d been teasing him this way for years, ever since she intuited how rich he really was. There was a fellow mom at Glenwood Prep, where the kids went to school, who made a habit of googling everyone’s net worth and then kissing up to those who made the cut. Ellie never had to resort to that kind of web sleuthing. If someone was superrich in her circle, she knew about it instantly: It was in the air, whispered and talked about so much, the aura of a billion dollars like a heady perfume, that you knew everything about the billionaire before you even met them.

  “I’ll give you some money. How much do you need?” Sanjay offered.

  “Are you serious?”

  “Yeah, why not? Pay me back when you can.”

  “Sanjay, I couldn’t. Thanks, but no.” He’d offered before, and she always turned him down. Taking his money would change their friendship, and he was one of the few real friends she could count on.

  “You’ve made your thirty million,” said Sanjay. “What could be the problem?”

  “Ha,” she laughed faintly.

  Thirty million. “After thirty million, it’s all the same,” Sanjay had told her once when they were having lunch in his building in New York, in the private restaurant in the lobby that was for residents only. Over at the next table was the CEO of Goldman Sachs, who was Sanjay’s neighbor and Parcheesi playmate. “There’s truly nothing out of your range after that.”

  “So after thirty million, there’s nothing left to aspire to? That’s as good as it gets?” she’d asked.

  “Pretty much.”

  Sanjay spent as much as she did a year, they both lived at about three million dollars net, which meant he was frugal and she wasn’t. But it did mean they took a lot of family vacations together, and met up at Art Basel Miami Beach in December, Aspen in January, and the Hamptons or Positano over the summer, if their schedules allowed. Sanjay was her only friend who ever called her on the phone instead of texting, and she suspected they were that close because he’d never been in love with her and vice versa. She was too stupid for him, she liked to joke (although it was true). But maybe they’d never been lovers because she’d done the same thing he did, white-knuckled her way, fighting and clawing to the top of the point-zero-zero-zero-one percent. They were allies, comrades. Sanjay had one child, a daughter from a previous girlfriend, his only heir, and it was Ellie’s dearest wish that one of her twins would win Isadora Kumar’s hand one day and make them a real family. Plus, all that lovely money couldn’t hurt.

  All this talk of money was making her stomach churn. If Harry Kim pulled out of the deal, she was fucked. She needed that deal like her life depended on it because her life depended on it.

  “Seriously, Ellie Belly, what do you need?”

  “From you, honey? Nothing,” she said. “Seriously. I’m okay. Don’t worry about me. It’s nothing I can’t fix.” She couldn’t tell Sanjay how badly in hock she was to the bank. It was too humiliating. How all this—the party, the house (all her houses), her entire life—was on borrowed time and money, and if that deal with Harry didn’t come through, she wasn’t even sure if she could pay the caterer tonight, let alone the two DJs.

  She had to change the subject before she sweat through her dress and ruined it. “Forty years, can you believe I’m this old?” she asked.

  “Um, no,” he said. “Although I thought for sure you’d never admit to it. Models never do. I mean, I don’t remember you ever turning thirty. Only twenty-five, five times.” He shot her a cheeky grin.

  “I was hoping to push it off for a few more years,” she confessed.

  “With that Botox you could’ve gotten away with it. By the way, I love your house,” he said admiringly.

  “Thanks, so does Blake. He said I ‘finally’ impressed him,” she said wryly. She kind of liked that Blake had been so rude; it gave her a juicy anecdote to tell everyone at the party.

  “Asshole.”

  “Douche.”

  “Why are you even friends with him?”

  “I ask myself that question every time,” said Ellie. “Maybe I’m just a sucker for nostalgia. He reminds me of being young in London.”

  “I remind you of being young in London.”

  “You’re right. I guess I should get rid of him.”

  “You say that every time, and you never do. It’s fine. I have a new little venture he might be interested in,” said Sanjay, who was always working. “Anyway, this house! It’s fantastic. It’s so much better than mine.”

  “What are you talking about! I love your Hamptons house!” she cried. “This is nothing!”

  Sanjay was forever lamenting the state of his beach house, which never seemed to live up to his expectations, and they talked about renovations and remodeling, the problem of architects and contractors, the headaches of permits and fees, the merits of Caesarstone versus veined marble. Rich-people chatter. To be rich in America meant to be in a state of constant renovation. Their conversation was interrupted by the arrival of Mean Celine, aka billionaire number three.

  “Happy birthday, cupcake!”

  “Mean Celine!” Ellie gushed as Sanjay made a graceful exit to let them catch up. “You made it!”

  “We just touched down,” said Mean Celine, who had a habit of flying her jet to events and then flying back home at the end of the evening, as she was allergic to “hotel sheets” and preferred the comfort of her own bed—by far the ultimate privilege.

  Mean Celine’s husband bought and sold airplanes and airplane parts to airlines all over the world, and thus Mean Celine was always telling her friends which airlines to avoid. “Oh god, never fly that shitty airline; they buy the oldest planes in our fleet!”

  Mean Celine knew that everyone called her Mean Celine and she found it amusing, if a little too on the nose. She owned LA’s two basketball teams and ran the boards of the philharmonic, the art museums, and the best private schools in the city, as well as every university that mattered in the area, including all the way to Stanford, which mattered the most. Outside of Hollywood, where she had little to no interest (Hollywood money was insignificant compared to hers), she was hands-down the most feared woman in all of Los Angeles: She wielded her money like a knife. She had taken Ellie under her wing years ago. Mean Celine’s youngest daughter was Sam’s best friend since seventh grade.

  Or at least Alex used to be Sam’s best friend.

  Things were a tad frosty between the two of them lately, ever since Alex and Sam had started their freshman year at Stanford. The girls had had their ups and downs before, especially in ninth grade when they somehow ended up in warring cliques. But not like this. Sam complained Alex was “clingy” at college, while Alex told her mother that Sam was acting stuck-up. Privately, Ellie thought that it was because Sam had finally hit her stride and found her place among the supergeeks, while Alex, who didn’t have the grades or the scores but whose last name graced the auditorium, was the one who was out of her element for once.

  “Is that Sam? She came home for the party? How sweet. If I knew she’d be here, I would have made Alex come with,” said Mean Celine, who seemed to have decided to pretend that the girls were still besties.

  “I didn’t know she was going to be here,” said Ellie, who wasn’t about to admit to any failure on Sam’s part, especially not to Mean Celine.

  Mean Celine popped a caviar-and-potato-chip confection into her mouth from a passing tray and shook her head. “How’s that new boyfriend of hers?”

  “Sam’s? You mean she finally has a boyfriend?” she asked, shocked into blurting a truth. Sam had never dated anyone, ever. Which was why Ellie was wondering if she might be gender-fluid or something.

  “Yeah, something like that, I think.”

  “She hasn’t said anything to me.”

&n
bsp; “Well, you are her mother,” said Mean Celine. “Last to know.” Mean Celine looked around at the house and the party, and Ellie braced herself for criticism. This was the billionaire problem right here, the fear that you would never be good enough for those who could not only afford the best but could buy the entire world.

  But Mean Celine was gracious. “You look gorgeous, not a day over twenty-five, doll. You and your good genes. And the house is perfection. This is the Gulf House, right? You know I grew up going to this house; my parents were friends with the Gulf family.”

  “Of course you did,” said Ellie. That was another thing she noticed. All the rich people in her life knew one another. Sanjay was on the board of Mean Celine’s husband’s company, and Mean Celine knew Blake’s mom socially. Sometimes, Ellie felt dizzy at the heights she’d scaled, that she was welcome, if not celebrated, in such company. These were her friends. People who knew when the market would tank before the market tanked. People whose money pushed the world in a certain direction. People who knew which airlines to fly and which to avoid, even as they flew their own private planes around the world. Todd was forever asking about when they would get their own jet. Not yet, but hopefully soon, she’d told him. And even on borrowed money, they didn’t have enough for a jet, only a jet share at the moment. It grated.

  At least she wore real diamonds. “Celine, are those . . . ?” she asked, her fingertips brushing her friend’s dangling rocks, as big as robin’s eggs.

  “Aren’t they great? I got them at Claire’s!” she hooted.

  Mean Celine could buy all of Cartier and Harry Winston with the snap of her fingers, yet wore ten-dollar paste. She also carried a fake Chanel handbag. Since everyone assumed everything she owned was real, why should she spend the money? It was just a waste. Ellie shook her head. Rich people.

  Sanjay returned with another round of drinks and escorted Mean Celine out to the pool, leaving Ellie in the hallway with her thoughts.

  So many billionaires. So little time. If she were a billionaire, she’d have white tigers on jeweled collars and the hottest chicks from Crazy Girls dancing in cages above the pool, fireworks shooting out of their pasties. Sanjay’s idea of a good time was a game of backgammon. Oh, he had his fancy wine collection and the annual white truffle auction in Hong Kong that he chaired for charity, where he and his fellow ten-figure friends bid on certain Italian pigs’ ability to root out the tubers. But the man was just as happy with a McDonald’s meal.

  Blake’s new hobby was his publishing empire; he liked to rescue newspapers and magazines for sport, run them into the ground, then toss them in the trash like, well, yesterday’s news. Mean Celine worked, raising money for all those schools and endowments and scholarships, and bought fake diamond earrings at the mall.

  Boring.

  Ellie wouldn’t do any of that. She would be such a fun billionaire.

  Except of course, she was broke.

  TEN

  Mountain Dew and Vodka

  October 19

  Twenty-Four Years Ago

  7:30 P.M.

  The first order of business for any celebration, especially a sixteenth one, was the procurement of alcohol. Arlington kids sent their nannies or housekeepers to fetch the stuff. Old Filipino and Guatemalan ladies hobbling out of liquor stores with fifths of cheap bourbon, handles of vodka, gin, and tequila, along with cases of beer. Stacey was a shoo-in at Dartmouth next year, for hers was a legacy application; her dad was an alum. But right now, her parents were away, leaving her with a college-age babysitter who was only too happy to buy alcohol for a bunch of high school kids, especially since she charged them a fee for the service.

  Unfortunately, Leo and Mish weren’t rich and didn’t have nannies to send to the corner store, and Brooks didn’t have a fake ID. Still, all they needed was maybe a six-pack of beer or a few wine coolers, or maybe a bottle of vodka? Leo had no idea. She never drank, never touched the stuff. She was a little afraid of it, to be honest. But she wanted some now. It seemed appropriate, and maybe even sad if there wasn’t any. But nothing about her birthday was turning out the way she had hoped. She had depended on Mish to bring the fun, and Mish had depended on Brooks, but Brooks, it appeared, was far from dependable.

  It wasn’t even much of a party, just the three of them as usual now that Dave had ditched them. Maybe he didn’t think she was pretty enough. Not that she cared, but it was insulting how quickly he’d disappeared. Maybe she should just go home. She still had the bus transfer in her pocket. Maybe her mom would get off work early. Maybe they could still get that Carvel cake after all.

  “So, um . . .” she started to say, before Mish jumped at her again, eyes blazing.

  “HELL NO!” screamed Mish, pointing her finger right at her face.

  “Huh?” Leo said, taken aback.

  “Babe?” Brooks crunched his forehead adorably.

  Mish kept her finger pointed at Leo. “I know what you’re going to say! You’re going to say you’re tired and you’re going home and you guys should just leave me alone; well, fuck that! It’s your birthday! We! Are! Celebrating!”

  Leo laughed and took a step back. “Okay, okay!”

  “You’ve got that awesome jacket, and we’re going to party!” said Mish. “Right, Brooksy?”

  “Yeah, of course,” Brooks said, amused, and squeezing his girlfriend tight. “Whatever you guys want.”

  “You were supposed to bring some guys,” accused Mish. “You failed in this endeavor. Even Dave left.”

  “I know, I know; sheesh, I’m sorry.”

  Mish put her hands on her hips. “And we can’t just stay at the mall.”

  “We can’t?” asked Leo.

  She shook her head. “And we’re not going to Stacey’s.”

  “We’re not?” asked Brooks.

  “Why not?” asked Leo.

  “Because we’re not fucking celebrating your birthday at someone else’s goddamned birthday party, that’s why!” insisted Mish. “I mean, come on!”

  “Okay,” said Leo. She hadn’t realized until then that it was Stacey’s birthday too.

  “Okay,” said Brooks.

  “Okay!” said Mish, mollified.

  * * *

  —

  Brooks offered to drive to his house to try and get into his parents’ liquor cabinet, which wasn’t even locked. But Mish shook her head at that proposition. Leo wasn’t sure if Mish didn’t want to get caught by Brooks’s parents, or if she didn’t want Leo in his house again, but in the end, they ended up in the 7-Eleven back in Cully, in their neighborhood. There was a liquor store next door, where Mish procured a bottle of Gordon’s, as well as a case of beer.

  “I told them it was for my dad,” she explained, walking out with the bulky brown paper bag. “They know him,” she said curtly, in a tone that meant don’t ask her any more questions.

  Next they bought a liter of Mountain Dew and plastic cups and the three of them headed to the alley behind the store. It was Mish’s idea. It’s what kids from their part of town did. Leo was a bit embarrassed, but at least they had alcohol.

  Mish poured a ton of vodka into each of their cups and sloshed Mountain Dew on top of it. “Happy birthday!” she said.

  “Happy birthday to me!” said Leo, holding her drink high. She took a big gulp and coughed. The liquor burned in her throat. People drank this? Willingly?

  “Easy there,” said Brooks with a toothsome smile, like some guy in a commercial. Did he have to be so cute?

  Mish snort-laughed. “Drink up. Let’s get wasted,” she said, pouring even more vodka into Leo’s cup.

  Leo drank.

  * * *

  —

  They were sitting on the curb, on their third round of drinks, now with a bag of Cheetos between them, when Mish declared she was bored and they could do better than sitting on a sidewalk, getting drunk
. “What else is there to do in freaking Portland,” said Brooks, a little annoyed. “Just woods, forests, woods and forest. Too many fucking parks.”

  “Woods Forest,” snorted Leo. “That’s where we live.”

  “We could go to the Ritz?” suggested Leo, meaning a popular coffee shop downtown.

  Mish made a face. “Coffee? We want to get wasted, not sober.”

  “Come on, that’s a fun idea,” said Brooks.

  “If she was turning forty maybe!” said Mish. She gulped down the last of her vodka. “No, let’s go to Sparkle.”

  “We don’t have IDs,” Leo said. “How’ll we get in?”

  Mish rolled her eyes and peeled off her shirt without warning, so that she stood there, on the sidewalk, in her black bra. “We’re hot. That’s all we need to be. No one will card us, I promise! Come on!”

  Brooks just grinned, enjoying the view.

  “Fine, but I’m keeping my dress on,” said Leo.

  “Prude,” said Mish, sticking her tongue out.

  Sparkle was the biggest nightclub in the city that was also a live music club where all the coolest, best bands played if they were in town. If no one was headlining, the club had multilevels of DJs, one on every floor. It was Leo and Mish’s dream to go there, but they’d never been brave enough before.

  “Come on!” said Mish, pulling Leo up from the sidewalk.

  “Coming,” said Leo, wobbling. She’d never been drunk before, so she wasn’t quite sure what was going on, but she knew she was warm, and slightly goofy, and taking off her dress suddenly wasn’t such an outlandish idea. Everything was spinning and she felt extraordinarily brave and a little out of control, just like that afternoon when she lost her virginity all of a sudden.

  Tonight, it felt like anything could happen. This was exactly what she wanted. Her birthday was shaping up to be fun after all. She just had to make her way to the back of Brooks’s car. She could do that, she thought, even as she tripped a little on the sidewalk.