by Kate Brian
TP: Meaning all the waiters and waitresses will be dressed in black uniforms designed by Nicole Miller instead of those tacky polyester tuxedo things they normally wear. Plus I got them all Gucci sunglasses. They're going to look so chic! I've also hired a dozen models to circulate throughout the room wearing Teagan Phillips originals.
MB: Teagan Phillips originals?
TP: Yes. I'm a designer.
MB: Really?
TP: Yes! I can't believe you didn't know that! If you want to be a reporter, you really should pay more attention to your . . . what do they call it? Your beat!
MB: Right. And why should I have known you were a designer?
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TP: I only won the Pennsylvania Textiles Association's Young Designers award last year.
MB: Oh. First place?
TP: Honorable mention.
MB: Ah.
TP: Anyway, I have worked my fingers to the bone getting these designs ready for the models to wear at the party.
MB: A lot of sewing, then?
TP: Oh no. I don't sew them myself. I gave the designs to the freshman home ec class. They've been working on them since Christmas. But let me tell you, wrangling a bunch of freshman girls is not an easy job. Would you believe that one of them doesn't even have a cell phone?
MB: No! Tell me more about the models. How did you find them?
TP: Well, that part was the hardest. All the girls that showed up for the first audition were these, like, six-foot-four stick figures. I couldn't have that walking around my party.
MB: Because . . . his
TP: Because this is my night. Everyone should be watching me.
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MB: So you hired ugly models.
TP: Now, that was the tricky task. I had to find girls who were attractive but not taller or thinner or prettier than myself. It took weeks.
MB: But you found them.
TP: I found them, (sighs dramatically) Finally.
MB: Well. Thank God for that.
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Four tuxedoed valets were waiting for the Hummer when it pulled up the winding, flower-lined drive to the country club. Teagan looked out the window at the rain-soaked grass and the wilting petals and started picking at her fingernails. This was not at all as she had pictured it. And she had pictured it many times, every day, for the past twelve months.
"You ready for this?" Lindsee asked. The Hummer pulled to a stop and one of the valets opened the door.
"You guys go in ahead," Teagan said. "I'm going to wait a couple of minutes."
"Why?" Max asked. "Don't want to be seen with us?"
"Yeah, what are ya? The queen of England?" Christian joked.
"Dude, seriously. Quit channeling the grandpa," Max snapped at him.
Teagan's eyes flashed. How stupid were they? Did they really think it was appropriate for the guest of honor to enter
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the party in the middle of a crowd, unnoticed? Besides, she had only told them a million times about the grand entrance she had planned.
"It's my party," she snapped. "I'm walking in alone."
Max blew out a sigh. "Fine," he said, stepping out under one of the umbrellas.
"Lindsee! Here! Take this and put it in the bridal suite," Teagan said, shoving her large black bag at her friend. She had insisted that the club let her use the largest and most posh suite in the place. It was closest to the ballroom and had three couches, a three-way-mirror, and its own private bathroom.
"Got it," Lindsee said, taking the stuff. "Break a leg!"
Max offered Lindsee his hand as she stepped out of the limo and they crouched under an umbrella together, half jogging up the flagainstone walk to the awning at the door. The other guys followed, Christian still clutching the neck of one of the champagne bottles. Teagan waited until they were inside, then started counting to one hundred.
One, one thousand, two, one thousand.
"You coming?" one of the valets asked. He was her age and probably went to one of the public high schools in the area.
"In a minute," she snapped. "You could close the door before I catch pneumonia."
The kid scoffed and slammed the door, shaking the entire vehicle. Teagan's jaw dropped. That kid was so fired.
Where was I? Right. Three, one thousand, four, one thousand.
Even though her heart was pounding with anticipation, Teagan diligently counted all the way up to one hundred. She knew that the longer she took, the more the whispers in the ballroom would mount. By the time she was done, she felt nauseated from all the butterflies. She wasn't used to feeling
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this nervous. But then again, she had never had a more important night in her life. Everything had to go perfectly. She would kill someone if it didn't.
Finally Teagan took a deep breath and rapped on the glass. The door opened again and she placed one strappy blue-and- silver Jimmy Choo on the asphalt, making sure she was balanced before stepping all the way out. The kid who was so fired closed the door behind her and escorted her up the pathway. Teagan had to pick her way across the flagainstones, making sure her four-inch heel didn't sink into the soft, muddy spots between the slabs of rock. It was slow going, and by the time she got to the awning, she could feel a sheen of sweat forming on her skin.
"Have fun," the kid said sarcastically as he dropped her off at the awning.
Teagan shot him a withering look in return.
The doors opened for her and she walked into the drawing room.
"Good evening, Miss Phillips," one of the two doormen greeted her.
Teagan ignored him. She could hear the low rumble of voices coming from the ballroom on the other side of the double doors before her. The music played at a respectfully low volume and the clink of crystal and silver trays could be heard even through the doors. Teagan slipped out of her jacket and handed it to one of the doormen, letting the cool air-conditioned air wash over her. She shivered but was glad, at least, to feel the sweat on her arms dry right up.
"Miss Phillips! Happy birthday!" George Lowell opened the doors and slipped out, being careful not to let anyone see in or out of the room.
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Teagan almost laughed when she saw him, then remembered that she herself had selected his outfit. The turtleneck top was, in fact, a little binding. She could see the outline of his pecs --not bad for an older guy--but also the roundness of his little belly. Not an attractive combo. As always, his gray mustache was clipped and his balding head gleamed as if it had been waxed. "You look beautiful tonight, Miss Phillips. If you'll come with me, we'll get you ready for your big debut."
He held out his arm and Teagan took it. Together they walked around the side of the ballroom. The room was octagonal in shape, with doors on each of three consecutive walls. While most of the guests had entered the ballroom through the first door, Teagan would be making her entrance through the door in the center.
"Thank you," Teagan answered. She held her hands behind her back to keep from messing with her nails.
"Shall I tell Mr. Beckford that you have arrived?"
"Why would you tell Shay?" Teagan snapped, her heart skipping a few thousand beats.
Lowell blinked in confusion. "He is to announce you, is he not?"
"Oh! Right!" Teagan said. Duh. "Yes. Please tell Mr. Beckford I'm here."
"Good. Right away, miss. Break a leg!"
The club manager slipped back to the first door. The murmur of voices inside the ballroom heightened with his entrance. The people milling around inside were no strangers to parties like these. They knew that Lowell's quick return meant the guest of honor's entrance was imminent. Teagan breathed in and out. It felt like an eternity passed before Shay finally picked up the microphone.
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"Ladies and gentlemen, if I can have your attention, please," he said. His voice sent tingles all over Teagan's skin, but that was just because he was about to announce her. "It's the moment we've all been waiting for. . . .was
Wa
s there a hint of sarcasm in his tone, or was it just her?
"Let's give it up for our hostess and Miss Sweet Sixteen herself, Teagan Phillips!"
This is it, Teagan thought. Take it slow. Don't trip. Make sure you give the photographers plenty of time to get every good angle.
The doors in front of her were flung open and Teagan stepped out onto her custom-made runway, striking a pose. The jam-packed room erupted in cheers so intense, she felt like Beyonce taking the stage at the First Union Center. A bright white spotlight shone down, temporarily blinding her, but she knew from the sheer din that the turnout was legendary. Everyone was here to celebrate her.
As Teagan strutted down the runway, she concentrated on the walk she had practiced a thousand times. Chin up, hands slightly swinging, hips swaying back and forth. All around the catwalk, in roped-off areas, were professional photographers and a few of her select friends who had been granted permission to sneak in with their digital cameras. The number of flashbulbs popping rivaled the red carpet at the Oscars. She saw Missy from the school paper busily clicking away. A couple of older guys from the local papers had gotten prime real estate at the end of the catwalk. Roly-Poly Man himself was front and center.
Teagan's smile widened when her eyes adjusted and she saw the masses of people packed into the ballroom, shoulder to shoulder in their tuxes and gowns. So many pairs of admiring
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eyes trained on her. Women gushed to their husbands, clearly jealous of how perfect she looked in her Vera Wang. Max and Lindsee and some other friends from school stood in a crowd by the bar, hollering and applauding.
The room looked spectacular. Huge white flowers burst from marble pots placed all along the walls. The lilies on the tables were gorgeous and the light-blue-and-white place settings were exquisite. Votive candles were scattered all over the room, flickering merrily in the dimmed light, and aqua-and- gold place cards hung from the back of each chair by a slim blue ribbon --a little touch Teagan had picked up in Martha Stewart Weddings. The cards were written by hand by a professional calligrapher, of course, as were the menu cards on each table. A package of Amedei chocolates imported from Italy sat in the center of each gold-rimmed salad plate --favors that the guests would either gobble before the bananas foster and birthday cake were presented or would take home to savor later.
Waiters circulated the room with shrimp scampi, salmon en croute, lamb chops with wine sauce. The women wore black minis and black halter tops, while the men were sporting skintight black Lycra tees and black, flat-front slacks. They all wore the same black, pebbled Gucci sunglasses and everyone's hair was slicked back. For a bunch of blue-collar workers, they looked tres chic.
Across the room, the floor-to-ceiling windows were draped with dozens of blue, green, and aqua swags--to match Teagan's dress, naturally--that tumbled gracefully to the floor and, in some cases, trailed out toward the tables. Set up along the windows were all the fashion experts Teagan had hired. A colorist sat behind a table filled with color wheels and clothing samples, there to help willing guests determine their season. A hairstylist
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with a high-tech digital camera and laptop would take pictures and work her technical magic to show people what they might look like with a different style or color. Two guys from a tattoo parlor downtown were ready and willing to apply temporary tats and -- this was Teagan's favorite part--give free body piercings to anyone who wanted them, behind a white curtain, of course. Ricco Durazo, who was standing next to his station with a huge smirk on, had done Teagan's own belly button piercing last summer and it was one of Teagan's most deeply held beliefs that anyone with a flat tummy should have one. Only those with a flat tummy, of course.
But the piece de resistance was the models. As Teagan struck her pose at the end of the runway, she could see them circulating around the room, looking gorgeous in her one-of- a-kind designs. At the corners of the dance floor small round stages were placed, where more models vogued for the guests.
Everything was just how Teagan imagined it. Not some stupid, childish party with fire eaters and a pig on a spit, but a night of pure elegance. Take that, Shari Marx. She was just about to start wallowing in her triumph when she realized she might have gloated too soon.
Because . . . wait a minute . . . who had spread silver confetti all over the white tablecloths? She hadn't ordered that. It was so gauche. And what was with all the twinkle lights strung from the ceiling? What was this, junior prom? And wait, no one was drinking champagne. She had expected hundreds of bubbling glasses to be lifted toward her as she arrived. Where was the Taittinger's? There was supposed to be a chilled bottle of Taittinger's at every table.
"Isn't she lovely, ladies and gentlemen?" Shay said.
The applause grew louder, but Teagan shot Shay a look of
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death as she executed her final turn. There was no mistaking the sarcasm that time.
Finally Teagan's gaze fell on her father in his Geoffrey Beene tuxedo, waiting for her at the bottom of the stairs that led up to the catwalk. His dark hair had been recently cut and was perfectly styled. He looked, as always, James Bond handsome. For a split second Teagan was almost pleasantly surprised to see him there, but then she saw Karen. Karen, with her arm through Teagan's father's, politely applauding Teagan's arrival, watching her with proud eyes. Seeing the two of them standing there like they were her parents, like Karen was her mother, Teagan almost missed the first step down from the stage. Her stomach and heart lurched together as one, but she threw her arms out and saved herself before anyone but those closest to her even noticed.
Who does she think she is? Teagan thought, her blood starting to simmer.
Almost worse than the parental display was Karen's outfit. She was not, as Teagan had feared, wearing that awful muumuu from that morning. No. It was much worse. She was wearing a slinky black Armani dress that clung to her slim body in all the right places. Her hair was pulled back in a sleek chignon and diamond studs sparkled in her ears. She looked, in a word, gorgeous.
What the hell was up with that?
Okay, my stepmother-to-be is not supposed to look sexier than I do.
Teagan glanced at her father and instantly saw the look of disapproval on his face. He was staring at her like she was some huge disappointment. Oh God. She knew it! She looked
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fat in this dress! So much fatter than his perfect, lovely little fiancee. The second she got home, she was throwing out that stupid mirror in her room. It was too flattering. She needed to know how she really looked before she left the house.
I can't believe this is happening, Teagan thought as the applause died down. The glitter, the lights, the stick-figure stepmom-to-be. And --oh my God --was that cheesy Shari Marx over by the dance floor wearing the exact same Jimmy Choos Teagan had spent months shopping for? Her fingers curled into fists at her sides. I can't believe this is my sweet sixteen.
"Let's get this party started!" Shay shouted as Teagan stepped down onto the ballroom floor.
Unbelievable. She had hired him because he wasn't supposed to sound like a bat mitzvah DJ. Was he doing this just to piss her off? If so, it was working. As were plenty of other things.
Shay cranked up the volume, dropping a recent dance hit, and everyone cheered as the crowd broke up into little klatches, chatting and laughing. At least two dozen people rushed Teagan, smooching her cheeks and shouting, "Happy birthday!" and "You look gorgeous!" directly into her ears in order to be heard over the music. Teagan's eardrums tweaked and her temples throbbed. Envelopes were pressed into her hands and her nostrils were clogged with a hundred different perfumes and colognes. Someone's thick, over-sprayed hair whipped her in the face, and a particularly stiff organza flower on someone's dress scratched her upper arm. Teagan felt nauseated and didn't even try to smile. Through the mayhem she could see her friends already starting to burn up the dance floor. All Teagan felt like doing just then was burning this place down.
"Sweetheart! Happy birthday!" Teagan's father said when
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the crowd finally dispersed enough for him to get to her. He managed to crack a smile as he pulled her into his strong arms. Teagan patted him back halfheartedly, concentrating instead on squelching the sudden, angry, and disappointed tears that flooded her eyes.
"Whatever, Dad," Teagan said, pulling away.
"What's the matter?" her father asked, his face creased with concern.
Teagan cast a sidelong glance at Karen. "Oh, nothing," she said pointedly. "I need a drink."
And I need to not see the stepmonster-to-be for the rest of the night, Teagan thought as she started for the bar at a fast clip. She skirted the dance floor, where Max, Lindsee, Marco, Christian, and some others were drunkenly busting an awkward move, and wove her way through the onlookers instead. At least most of them had the foresight to get out of her way. At that point, Teagan wouldn't have been above shoving a few people aside. All she wanted to do was put as much distance between herself and her "parents" as possible.
"Teagan! Happy birthday!" one of her father's faceless, personality-free colleagues called out, handing her an envelope as she passed by. She snatched it out of his hand and kept moving without so much as a backward glance.
"You look lovely, darling," Lindsee's mother told her, handing over another envelope.
Yeah, right, Teagan thought, glancing at Mrs. Hunt's lifted eyes and lipo'd ass. Bet you can't wait to get back in the car tonight so you can rip me to shreds.
She stepped on the train of some old lady's gown and tripped forward a few steps. Grabbing a chair in desperation, Teagan managed to right herself and cursed under her breath,
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her mind swimming. So much for not being able to get a buzz from champagne. But it wasn't enough to take the edge off what she was feeling now. She needed something stronger.
Finally Teagan arrived at the huge bar in the back corner of the room. She slapped her pile of envelopes down on the surface and the bartender snapped to attention.
"What can I get you?" he asked with a bright smile.
"Apple martini," Teagan said.
The bartender's smile widened. "I can get you an apple juice."