Golden Hour Page 9

  “Dylan was doing a music video,” I blurt. “They were shooting it at the water park. And he asked me to be in it. With Dace. You would’ve said no.”

  “Pippa, you’re 17. You’ve been accepted into your dream college. Why would I tell you that you can’t miss one day of senior year?”

  I just stare at Mom, not sure what to say next.

  “You do recall that I was your age once, right?”

  My stomach feels like there are rocks in it. If she only knew the truth.

  “Come here,” Mom says, standing and opening her arms wide. I walk toward her. “I don’t like it when you lie to me. It makes me feel like I can’t trust you.” She sighs.

  “I’m sorry.”

  “I hate that you’d ever think we’re on two different teams. I’m on your team. Just talk to me.”

  “OK,” I say, but I feel sick. Is now my moment to tell her just how many colossal lies I’ve been telling her? I don’t know how to start . . .

  But she gives me a peck on the cheek and moves to grab her purse. “I have to go to a meeting at the bank. But I’ll pick up a pizza for us for tonight?” And I remember that it’s Friday and our night. Well, it’s supposed to be our night. But Hank has some Corvette Club event, so Charley’s sleeping over. For once, I’m relieved to have the pint-sized distraction.

  *

  Skip ahead four hours and it’s Mom, Charley, me, a pizza and the Gilmore Girls. I’m trying to track the rapid-fire dialogue while Charley asks about a billion questions and I try not to lose my patience with him. Between episodes Mom gets up to get us more soda.

  “Aren’t you getting tired, Charley?” I ask.

  He gives me a look. “My dad said I could stay up as late as I wanted. Or that if I do fall asleep, I can just sleep in your room because it’s going to be my room anyway when you go to college.”

  “What?”

  “We’re going to move in, and I can choose my room.” He rearranges the sleeping bag on himself and grins at me.

  My heart drops about a foot into the pit of my stomach. Mom’s planning to let Hank move in when I’m gone? And Charley knows before me? But if that’s the case, why would Mom need a mortgage?

  Mom returns carrying three glasses and places them on the coffee table. And I don’t know what to do.

  “Pippa, are you going to hit play?” Mom asks. So I do and fold my arms over my chest, staring at the screen and trying to push all other thoughts out of my head, but even Gilmore Girls is against me. Rory has always wanted to go to Harvard. But now, Lorelai finds out that Rory also applied to Yale, her grandfather’s alma mater. Her mom is upset that she never told her that she even applied to Yale.

  Even Rory had a backup plan.

  After the episode ends, Mom turns to me. “One more?”

  Charley’s finally asleep at the end of the couch.

  “Sure,” I say. Maybe Rory’ll rescind her application or not get into either school, or something that will make me feel slightly better about my own life.

  “I’m just going to put the leftover pizza in the fridge.” When Mom returns, she has a puzzled look on her face. “Hey, I meant to ask you—Reba, you know that woman in my Pilates class? Her daughter goes to Concord, and she got accepted to the same program you applied to at Brown. So shouldn’t you have heard too, if they’re sending out acceptances?”

  I pretend to yawn, stretching my arms above my head. “I don’t know. Maybe they send it out by school or something. Or maybe she got early acceptance.”

  “Well, I think you should check with your guidance counselor or call the college. What if there was a glitch?”

  “What difference does it make?” I say, shifting away from her on the couch.

  “You did all that work to apply, you should at least know if you got in or not. In case you change your mind about Tisch.”

  “Change my mind? Why on earth would I change my mind?”

  Mom holds her hands up. “OK, OK.” She’s using that voice she used to use when I was throwing a temper tantrum. “Calm down. Of course you may never change your mind. It’s just—you know I thought I was always going to be a model. And I did it, as hard as it was—moved to New York, not knowing a soul, living in a house full of models, not even knowing how to cook for myself or do my own laundry. I never thought about a backup plan, or what I’d do after modeling. I didn’t think about the what-ifs. Like what if I got pregnant, and my boyfriend didn’t want to be with me and I had to move back home again.”

  “Yeah, but things worked out. Dad came with you.”

  “Yes, he did. And I always loved him for that. But I couldn’t model anymore, not here, in Spalding. My modeling career was over. Everything changed. And when Dad died, everything changed again. And I had to get a job—which is not my dream job—and work crazy hours. And not see you as much as I want to, and I wonder, What if I had taken some classes, while I was in New York, gone to college part-time with the money I was making modeling? Or maybe when you had started grade school, if I had taken a course or two, gotten a degree in something. Then when I really needed it, I could’ve put that skill to use. But I don’t have a skill. All I have is a job with crappy pay and a lot of hours. And I do it. Because that’s what you do when life throws you for a loop. You buckle up and you just hold on and you do it. But you, Pippa, you don’t have to just do it. You love photography, and you’re great at it. But what if you grow out of it, then what? All your schooling will be in photography; all your eggs are in one basket. So if you ever change your mind, or you can’t find work as a photographer, then what? I just don’t ever want you to feel stuck.”

  Mom looks at me, her eyes glassy. I stare down at the TV remote in my hand, willing myself not to cry.

  “I’m sorry, Mom. I mean, I know you work so much and you don’t love it, but you never complain. I should’ve been helping out more, earning money . . .” Is this why Hank and Charley are moving in? To save money?

  “Pipsqueak, no. That’s not what I meant,” Mom says. “This isn’t about the money. It’s about keeping your options open. You’re so young. And this is a big decision.”

  “Okay, I get it,” I say, leaning back in the couch and closing my eyes.

  “So I wanted to ask you something,” Mom says.

  “What?” I open my eyes.

  “Well,” Mom sighs, “you know Hank and I—well, things have been going so well . . .” And there it is. She’s going to ask if I’m OK with Hank moving in, along with his son. Of course I don’t get off scot-free for skipping school to be in a music video. This is my punishment. “Hank asked me to go away for the weekend. For our anniversary. Just overnight. We’d leave tomorrow and be back Sunday. We’d need you to babysit Charley, if you were up for that.”

  I don’t know whether to be relieved that all she wants to do is go away, or that she’s also not being totally truthful either.

  “I’d just be a phone call away. And I think it would mean a lot to Charley. He really likes hanging out with you. It could be a real bonding moment for you two, without the parents around.”

  “Sure,” I say, and I stand. “You know, I’m pretty tired.”

  “Oh,” she says. “You sure you don’t want to watch another?”

  I shake my head. “Not tonight. I’m going to go to bed.” While it’s still my bed, in my bedroom, I think, as I head up the stairs.

  SATURDAY, MAY 6

  “Your mom is going away and you didn’t tell me?!” Dace calls me immediately after I text her in the morning. I’ve just gotten home from garbage picking and seen Mom and Hank off on their romantic getaway in the Ford Focus.

  “I’m telling you now. She just told me last night right before I was going to bed.”

  “Ahh. Oldest trick in the parent book. The short-notice, casual mention about going away. They’ve probably had that getaway booked for weeks.”
>
  “Huh?”

  “Parenting Rule #1. Never give your teenager notice that you’re going away. That way there’s no time to throw a party. She really underestimates our skills.”

  “I’m not throwing a party.”

  “Give me 24 reasons why not.”

  “I’ll give you one—”

  “Nope. I said 24. And you can’t do it. How many times have you thrown a party when your mom wasn’t home?”

  “You know I never have.”

  Dace has thrown parties, and we’ve had our share of going to other people’s parties when their parents are away, but throwing one myself?

  “Exactly. Which makes this a must-do. Add it to the list. It’s the perfect excuse to invite your McAlmost Boyfriend over. I’ll be there in 20 minutes.”

  As promised, Dace shows up at my door less than half an hour later, weighed down by her massive backpack. “This thing is Kilimanjaring my back.” She dumps it on the ground. “Party supplies,” she explains as she stretches her arms over her head. “Wait a second,” she says, looking past me to the kitchen, where Charley’s sitting at the table, watching a show on his iPad. “What’s Charlie Brown doing here?”

  “Don’t call me Charlie Brown,” he says.

  “Shhh.” I put a finger to my lips. “See? I was trying to tell you this is why I can’t have a party. Charley’s sleeping here tonight.”

  “Fukushima.” She exhales loudly. “We’ve got to get him out of here. It would be irresponsible of us to expose him to an evening of drinking and debauchery.”

  “Um, drinking and debauchery are not in the plan, actually. Can’t we just have a normal Saturday Sleepover?” I say, locking the front door and following Dace into the kitchen.

  “No way, San José. Hey buddy,” she says to Charley, “who’s your best friend?”

  “José.”

  “Whoa. That was trippy,” Dace says. “Does this mean I’m psychic? Ooh, what if I set up a psychic reading booth while we’re traveling? How awesome would that be?” She turns back to Charley. “What’s José’s last name?”

  Charley shrugs. “No idea.”

  “Any idea what his phone number is?”

  “He’s eight. He doesn’t have a phone.”

  “Well, how do you get in touch with him?”

  Charley holds up his tablet. “I text him on his iPad.”

  “Great—why don’t you let him know you want to have a super fun sleepover at his house, tonight?”

  *

  But José turns out not to be in town, either. So Charley goes along with us as we go shopping for supplies (turns out Dace’s enormous backpack really is handy). Next we create several drink stations with soda and ice and set up a bunch of blow-up chairs in my backyard to encourage people to spend time outside, not in. But just in case they do come in, we move all breakables and valuables from the main floor. Then the doorbell rings.

  I answer it to find a delivery guy.

  “You ordered the popcorn machine?” he says.

  Dace pushes past me. “Yes, yes I did.” She turns to me and smiles. “All parties need popcorn machines, right?”

  “Yes, they do!” Charley cheers, clapping his hands.

  Finally, Dace says it’s time to invite people.

  “Should we make a list?” I ask.

  “I don’t think that’s necessary,” Dace says. “I think basically you should open up your texts and invite everyone on the list. You know, aside from your mom and Hank.”

  I consider inviting Gemma and Emma first, but instead text Dylan.

  While I’m texting the 17th person in my contacts, Dylan texts back.

  Dylan: Is there a theme? Like grunge or disco?

  Me: Um, no.

  Dylan: So you’re saying don’t wear purple PVC?

  Me: I think it might be overkill.

  Dylan: K. Working show tonight so it’ll be pretty late. How late’s too late?

  Dace peers over my shoulder. “Tell him the party doesn’t start till he walks in. And then get back to inviting people so this is actually a party and not you and me and a bucket of popcorn.”

  My heart’s pounding as I text back. Dylan’s coming to my house. My parent-free house. Where we might potentially kiss again. Above water.

  “Come on,” Dace says after we’ve invited everyone we know. “Time to change.”

  “I thought this looked pretty good,” I say, running my hands over my black jeans as I follow her. I’m wearing a black halter top that I love, and the all-black thing works on me.

  “You look like Darth Vader,” Charley says, following us up the stairs.

  “I’ve been telling her that for months,” Dace says. “I brought half my closet. Just have a look.”

  She’s not kidding. There’s a huge heap of clothes on the floor of my room.

  “What’s this?” Charley asks, dangling one of Dace’s thongs.

  “A lasso,” says Dace, taking it back and stuffing it in her pocket.

  We set Charley up with Star Wars Rebels downstairs, and upstairs in my room, Dace gets down on her knees and starts rummaging through the pile and tossing items at me, then instructing me to swap them for something else. “We’re getting closer.” She tosses a red and blue striped bikini at me. “Here, put this on.”

  “Umm, I don’t have a pool,” I remind her.

  “Details, shmetails. This makes you seem summery. It’s just your base layer anyway, instead of underwear. Just trust me. It lets you have more freedom with your next layers because you’re technically already wearing clothes.”

  “This is too weird,” I say, stripping down until I’m naked, then pulling on the bikini. I wrap my arms around my waist.

  Next she hands me a brightly striped flowy dress that I pull over my head. She pulls the sleeves down. “It’s supposed to be off the shoulder.” She stands back and nods.

  I check my appearance in the mirror. “It’s kind of see-through.”

  “It’s sheer. See how the bikini came in handy?”

  I turn around in the mirror. I do look cute. “What if he doesn’t come?” I say, feeling nervous.

  “He’s going to come. He said he was going to come. OK, so Ben’s going to bring beer—”

  “You talked to Ben?” Dace’s face reddens, and I cock my head. “You’re blushing.”

  “I’m not.”

  “You are.”

  “I may have run into him the other day.”

  “OK—”

  “And we grabbed coffee.”

  “Like, a coffee date?” I say.

  “Never mind Ben. Let’s talk about Dylan. Have you talked about the text you never answered? The breakup?”

  I shake my head. “No. You know, before, I felt like he was a slacker, and I had all these life goals. But now it’s like the roles are reversed. He’s at Harvard, and I’m, like, nowhere. What if he feels the way about me that I used to feel about him?”

  “Uh, no way. I saw the kiss on the playback monitor. He’s not an actor. You’re not an actor. And there were serious sparks. Fireworks, really.”

  “Fireworks?” I say hopefully.

  “Fourth of July kind of fireworks.”

  “Being in love is so gut-wrenching.”

  “Yes, but it also makes you feel alive.”

  *

  By 8:30, just when I’m starting to worry that no one’s going to actually come to my party, Gemma and Emma and a bunch of other girls arrive. We’ve dimmed the lights wherever we could, and Charley’s put out a bunch of glow sticks and bracelets. I’ve even made him a Shirley Temple—7UP, grenadine, OJ and a little drink umbrella. Dace brought over the mini lights she usually has strung over her canopy bed, and we’ve strung them in the backyard.

  “Welcome cocktail?” Dace asks the girls, and they all accept. I fill up five Solo
cups with the concoction Dace and I created and hand them out as Ben arrives with a couple of guys who went to Spalding last year, carrying cases of beer. Dace and I wanted to have a signature drink because it seemed very un-high-school party of us, but we were limited to what Dace could swipe from her basement: a bunch of bottles of sparkling wine that her mom had left over from a baby shower she’d hosted, plus an almost-full bottle of vodka. So we threw them all in a jug with some lemonade and are calling it a Spring Fling. It’s pretty good, IMO.

  “What is this?” Emma says, her eyes widening after taking a sip.

  “Spring Fling!” I say a little too loudly as the front door opens and a bunch of juniors storm in. I wonder if we should’ve put a sign on the front door telling people to go around to the backyard. I’m starting to worry that my plan to get people outside is not going to go very smoothly.

  “I never thought you would throw a party!” Gemma practically hollers as someone turns up the music on the sound dock in the kitchen.

  “Yeah, me either,” I say as the door opens and more people stream in. No Dylan, just randoms. Ben returns from the kitchen and slings an arm around Dace. Huh. “I had to take some stuff out of your fridge to fit the beer in,” Ben says. “You know, like, vegetables. I shoved them in the pantry by the cereal, OK?”

  I make a mental note to get any traces of lettuce and snap peas out of there before Mom finds them, but things are already starting to feel a bit fuzzy and I wonder if I better switch to plain old lemonade? But Dace was right: throwing a party is something the old Pippa never would’ve done. I would’ve been too worried nobody would come, and look, I think, the house is packed. I snap pics as everyone’s having a great time. Everyone has a Solo cup. Including Charley. “Charley!” I yelp. “What’s in that cup?” I taste it—and, luckily, it checks out fine. 7UP.

  After heading to the kitchen to refill my drink (turns out, all the lemonade is in the Spring Fling), I walk around, catching bits and pieces of other people’s conversations, taking group selfies. When my cup is empty, I refill and find Dace and Ben and my other friends in the living room, and sit down beside Dace on the sofa. We play Would You Rather? (the drinking version) for a bit, then talk turns to summer plans.