You're Invited (9 page)

“My
mom is way too busy to drive us anywhere,” Sadie says as she pushes dirt around the floor with her finger.

“And my dad works all the time,” Vi says.

I throw my arms up. “Okay, fine. If you're really desperate—and I mean really, intensely desperate—I can guilt Zach into driving you somewhere. But you might regret it. Remember how much he complained just taking us to the Plantation House? And he's a really awful driver.”

Advertising: Get parents to make copies of flyers and put them up everywhere. Order free business cards online.

Officers:

“I nominate Sades for President,” Vi says.

“Seconded,” Becca says.

“Since Becs got that party with Mrs. Campbell, maybe she should be in charge of booking parties and advertising?” Vi tightens her ponytail and looks like she wants to say something else. “But, um . . . what does that leave for me?”

I study the paper in front of me. “A treasurer. You need someone to take care of the money. And probably someone to take notes at any business meetings.”

“I know someone who'd be perfect for that,” Becca says in a singsong voice. She flutters her eyelashes at me and that guilty feeling pinches my stomach again.

“No, already. Not me. It has to be Vi.” I add another line to the business plan.

Sadie—President, Vi—Secretary/Treasurer, Becca—Booking/Advertising

“How about ‘Queen of Booking and Advertising'?” Becca smooths her straight red hair like she's ready for us to pop a tiara on it.

“This is a democracy,” Sadie says. “No queens allowed.”

I set the notebook next to the flashlight basket, and we all lean in to admire it.

“We need a name,” Becca says. “Parties 4 U?”

“Plethora of Parties?” I suggest. Then I clamp my mouth shut. This isn't my business.

“What does ‘plethora' mean?” Vi asks. “How about BVS Parties, or SBV Parties? You know, our initials?”

Becca giggles. “Those sound like diseases. We should do something less obvious.”

“Wait.” I run Vi's disease names though my head again. There's something there if I use Rebecca instead of Becca. “RSVP!”

“RS—what?” Vi blinks at me.

“RSVP.
Répondez s'il vous plaît.
Please respond,” I translate. “The fancy-schmancy French way of saying ‘Hey, can you make it or not?' ”

“It's on the bottom of every invitation. RSVP.” Sadie says the word like she's testing it out. “It's kind of . . . perfect.”

“And get this: R for Rebecca, S for Sadie, V for Vi, and P for . . . whatever,” I add.

“We should change it to RSVL. Then you'd have to join because your name is in there.” Becca gives me this sneaky smile.

“Yeah, no.” It's not as if I can change the French language. Also, it's like a sign. My name doesn't fit when everyone else's does, so obviously it's the universe telling me that I need to concentrate on everything else I already have lined up this summer. Not that signs are really a thing. But if I did believe in them, this would definitely be one, and who am I to argue with the universe?

I hold the pen over the notebook. “So, RSVP?”

“That's perfect.” Vi unfolds her long legs and leans forward in a stretch.

“Very classy,” Becca adds.

Sadie brushes her bangs out of her eyes and smiles. “RSVP it is.”

I add the name to the top of our business plan. I mean,
their
business plan.

Becca's phone buzzes and she groans. “It's Dad,” she says. “My presence is required at the Visitor's Center tomorrow. I'm supposed to fill in as the guide for the walking tours.”

“What happened to Pete?” I ask.

“Said he needed to clear out of town before the Fourth of July crowds descend on us.” She stands up and brushes imaginary flecks of dirt from her dress. “Better enjoy my freedom today, then.”

“Wait, y'all should figure out who's doing what first.” I write down all of their names under the words
Action Plan
.

“I'll make some flyers and ask Mom how to order business cards. And we can pass out the flyers at the Fourth of July parade and cookout next weekend,” Becca says as she hands me my backpack.

“I'll . . . um . . . well, there's no
money yet, and everything we talked about is in that business plan,” Vi says. “Wait, I know! I'll make a spreadsheet so we can track all the money we earn.”

A spreadsheet. I could whip that up in two minutes flat. Two minutes that would be better spent memorizing another vocab word definition, I have to remind myself. I tear the business plan from my notebook and pass it to Sadie.

Sadie carefully folds the pages and stows them in her purse. “I'll put together some planning worksheets so that they're ready to go once we book a party.”

I cap my pen and load everything back into my backpack. Then we climb the steps, and I lock up the
Purple People Eater
.

“To RSVP!” Becca says. “This is going to be so much fun!” She holds up her hand. Vi and Sadie do the same—a group high-five. I look away because it hurts just a teeny-tiny bit that I've taken myself out of the group like this. It would've been kind of nice if my name happened to be Patricia or Pam or Petunia. Okay, maybe not Petunia. But maybe if the sign had been there, I could've moved some things around. Maybe.

My phone belts out a rap song. It's a text from Bubby.

Party on, Lo baby!

How Bubby already knows about RSVP, I don't know. But I can already imagine how disappointed she'll be when I tell her I'm not part of it.

“And we're going to make tons of money,” Vi says as the four of us walk down the dock. “We could make more than your mom, Sades.”

Sadie smiles, and Vi gives her a sideways hug.

“Maybe we can do another play like we did for Molly's party, but this time I could take the role of Ryan's girlfriend,” Becca says.

Vi rolls her eyes. “I wonder if we should set up some kind of taste-testing with caterers? Like what Sadie's mom does for the brides. So, you know, we'll learn about who's the best.”

“I know who'd be the best,” Becca says. “You.”

“Just think of all the trips we'll get to make to Party Me Hearties.” Sadie has this far-off look in her eyes, like Party Me Hearties is the Six Flags of Sandpiper Beach instead of this sprawling party supplies store on the mainland with bad lighting and cranky salespeople.

“
This is going to be the best summer ever!” Becca says.

I can't stand Party Me Hearties (I mean, that name. Really.) and want to die at the thought of having to be in a silly murder-mystery play. But . . . there's something kind of lonely about walking behind my friends as they go on and on about this stuff. They don't even look back at me as I climb into the parked golf cart. It's almost like I've gone from best friend to fake friend to nobody in an hour.

I try to imagine my college savings account skyrocketing as I put in hours at the marina and the size of the scholarships I'll get when I ace the SAT. Not to mention my parents' faces when I do all of that. It'll totally make up for everything Josh and Zach haven't done. And it won't make for such a bad summer, right?

If I ignore the little twinge in my heart when I think of my best friends having fun without me.

Daily Love Horoscope for Scorpio:

Keep your friends close today, and your enemies even closer.

H
istory with swishy Southern belles and romantic old plantation houses? Yes, please. History about the so-small-it's-majorly-a-miracle-we-have-our-own-zip-code town, where I've lived my
entire
life? Snore, snore, snoozefest.

At least Daddy's not making me dress up in the pirate costume to give the walking tour this time because, take it from me, horizontal stripes are exactly
no one's
friend. And that stuffed parrot I'm supposed to wear on my shoulder has the sharpest fake claws I've
ever
encountered.
Okay, well, not like I've encountered a bazillion fake claws or anything, but one set is more than enough, thankyouverymuch.

I zoom my bike through the open double doors of the Visitor's Center and right behind the counter, even though I know this will make Daddy especially crazy. But he's forcing me to give this tour—again—so I kind of can't help getting back at him just a little bit.

“I'm here,” I announce.

“Yes, I can see that,” Daddy says, not even commenting on the super-clunky handlebars that will probably hit him in the butt every time he needs to get someone change for the souvenir penny machine. He barely even gives them a passing glance when he says, “Oh, and by the way, I changed my mind about the pirate costume.”

Um, say what now?

“
Daaaaddy!
That's so not fair. You can't do that!”

“Well, Rebecca, if you can feel free to take liberties with agreements we've made in the past”—he pauses and points his eyes directly at my beach cruiser behind the counter—“then I think it's perfectly
fair
for me to back down on my word as well.”

Then he shrugs and smiles as if he doesn't have a care in the whole wide world. Can you imagine? My
hands go to my hips and I open my mouth to argue back, but he slides out from behind the counter and approaches a woman studying a brochure for the fudge shop up the street.

“They offer free samples and a live fudge-making demonstration on the half hour,” Daddy tells her, motioning behind his back for me to go to the storeroom where the Dread Pirate Roberts costume lives. Sadie named it that when she was in her
Princess Bride
obsession stage. Ha! The dread part is definitely spot-on. As in, I
dread
the thought of putting this costume on.

I consider mutiny, but who even knows what punishment Daddy would cook up for me then. He might actually make me walk the plank on the sunset cruise or something. And I don't want to think about what salt water would do to my hair.

Sighing as loudly as I possibly can, I trudge off to the storage closet and grab the musty costume and stuffed Polly Want a Cracker. Five minutes later, I step out of the bathroom behind the Visitor's Center, fully costumed. I tug at the pleather pants. Even though they're, like, approximately one hundred and twenty-two sizes too big for me, they're already glued by sweat to my thighs. The fact that they're tucked into even stickier
pleather boots does
not
help. It should be against the law to wear fake leather in North Carolina in June. (Or anywhere ever, actually.)

Ugh.

It's not even a semicool pirate costume with a hook or a peg leg or anything. Instead of Captain Hook, I look more like Smee with my red-and-white-striped shirt and the bandanna around my head. I'm so getting back at my dad for this. Just wait until he wants me to play a guitar duet with him at our next beach bonfire.

“You look darling, my darling,” Mama calls, balancing two iced coffees in a carryout tray on her hip and heading toward me from across the square. “It's not like you to be early. If I'd known, I would have grabbed you a sweet tea on my drink run. Let me drop this coffee with your dad and I'll be right back.”

A minute later, while I contemplate cutting air pockets into my pants, she's in front of me again. “How was your morning?”

“Fine.” I can't help it if I grumble when I say it. Mama and Daddy had date night on the mainland last night, so I didn't get to see them, and ordinarily I would be telling Mama all about RSVP, including the gazillion ideas I thought of for drumming up business. Or the
flyers I designed last night. I just know she'll let us use the center's copy machine for them. But I'm too sticky and pirate-y to get excited about
anything
.

Mama sets her drink down on a bench and adjusts Polly on my shoulder. “There. She was crooked.”

Le sigh.

“Your tour is meeting over by Merlin in five. Want me to walk with you?” Mama asks.

“Nooooo.” I drag out the word and droop my head. Why doesn't anyone care that I'm positively melting in this costume? I manage a halfhearted wave good-bye before shuffling across the square to the brass statue of Merlin, the biggest Atlantic marlin ever recorded, weighing an astounding 1,576 pounds. Caught in 1942 by the great-great-plus-a-zillion-more-greats-grandson of town founder Jebediah Bodington. Just another uberfascinating statistic, courtesy of Lauren's fact-checking. (Seriously, her favorite thing to do is take the tour and correct my dad when he says there were 120 settlers aboard the
Rosalinde
instead of 121.) And now the friendly visitors to Sandpiper Beach will learn all about them on their informative and entertaining walking tour today. Yippy skippy.

Which reminds me—time for my hourly text to Lauren. In addition to Operation Get a Boyfriend, I'm also on Operation Get Lauren to Join RSVP. I figure if I annoy her enough, she'll give in. And what's more annoying than your BFF texting you every single hour—even at night? When my alarm went off at three a.m., I sent her a text that said, “Lo, join us or ghoisdgihskd,” because my fingers hit the wrong buttons and I was too asleep to really notice. But whatever. I got my point across.