Frosting and Friendship (11 page)

She laughs nervously. “Oh, I didn't mean dance, like at the prom or something. More like at a concert. You get what I mean, right?”

“Yeah. That makes sense, I guess.” I swallow hard. “Still, it seems like this party is turning into something really different from what I thought it would be. And a lot more complicated. I'm just not sure—”

She doesn't let me finish. “You know, maybe we should have the party somewhere else. I can check with some other people today and see if I can find a different place.”

“But the invitations are already out,” I say. “Wouldn't that be weird, to make a change now?”

“I'd have to give everyone a corrected invitation. It would mean some extra work, but I'll do it if I have to. The important thing is to give Sophie a great birthday party.”

I can see it now: everyone talking about me, about how I almost ruined the surprise party for Sophie. When it's all over, what would Isabel say about me to
Sophie? Instead of growing closer to Sophie and the other girls in the book club, I'd be pushing myself farther away.

The words come rushing out, because as difficult as everything is, I think changing things now would be a lot worse. “No, it's fine,” I tell her, trying not to be mad that Isabel keeps getting her way while I have to push what I want aside. “My dad said a band at the party is okay.” Which is true. He just thought it would be my band.

She squeals with excitement. “Thank you so much! This party is going to be amazing. Like, the best birthday party in the history of the universe. Oh, and Sophie's mom is going to tell Sophie she's taking her out for a nice dinner, just the two of them, for some special mother-daughter time. Then she'll pretend they have to stop at your house because you have a gift you want to give the birthday girl. They'll walk into the house, we'll yell surprise, and the party begins!”

“That sounds good,” I tell her. “What time should I have the New Pirates arrive?”

“I'd say seven, like everyone else. Sophie's mom
is going to get her there around seven thirty.”

“Okay,” I say. “So, is there anything else? If not, I'll just see you Saturday, I guess.”

“Yeah, I think we're good,” she says. “I'll be there around five, with the decorations.”

We say good-bye, and after we hang up, I start to think about how I'm going to break the news to Zola and Abigail. I don't want to be upset with Isabel, but I can't deny that I am. She basically demanded the New Pirates play at the party. If I had said no, then I would have looked like the bad guy—or girl in this case.

I really wish she hadn't put me in this position. But here I am, and now I have to figure out what to do about it.

Do I wait for the perfect moment during practice tonight and try to break it to Abigail and Zola gently, or is it better to get it over quickly, right when they get here, kind of like ripping off a Band-Aid?

My mom is a rip-off-the-Band-Aid kind of person. I've never liked that method. I think it hurts a lot more that way.

So I decide I'll wait for the right time tonight and explain, as nicely as I can, what happened. Hopefully they'll understand. Because something tells me if they don't, the Dots may be finished before we ever had a chance to really begin.

A
fter dinner, Mom brings four bowls, a half gallon of vanilla ice cream, hot fudge, and whipped cream to the table.

“Sundaes?” I ask.

“Yep,” Mom says. “We have something to celebrate tonight.”

I look at Dad, but he doesn't say a word. He just smiles and stands up to help scoop ice cream.

I turn to Madison. “Do you know why we're celebrating?”

She beams. “I made the varsity softball team.”

“You did?” I ask. “But . . . how?”

She shrugs. “The coach said I've got what it takes.”

“Madison has what you and I don't have, Lily Dilly,” Dad says, drizzling hot fudge over the scoops of ice cream. “Innate athletic ability.”

Mom takes a bowl from Dad and puts a dollop of whipped cream on top before she passes it to Madison. I feel anger boiling up inside of me. She wanted to play softball, she tried out for the team, and without having to practice at all, she made the team. Easy as pie.

Why is everything
so
easy for her, and why does it have to be
so
hard for me?

Mom passes me my sundae, and now I feel too upset to eat. It's not fair. Everything goes Madison's way.

Everything.

“Aren't you going to congratulate me?” Madison asks me before she takes a big bite of her sundae.

Pep talk time.

Your sister can't help it if she's naturally good at almost everything.
It's not her fault. It's not going to do any good to be mad at her. Remember how she was really nice to you when the chocolate cake didn't turn out? You owe it to her. Be nice. You know what Mom always says—life isn't always fair. So you have to work harder at things. Maybe that's a good thing somehow. Okay, maybe not, but still . . . do the right thing.

“Congratulations,” I say as I look her right in the eyes. “I hope you make it to the championships.”

“Wouldn't that be wonderful?” Mom says, sitting back down to eat her hot-fudge sundae.

I don't answer that question. But I do take a bite of my sundae, and it tastes fantastic. I think ice cream may be my new favorite dessert. After all, you don't even have to turn on the oven.

When Abigail and Zola arrive, I stay focused on finishing the song. All three of us know that's the number one priority.

It takes us a good hour to figure out the right notes and the perfect words to go with those notes, but we keep at it.

Until finally “Wishing” by the Dots is complete!

We play it three times, from start to finish, and each time, it sounds better and better.

After the third time through, Zola gives me and Abigail high fives. “Dudes, we are on our way. I can't wait for Saturday night.”

Abigail grins. “Me either. Did you check with your dad? Is he cool with moving the equipment upstairs?”

“Yeah,” I tell them. “But—”

I don't get a chance to finish. Zola interrupts me. “Hey, we should practice ‘Happy Birthday.' We need to spice the original version up a bit. Put our own spin on it, you know?”

Abigail plays a chord on her guitar and Zola starts beating out a rhythm. It sounds so fun, I can't help but start to sing when it's time for the vocals to come in. We mess around with it for a while, and we're laughing and having such a good time, I look at my friends and think,
This is how it's supposed to be.
This is what I dreamed of when I thought about being in a band, and it's come true. It's really come true!

The moment is gone quickly, though, when Abigail looks at the clock and starts scurrying around, gathering her things. “Oh shoot. Zola, come on, we have to go. My dad is probably waiting out front for us.”

The voice in my head starts screaming,
Tell them, tell them!
I need to tell them we're not playing at the party, but I can't do it. Everything has been so perfect, I don't want to ruin it.

“Bye, Lily,” Abigail says as they head out the door of the studio. “Thanks for a great practice.”

“See you tomorrow,” Zola says.

And just like that, they're gone, and I'm left holding a song about wishing, while I'm doing a little of my own wishing.

I wish Isabel hadn't run into Bryan and his dad.

I wish the New Pirates weren't our musical enemies.

I wish we had thirty songs ready, so I could cancel the New Pirates' appearance at Sophie's party and we could easily take their place.

The more I wish, the more I realize wishing is kind of silly, because no matter how hard I wish, none of it's going to come true.

Suddenly, I'm not so sure I like the song we wrote. When you wish, you hope something good is going to happen. And when it doesn't, which is a lot of the time, then you feel bad. Like, so bad, you just want to crawl in bed and stay there.

The party is on Saturday. No matter how hard I might wish that it all goes perfectly and everyone gets along and no one is upset with me, that's probably not going to happen.

Maybe our next song should be titled “Life Isn't Fair, Deal with It.”

O
n Tuesday, I promised myself I'd tell Abigail and Zola on Wednesday about the New Pirates playing at the party.

On Wednesday, I promised myself I'd tell Abigail and Zola on Thursday about the New Pirates playing at the party.

On Thursday, as I'm trying really, really hard to think of an excuse not to tell Abigail and Zola
about the New Pirates playing at the party, I get a brilliant idea.

Both of us can play at the party! I can't believe I didn't think of it before. It makes so much sense. Isabel gets what she wants and I don't have to make any band members angry.

It's perfect!

I'm so happy and relieved, when Mom asks me if I'll go see my great-grandpa with her after school on Thursday, I don't whine or complain like I sometimes do. I just say, “Sure.”

My great-grandpa Frank lives in a retirement home called New Beginnings. That means he has his own little apartment in a big building where a whole bunch of other old people also have their own apartments. The people who live there go to a big dining room three times a day for their meals. There's an activity coordinator who comes up with things for them to do. Some of the activities I've heard about are yoga, aerobics, bingo, sing-alongs, and poker night. Grandpa Frank says poker night is his favorite. He plays cards and bets with chips. The chips are like pretend money, so if he loses all of his
chips, it doesn't matter. Although, he hates to lose, so I guess it does matter a little bit.

When we get to Grandpa Frank's room, Mom knocks, but the television is turned up so loud, he doesn't hear it. My great-grandma passed away a few years ago. He's lived here ever since, and I think the television may be his best friend since she died. It's kind of sad, but I guess it's good that he has something to keep him company during the day, when he's not doing some kind of activity. I told him once that he should try yoga. This is what he said: “Yoga is for young chickens. In case you haven't noticed, I am not a young chicken.” I didn't argue with him, even though no one doing yoga at New Beginnings is a young chicken.

Finally Grandpa Frank opens the door and invites us in. His room smells like pine trees, like always. He buys little green trees at the store that are actually car fresheners and hangs one from the latch on one of the windows. He says the smell reminds him of the days he was a park ranger, walking around the forests of Oregon.

After he says hello and turns the television off,
he picks up the candy dish off the coffee table and offers me a candy orange slice. They are little sugary candies in the shape of an orange wedge. They're soft and chewy, sweet and delicious. And orange-flavored, of course. Every time we come to visit, I wonder if this will be the time when he doesn't have any candy in the bowl. I'd be so disappointed. But he hasn't let me down yet.

“How's the cat?” he asks.

“Good,” I say. “Soft and fluffy, just the way you like him.”

It makes him smile. He asks about Oscar every time we see him. He's a big fan of cats. Of all animals, really. He keeps asking the administration to make an exception and let him have his own cat, but they keep turning him down.

“You're here just in time,” he tells us. He puts on a navy blue sweater-vest over his white button-down shirt and slips on his brown loafers. I guess we're going somewhere.

“In time for what?” I ask.

“They're having a sing-along downstairs.”