Sarah huffs as she pulls at the skirt one more time. The others give themselves a final onceover—smacks of lips, tosses of hair, and other adjustments are done before the elevator doors open.
“Wow.” Sarah and I gawk as we walk into a completely different hotel lobby than what we saw this morning.
It’s been transformed into a tropical oasis. Bulb lights cover every inch of the ceiling and drape down the walls. The staffmembers are dressed in traditional luau attire, handing out flower leis and umbrella drinks, and a group of hula dancers stand near the front doors, waving and swaying along to the music playing overhead.
“It’s like a real vacation now!” Sarah’s smile stretches across her face as we make our way down the sand path that now leads to the front doors. The rest of the team is all squeals and giggles as they rush out toward the party.
We file behind a line of athletes and coaches all standing in line to get their leis before entering the party. Lit tiki torches line the path leading to the entrance. Electric island music gets louder and livelier the closer we get, the beat pulsing through my veins. The last party I was at—a real party, anyway—was Halloween. Emma’s parties are always a blast, but this last year was full of so much drama and tension that I found myself cowering in the corner with Malcolm until it was all over. It did, however, end in a literal pumpkin smashing, which seemed very cathartic from afar. Maybe that’s the key to a successful party—smashing something.
“Hello, ladies,” Garrett Connors says as he joins us in line, blocking my view of the expensive tiki face at the front of the line. His knee is wrapped in an Ace bandage underneath his bright-pink shorts. He’s paired them with a banana-yellow button-up shirt and bright-orange Crocs. The kid glows like a neon sign underneath the lights, and he certainly has no qualms about it.
“Nice getup, Connors!” I wave at his attire, my voice muffled by the loud music.
“Just wait until you see the rest!” he yells over the music, wiggling his eyebrows.
Sarah and Garrett link arms as they receive their leis and make their way into the party. I take mine from the receptionist and compliment her outfit, even though she probably can’t hearme over the music. It’s the thought that counts. Clutching the flowers to my chest, I weave through the crowd, being careful not to step on feet or my own grass skirt the girls made for me.
I finally find my kids, but no Malcolm.
“Where’s Coach Geer?” I ask Devon. He shrugs in response, sipping out of a red cup with an umbrella. “No alcohol, correct?” I eye the cup suspiciously. He salutes me and points to theAll Drinks Are Non-Alcoholicsign hanging over the bar.
He must notice the sigh of relief I have when he says, “Chill, Coach. We all respect you too much to drink under your watch.” Hearing him say this stings my eyes, because for some reason, at this moment, they were words I needed to hear.
I nod at him in thanks, then continue scanning the party for a familiar set of blue eyes. After a few minutes of searching, I give up and sit with the kids on the pillows neatly placed around a small cinderblock table nestled in a pit of sand. The party continues around us, with coaches and athletes from other schools approaching our group, making pleasantries, and giving introductions. As time passes incredibly slowly, the lonely pit in my stomach starts to move up into my throat at the possibility of Malcolm skipping this thing.
Parties aren’t his forte.
And themed parties? We’ve had better luck dressing Benny’s cat, Frankie, up as a penguin and teaching her how to swim.
An annoyingly familiar blonde waitress approaches our table, her face mirroring mine at the realization that Malcolm is not with us. She forces a smile to take our orders.
“Did you get the, uh…thing handled?” Travis asks the waitress. His face is uncomfortable and cautious as she gives him a nod.
“Are you sure?” Charlie snips at her, equally on edge.
“Yes.” She scowls at both of them. “It is being handled right now.” She rolls her eyes and looks at me, clearly exasperated atthe teenagers. I shrug, a twinge of comradery building between us as she takes the rest of our orders.
“What is going on?” I direct my suspicions to Travis because he is usually the center of any and all trouble at parties. He refuses to meet my eyes, taking a sip of his drink before whispering to Devon. I push my curls away from my face, frustrated at the thought of them trying to pull some prank or spike the punch at the party. Summoning my intimidating-teacher voice, I say, “Someone better tell me what’s going on. Now.”
A whirl of whispers, hesitant responses, and wandering eyes ripple across the table. Feeling outnumbered and unmotivated to discipline these kids, I pull my phone out. Maybe it’s the music or the fact that I haven’t eaten anything, but I start to feel grouchy as I start typing a text message:
I didn’t think wearing a Hawaiian shirt was such a big deal. You could’ve worn whatever you wanted, you know!! But to not come to the party at all?? Super low, dude.
I type and erase the worddudefive times before committing to it and pressing send. I look back at the group, irritation clear on my face as they sit silently. “Please don’t make me end this party early,” I grumble out the words.
The idea of threatening my kids has never been my favorite tactic. Helping them choose the right decision with positive reinforcement has always been my route. It seems too gentle to some, but these kids trust me—or so I thought before they all decided to rally together and whisper around the table right now. But still. I value their trust more than their fear.
No one caves under my death stare, and we all sit in awkward silence for another thirty seconds—I know because I countone, two, threeten times in my head.
“Hey, dudes,” Malcolm’s deep voice swirls around me, extra emphasis on dude.
He towers over me, dressed in his over-the-top bright-blue tropical shirt that accentuates the hue of his eyes, tacky boat shorts with palm trees on them, and a necklace of orchid flowers draped around his neck. There’s a playful annoyance in his eyes as he takes the empty seat next to me.
“Did you get it—”
“Yes, Connors. It’s handled.” He winks at the guys, and with that, the tension around the table dissipates, a relaxed flow of laughs and conversations make their way through the group.
“Dude,” he whispers in my ear, mocking me. The word is the bane of his existence. “Are you mad at me,dude?” His question is a mixed bag of sincere sarcasm. I can see it physically pains him to say the word.
