Sweet 16

by Kate Brian

  She better not be wearing that outfit to my party tonight, Teagan thought, watching Karen fold up the excess of cloth underneath her tiny frame. Doesn't she realize a photographer from the Who's Who? page is going to be there?

  When Teagan didn't take her up on her offer, Karen sighed and looked at her all doe-eyed. "You should try to eat a real meal," she said, growing serious. "Your father worries about you."

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  Teagan raised her eyebrows and leaned one shoulder against the door jamb, crossing her arms over her chest. Her large Natalia crocodile hobo bag bumped against her hip. "Oh yeah? And where is my dad this morning, exactly?" she asked.

  This should be good.

  "You know he had an important meeting with the developers this morning," Karen said, slathering butter--real butter-- onto a blueberry muffin. "He's working on that low-income- housing project."

  Absent as always, Teagan thought, feeling numb. Happy birthday to me.

  "Riiiight," Teagan said, gliding past Karen's chair and lifting her smoothie cup from the corner of the table where Karen had left it. She popped the top and took a sip. "Sounds lucrative," she said with an eye roll. You know, it's interesting. Before he met you, he was building high-rise hotels and raking in millions. Now it's homes for the homeless."

  Karen placed her butter knife down with a clang and Teagan smirked behind her cup. Was Saint Karen going to get all worked up? Maybe a feather would fall off her angel wings.

  your father has come to a point in his life where he's able to reevaluate his priorities," Karen said patiently. "He's decided that he would like to give something back to the society that has been so kind and generous to him." She turned and looked pointedly at Teagan. "I'd think you would be proud of him."

  "Oh, of course," Teagan said, leaning back against the sideboard. She reached over and toyed with one of the fresh lilies in the arrangement that was delivered each day. One of many that were scattered throughout the house.

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  Teagan would have been proud of her father's charity if he had started up a project like this all those years ago when her actual mother had suggested it. Or even after her mom had died--if he had started some kind of foundation in her honor. But no. He had just gone on making money hand over fist, catering to the vacationing "needs" of the wealthiest one percent and jetting off on business trip after business trip, leaving Teagan alone on every conceivable holiday known to man. Not once had he expressed any kind of interest in slowing down and taking on more modest projects. That was, until Karen had come along, clutching her philanthropy awards. Dear old Dad had snapped to when Karen had suggested he take a long, hard look at his life. Now suddenly he was Mr. Habitat for Humanity or whatever. Puh-leeze.

  "He left you a gift," Karen said, pointing toward the far end of the table with the buttered end of her knife.

  Much to her chagrin, Teagan's heart skipped an excited beat when she spied the small, glossy red box and white card near the edge of the table, next to a stack of colorful envelopes. She quelled the stirring immediately. Whatever it was, her father had undoubtedly commissioned his assistant, Kevin, to pick it out like he always did. And while Kevin had exquisite taste, opening gifts from him always left a bittersweet taste in her mouth. Well, mostly bitter.

  Teagan walked over, picked up the box, and dropped it unceremoniously into her bag. She saw Karen avert her eyes as she did it and was happy the step-whatever had seen. Let it get back to her father. It wasn't like he was going to care anyway.

  On top of the stack of cards was an orange envelope addressed to her in familiar handwriting. Teagan smiled

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  slightly and tore into it, dropping the envelope on the table. Inside was a cheesy, bright yellow card shaped like a 16. The inscription inside read, Hope your day is "sweet"! Underneath, her old friend Emily had written, Dear Teagan, Happy sweet sixteen, birthmate! Hope you have a fabulous day planned. Have some Cheetos and OJ and think of me! Love always, Emily.

  Teagan grinned, remembering the Cheetos-and-OJ day. When she and Emily were about eight years old, they had come home after a long day of school and playing in the park to find Emily's house dark and quiet. Her mother had left a note saying that she had to work an extra shift at the hospital and would be home in time for dinner. Starving from all the swinging and sliding, Teagan and Emily had raided the fridge and cabinets, but Emily's mom hadn't had time to shop in days.

  "All I got is a bag of Cheetos. Crunchy," Emily said, crawling down off the countertop.

  "And all I got is orange juice," Teagan said.

  They looked at each other and stuck out their tongues, just imagining what the orange-on-orange concoction would taste like.

  "Well, there's people in Africa who don't even have that!" Emily said, repeating one of her mother's favorite mantras.

  "Okay, but if I get poisoned, it's your fault," Teagan replied.

  They sat down at the kitchen table and laid out their snack. When Teagan washed down her first mouthful of chewed-up Cheetos with OJ, she thought she was going to puke. "Ugh! That's gross!"

  "Ew! Mondo gross!" Emily agreed.

  "It's grosser than gross!" Teagan laughed, grabbing another handful of Cheetos.

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  "Grosser than worm pies!" Emily put in.

  "Grosser than worm pies with mucus icing!"

  "Grosser than worm pies with mucus icing and ant sprinkles!"

  And in this fashion they finished the entire bag and carton, laughing the whole way. Teagan chuckled now just thinking about it.

  "Who's it from?" Karen asked.

  "My old friend Emily," Teagan responded without thinking.

  "What? What's funny?"

  Suddenly Teagan felt caught and she frowned, stuck in a private moment with a person she definitely didn't want to be sharing private moments with. "You had to be there," she said, shoving the card into her bag.

  Emily and Teagan shared the same birth date. Back when they were little, their parents threw a joint party each year, inviting all the kids in their class. They would blow out the candles on one huge cake together and trade presents after everyone went home. (Teagan would hand over any tomboyish items to Emily and Emily would happily relinquish makeup sets, ballerina shoes, and the like.) They lost touch around the ninth grade, when Teagan had started at Rosewood Prep and Emily had continued on to the public high school. Still, every year, like clockwork, Teagan received a birthday card from Emily. It always made her feel nostalgic. Sometimes it even made her feel a little guilty. She never sent Emily anything. If she did that, then Emily might expect something- like for the friendship to start all over again. And really, Teagan didn't have the time for that. What did she and Emily have in common anymore? Aside from the birthday thing.

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  "Emily, huh? Yeah. Your father told me about her," Karen said. "Today is her birthday too, right?"

  Teagan looked up, surprised. No way did her father remember Emily's existence. He barely even remembered Teagan's.

  Luckily her cell phone beeped, saving her from having to formulate a response. Teagan whipped the tiny phone out of her purse. The little text message icon had appeared. Teagan hit the button and read:

  Happy birthday, princess! Luv, Max

  She rolled her eyes and shoved the phone back in her bag. What kind of boyfriend sent a text instead of calling on the morning of his girlfriend's birthday? He was probably still so hungover he could barely lift his head. Very attractive.

  But at least this morning he had remembered her actual nickname.

  "Well, I'm outta here," Teagan said. "I have to get to the salon."

  She had used a lot more than the recommended dollop of Aesop Violet Leaf hair balm to get her mane into a reasonably sleek ponytail so she wouldn't be mistaken for some crazy off the street when she walked into Michel's. At this point she was practically salivating for the professional shampoo and scalp massage and a nice dose of warm cucumber conditioner and sealant. Any day was better with
a fabulous head of hair. That had to apply even to a father-forsaken, guilt-ridden, motherless sweet sixteen. A rumble of thunder sounded outside as if to remind Teagan that it was still raining on her parade as well. Like she needed a reminder.

  "Are you going to eat something before you go?" Karen asked.

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  Teagan opened her mouth to retort, but Karen looked so crestfallen and small, sitting there at the end of the huge, deserted table in her tent dress, that Teagan snapped it shut again. Another twist of guilt tightened her stomach and she sighed.

  "Fine," she said, grabbing a mini-muffin and a piece of bacon. She wrapped the muffin in a linen napkin and tossed it in her bag, then took a bite out of the bacon. "Happy?"

  Karen's smile was huge. Suddenly Teagan missed her mother with a new and disturbing ferocity.

  "Later," she said, turning around before Karen had a chance to notice the change in her expression -- the random tears filling her eyes.

  "Have fun!" Karen called after her as she hurried through the living room and drawing room and into the foyer, her heeled Miu Miu boots clicking against the shining marble floor.

  Teagan grabbed her cherry-colored limited-edition Betsey Johnson umbrella and her Ralph Lauren trench from the coat closet and slammed the door. By the time she had gotten herself all belted in and covered up and was outside, she had squelched the inner drama and was back to her normal, composed self. Controlling her tears was one of her prime talents. It had taken years to cultivate, but today she had it down to a science.

  Hurrying under the carport, Teagan waited for her father's two Doberman pinchers, Rodney and Dangerfield, to come racing over to her as they always did. They barked and wagged and jumped around but never touched her, highly trained purebreds that they were.

  "Good boys!" Teagan said in her baby voice, bending at the waist. "Now sit!"

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  They both sat down immediately at her feet. Teagan tore the piece of bacon she'd snagged from the table and tossed one half to each of them. They swallowed the morsels without letting the meat so much as pause on their tongues. She did the same with the muffin and whipped the rumpled napkin back into the foyer, where it fluttered to the floor. Natsui would find it and pick it up. That was what she was there for.

  At the end of the steps on the circular drive Teagan's silver BMW 24 Roadster waited for her--top up, of course- purring away like a kitten, gassed and ready to go. As she approached, Jonathan, her father's staff mechanic, pool guy, and all-around guy Friday, opened the door for her.

  "Happy birthday, Miss Teagan," he said, flashing his Hollywood-worthy dimples.

  "Thank you, Jonathan," Teagan said, gracing him with a smile as she slid onto the leather seat. Karen was one thing. For Jonathan and his butt-hugging chinos, she could muster a smile.

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  Upcoming Sweet Sixteen Party

  Transcript 1, cont'd.

  Reporter: Melissa Bradshaw, Senior Editor, Rosewood Prep Sentinel

  MB: So, where will this end-all-be-all party take place?

  TP: At the Upper Sheridan Country Club, of course. My father and I have been members there for years.

  MB: Oh, I love that place! The golf course is outstanding! Have you ever seen the view from the sixteenth tee?

  TP: I'm not into sports. Real women don't perspire.

  MB: Oh, well, I wasn't there to play golf, if you know what I mean, (snickers) But there was sweat involved.

  TP: Do tell.

  MB: Sorry. That would be a story for another time. And without a tape recorder running. Now, there will be music, I assume?

  TP: No. We're using the dance floor for pottery

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  lessons, (pause) Of course there will be music.

  MB: Band or DJ?

  TP: DJ. I've hired Shay Beckford, actually.

  MB: Reeeaallllly? Rosewood's own fallen and resurrected angel?

  TP: You sound surprised.

  MB: I wasn't aware that he did private parties.

  TP: Well, he doesn't, normally. But when I want the best, I get the best. You should know that about me, Missy.

  MB: It's Melissa.

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  "Oh my God! Learn to drive!" Teagan muttered as the light turned green up ahead and no one in front of her moved. Nothing but brake lights as far as the eye could see. She slammed on her horn to no avail. Her windshield wipers beat back and forth like they were in a panic, slapping the waves of rain aside. "Move!" Teagan willed the cars in front of her. "It's just a little water. If it bothers you so much, stay home!"

  The downtown area of Upper Sheridan was one huge traffic jam as everyone attempted to run their regular weekend errands in the deluge. A woman walked out of Touch of Class dry cleaner, struggling as her plastic-wrapped clothes whipped in the wind and her umbrella turned inside out. Women hustled in and out of the apothecary, stashing their prescription bags and tubs of eighty-dollar moisturizer in their purses. Couldn't these people wait until Sunday to do these things and leave the streets and parking spaces open for those with actual needs? There was even the usual line outside Natalie's, the

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  local breakfast nook. Hungry' would-be brunchers huddled under the tiny awning, trying desperately to keep dry as they waited for an open table. Although this, Teagan could understand. Natalie's French toast was to die for.

  At least that was how she remembered it. She hadn't had any since the eighth grade.

  Teagan could not wait to get to Michel's and kick back in one of those leather massage chairs. Her best friend, Lindsee Hunt, was meeting her there and had probably already ordered up a couple of skim lattes from the cafe counter at the front of the spa. Teagan practically salivated just thinking about it. This day was already making her into a total stress case and it had barely even started.

  Outside her window, a man and his son ran for their parked Mercedes, ducked together under a newspaper. They were soaked through by the time they got inside their car. Finally! A space!

  Teagan glanced in her rearview mirror. A Land Rover was coming up pretty quickly, but he was just going to have to stop. She put the car in reverse and backed up to let the guy and his kid out. The Land Rover slammed on its brakes and swerved, narrowly missing Teagan's back bumper. In her rearview mirror she could see the middle-aged man behind the wheel gesticulating wildly. Teagan simply shrugged. You had to do what you had to do.

  She waited for the father to pull his Mercedes out into traffic. The Land Rover slammed on his gas and lurched around her, the midlife-crisis-having loser behind the wheel lowering his passenger side window to shout epithets in her direction. Unfortunately for him, it was a lost cause. Teagan could hear

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  nothing over the sound of the rain pounding against her rag- top and the top-forty station blasting through her speakers.

  Once the coast was clear, she pulled up alongside the front car. If there was one thing Teagan hated about driving, it was parallel parking. It always gave her the sweats --impatient people trying to get by her on the street, old fogies in the diner window, watching her technique. It was far too stressful. One of these days she was going to have to find a salon that provided an actual parking lot for their customers. Unfortunately, if a shopkeeper wanted the prime real estate on Sheridan Avenue, where all the hippest boutiques and jewelry stores were housed, a parking lot was pretty much out of the question. And besides, Michel had been cutting her hair since she was ten. He had identified all her cowlicks. He was aware of exactly how the layers should fall to disguise her awful pointed chin. Teagan knew she would never give him up.

  Taking a deep breath, she cut the wheel and backed into the space. She cursed as she smacked into the car behind her. The dorks in the diner were laughing at her. Gripping the wheel, she cut it again and lurched awkwardly forward. Smack! The car in front got it too.

  "Dammit," Teagan said under her breath.

  She straightened the wheel and backed up a couple of inches, then put it in park. Deep b
reath. She was reasonably close to the curb. And Jonathan would buff out any scratches as soon as she got home. No harm, no foul.

  Her cell phone trilled. Teagan glanced at the caller ID. It was her friend Ashley Harrison. She sighed and rolled her eyes. Ashley could keep a person on the phone for hours, but what was she going to do, ignore a birthday call?

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  "Hey, Ash," she said into the phone.

  "Happy birthday to you! Happy birthday to you!" Ashley sang. "Happy birthday, dear--was

  Teagan winced. Talk about off-key.

  "Ashley, I hate to interrupt your unique vocal styling," she said sarcastically, jamming open the door of the car, "but I'm late for Michel's. Gotta go. See you tonight!"

  "Oh, okay, well -- his

  Teagan silenced her by hitting the end button. Then she double-thought it and turned the phone off entirely before tossing it back in her bag. The last thing she wanted was to be interrupted while she was trying to relax at the salon. She raised her umbrella and carefully stepped out onto the street, trying to keep her coat and boots from getting wet. It was pointless, of course. Before she even got the door closed, the cuffs of her sleeves and the hems of her jeans were soaked.

  "Why today?" Teagan muttered, fumbling to get her bag's strap on her shoulder. "Why do these things always happen to me?"

  She slid between her front bumper and the other car, barely noticing the dent she had put in its fender, and stepped up onto the sidewalk, bypassing the parking meter that was flashing for her change. Let them give her a ticket. Having her father's accountant pay it would be a lot easier than fishing for her wallet in her monster bag while trying to keep the umbrella over her head.

  Teagan squinted through the rain. Up ahead there was some kind of commotion on the corner. The corner she had to walk around to get to Michel's. She spied a yellow-and- white-striped awning and a banner draped across the arch- shaped doors of the neighborhood church. A few people in

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  highly unflattering ponchos milled about, talking to sopping- wet pedestrians. She saw a woman lift a bag full of old clothes out of her car and hand it over. An elderly gentleman slipped a few bills into a bucket one of the poncho guys was proffering.