I’d much rather satisfy my parents and my desire for a lasting partnership with one of their fancy pants suitors. But I can’t force love.
However, the one difference between make-believe and reality is that I’m not always the picture of grace and poise. Though I try. So hard. Grace is my middle name, for goodness’ sake. In a cruel twist of fate, I lack it in spades.
Pinching the skirt on my gown so the hem doesn’t get wet, I carefully climb the rain-slick steps of the opulent home of Lord Carlisle and Carling Smythe, my parents’ friends.
Today alone, I got nail polish in my hair, painting an unintentional streak of pink in my medium brown locks. I was going to cut it, but it’s in the front and I feared the result would look like a three-year-old came at me with scissors and hacked off a chunk—like the time my brother decided to give me a haircut when we were four.
You know those dreams when you’re in front of the classroom naked? In middle school, I delivered an entire report on Queen Elizabeth with the back of my uniform’s pleated skirt tucked into my tights.
Then just the other day, I learned that my neighbor’s son, whom I’ve been calling Joey for two years, is actually named Timmy.
Phoebe says we should write a book titledThe Misadventures of Pippa Thompson. According to her, I have the same spunky attitude and tendency to get into predicaments as Pippi Longstocking. All I’m missing is the red hair. Considering the pink streak, I’m well on my way.
Struggling with second thoughts about whether to continue or turn back, I instantly make myself look like an overly friendly fool—or someone being swarmed by bees—when I wave at a complete stranger emerging from a limo. In my defense, she looks just like someone from my old job. Even from this distance, I can tell the woman squishes up her nose.
One of my rules is to always wave at people I recognize so they don’t think I’m rude. Guess I overdid it this time.
“Do not fall. Do not fall,” I mutter to myself as I near the top step.
The valet holding an umbrella over my head gives me a side-eye of concern and then grips my elbow with his free hand.
With a polite smile, I say, “Sir, unless you want to risk going down with me, I recommend you let go. I’ve been known to take down larger men than yourself.”
It’s not that I’m especially clumsy or accident-prone. Okay, I am. I’m also unfortunate. The good luck fairy did not sprinkle her magic dust on me when I was born.
The situation was more like Maleficent casting an evil spell, but I’m well past sixteen and the thing still hasn’t lifted.
For instance, I’ve been pooped on by birds seven times and counting. My dog really did eat my homework in primary school. I’ve lost passports, keys, sunglasses, and even an elephant once. If lightning is going to strike, I’ll be the target—though that hasn’t happened yet. Thank goodness.
As the doorman greets me. I step over the threshold and then draw a deep breath. The warm aroma of candle wax fills the air along with expensive perfume and cologne, custom-made suits, handmade leather shoes, gems and diamonds displayed in gold and platinum settings—the scent of wealth. I should make a candle and name it,What it smells like when I’d rather be at home.
“My luck is bound to change,” I whisper. That’s been my mantra for months after I listened to a podcast about the power of positive affirmations.
I’ve considered seeing a life coach, a dating coach, and a how-to-avoid-calamities coach. I could also use a manual calledAn Introvert’s Guide to Dating. That would be helpful.
Live classical music plays pleasantly in the background. The swish of gowns and polite laughter nudges me into the gathering as I smile at several vaguely familiar faces while looking for my parents.
Sometimes it’s hard to know whether I recognize them from real life or society pages and tabloids. The team members of the Boston Bruisers regularly make the gossip rounds, especially on social media. And no, I don’t stalk Chase. I just like to stay informed.Go team!
Earlier today, news started circulating that some of the players had mooned the coach and his daughter or niece or someone. So far, it’s a lot of speculation. Even at the speed of the internet, sometimes there is a delay in gossip getting across the pond. Then again, that sounds exactly like something Chase would do, so no surprise there. Phoebe kept me on task as Igot ready today and wouldn’t let me peek at the #BruiserButt scandal.
Now, I have something to look forward to later. It’s not that I want the world to see Chase’s backside, though everyone has seen it in uniform and it’s a spectacular sight. It’s just that part of me wouldn’t mind seeing him getting knocked down a peg to the level of us mere mortals. This is conniving of me, but that would also mean we’d be on a level playing field, as it were. At least this is what I tell myself to shield my fragile heart from the reality that our love was never meant to be.
It was the classic case of the ordinary, slightly geeky girl falling for the super popular, cute guy and the joke turned out to be on her when something terribly embarrassing happened. But she never saw him again. Except there’s one catch. She never quite got over him. And there’s a hitch too, he also happens to be her brother’s best friend and the best man at his wedding—if Freddie actually goes through with it. I’m beginning to have my doubts. Or perhaps it’s just wishful thinking.
Oh, and in case you missed it,herwould be yours truly.
I’ve only been here five minutes, and I’m already having a social meltdown because the wedding reception is sure to be a lot like this event. There are too many people and I’m having too many thoughts. The place between my skin and my bones feels like it’s getting a constant low-level charge of electrical current and last I checked, that’s not a good thing.
A server interrupts my hamster Habitrail of thought when she offers me a sprig of something green wrapped in a thin white veiny thing, topped with a single piece of shredded carrot—at least that’s what I think I’m looking at.
“Do you have anything more filling?” I ask politely.
The server moves on to the next guest. I could go for a shortbread biscuit right about now. My friend Gemma recentlyperfected her recipe and I cannot get enough of the buttery goodness.
When my sister Phoebe and I were eleven and thirteen, respectively, meaning Freddie was also thirteen, our parents hosted a similar function with all the finery and fuss of the London elite. While he took advantage of the opportunity to be the star of the show and Phoebe loved how fancy it was, I didn’t understand why the appetizers were so plain—turns out no one wants bad breath, food stuck in their teeth, or greasy fingers. So, they stick to little bites of bland, dry items that identify as food but are more likely little leftover chunks of chalk that are too small to write with.
Before I learned about the whys and wherefores of appetizers, I concocted a plan to swap out all the catered foods for things people would actually enjoy: pizza bites, pigs in a blanket, and crisps—the kitchen staff didn’t keep much in the way of kid-friendly food on hand, so I had limited options to work with. Needless to say, it didn’t go over well.
