Party Girl (8 page)

Lights shift and move in time with the music coming from yet another DJ, and every inch of the space is filled with activity stations. There’s the photo booth currently being set up, a vintage arcade with at least seven games, a place to screen-print your own T-shirt, tables full of glass vases filled with different kinds of candy (all of which are blue), and even a bar featuring “mocktails.” I can’t believe this space, which has to cost at least fifty grand, is for a bunch of thirteen-year-olds.

All I’d wanted for my thirteenth birthday was a purple velour Juicy jumpsuit, and, no joke, my daddy gave me a shotgun and a gift certificate for hunter’s education classes down at the sporting goods store. Clearly Ari and I come from different worlds.

“The bars need their framed menus. Who’s on it?” someone asks into the walkie.

“This is Brinkley. I’ll grab them.” I hurry out of the little tent and off in search of the menus.

“We need pens! The guest book has no pens,” McKenna barks into the walkie.

“This is Brinkley again. I’ll get pens when I grab the menus. Give me two minutes.”

I hope I don’t come across as a teacher’s pet, but I can’t seem to help myself.

“Roger.”

“Did photo booth get set up?” someone asks as I head up to the production van.

“Yes, he’s just finishing his setup now. I told them we’re room-ready at six fifteen for photos.”

I feel very official and important answering questions into my mouthpiece and fetching bar menus.

It can’t take me more than a handful of minutes to grab the supplies, but by the time I walk back into the main tent the mood has changed. Selah has arrived and is fit to be tied. From what I can tell she hates the setup of the lounges, and now everyone is scrambling to change them around. At least twelve people are working with her trying to lay out the room differently, which is actually really tough since there is so much furniture in the tent; moving one thing means moving everything else around it too.

I try not to draw attention to myself as I walk the menus to each bar and then turn back to the chaos. I don’t really want to enter Selah’s orbit, but she’s with Quade and McKenna. Since they’re my bosses I don’t really have a choice.

Selah is wearing a black sheath dress with black stiletto boots. She looks flawless but for the snarl on her face.

“I can’t fathom why it’s never ready when I arrive on site,” she says hatefully. “This layout looks terrible. And now I have to stand here and wait while you put everything back the way it should have been to begin with.”

I come up and stand off to the side of the group.

“Production sets up,” McKenna sighs.

“Yes, and don’t you have eyes? Surely you could see that the room looked like shit,” she bites back. “This is what happens when a design is altered at the last minute.”

Wait, wasn’t she the one who had them change the whole design at the last minute?

“I know. It’s so frustrating. Thank God you’re here. It already looks so much better,” McKenna says, coddling her.

I look around the space before me. It looks great this new way. But it also looked great the old way, and there really isn’t enough of a change to warrant the scramble. All around me people are hurried and nervous-looking. It’s odd because half an hour ago I thought we all seemed prepared and confident.

We’re only a few minutes into the party when I hear Quade’s voice screech through my earpiece.

“What the fuck is going on with these bar menus?” she demands to no one in particular.

I look at the bar across the tent from where I’ve been stationed, greeting guests. I’m expecting to see Quade’s body language reflecting the angry tone in her voice, but at this distance she looks totally controlled and normal as she whispers viciously into her walkie.

“These menus are for the Lido Deck! We’ve got guests wondering why their signature drinks are named after Halo characters, and parents freaking out because the menus in the deck have alcohol listed in them!”

The bottom drops out of my stomach. I hadn’t even thought to check and see which bar menu went where; I’d assumed they were all the same. I reach for my walkie so I can apologize.

“My bad. I’ll swap those out right now.” I haven’t heard him on the walkie much today, but I recognize the little twang of Taylor’s voice.

Why is he covering for me? I don’t want anyone getting in trouble on my behalf. By the time I arrive at the bar Taylor is already there, swapping out the menus.

“I’m so sorry about that. I thought they were all the same.” I can’t get the apology out fast enough.

“Don’t worry about it.” He gives me a grin. “Nothing at SSE is ever done simply. There are always a dozen versions of every party element, and each is more expensive than the next. If whatever you’re working on seems straightforward, you’re probably doing something wrong.” He gestures to the kids’ bar menus that are stacked in his arms. “Want to help me switch these out?”

“Of course.” I grab half the stack of frames from him, and we start to make our way out of the tent through the crowds of guests that are already deep into the party spirit. I’m so grateful for his kindness. McKenna has brought me to near tears for far lesser offenses.

“You didn’t have to take the bullet, you know. Quade might have gotten upset with you, and she’s already pretty scary under normal circumstances.”

When I glance over he’s looking at me like the notion is ridiculous.

“Don’t worry. I haven’t met a woman yet who could ever stay mad at me for long.”

“I’ll bet,” I grumble under my breath at his bravado, and his smile stretches to reveal one perfect dimple.

I’m running our conversation over in my head when he starts talking again.

“You’ll see. I—” I stop short. “You mentioned that nothing is ever the simplest choice . . . Does that include the guest book pens?” I’m so nervous.

He looks bemused.

“There should have been eight of them. They were Montblanc. Each had a different inscription—”

“Oh Lord!” I quickly hand him my stack of frames. “I just grabbed a handful of blue Bics from the production kit!” I screech and hurry to correct the problem, hopefully before anyone on staff notices. The sound of Taylor’s laughter follows me all the way out of the tent.

The next day I don’t open my eyes until well past eleven. I
never
sleep that late, but I didn’t get home from the mitzvah until after two and I am exhausted. I sit up and let my legs dangle over the side of the bed and stretch them to ease some of the tension. You’d think that years of hauling gigantic trays of ribs through a restaurant would have prepared my body for one night spent working an event, but you’d be wrong. I hurt in places I didn’t even know existed!

Once I stepped into that tent yesterday, I didn’t sit down until I got into my car to drive home. Ten hours of hurrying back and forth through the party, pulling props and setting out the guest favors, moving 450 gift bags after Selah didn’t like their first location, and then assisting with wrap-up at the end of the night . . . I’m pretty sure I’ve burned off the calorie equivalent of five Zumba classes.

The night had been exhausting, but it was also fast-paced and exciting. I learned so much about how the SSE team lays out a timeline and how they constantly troubleshoot to keep the event as on time as possible. Watching everyone move behind the scenes like a well-oiled machine made me realize for the first time how much work is actually required to make something look so flawless and simple.

I stand up and stretch out my whole body, then go out to the kitchen in search of a cup of coffee the size of my head.

Max is sitting on the kitchen countertop, eating a giant bowl of what looks like hamster food, so I’m guessing it’s some sort of diet-y cereal. She’s wearing an old flannel button-down, underwear, a pair of UGG boots, and nothing else . . .
What is with this girl and pants?

“What is it with you and pants?” I ask quizzically.

“Said the cheerleader.” Max scowls at my pink boy shorts and the baby tee I got at cheer camp in freshmen year of high school.

“Touché.” I smile in spite of myself and head towards the coffee maker only to find that there’s a fresh pot waiting for me. “I take back the pants comment. You can walk around here nude if you’re willing to make me coffee!” I joyfully pour myself a cup and add two Splendas and a little of the milk that’s sitting next to Max on the counter.

Max just grumbles into her cereal bowl in response; she’s clearly not a morning person. Well, actually it’s almost noon, so technically she’s not a mid-morning person either . . . I wonder if there’s any time of day when she’s not grouchy. I smile down into my coffee as I take a sip.
Probably not
.

“Doing anything fun today?” I ask happily.

“You’re looking at it.” She points to the cabinet behind my head without moving from her perch. “Can you hand me a mug?”

“I’ll get it. How do you take it?”

“Black.”

Of course.

I pour her a cup and hand it over.

“I need to go shopping today for work clothes. Can you tell me where to find a Forever 21 or an H&M or something?” I grab a bowl from the cabinet behind me and pour myself some of her bran-filled cereal. She looks briefly affronted at my thievery but chooses to let it go.

“Hollywood & Highland is the closest, but it’s filled with douche-y tourists and sweaty guys in Avengers costumes. You should go to The Grove.”

“That’s on Fairfax, right?” I ask before swallowing a spoonful. My taste buds openly revolt against the amount of flax packed into each flake; I fight the urge to spit it back out. Instead I put the bowl down on the counter behind me and hope she doesn’t notice that I’ve stopped eating it.

“Fairfax and Third.” She jumps down from the counter, flashing her Star Wars panties. “I can take you if you want.”

“Really?” I can’t keep the shock out of my voice. “You want to hang out with me? You’re not too busy?”

“Calm down. I don’t want to take a blood oath or anything. I need a break; I studied for six hours yesterday. If I have to look at another textbook, I’ll scrape my eyes out with this spoon.” She holds up the spoon from her cereal bowl and then turns to put them both in the dishwasher.

“What textbook—what are you studying?” I’m confused . . . This is news to me.

“I’m in the last year of my masters at UCLA,” she responds, transferring a few dirty dishes from the sink to the dishwasher.

At first I’m dumbstruck, and then I’m unnaturally proud of her.

“You’re getting your masters? That’s so great! I had no idea. Why didn’t you tell me?”

Max closes the dishwasher. “You never asked.” She gives me a nonchalant shrug and turns to leave the kitchen. It’s only then that I see the words stamped across the underwear on her bum.

These Are Not the Droids You Seek.

This girl is so weird.

I jump off the counter and follow her to get dressed.

Chapter SEVEN

The next morning I head into the office, and for the first time I don’t stick out like a sore thumb. With Max’s help I have acquired a new wardrobe in only one color. It’s harder than you’d think for me to maintain my own personal style without color involved, but after hitting several stores, having the glass of wine Max insisted was necessary to deal with The Grove on a Sunday, and finding a clearance rack at Banana, I found a ton of stuff to mix and match.

Today I have on a gingham black-and-white button-down tucked into black skinny jeans, with black wedge booties and a black cardigan. My necklace is gold with red chevrons hanging just below the collar of my blouse . . . Yes, technically that’s
color
, but nobody said anything about
accessories
being black. At least this is the case I plan to make if anyone says anything.

My hair is styled in bouncy waves, and my makeup is pretty and polished. I realize I’m still dressed a lot peppier than anyone else at SSE, but well, while you can take the girl out of Texas . . .

In the little office McKenna is already typing away at his laptop, and I sit down in my corner seat and fire up my old Mac.

“Have you worked a phone before?” McKenna asks out of nowhere.

A phone? Yes, I’m not a monkey. But that thing in front of him looks more like mission control than a telephone.

“Um, no, but I’m sure I can figure it out,” I say, staring warily at the millions of buttons.

“Let me show you quickly.” He gestures impatiently for me to come over, and I hop up.

“OK, this is the call log.”

He opens up a program on his computer screen that looks like the inner workings of the Pentagon. There are names and numbers and notations and dates and times . . . How does he even keep all this straight?

“If someone calls, and Selah is unavailable, just put their info here,” he says, using the cursor to show me a new line entry in the program.

“You hit this button to answer—” The phone buzzes as if on cue. He hits the answer button in question and speaks into his mouthpiece. “Selah Smith’s office? Yes, hello Maya. How are you? Great—good . . . No, unfortunately she’s out of the office. Can I have her return? On cell? Great, we’ll buzz you later.” He types the info into the call sheet. “And that button,” he continues right along, “is to end a call. This is to transfer, just remember to dial one first. This button is to connect someone on a conference.” I keep nodding like I have any idea what he’s talking about. “Just hit conference, dial the number, and then hit conference again to connect. Got it?”

“Got it.”

I
so
don’t got it.

“Great, I’m going to get a coffee. Cover the phones.” He pulls off the headset and holds it out to me.

I recoil like he’s offering me crack.

“I’m not really sure I can—”

“Jesus, Alabama, you can either do this job or you can’t! Which is it?” he demands.

I bite my lower lip nervously.

“Can.” I grab the headset and put it on with more aggression than necessary, as if jamming it on my head with brute force proves to him that I’m more capable than I actually am. He’s already out the office door before I even sit down in his chair. I stare at the open call log in front of me. I guess I can just write things down on Post-its until he gets back. Or maybe no one will even call; maybe I’ll just sit here silently until he gets back. No harm, no foul.

The phone buzzes and instantly my stomach fills with acid. I hit “Answer.”

“S-Selah Smith’s office. This is Brinkley. How may I help you?” I stutter.

“Wow, who let you answer the phone?” Ambrose asks rudely.

“What can I do for you?” I try and sound as rude as she does.

“Where’s McKenna?”

“Getting coffee. May I help you with something?”

“No, I’ll ask him. In the meantime, answer the phone the way he does. If you recite that monologue each time the phone rings, you’ll never get to all your calls.”

“OK, thanks. I really app—” Before I even finish the sentence, the line goes dead. I hit “End” just to be sure it’s hung up, and it immediately buzzes again.

“Selah Smith’s office,” I say brightly.

“It’s Dawn. Is she available?” a woman asks.

“I’m so sorry she’s unavailable. Can I—”

“Just tell her I called.” She hangs up with a click before I can get her last name or number. Shoot!

The phone buzzes again.

“Selah Smith’s office?”

The phone buzzes again and line two lights up.

“Hi, Quade. It’s Billy from Superior. Is she available?”

“Hi, Billy. This is actually—” Line three buzzes. “You know what, Billy? Can I just put you on hold for one moment?” I am staring at two blinking, unanswered lines.

“Sure thing,” he says.

“One second.” I push the button to put Billy on hold and accidentally hang up on him.

Noooooooo!

I hit the button for line two.

“Selah Smith’s office, can you please hold a moment?” I put them on hold before they even answer. This time I actually do it right. I hit line three.

“Selah Smith’s office?”

“I have Michael Field calling.”

“She’s unavailable; can I take a message?” I ask hurriedly.

“Have her return here to the office,” she says and hangs up.

Man, I hope we have these numbers saved in contacts somewhere! I push the button for line two, and line one buzzes again, and then line three does too.

“Sorry about that,” I tell line two.

“No problem. Is she available?” a man asks.

“She’s just—” The three other lines keep buzzing at me, angry. I panic. “I am so sorry; can I just put you on hold right quick?” Darn it, my accent always sneaks up when I’m nervous!

“Sure,” he says. I hit “Hold.”

“Selah Smith’s office. Please hold.” I say to line three, then put them on hold.

“Selah Smith’s office. Please hold.” I say to line four, then put them on hold.

“Selah Smith’s office?” I say to one finally.

“It’s—.” The phone breaks up in a garble, and I can barely make out the woman’s voice on the other end.

“I’m so sorry, your phone is breaking up.” I raise my voice a little.

“It’s La—.” Her heavily accented voice barely breaks through to my end.

Line three hangs up. Lines two and four are still blinking.

Crap!

“I apologize, miss, but I cannot understand you; your phone is breaking up,” I say louder.

“It’s La—uise; is Sel—ere?” she says again.

“I’m sorry, who?” I’m almost yelling now.

“Lana Cruise! Can you hear me? I need to speak with Selah.” Her voice suddenly comes in loud and clear, and instantly I realize I’m speaking with the gorgeous Spanish actress I’ve seen in a dozen movies . . .
And
I’ve just yelled at her on the phone.

Crap!

“Hi, Ms. Cruise, I’m so sorry she’s out of the office. Can I have her return?” I try and sound professional, but my voice is shaking. I’ve never talked to an Oscar winner before.

“Yes, she has the number.” She hangs up just as line four drops off. Line two still blinks. I hit the button for it.

“I am
so
sorry about that. How can I help you?”

“I’m guessing this is Brinkley,” he says dryly.

Who in the world would know my name?

“And why would you guess that?” I ask nervously.

“Neither of the other two assistants would have let me sit on hold for five minutes.”

He sounds annoyed, and I have the strongest urge to “accidentally” hang up on him. I eye the other lines, hoping one of them will buzz and save me.

“It is Brinkley, and I beg your pardon. It’s my first time on the phones, and I’m not, well, gosh, you don’t have time to listen to me—”

“No, I’m afraid I don’t.”

Cue: flop sweat.

“Right, of course. She’s actually out of the office, though. Can I take a message, Mr.—?”

“Ashton. Just tell her I called, please.”

It’s
him
.

I wish,
wish
, that I’d stop making an idiot of myself in front of this person. Whatever their relationship he obviously has Selah’s ear, and her hearing about what a moron I am doesn’t really bode well for my career. It takes a real effort to get myself in check, but I do.

“I will, and I’m sorry again, Mr. Ashton. I’ll tell her you called.”

“Thanks.”

The line goes dead.

Well . . . That was interesting.

The next month flies by so quickly I barely notice. By mid-November I’m working at least sixty hours a week, and I’ve helped SSE with six events, so I feel like I’ve officially been jumped into their gang. It’s easier now to anticipate what McKenna and Quade expect from me and to steer clear of Selah’s mood swings. I can handle the phones now too, though I still really hate to do it since I’m positive I’ll destroy the whole infrastructure with one misplaced phone message.

And teacher’s pet or not, after that first event I sort of become an assistant for the entire office. I’m not sure if this is because people like me now, or because they know I’ll do anything they ask. But I don’t care because it means I’m constantly doing several projects at once, and I love it because I’m learning so much about how each team functions. Most evenings I don’t leave until after eight, but I’ve learned that in this office, and in this city, that’s not so unusual.

The Kessler-Glen wedding is the second week of December, and I’m sort of desperate to see it all come together. First of all I’ve never worked a wedding with Selah, and I’m excited to see how she handles it. Also, the sketches Miko has shown me literally take my breath away they’re so pretty. Next week is the Riverton party, but that’s the last event we have before Thanksgiving. The SSE office is closed Wednesday through Sunday that week, and I can’t believe I get to spend five whole days at home. I plan on wearing sweatpants and eating my weight in starches and carbs.

Snap-snap-snap.

My head pops up from where it’s buried in my laptop, researching transvestite DJs for an upcoming party. (Apparently, they’re all the rage.) McKenna as usual isn’t looking up at me, but he’s holding out a Post-it with an order for him and Quade. I glance at the time on my laptop; it’s only 11:45. That’s early even for them. This doesn’t bode well for me; I can just feel it.

When I come back twenty minutes later McKenna and Quade are giggling, which is a fairly odd sound coming from such grouchy people. In another office, in another place, I’d ask what was so funny. I’d try and engage and befriend them both, but I’ve learned that these two don’t see me as an equal and sure as heck don’t want me as a friend. I hand them their drinks and sit down to get back to work.

“It’s so true,” McKenna says, still giggling. “She’s got to have gained at least sixty pounds, and she’s not even due until February or something.”

“Did you see her on Kimmel talking about her pregnancy cravings?” Quade asks while typing something into her phone.

“Oh God, I know, so tragic!” McKenna agrees.

I realize now that they’re talking about Paige Blakely. She’s a new client of Selah’s, and we’re working on the shower for her first baby. Since she and her rock-star baby daddy are still unmarried, Selah is hopeful that she’ll also be asked to plan the rumored post-baby nuptials. Paige is a popular country singer (
so you know I love her
), but she’s made some headlines lately for the amount of weight she’s gained with her pregnancy. Personally I think making fun of a pregnant woman’s weight is downright evil, but being mean is nothing new for these two. Maybe they’ll head out later and punch some babies for kicks.

“And you saw her e-mail, right? She wants a duck-themed shower. What is this, 1987? You hire the most expensive event planner on earth and then ask her for ducks?”

“Piglets would have been more appropriate”—McKenna chuckles again—“and the barnyard theme might be a better fit for a country girl, right, Brink—” He spins around in his chair, presumably to mock me too, but his eyes bug out of his head before they can focus on me. At McKenna’s silence Quade rotates in her chair, and her face turns even paler than it is already. Both of them stare in silence, and even though I’m hidden by the door, I want to crawl under the chair and cower from whatever is in the doorway. Finally, I hear the slightest clearing of a throat and then Selah’s voice.

“Paige and I were just headed down to lunch and she wanted to see the office.” She speaks with the menace of a snake.

“Paige, I’m so sorry you had to—” McKenna tries to cover smoothly, and Quade looks like she’s about to be run over by a train. I guess on some level she is. Selah cuts him off.

“No, you won’t apologize. What you will do, both of you, is remove yourselves from my office. You don’t work here anymore.”

If it’s possible, Quade becomes even more ashen. McKenna swallows audibly. It’s like watching a car wreck, and I literally can’t look away.

“Brinkley?” Selah calls out to me, and both Quade and McKenna slide their eyes to me in the corner. I didn’t even know she knew I was back here.

“Yes ma’am?” I step out from behind the door nervously. Selah is boiling mad, but she’s doing her best to mask it in front of the very pregnant blonde country singer standing next to her.