Her mom followed a moment later, bearing the rest of the breakfast on a tray. There was something vaguely French about their mother—her pale skin and dark eyes and hair, the natural grace and poise (those went right to Lola when traits were being handed out). Like Scarlett, she had a head of thick curls. Unlike Scarlett, hers didn’t look like they had been styled in space, where gravity is not a factor.
Her skills with food were not very French, though. It was clear that the whipped cream had come right from a tub in the freezer (and was, in fact, still in the shape of the upturned tub and glistening with ice crystals). The strawberries were raw and unevenly cut, instead of the warm, thick, stewlike version that made Scarlett’s heart flutter. The sugar was just a bowl of sugar—not powdered, and not vanilla.
“I guess you heard,” she said, giving Scarlett a birthday hug. “We did what we could. I hope it’s okay. And, hey—presents!”
There was no choice but to accept the situation gracefully, so Scarlett smiled and thanked everyone. Given the choice between burned and slightly undercooked, she went with the latter and was presented with a floppy, vaguely wafflelike object. Spencer took three charred ones. Lola settled for a spoonful of strawberries. Her dad tried to tough out a plate of whatever was left, but her mom just stirred her coffee nervously. The eating part of the breakfast—usually the longest and most festive—was wrapped up with considerable speed and a lot of untouched food.
“Present time!” her dad announced.
These birthday events were probably the most organized and ritualized things the Martins did. Gifts always followed the same pattern—siblings presented first, oldest to youngest. Then there was the presentation from their parents. This year, however, was special, and Scarlett knew exactly what they would be giving her.
Spencer produced a slightly bent-up envelope from somewhere behind him.
“I know what you like,” he said. “Happy birthday.”
Inside was a handwritten coupon for a piggyback ride around Central Park. Being seriously broke, he was not above giving the gift of manual labor. Also, he was the closest thing she had to a pony.
Lola came next. She passed forward a brown-and-white striped Henri Bendel box. That was where she worked, and therefore, very likely to be where the gift came from (as opposed to just being a really nice box with crap inside). Her parents and Spencer provided an appreciative chorus of oohs and ahhs. Inside, there were three very small objects, each wrapped in thick, strong paper that was hard to tear. The first object was a tiny bottle of some kind of blue liquid that Lola promised would “balance” her complexion, which was probably a good thing, even though she had no idea what that meant. The second was a mysterious white tube that was promised to bring further balancing. The third was a distinctive shape—a small rectangular box. A lipstick box.
“It’s Chanel,” Lola said, even though Scarlett could clearly read the word Chanel on the side. The lipstick it contained was a very dramatic shade of red. It looked like it may have been used once before. The tip was just very, very slightly flattened. Lola sometimes got samples. It was still a really good gift. Lola chose things very carefully, and even if Scarlett didn’t quite understand them, they were undoubtedly right.
“I think that’s a good shade for you,” Lola said. “You can handle strong color.”
The next came from Marlene, who was picking at her waffle unhappily. It was a coupon for a free dish of ice cream at a store a few blocks away. This shocked Scarlett at first. Marlene tended to have a lot of these kinds of things, but she didn’t share them. Then Scarlett noticed that it was expired. That made a lot more sense.
It was time for the gift that everyone had been waiting for. There was a box on the table, which was passed down, hand to hand, until it reached Scarlett. She already knew what was inside, but it didn’t make it any less exciting. There were many layers of cardboard protection and plastic bagging to get through, but finally, she could see it, tiny and silvery.
“I hope that’s the one you wanted,” her dad said.
It was. She was the last person in her entire school to get a cell phone. Literally. She nodded happily. It was nice to join the rest of the planet.
“And here’s the other part,” her mother said. “Following tradition…”
She passed a jewelry box down the length of the table. Seeing a box like that, most people would have expected a necklace or a bracelet, but Scarlett knew that was not what was inside.
When it reached her, she creaked the box open to reveal a key ring with a silver S dangling from it, along with a single key. A tiny piece of paper, the size of a Chinese fortune cookie fortune, rested at the bottom. It read: EMPIRE SUITE.