Read You're Invited Online

Authors: Jen Malone

You're Invited (15 page)

“I don't care!” Vi scoops up something from the sand, examines it, and then throws it back down. “I just want you there. We all do. Think of how good running a business will look on your college applications!”

“Okay, okay, just let me think about it.” My phone rings, and I stuff the conch into my pocket as I answer it.

“What up, my Lo?”

“Hi, Bubby,” I say. She's probably calling to see if I've joined. I need to change the subject, quickly. “Are you doing all right? You know, about your friend?”

“Oh, Alma? She's singin' with the angels, Lo baby. Don't worry about her. So remember that newbie guy I told you about? The one with the pug? The hot one?” Bubby's talking a mile a minute. I stuff a finger into my other ear to drown out the roaring of the waves and the constant wind. “Of course you do. Anywho, next Saturday is his dog's birthday!”

“His dog has a birthday?”

“Everyone has a birthday, silly. But here's my point—I want to throw him, and the dog I guess, a birthday party! And I want you girls to plan it. Isn't that the most
awesome news? I bet you're squeeing right now.”

Bubby should know I don't squee. I don't think I've ever squeed in my entire life. “But, Bubby, I'm not part of—”

“So you'll do it? Don't forget to find me a dog. I can't host a dog birthday party without a dog. A little poodle would be ubercute. If anyone can find the perfect dog, you can. I knew you'd make the right decision about joining your friends. Thank you, Lo baby! Kisses!” Bubby makes smooching noises through the phone and hangs up.

I end the call and stare at my phone. A wave smacks against my legs, drenching one side of my shorts, but I don't move.

“Lauren? What was that about?” Vi's stopped turning cartwheels in the surf and is waiting for the news.

“I think my grandmother just cajoled me into joining RSVP.” (Cajole: convince someone, like your overly busy granddaughter, to do something, like joining her friends' party-planning business.)

Vi scoops up my backpack from the sand and holds it out. Then she laughs.

“What?” I take the backpack and slide my new shell into the zippered pocket.

“Your initials.” She
points at the white letters stitched onto the front of the bag. LPS. “You do have a P name—Phoebe. See, it was meant to be!”

RSVP. Rebecca, Sadie, Vi, and me—Lauren Phoebe.

• • •

You would not believe how hard it is to borrow a dog. Mrs. St. Clair next door looked like I'd asked to take her Chihuahua to Mars instead of Sandpiper Active Senior Living to be fawned over by a bunch of sweet old people. Mrs. O'Malley said her yappy little terrier was “far too delicate” for a party. And apparently Cooper, the black Lab who lives at Polka Dot Books next to Becca's house, is strictly a bookstore-only dog. Vi offered her big orange cat, Buster, but somehow I didn't think Buster would really like going to a party full of dogs.

Finally Becca's dad tracked down a dog whose owner was willing to let him go for the day. Of course, the dog turned out to be a huge, slobbery Saint Bernard named Custard Van Twinkle.

“He's
perfect
!” Bubby exclaims when I arrive with Custard Van Twinkle at Sandpiper Active Senior Living's party room. She bends down to one knee and rubs her hands on either side of Custard's head. “Who's a good doggy? Who's gonna help me nab cute Mr. Vernon? Who?” she says in a baby voice.

Custard responds by shaking his head and flinging drool across the room.

Bubby stands up and squeezes me into a hug. “I'm so glad you decided to join your friends.”

I wrap my arms around her and hug, thinking of Alma and Atlantic City. Bubby smells of baby powder and some kind of flowery perfume, and I don't know what I'd ever do without her.

Something wet thwacks against my leg, and I look down to see Custard drooling on me. “Bubby? Can you hang on to the dog so I can help set up?”

“Oh, I can't, Lo baby. I have to get these curlers out of my hair before Mr. Vernon sees me. And I have to decide what to wear. What do you think, jeggings? Would that look like I'm trying too hard?”

Although anything would be better than the hot-pink robe she has on right now, I cannot handle seeing my grandmother in jeggings. “Um, Becs?” I wave her over from where she's arranging doggy goody bags.

“Hey, Bubby!” She flings her arms around my grandmother in a bone-crushing hug. “Cute earrings! Where did you get those?”

Bubby touches the dangly silver hoop hanging from her right ear. “Oh, these ol' things? Picked them up at the mall on the last trip into Wilmington.”

“Becca, Bubby wants to know if she should wear jeggings.” I give Becca a please-convince-my-grandmother-this-would-be-a-horrible-idea look.

“I know! Why don't we go pick something out together?” Becca loops her arm through Bubby's and the two of them go chattering off toward Bubby's apartment.

Leaving me with Custard Van Twinkle.

I've never had any pets, so I'm not entirely sure what to do with him. I squat down in front of his droopy face and sad-looking eyes. “Hey, Mr. Van Twinkle. I have to help put out treats for your buddies. Can you take a nap or sit down or something?”

And just like that, Custard Van Twinkle lumbers over to one of the dog beds Sadie thought to get from the pet store, turns around a few times, and then curls up and closes his eyes.

Huh.

So I help Sadie and Vi with the bows-and-bones-themed decorations, make sure there are enough bags
and mops in case someone has an “accident,” and admire the dog-friendly cake. (“Dog-friendly meaning made for dogs, not people,” Sadie says.) As I arrange the chairs into what Sadie calls “conversation clusters,” listen to Vi recount the morning's beach volleyball game, and reassure Sadie that this time her mom might actually show up, I realize I'm having fun.

Well, of course I'm having fun. I knew I would. The problem isn't that. It's more like how can I possibly commit to doing this once or twice a week and still have time for everything else? I mean, helping run a business would look amazing on my college applications, that's for sure. The money I earn will go right into my savings account, and that's definitely not a bad thing. I know Vi was thrilled when she suggested having cake for the dogs' owners in addition to the dog-friendly cake and I was there to back her up. And Sadie and Becca were so happy to hear that I wanted to join that the people on the next island over could probably have heard them squealing. So if I'm making a pros-and-cons list in my head, that's five pros and one con. And no question that I should join RSVP.

Ugh. Sometimes I hate being so logical.

Guests and their dogs are starting to arrive, but there's no sign of Bubby and Becca. Finally, I spot Becca's red hair peeking in the door.

“What's going on?” I ask.

“Bubby's waiting for Mr. Vernon to get here. She wants to make an entrance.”

Seriously? “Please tell me she's not wearing jeggings.”

Becca shakes her head. “No, but she looks so cute that Mr. Vernon will be drooling more than Custard Van Twinkle.”

Great. Grandmothers are supposed to bake you cookies and wear aprons and give you a five-dollar bill on your birthday. Or spout folksy little sayings, like Vi's Meemaw. They are not supposed to have crushes on other people's grandfathers and say things like “hottie” and wear cooler clothes than their granddaughters. Not that I'd trade Bubby for anything, but sometimes I wish she was a little more . . . grandmotherly.

“Ooh, there he is!” Becca squeals and points across the room.

A dapper white-haired man in a polo shirt and khaki pants stands near the cake table with a snub-nosed pug
in his arms. The door opens wider, and Bubby struts in, aiming straight for Mr. Vernon.

I have to give Becca credit. Not only is Bubby
not
wearing jeggings, but she's actually dressed in a nice long floral skirt, a yellow top, and cute yellow sandals. And a blond wig. I have no idea where that came from, but whatever. “Thank you,” I whisper to Becca.

She grins. “She really wanted the jeggings, but I convinced her that Mr. V would be more impressed if she dressed up.”

Bubby's already talking before she even reaches Mr. Vernon. She steps over someone's Boston terrier and immediately starts cooing at the pug in Mr. Vernon's arms. Mr. Vernon takes a step back. Bubby steps forward, and now she's got him pinned against the cake table. He looks over her shoulder like he's searching for an escape route.

Someone next to me giggles. Vi.

I look at her and raise my eyebrows.

“If you'd seen the way Becca trapped Ryan at Linney's party, you'd be laughing too,” she whispers in my ear.

Becca, however, is frowning. “Why isn't he impressed? He just looks like he wants to run away.”

Vi buries her face in her arm and starts coughing, probably to hide her laughter.

“Well . . .” I try to think of the best way to say this. “She's coming on a little too strong, don't you think?”

But before Becca can reply, Sadie claps her hands.

“Attention, everyone. I would just like to thank you all for being here to celebrate Joe's birthday.” Sadie gestures at the pug in Mr. Vernon's arms.

Why would anyone name a dog Joe?

“We have a fun afternoon planned for y'all. First up, we thought we'd do a few doggy games,” Sadie says.

Next to me, Becca snorts. “I'm still not convinced we're gonna be able to get a slew of dogs to play anything besides Sniff the Butt.”

I bump my hip into hers, but also give her a be-quiet look.

Sadie doesn't acknowledge our giggles, just keeps right on talking. “We've got a treasure hunt for a hidden bone, and then we'll have a talent show where your dogs can show off their best tricks. If any of them know the command ‘speak,' they can join along in singing ‘Happy Birthday' to Joe before they dive into the dog-friendly cake. And we have plenty of food for you
owners, too. So, for now we can mingle, and we'll make another announcement in a couple minutes to start the first game. Have fun, everyone!”

Sadie goes back to arranging the plates and silverware we borrowed from the dining room, while Vi leads a guest's dog outside to do doggy business. I grab Becca by the arm and tug her over to help put some space between Bubby and Mr. Vernon, but we're only halfway there when it happens.

Just as Bubby reaches out to pet him again, Joe leaps from Mr. Vernon's arms and sprawls onto the cake table.

“No!” Sadie yells, and snatches the cake away just in time.

The poor dog makes a run down the table as Mr. Vernon finally springs—well, as good as a seventy-five-year-old man can spring—into action. His pug flies off the end of the table onto a stack of extra dog beds, then scrambles up and races across the room on his stubby little legs.

“Joe! Come back!” Mr. Vernon jogs after his dog, with Bubby right behind him.

I'm still wondering why in the world he'd name a dog Joe when Custard Van Twinkle starts barking. The
other dogs join in, and before any of us can do anything, Custard is on the chase, right behind Joe, with at least ten more dogs on their heels.

They weave through the legs of the guests, all of whom are calling to their dogs. Then Joe takes a hard right and aims straight toward the back door, which Vi's just opened.

“Vi, the dogs! Close the door!” Sadie screams, still clutching the cake in both hands.

But it's too late. Custard Van Twinkle jumps up with a friendly “woof,” placing two front paws on Vi's chest and knocking her right to the ground. She drops the leash she was holding, but she recovers quickly. She snags the leash to the poodle, then rolls to her knees and shoves the door closed. But by that point Custard and Joe are high-tailing it in opposite directions across the long lawn of Sandpiper Active Senior Living.

Becca

Daily Love Horoscope for Scorpio:

Venus is aligned with Pluto. Something you thought you needed might already be in your possession.

I
 . . . can't . . . run . . . any . . . more,” I force out through gasps for air. I prop my hands on my knees and wait for my heart to stop slamming against my rib cage. Ick.

Sadie's almost to the lighthouse, but she stops and puts one fist on her hip. Calling above the wind and the waves crashing, she says, “Don't you quit on me now, Becca Elldridge! We have to find these dogs and get them back safely.”

She jogs toward me, also huffing and puffing (but
maybe not as bad as me) and lowers her voice.

“And when we do, we are totally putting an amendment in our company bylaws. No events involving animals. EVER. Possible exceptions for marzipan ones on top of cakes. I swear, after the whole thing with Fake Max and the seagull, you would have
thought
I'd learned my lesson.”

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