Birthday Vicious (19 page)

“They broke up.”

“Already?”

“You know what guys are like.” A. A. shrugged. She pulled a lip gloss from her Alaia clutch and reapplied a thick, glossy coat. “One minute they're into you and the next . . .”

“Don't remind me,” groaned Lili. “I'm afraid Max is already over me. I haven't been able to speak to him for days. You haven't seen him, have you?”

“Maybe he's in the sunroom? Or there's always the dining room,” suggested A. A., jabbing to the nearby double doors. “You want to check it out?”

Lili nodded, grabbing A. A.'s hand, and together they sidled through the crowd toward the dining room. It felt like Ashley had invited all of the Bay Area, not just the entire seventh grade. And for every Miss Gamble's
girl, there were at least two boys. Just not the boy she was looking for. . . .

A. A. walked ahead, and Lili lost her in the crowd. She was sidetracked because inside the ash-floored dining room, with its mission-style table and ornate Spanish sideboard, and the hand-smelted iron candelabra from Chile, she finally spotted someone she knew.

Not someone she liked, or someone she was particularly looking forward to seeing. It was that stupid Cassandra, wearing a black tutu over striped leggings, her red bangs gelled into a spike. And that insufferable Jezebel was there as well, in a black leotard and skinny vinyl jeans, smearing something disgusting into her mousy mop. Hello, was this
What Not to Wear
?

Bent double laughing were Max's idiot friends, Quentin and Jason, both looking like total posers in old tuxedo jackets worn over matching Che Guevara T-shirts. Lili's blood started to boil. She would never have invited them if she'd known they were going to be all “ironic” and irritating. Hadn't she suffered enough last weekend? And wait a second—what was that thick red and white stuff smeared all over Cassandra's Doc Marten boots? Could it be . . . no, it couldn't! It couldn't be—Ashley's cake?

Lili caught Quentin's eye, and he stopped laughing. In fact, he looked as guilty as hell. She was so livid she couldn't speak. She couldn't believe that they'd started eating the cake already, before Ashley had a chance to make her grand entrance, change into three more outfits, and cut the stupid thing. Even worse, were they really having some kind of childish
food fight
with it?

“Ah, we're really sorry, Lili,” said Quentin, wiping his cake-smeared fingers off on his old jacket. “It was Jason's fault.”

“It totally was not!” protested Jason. He choked back a laugh and looked sheepishly at Lili. “It was just an accident, okay?”

“What was an accident?” Lili asked icily, tapping one foot on the ground. “Hmmm? Cutting yourself a slice of cake before we've even had a chance to sing ‘Happy Birthday' to the guest of honor? Acting like you're five years old?”

“I think what he means,” smirked Cassandra, who didn't look sorry at all, “is . . . well, you can see for yourself.”

She and Jezebel stepped aside, like tattered curtains pulling away from a stage, and Lili realized what the red-crested nitwit was talking about.

Ashley's four-tier big-top cake, with its red-and-white-striped icing, gold-leaf tent ropes, flame-thrower candles, and three-inch incredibly realistic model of Ashley swinging on a trapeze—described by the birthday girl herself in glowing, obsessive detail at lunchtime on Monday—was lying upside down on the floor in a sorry, saggy heap, Princess Dahlia von Fluffsterhaus gobbling huge mouthfuls of its mashed-up edges.

“It really was an accident, and I'm . . .” Quentin was talking on and on, but all Lili could hear was the loud buzzing in her ears.

The cake was a total eyesore and beyond repair. She was furious with Max for having such annoying friends, furious with herself for inviting them, and furious with them for maliciously—she was sure—knocking the cake to the ground. But whoever's fault it was didn't matter now. Even if the cake had leaped off the table and onto the floor, one thing was certain.

Ashley was going to
freak
!

LAUREN WAS A GIRL WITH
a mission. she barely even registered the way the Spencer mansion was decorated with thousands of multicolored lights, like a giant version of the Rockefeller Center Christmas tree. She bolted past the stilt-wearing flame-eaters, hurdled over a forward-rolling monkey—not easy in delicate four-inch silk Blahniks—and practically knocked the whip out of the ringmaster's hands.

It wasn't because she was late—not
really
late, anyway. From all the shrieking chatter around her from overexcited party guests, she could work out that Ashley had yet to make her big entrance.

But she wasn't worried about missing Ashley's big
moment. She wasn't even that worried about Ashley missing
her
big moment—i.e., the unveiling of the brand-new, made-over, Super-Sweet Sadie to her soon-to-be-brand-new friends, the Ashleys.

Sadie had sent her a text saying she would be there soon; she was just waiting for her escort to arrive.
WHAT ESCORT?
Lauren had asked, but there was no reply. This made her intensely nervous. She hoped Sadie wasn't going to blow it by turning up with some nerd doofus who'd presented her with a wrist corsage to match his nylon cummerbund!

She'd wanted them to arrive together, all dolled up and looking like a million dollars—which was about what it had cost to get Sadie party-ready. But Sadie had begged off, saying she would just meet her there. That was okay—Sadie could take care of herself for the moment, because Lauren had a far more important task to accomplish tonight.

She had to find Christian.

A. A.'s cool mom, Jeanine, had told her exactly what she needed to do. The first thing was to look unbelievably hot. Lauren glanced at her reflection in the enormous Louis Quinze mirror hanging in the expansive front hall—not an easy thing to do when you were getting
jostled by hundreds of other partygoers, waiters on unicycles, and a performing iron man who kept lifting unsuspecting (and shrieking) guests into the air and dangling them from one of his giant fists.

She'd kept to the all-purple theme, as agreed, but she still felt confident about standing out from the crowd. Her dress was a light lavender color, with frayed hems and a daring neckline. Even Dex, who'd dropped her off, whistled when she walked out to the car, and told her that she looked like one hot tamale—though he immediately tried to make a joke of it, saying that she really looked like a very expensive grape, or possibly just a skinny eggplant.

Even that was praise, coming from sarcastic, cynical Dex. This was the person who'd told her he'd rather have his toes tattooed than go to what he called Ashley's spoiled-brat-a-thon. Not that he was invited: Ashley wasn't into older guys.

Anyway, the second piece of advice from Jeanine was: Find the object of your affections but don't acknowledge him. Parade up and down someplace where he can't avoid spotting you, but play it cool. No smiling, no chatting, no flirting, and absolutely, definitely, no begging to be taken back. This particular task was going to be harder to
accomplish, Lauren knew. She was afraid that the second she saw Christian, she'd just run right up to him screaming, “I broke up with Alex! I broke up with Alex!”

And that, according to A. A.'s mother, would be a disaster. She said that guys like a challenge, and that he had to think he was winning Lauren back.

Lauren wasn't so sure about this. Christian was the one who'd dumped
her
, after all: maybe he had no intention of ever winning Lauren back. But she couldn't obsess about this for another second; the main thing was to find him and do the parading up and down. Maybe her sheer chiffon dress and her shiny new pageboy do would win him over. He'd liked her once upon a time, right?

The living room was insane, packed with people gazing up to the mezzanine and its high-wire trapeze. Lauren squeezed her way through, standing on her tiptoes to try and spot Christian. She saw lots of boys, lots of boys who almost looked like Christian, and lots of boys who were inferior to him in pretty much every way—but unless he was one of the guys in bear masks tumbling over the coffee table, Christian himself didn't appear to be in the room.

She fought her way to the sunroom, almost scorching her Miu Miu wristlet purse on one of the rings of
fire. Still no Christian! Maybe he was out in the backyard? Lauren pushed through the French doors, but all she could find were animal pens, catering vans, a fire truck, and a Red Cross station where exhausted unicyclists went to rehydrate during their mandatory breaks.

This was a disaster! If Christian wasn't here, how was she going to march in front of him looking sassy and cute and irresistible? Lauren stomped back into the sunroom, so down about the state of her love life that she stepped on one of the ruffle-collared terriers about to make a leap over a burning coal pit.

The dog yapped with irritation, and Lauren lost her balance, almost falling over. One of her heels caught in the gap between two slate tiles, and with a sickening
snap!
it sheared right off. Lauren let out an involuntary shriek and started tumbling into the fire pit.
Eek!

The last thing she needed was coal burns on her hands and an evening spent being the most overdressed girl in purple at the ER. Luckily, someone grabbed her by the elbow and yanked her out of the danger zone—a little too vigorously, because Lauren, still wobbling on her broken heel, found herself staggering headfirst into a pillar and hitting her head with a bang.
Ouch!

“Are you okay?” someone asked, and Lauren, woozy and disoriented, nodded. Better a concussion than burns, she guessed, tears of pain and embarrassment pricking her eyes. This whole house was a giant hazard.

“Sorry—I mean, thanks,” she said, rubbing her head, not caring about messing up her perfect hairdo. She was going to have a nasty bump there in the morning.

“Maybe we should go to the kitchen and ask for a bag of frozen peas?”

“Yeah, maybe.” Lauren fumbled in her bag for a tissue. She didn't want a stranger to see her crying.

“It doesn't feel too bad,” the stranger reassured her, his hand gently pressing the crown of her head. “I mean, I think you'll live. You might suffer irreparable brain damage, but I think you'll be okay.”

Lauren looked up, her breath catching in her throat. She would recognize that deadpan delivery anywhere. This wasn't a stranger. It was Christian!

“It's fine, really,” she managed to squeak, reaching down to pull off the broken shoe. “I just feel kind of stupid.”

“You sure were in a big hurry,” he told her, his eyes boring into hers. Lauren's heart went
ker-plunk
. He was just goofy old Christian, in a button-down yellow shirt
and rumpled khakis, his green eyes sparking, his dark blond hair smelling clean and apple-ish. But she was so happy to see him that all of Jeanine's advice went out the window.

“I was looking for you,” she blurted. Then she didn't know where to look, so she reached down to tug off the other shoe. She'd have to spend the party barefoot—oh well!

“I was looking for you, too,” said Christian, his face suddenly anxious. “I wanted to tell you—I don't care. I mean, I just kind of miss you . . . so I don't mind if you don't want an exclusive relationship, that's cool. . . .”

“No!” she practically yelled, and Christian looked startled. Luckily, everybody else was too preoccupied with the stupid dog tricks and a rogue piece of white-hot coal that was rolling out of its pit and scorching the sunroom floor. “I mean, I
do
want an exclusive relationship. You were right last week—this is too hard.”

Christian's face fell.

“Okay,” he said slowly. “Well, I hope you and Alex are, you know, happy. . . .”

“Not me and Alex!” Lauren realized that Christian was getting the wrong message. This bump on the head
had turned her into a burbling fool! “I broke up with him this week. Didn't you know?”

“Nope.” Christian shook his head, but he was smiling now.

“So, can we . . . ?” Lauren felt shy all of a sudden.

“You mean . . . me and you?” Christian looked all red as well.

“Yeah, if that's . . . you know, okay.”

“Oh, it's okay,” he agreed, and then they stood there, not sure what to do next. Lauren wished he would kiss her or something, but then she wished he wouldn't, because they were in such a public place, and she wanted the first kiss of their new relationship to be something amazing and special, without any jumping dogs, burning hoops, or dangerous fire pits anywhere in sight.

“Hey.” He nudged her. “Speak of the devil, right?
He
didn't waste any time.”

Lauren spun around and looked toward the living-room entrance. Christian was right: There was Alex, looking darkly handsome. And hanging on his arm was a stunning girl whose piercing blue eyes surveyed the room with haughty displeasure.

Her golden blond hair was gathered in loose waves and rippled like sunshine over her bare shoulders, and
a killer red minidress halted at midthigh, the better to show off her bronzed calves. On her feet were six-inch Valentino stilettos, the kind you could only order from the flagship store in Rome.

Lauren knew this even though she couldn't see the girl's feet, just as she knew those blue eyes were the result of colored contact lenses, and just as she knew the oh-so- casual hairstyle had taken three hours to perfect.

She knew all this because the girl on Alex's arm was Sadie Graham.

A. A. WAS ABOUT TO JUMP
out of her skin with nerves. What was Tri going to say to her? He'd just started to tell her whatever it was he was desperate to communicate, and then Lili arrived. Instead of hanging around until Lili rushed off a few minutes later to look for Max, Tri sulked and wandered away.